A Touch of Tabasco

The Doorable Blah Vocabulary

2012-01-02T19:32:00.000+05:30

I have more or less established by now (assuming you’ve been reading my blog for a while) that my family is just a little bit cuckoo. And by family, I mean my immediate family – not including the likes of an aunt by marriage, who dreamt one night that her husband had swallowed their wind chime. She awoke in the middle of the night and attempted to push her hand down his throat to rescue her beloved wind chime, while he, rudely awoken from a deep slumber, gurgled for help. There’s a fine line between stark raving mad and quirky and we, the Blahs, have yet to cross it.

If a Blah were convinced of a prized possession being down a man’s gullet, he/she would tell him he had sheer “gumption” sending “bumf” down his throat. Now, while the dictionary shows “gumption” to mean “the quality of being sensible and brave enough to do the right thing in a difficult situation”, the Blah dictionary holds that it is the “quality of being cheeky, brazen and having the sheer gall to do the wrong thing in any situation.”

My mother’s vocabulary would be down to 50% if the word gumption were taken away from her. In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with Gumption, and the Word was Gumption. A phone call from my mother is filled with anecdotes about the sheer gumption of the drunken woman labourer who ran amuck in the nude, the gumption of my boisterous dog who gave her a black eye and the gumption of the person who left a single slipper on the road and disappeared.

“Bumf” in a normal (archaic) dictionary refers to unwanted or uninteresting printed matter such as governmental forms, legal documents, The Times of India, junk mail, promotional pamphlets, Bangalore Mirror's Sexpert column etc. The Blahs have adapted the word to explain away any otherwise inexplicable junk. Bumf is a very handy term. It saves you the time and energy of having to supply long explanations about say, the contents of a drawer. “What’s in the drawer? Oh, just some bumf.” Nobody ever attempts to question any more. You never question bumf. You just accept it. “Some bumf” is good enough. It effectively qualifies everything from a speckle of food on someone’s chin to the putrid carcass the dog dragged in to the strange greeny-grey mold on an abandoned vegetable in the refrigerator.

Bumf is not to be confused with another Blah word “bum fluff”. Bum fluff refers to a scraggly pre-pubescent-type mustache. This word belongs to my maternal uncle, who maintains that such weak attempts at a mustache resemble the “hair on a bum”. I have never worked up the courage to ask anything further.

And if you happen to touch some bumf (or bum fluff for that matter), make sure you wash your hands with the “bum soap”. That’s right. The bum soap – the bar of soap placed on/near the wash basin meant for washing of hands.I’m not sure just how it came to be referred to as “bum soap”. I suspect my father coined the term and we children, thoroughly amused, adopted it. My mum faced the embarrassing consequences of such learning when my brother Scion once hollered from one end of the supermarket, “Hey, Ma! Do we need bum soap?” He remained oblivious to the stunned expressions of fellow shoppers while my mother tried unsuccessfully to bury herself in a sack of wheat flour while muttering something about God smiting firstborns. When he, convinced his mother was hard of hearing, shouted again about the lack of enough bum soap in the house, my mother responded with “Grr Wolf! I heard you the first time.”

“Grr Wolf!” for the Blahs is an expression of extreme exasperation. Attaching a growling animal to the otherwise meek and mild “Grr” sort of drives home the point apparently. No vulgar expletives for us Blahs. Grr Wolf usually works for just about any sort of aggravating situation. The need for stronger or cruder cuss words or commonplace vulgar expressions does not arise. However, for a particularly sticky situation, we do resort to the much harder hitting expletive “Shit ‘n molasses”.

Now, I am not sure how exactly this expression came about. But I suppose having shit in your molasses or shit and molasses are both bad things. “Shit ‘n molasses” is a Blah Code Red.

A “shit ‘n molasses” moment would be the opposite of a Blah “door you” moment. “Door you” is an expression of affection. Now, we aren’t exactly the most emotionally expressive family. Everyone keeps a stiff upper lip during any sort of upheaval, which would leave normal families blubbering a bit like the ones in Indian television soaps. However, as a kid, this was the one expression of affection we resorted to. When I was four, I would exchange “Good nights” and “Door Yous” with my folks last thing at night and then spend the next few minutes staring at the door, wondering what that plank of wood had to do with anything. It took me a few years to realise it was just a Blah way of saying “I adore you”.

The expression works for us.In fact, they all do – all these somewhat unique expressions. I door them all and no one can tell me any differently.

How to be an Ass at the Airport

2011-12-09T12:30:00.001+05:30

1. Park for 30 minutes or more at the “10 seconds alighting – tow away” zone and hold up traffic and pedestrians alike while your 56 pieces of baggage are strewn across the road and walkway.

2. Bump everybody out of the way with your luggage-laden trolley and run over anybody who dares get in your way. A fractured foot or two is no big deal. I mean, if people are flying, why do they need feet?

3. Break your way into the queue at the check-in counter. Of course, you are more important than everybody else and don’t they know who you are?

4. If you really must stand in queue after the vicious protests of those around you, time to open your sandwich which smells like carrion.

5. Press up against the person in front of you – she is bound to appreciate mayo in her hair and the scent of onions on your breath.

6. Argue with the airline personnel about how their weighing scales are wrong. 40kg? What rubbish! Mummy’s IMPORTED kitchen scale only showed 21kg. Check again. Again. Again. Again. IMPORTED scales are never wrong. Again. Again.

7. Continue arguing with the check-in counter staff. God forbid that you leave the spot any time before the wailing infant behind you is ready to graduate from college. Of course, that grand piano is cabin size and qualifies as carry-on baggage. And the pedestal fan? That’s needed for health reasons – you’re asthmatic.

8. Proceed to the security check after telling everybody in no uncertain terms where they can stick it, who your daddy is, how they have no legal daddies, what size and quality of fecal matter they are etc.

9. Repeat Point 3 at the queue at the security check point.

10. Argue loudly with the security personnel over why you must not remove your waist pouch and send it through the screening machine. Everyone must know that you are just back from South Africa and you’re carrying DOLLARS! And GOLD! You’re not one of the bums standing in line who must send their tiddlywinks and Monopoly notes through the scanner.

11. Go in for the security pat-down. Refuse to acknowledge that the bulge in your jeans is really a mobile phone which must be sent through the scanner. Shriek that you, alpha male, feel violated and how the press will be told the gory details of that violation.

12. At the coffee shop, jostle everybody out of the way to get your “braid omlet” and spill your “express-o” on the female thing still wiping mayo out of her hair.

13. In the waiting lounge, place your baggage on the only vacant seat. Your Pustak Mahal plastic bag must be comfortable and takes precedence over the gasping old lady with the oxygen tank.

14. Point and holler at every plane you see taking off and landing. “Plane! Plane!” That’s a rarity in an airport, right - what with all the flying giraffes and Santa sleighs we see on any normal day.

15. Disregard the details of your boarding call. Only seats 1-14 in group one? That’s all right. It is important that you, seat 26, get on that plane first. Don’t they know who you are? Nonsense.

Stay tuned for: How to be a Pest on a Plane.

The Trouble With Being Social

2011-11-24T16:21:00.003+05:30

“I was very tolerant of the idea of being behind the times, having had long opportunities of studying the perfectly ghastly people who were abreast of the times; or the still more pestilent people who were in advance of the times.” – G.K. Chesterton

Social networking has never really been my thing and probably, never will be. And yet, I seem to insist on keeping my Facebook profile, even though I rarely log in there. It has something to do with my fear of being left behind as the whole world moves on to new and exciting developments, leaving the days of email far behind.

Confucius say “Man who speaks with forked tongue should not kiss balloons.”

So, when Orkut made its debut years ago, I was in the thick of things. Primped my profile, “scrapped” friends frequently and set up a group that proclaimed “Ooty Schools Rock!” Then, as is the case with most social networking sites, things turned unpleasant. After being bombarded with “scraps” from every weirdo on the planet, I retaliated. I created a profile with a fake tongue twister of a name and the picture of an ugly pink heart-holding teddy bear and went after my tormentors, matching them bad grammar for bad grammar and everything. This profile was something of a shared asset – BC, Krazy Frog, Merry and I made good use of it, posing as a broken English-speaking bunny boiler whenever needed. The scary part, however, was that our psycho virtual creation garnered quite the fan following of her own.

I sighed with relief as Orkut finally introduced some semblance of privacy settings. However, the novelty of social networking had begun to wear off.

Confucius say “The inventor of shag carpet make big pile.”

As I slowly withdrew from the Orkuttian world of scraps, fans and testimonials, I wondered if I was doing the right thing. I had my answer when a random dodo I mistook for a waiter at a club in Pune found me on Orkut and crapped…err… I mean left me a host of “scraps”. I was more embarrassed that such poor English had found its way onto my profile than anything else. He even lacked the poetic charm that the moon-eyed “Kay Pee”, who wrote an ode to my “pillow cover lips”, exuded. Cursing the lousy privacy that Orkut offered, I deleted my profile and settled into a happy existence without the bane of social networking.

Then came Facebook. I steadfastly refused to sign up and rebuffed everybody’s attempts to “friend me”. I spat at the terms “friending” and “unfriending”. However, after months of mounting pressure, I succumbed. I soon realized why Facebook was the rage it was. The all-proclaiming Wall and, of course, lousy privacy settings – the trademark of any successful social networking site apparently.

Facebook was and continues to be the answer to every social voyeur. It effectively satisfies two basic human needs: The need to tom-tom every aspect of one’s life to all and sundry and the need to snoop on other people. Facebook is manna for every hungry gossipmonger. Besides, you can get anyone to “like” anything on Facebook. I once put that up as a status message – “You can get anyone to like anything on Facebook”. Twenty-four people “liked” it. Facebook fuels this very comforting feeling of immense popularity. The more number of "likes", the more fabulous the happy ending to a luxurious ego massage.

Confucius say “Man who stick foot in mouth get athlete's tongue.”

I did try to be “sociable” on FB once. Someone prone to posting “philosophical” status updates once put up something about the sun, moon, universe and all things planetary. Predictably, a host of people “liked” it and it sparked a number of “deep and philosophical” comments.

Now “deep and philosophical” and all things intellectual is not me. Not by a long shot. I am… well, I am just blah. However, on this particular occasion, I decided to be social and added my two blabs’ worth to keep up with the Joneses. Now who deeper and more philosophical than Confucius? “Man who eat too many prune sit on potty many moon”, I commented.

A day later, I found I had been banned from this particular err… friend’s wall. I was hurt. Such disrespect to Confucius. However, not all was lost. One person “liked” my comment. Ha.

Confucius say “Wise man never play leapfrog with unicorn.”

Anyone snooping around my FB profile now will leave sorely disappointed. For besides a mug shot that has been run through the “Fat Booth” application and some scorching disclaimer about my innate nastiness in the “About” section, there is really nothing to write home about - unless the snoop is particularly interested in my newfound affinity for social gaming. Yes, yes. I now tend to virtual gardens and beg people to send me spackles, tool belts and paint cans or else I will die. I haven’t the patience for anything else. I don’t even recall the last time I opened my FB messages. I find it easier to check all and clear.

I’ll stick with more personalized one-on-one interactions – email or chat or even the occasional good old-fashioned postcard. I’m with Chesterton on this one.

Phoenix Rising

2011-11-14T15:33:00.000+05:30

*Disclaimer: Not suitable for those squeamish about male body parts - wooden, wax or otherwise.*

Background

Phranang Island, off the coast of Krabi, Thailand, has some interesting folklore associated with it. During my recent trip there, I was fortunate to have a friendly lady boy named Michele, who took it upon herself to explain it all to us in great detail. As I loitered around near a tiny shrine planted inside a cave on the island, Michele launched into the story with much aplomb. Since religion isn’t really something that floats my boat, I didn’t pay too much attention initially. My wandering eyes came to rest on the hundreds of wooden sticks scattered around the cave. They looked strangely phallic in nature.

I chided myself. “Behave, pervy woman. This is supposed to be a place of worship. Those are stakes of some kind. Nothing more.”

My attention wandered back to what Michele was saying. I apologise for this somewhat abridged version of the story. As I said earlier, I was not paying too much attention initially.

Princess Phranang, the most beautiful woman on the face of the earth, fell in love with a sea monster, who took on a human form. On her wedding day, the old man who had granted her parents’ wish to have a child heard about the imminent wedding and came to stop it. He took the help of a warrior monk, who battled with the sea monster and killed him. A sorrowful Phranang vanished into the cave. The rocks closed behind her and she was never seen again. However, she now grants the wishes of people who come and pray to her.

Michele continued, “So if you want happy for you, or for your lover, you make wish here. Local people, they come make wish. They give a wood in shape of a phoenix….”

“Phoenix?” said several of us, eyebrows raised. “Those sticks don’t look like a phoen—“

“Oh!”, we said collectively. Realisation had dawned. I had been right all along. In fact, this “offering”, some feet away from where we stood, removed any lingering doubts.

“So make a wish to Princess Phranang. If you want happy for you or happy for your lover”, Michele instructed, and went on to tell us about Phranang’s many “success stories”.

“No harm in making a wish, eh?” said KO and we solemnly bowed our heads in front of the shrine.

Present Day

Basically Blah’s Open Letter to Princess Phranang

Heya Princess P,

I hope you remember me from my recent visit there. I was the little thing in bright red playing “retriever” – repeatedly fetching her companion’s flipflops from the sea. I was also the only one taking pictures of the giant wooden thang on the beach while everybody else photographed the beautiful jade green ocean. I’m the one who sprinted ahead of everyone else declaring, “I do not want to kiss the boatman”. I will explain later.

Anyway, I have a complaint. There appears to be something of a mismatch between what I wished for and what you (I assume) delivered.

For instance, I believe I asked for “tall, dark and unconventionally handsome.” I am not sure whether it was the sound of the crashing waves or the fact that you’re behind solid rock, but you seem to have heard wrong. I most certainly did not ask for “small, daft and convinced he’s awesome.”

I know I whined about how the men I’ve dated are never based in the same place as yours truly. But does that mean you unleash a whole hoard of the male species from my current home turf upon me? I’ll take quality over quantity any day, please.

I also think you may have mixed up my request with Michele’s prayer for a “happy lover”. How else does one explain my being asked out by gay men?

Speaking of gay, the KO I’ve known has been anything but. Would you, by any chance, have something to do with her scaring the living daylights out of me when she said, “If you beat me at Words With Friends, you can take me on a date”? (Words With Friends is freakishly addictive, by the way. If you’re on Facebook or Android, play! It sure beats spending your days looking at a rock face, moping about someone who became sushi.)

Also, I am positive KO wished for hundreds of rock-hard buns. I certainly did not ask for men seeking a mother for their future hundred sons.

I may have said he ought to know, among other things, his “halters and ladles” – meaning awareness of women’s clothing and culinary/cutlery knowledge. I definitely did not ask for men who constantly throw the prospect of altars and cradles at me.

Finally, I’m not sure whether this lousy customer service stems from my inability to give you a phallic-shaped wooden stick at that time. Would you still accept a mini one fashioned out of candle wax by a slightly inebriated BC? If it would help my case, I can also throw in these glow-in-the-dark “phoenix” earrings – a lantern for your cavern.

Why do I have these in my possession? Same reason I have the “phoenix”-shaped ice tray.

Hoping for a change in fortunes.

Yours truly,
Basically Blah.

Tidbits from Thailand

2011-10-07T17:29:00.000+05:30

Seat For Monk

Where there is KO, there is entertainment. That is guaranteed. This time around, she almost outclassed herself.

And so we found ourselves seated at the Krabi airport in Thailand, waiting for a flight back to Bangkok. This would be the last leg of our trip to Thailand.

I sat quiet and glum. The thought of leaving the beautiful beaches of Krabi and the laidback atmosphere of the little town and its friendly folks playing on my mind. I had exactly 48 hours left in Thailand. 48 hours before I returned home, to the normal humdrum of everyday life.

An announcement played out. In Thai. KO and I rose from our seats assuming it must be the boarding call for our flight. We began heading for a queue that was forming at the departure gate when we realized it wasn’t our flight.

KO decided to cover our faux pas quickly and dived into a row of vacant seats nearby, hoping nobody had noticed our enthusiasm for what was obviously not the correct plane.

I stood around for a while before making my way to where KO sat. She happily patted the seat beside her, gesturing for me to sit there. What followed was this:

- Me: (Glancing above KO’s head) “KO, look!”
- KO: “What?” (Glances up at the wall on her right)

- KO: (Gasp of horror as she reads the sign above)
- Me: (Guffaw of delight)

What can I say? It was literally a “sign”. Kob khun ka!

Just Smile and Wave

Language was our biggest obstacle in Thailand. Still, we managed. Even if it meant hopping into 11 different modes of transport to make our way to see a rotting bridge. Even if it meant gesturing wildly and making “paarping” sounds to signal “van” or smiling sheepishly as a kindly lady conductor told us in no uncertain terms – in pure Thai – that we were blundering imbeciles who had overshot our stop a long while ago. I picked up a little Thai during my time there. I suppose knowing "thank you" and "the next station is...." in Thai may come in handy some time.

Sign language held us in good stead most times. Except in what was possibly a dire life and death situation. A girl waved to me from the sea. I smiled back. KO followed suit. (She imagines I even waved back. The blazing sun really did her in, poor thing).

Only a good while later we realized the truth. The girl’s partner was floundering in the water. She was struggling to drag him back to the boat. Her “vigorous wave” was a distress signal. Her “cheery smile” was, in reality, a grimace as she struggled with his dead weight.

In a word?

Oops.

The Paddle Puzzle

“Get in, bum first” said our kayaking guide. So we did. Yours truly at the helm and KO behind me. Mangrove kayaking at Ao Thalane, Krabi. We had looked forward to this for a long time.

We enthusiastically dipped our paddles in, trying to propel ourselves forward and at the same time turn the kayak around to head toward the mangroves.

Complete amateurs, absolute blunderbusses.

We went straight under the pier and remained stuck there until the guide extricated us.

The last thing we heard as we headed towards the silent green mangroves in placid waters interspersed with rocky coves was hoots of laughter from experienced kayakers on the bank.

Bullies.

Can We Throw Him To The Sharks?

American stud to Indian-born, UK-educated girlfriend: “You get them at the grocery store. You know what a grocery store is?”

Where is a big killer wave when you need one?

Read KO's accounts of our trip: Part 1 and Part 2.

How to Tell You Are At A Pretentious Overrated Restaurant

2011-10-07T15:03:00.002+05:30

1. There are only rave reviews online. Nobody, save some bitter soul who lost his reservation after showing up “only one hour late”, has anything even average to say about the place.

2. The waiters call the wet tissues presented at the beginning of the meal the restaurant’s “signature touch”.

3. The people seated next to you are creating a commotion over a game of tug-of-war with a roomali roti.

4. The restaurant claims to have authentic Punjabi chefs while the “live kitchen” appears to have been invaded by the Chinese.

5. You have to rescue your cousin who has been wedged between an effusive waiter greeting patrons at the neighbouring table and the back of a chair.

6. The beaming waiter asks you to select any appetizers and drinks on the menu and the conversation goes:
- “What would you like to have? Please order anything at all.”
- “What would you recommend in prawn?”
- “Sorry, we’re all out of prawn.”
- “All right, so get us some beer to start with.”
- “Which beer, sir?”
- “Tuborg?”
- “Sorry, no Tuborg.”
- “Kingfisher?”
- “Sorry, no Kingfisher.” (In the city that is home to Uncle Mallya’s brewery)

7. You settle for a tall glass of Heineken which is promptly garnished with a handful of onions and radish by a clumsy waiter.

8. The restaurant does not have regular tandoori chicken. The waiter recommends a pindi whatchamacallit chicken which is a good example of how a chef can effortlessly reduce a chipper succulent bird to tasteless brown goop.

9. Your cousin is dejectedly pronging bits of fish kebab in his plate after the following exchange:
- “Sir, would you like the fish? Or would you like the fish?”
- “Erm… Lemme think. Shoot, I can’t decide. Oh, well, I think I’ll try the fish.”
- “Sorry, sir, we’re out of fish. I just dropped the fish at your feet.”
- “Ok, then I’ll have the fish.”
- “Very good, sir.”

10. Everyone is clawing their way toward the only tasty thing at dinner – the surprise birthday cake with a single candle.

11. The highlights of the evening are your hungry uncle mistaking the wet tissues for complimentary snacks and your cousin gurgling with happiness because someone spelled her name right on the cake – even if it meant having to squish a little icing on the cake hurriedly to convert a “G” to a “C”.

12. Everyone agrees that the best thing on the menu was the logo.

Bottomline: Jiggs Kalra needs an alternate career. I am done with pretentious restaurants. Give me some real food, please. Preferably on a plate, thank you very much.

A Sense of Humerus

2011-09-17T16:36:00.005+05:30

Hospitals have a strange, twisted sense of humour. I was reminded of this (yet again). It appears to be the Year of Hospitals for my family. After my dad’s tryst with the medical fraternity, it is now my mum’s turn.

My mum has always been quite adventurous. When Scion and I were kids, she’d spend a good amount of time with us climbing peach trees, catching tadpoles from the pond, touching touch-me-nots, collecting ants for my ant stations and whatnot. Age has done nothing to slow her down.

So, she claims she was “walking down a steep path”. I suspect she was playing hopscotch. Whatever the truth may be, she is now in a cast, nursing a fractured ankle. (Note: I would normally say fractured “fibula”, but NG got the old knickers in a bunch when I once said someone fractured an “ulna” – apparently, “normal people” use the word “arm” when referring to such things.)

Since medical facilities are quite pathetic in the boonies we call home – where eight large whiskeys are called anesthesia, brandy is a cure for rheumatism (also erectile dysfunction, incontinence etc) and three large rums give the power of x-ray vision – Mum is now literally putting her foot up in the city.

Mum, or Dr Quack, decided that she had completely healed in three weeks. To ascertain this belief (and put our arguments to rest), we walked into a hospital to consult a real orthopaedic doctor. “Go straight and take a left” they told us at the front desk.

Here’s how they really should have given directions:

“Walk straight down the corridor. Then you have a choice. You can either hobble down a flight of stairs that has a railing for support on one side only or you can slippery slide down the steep wheelchair ramp. If you happen to be in a wheelchair, you can burn rubber down the ramp before either crashing headlong into a water cooler, a plastic basin and some chairs strategically placed right at the end of the ramp.

If you choose to veer off the ramp before you reach the end, you have no choice but to tumble off the side and free fall for about three feet. In the process, you could damage your femur, tibia, fibula and/or your humerus, scapula, radius, ulna and others. But hey! No worries, you can crawl right into the doc’s room on your bruised patellas and phalanges!”

As if this wasn’t enough, there was a swinging gate that divided the outpatient and inpatient areas outside the doc’s office. When opened wide, the gate would rebound so quickly, I noticed more than one unsuspecting person being winded with a swift whack to the solar plexus or stumbling forward with a sure shot to the gluteus maximus.

The technician in the x-ray room only made life more interesting. He patted a table that was about five feet above the ground and told my one-legged mother to “climb up”. He's lucky she had only the one working leg. It saved him a quick kick in his special place. I forgave him though. Constant exposure to those x-rays must have had some adverse impact on the few grey cells bumming around in his cranium.

In fact, I forgave them all. In fact, I have a new found respect for them. After all, we are all born ignorant. It takes hard work to remain stupid.

How To Be A Moron At The Movies

2011-06-05T12:44:00.001+05:30

1. Cut the queue at the ticket counter. (Silly queue-following people have nothing better to do for fun but stand and stare at the back of peoples’ heads, apparently.)

2. Enter the theatre late. Grope your fellow moviegoers inappropriately to help you find your seat in the darkened hall.

3. Stomp on feet while you sidle your way through the row of seats, lose your balance and hang your ample behind precariously over the lap of someone already seated. (This creates quite the dilemma in their minds - do I just yell in alarm or grab on, shove and hope for the best?)

4. Blab loudly with your companion about something totally unrelated to the movie (because everyone paid good money to come to the theatre to listen to your wildly exciting description of your balcony in Delhi.)

5. Keep your cellphone ringer on and entertain more calls than a 24/7 call centre handles in a year.

6. Begin a slanging match with anyone who dares to shush you. (Everyone needs to hear what an expansive arsenal of expletives you possess.)

7. Take your own sweet time ordering enough food for a small African nation at the snack counter. Then create a scene because you haven’t the money to pay for it and insist that the staff try several credit, debit and other bits of plastic to cover the bill.

8. Mourn loudly to your companion that the popcorn “back home in the States” is so much better than here - they don’t scrounge on the butter etc. (Your American Eagle Outfitter t-shirt will convince everyone you are the real deal even though your Paragon rubber chappals might raise some doubt.)

9. Start a popcorn fight with your companions. Make sure you drench everybody, including complete strangers, with your aerated cola.

10. Once your store of popcorn ammo is exhausted, poke around for more everywhere you can think of, including under the bottom of your neighbour. (What better excuse to cop a good feel, eh?)

11. Bring in a whole brood of babbling, whining children who do not comprehend the language in the first place. (Nothing aggravates fellow moviegoers more than having a 90-minute film translated word-for-word into some vernacular dialect.)

12. Ensure that the aforementioned children carry with them one or more of the following items which can be liberally applied onto fellow moviegoers: Bubble-blowing solution, sticky chewing gum retained on grubby fingers, snot-laden tissue etc.

13. If the film goes off due to a technical glitch, remain seated and do nothing yourself, but ensure that you keep yelling, “Hey, somebody tell them! Somebody do something. Why is everybody just sitting?”

14. If you choose to do something about it yourself, stand up, turn toward the projection room and clap your hands – because the equipment is probably clap-activated, right?

15. Place your cup of gooey chocolate mousse on the next seat just as your neighbour is seating himself/herself down.

16. Apologise profusely and offer the now squashed remains of the mousse to placate your highly upset neighbour.

17. Remove your shoes and rest your toe-jammy feet on the seat in front of you.

18. Squat down in the middle of the exit stairwell, placing your precious helmet next to you, mindless of the stream of people almost tripping over you. If the movie did not have enough action, someone tumbling down the stairs in real life should satisfy everybody’s bloodlust.

Relatively Speaking

2011-05-18T10:57:00.000+05:30

If there were de-addiction centres for blogging, I’d quite possibly be one of the first ones to be presented there, kicking and screaming my protest in a straitjacket.

I realise that my obsession with blogging has reached unhealthy levels. I am constantly on the lookout for interesting subjects (and by that I also mean annoying, stupid or just regular amusement on two legs) to blog about.

When my sibling Scion kicked his leg through the seat of a dining chair in a bizarre accident while reaching for rose cookies, giving himself a nasty bruise on the chest, my immediate reaction should ideally have been a concerned, “Oh, my God! Are you all right?” Right?

No. Instead, yours truly looks at him quizzically, wondering at the mass of arms and legs entangled in what was once a perfectly intact dining chair. Then, as he hopped over to a sofa to nurse a wounded knee, to my horror, I felt the stirrings of an awful giggle fit.

Because in my head, all that I could think of was, “With bruises like that, people would think the hero had been out rock climbing or rappelling. Instead he earned those black and blue hues reaching for rose cookies. I wonder how I can incorporate this on my blog?”

With that, the damage was done. I burst out laughing. Luckily, my family has more funny bones than an elephant graveyard and pretty soon, Scion was chuckling away while still groaning with pain.

A few weekends ago, I had a couple of social functions to attend. A cousin’s engagement and a friend’s wedding reception. While I quite looked forward to the latter, I was in two minds about the former. Family obligation and all that jazz is not a reason that sits well with me since I do not feel guilty remorse at skipping one of those. I only view events in terms of “boring” or “not-so-boring”.

And then I looked at my blog. Uh-oh. If I did not act quickly, A Touch of Tabasco would soon belong to the World Wide Cob Web.

A community gathering, eh? Perfect. With some luck, I could find some material there to blog about. And so, with a much willing heart, I went - ears flapping and eyes peeled. I did pick up a few perils of wisdom such as how one must always place potted palms on a veranda as they prevent old people from falling. Don’t you just love illogical data of that sort? It gives me something to try and attach logic to while in the company of coma-inducing individuals later.

I found myself having a surprisingly enjoyable misandrist-oriented conversation with a very well-spoken, witty old lady with an in-your-face attitude. She did not have anything to say about the strategic use of potted palms, but she did have a lot of rather amusing observations, collated over several years, about the males of my tribe and their general attitude toward us alien non-resident types.

However, one cannot spend an entire evening in the company of an octogenarian, maverick or not. I soon found myself surveying the room again with an uninterested eye, slightly disheartened that I had no material for a new blog post after all.

Blame it on the heavy rain that evening. But suddenly, a bunch of cousins came crawling out of the woodwork. Now, I have this thing about cousins. I always thought that Cousin Binky, her brother Cousin I-don’t-think-horror-movies-have-enough-bloodshed A, Cousin I-am-also-your-uncle-because-of-rampant-in-breeding-bordering-on-incest Whisky and Little Miss Britain were the only cousins I could relate to. We are all social outcasts of sorts - what with our tendency to converse in English all the time and such.

Most others, (and I say “most” because there could be exceptions who do not spring to mind at the moment), are just too old or too young or too... well... different. I am barely past the initial polite conversation about coffee, hockey, rainfall and work before they mentally stick a skewer through me and roast a misfit-cousin-on-the-spit while chanting in a tongue I do not comprehend.

So you can imagine how pleasantly surprised I was to stumble upon second cousins who were well, in the same generation, and more importantly, quite “PLU or people like us” as Bin somewhat snobbishly puts it. A bunch of previously undiscovered cool cousins? I think my luck’s finally beginning to turn.

I came looking for blog-worthy snippets and I stumbled on flesh-and-blood smarty-pants company. It also means I can finally ditch the octogenarians. And that’s not such a bad thing even for a snooping material-hungry blogoholic.

Of Hallucinations and Hospitals

2011-05-14T12:14:00.000+05:30

My apologies to my regular readers, the nosy busybodies, the stalkers, the Belgian and the visitor from Ouagadougou seeking “tabasco cupcakes”.

Amidst the decision to switch jobs and a health scare courtesy my father, I had little time, inclination or inspiration to blog. However, as everything seems to be settling down now and general good humour appears to have returned, here goes.

This piece is yet another about my family since every other crazy I know has taken refuge from the sweltering summer sun (or incontinent rain cloud if in Bangalore).

Dad often considers himself a poster child for Murphy’s Law – and rightly so. How else would you explain how a simple hernia surgery could land one in the ICU?

Dad caused the family and his surgeon – who is now undoubtedly questioning his career choice – some anxious moments when, while coming out of a simple hernia procedure, he suffered what they call a “cardiac event”. “Event”? These medical types are nuts. How is something like this an “event”? They might as well call it a “spectacle” and sell audience tickets and dole out refreshments. George Bush Jr. goof-ups, Halley’s comet, la Tomatina, Aerosmith live in concert, the WillKat wedding – those are “events”!

Anyhow, long story short, the hospital kept him under anesthesia for a further 48 hours while monitoring him in the ICU with all the requisite life-support systems in place. While things seemed like they could go either way for a while, Dad pulled through and came out all puns blazing. While his old ventricles took a beating, Dad’s sense of humour or more aptly, his ability to cause much mirth and amusement around him appeared stellar.

As Dad came out of his 48-hour induced nap, he gestured frantically at my sibling Scion. Still attached to the ventilator along with other tubes, it was impossible to speak. Thus began a game of dumb charades.

Dad gestured and signaled while Scion – who is not exactly the best person to have on a charades team – kept guessing. “You have digital power!” he declared. No, signaled Dad. “You feel like you have swallowed power!” Scion ventured again. No! “You feel empowered? You feel powerful? You feel invincible? You feel like Superman? You ARE the MRF Man!” No!

Finally, Scion deciphered “I swallowed a digital thermometer”. That’s right. That is exactly what Dad was trying to say. Serious.

Dad kept pointing to a spot in his stomach saying the errant digital thermometer had parked itself there. He was only convinced otherwise once the tubes were removed and the hallucinogenic effect of the various drugs administered wore off.

While I made a mental note of the episode as well as Scion’s useless guesses, it struck me. This sort of thing runs in the family. Years ago, while I recovered from an emergency appendectomy, I was convinced that the surgeon had left a pair of scissors inside. Then I decided he’d left two wads of cotton. Once I reasoned that wasn’t the case, I suspected he had robbed me of a kidney. After a recent ultrasound where my gall bladder apparently turned invisible, I am now convinced they nicked that too. I haven’t got the gall, quite literally.

So anyway, after a turbulent few weeks, things appear to be settling down. Dad says those 48 hours were like an acid trip. From being carried off in an auto rickshaw to an Indian Oil petrol bunk baring his behind in a hospital gown, being subjected to medical experiments to sitting on a bench with some old men, he had the strangest of dreams. Even the despicable Ducky put in an appearance. Dad, in his dreams, saw the fellow pottering around the ICU looking for something called “an umbilical cap” for his “wife’s hernia”, which he later triumphantly declared he found at the Meerut cantonment area.

Dad’s only regret? He couldn’t reach out far enough to hurl a bedpan at the moron.

As for the rest of us, we’re now consciously watching what we eat, steering clear of Robin Cook books and keeping a keen eye on the whereabouts of that digital thermometer at all times. And of course, we’re laughing again.

Letter to My Six-Year-Old Self

2011-04-13T12:45:00.016+05:30

Dear Six-Year-Old Basically Blah,

Look what I found! Your first “published” article.

Remember how proud you were because it was the first article in the school magazine that year? I suspect this was one of the worst editorial decisions ever made in the history of editorial decision making. It would be safe to assume that this caused a considerable decline in the number of student applications made to the school the following year.

You ought to be ashamed putting something like this up for the world to see. Here are a bunch of reasons why:

Firstly, which kid in their right senses keeps tadpoles? Were two goldfish in a bowl not fascinating enough for you?

More importantly, where did you get these peculiar mutant tadpoles? They appear bigger than the dogs and even the cows. If indeed those odd hunched creatures with the unicorn horns are cows. What is your standard excuse - “The tadpole ate my homework” or "The dog that ate my homework was eaten by my tadpole"?

The big cow appears to be a paedophilic pervert. I will not go into the details.

Are all your dogs two-legged? And I use the term “dogs” loosely, since it appears the third such creature is actually a paramecium.

Your MOTHER keeps those tadpoles in a bowl? Really now. This is a bit of a stretch even for your family of oddballs. But congratulations on publishing that bit of fiction to all and sundry. I believe your mother resented attending PTA meetings for months afterward, having to deal with the shame of being called the ‘crazy tadpole lady’. You are quite the tale weaver. Would it be more truthful to say that your mother looks after your precious tadpoles when you go off for months together to boarding school?

Also, here’s a revelation: When those mutant tadpoles grow into little frogs and hop away, your sneaky mother replaces them with more before you come home so as to avoid your throwing a tantrum. You could never tell the difference, you pint-sized pinhead.

Here’s a little lesson about life while we’re on the subject of amphibians. Seeing as I am much older and somewhat wiser now. You are better off when frogs go away. You have far more trouble when frogs come hopping into your bowl…err…life. In addition to being slimy, they, most importantly, never turn into princes.

Well, don’t feel too badly about all this, 6-year-old BB. You will be glad to know that that precocious and loquacious little girl with the affinity for all little creatures of the animal kingdom still lives on in this woman who is now hurtling toward “old age” faster than your mother could replace those errant tadpoles.

Oh, and do keep writing! It makes your life far more interesting and eventful in more ways than even you can imagine. So brace for the years ahead, moppet.

(No kisses and hugs because I know you hate them.)

Cheers,
Present-Day Basically Blah.

P.S. Whatever you do, do not become friends with this KO person. She appears to be delusional and harbours suicidal inclinations, judging from her article in the same magazine:

Note to the school magazine editorial team:
I am totally baffled as to why you would choose such an article to begin your magazine. Was it because your other choice was this?

I suppose it stands to reason that this could cause some fears among parents about the safety of their kids, considering that their first grade teacher appears to be a molting, stilt-walking Sasquatch.

Read the exchange my discovery sparked off with KO here.

Waiter, Wipe that Smile Off Your Face

2011-04-08T19:10:00.000+05:30

How Do You Solve A Problem Like BC?

BC is possibly the most foul-mouthed person I know and takes offence - in a rather comical way - at the most absurd things. Her surliness over seemingly ordinary circumstances or people is what prompts me to claim that she harbours a dozen complexes (hence her pseudonym). A charge that she refutes with profanity that most certainly cannot be published here.

So the other day, KO called me to join her and her two German friends for dinner at this rather good Punjabi restaurant. BC said she would join us later. The four of us were guided to our table by a rather cheerful and friendly waiter named Alistair.

Now, I love cheery people. BC, for reasons best known to her, detests them. She even objects to the dozen smiley magnets on my fridge door. This would explain why she issues death threats if I so much as greet her in the morning. It is why our opinions of cheerful people differ so. While I completely “heart” them, she finds them “annoying”.

Anyhow, back to our waiter Alistair. The sincere fellow fussed around our table, ensuring we were comfortable and took our beverage orders. Then while we mulled over our food menus, he decided we must all be foreigners. As I listed each dish we wanted, he painstakingly described what it was, even going so far as to explain the meaning of “achaar”. Not wanting to offend him, I patiently heard him out and nodded understandingly as he completed each elaborate explanation.

I blamed his assumption on KO’s accent. KO blamed it on mine. The gospel truth is that only one of us has an actual “accent”. The other (me, me, me!) has what is universally called a “neutral accent” with an occasional inability to pronounce certain names. Capisce?

BC arrived a while after our food had been served. As she pulled a chair up to our table, Alistair appeared and beamed down at her. “You’re late!” he remarked as he helped her settle in. Now, here is where our perceptions differed. While the rest of us chuckled, BC was offended, thinking he had admonished her for her tardiness. “Oh, I wasn’t aware we had some kind of a set time”, she mumbled dryly.

Then Alistair “offended” her again. As she picked up her glass to drink, he asked, “Would you like a drink?” BC started, almost sloshing her drink onto me, before bemusedly pointing out that she already had a drink.

In an effort to make up for his faux pas, Alistair then served BC with some kebabs and added, "Madam, have some onions." The problem BC had with this? There were, in fact, no onions in the dish. She hissed, "But there are no onions in there!" He beamed down at her again and said, "No, do have some more onions." "This man has lost his onions," BC mumbled to me.

The last straw (to her - the rest of us were completely amused) came when he took it upon himself to explain to her what “gulaab jamuns” were. “Balls of dough fried in sugar sy--” he began before she cut him short. “I know what they are. I just don’t want those stuffed ones. You know, the ones with that c**p in it”, she said, gesturing wildly while the rest of us chuckled again.

As we left, seen off by the cheery Alistair, I remarked, “What a pleasant waiter. One of the nicest I’ve met.”

BC scowled at me. “Brilliant, go ahead and worship the man that crushes me with his venomous tongue”, she spat. “May his sugary dough balls turn to bitter ash."

And just like that, the cheery Alistair was a marked man.

Sigh. Did I mention complexes before?

Excuse me, Officer, but I’ve lost my sense of humour

2011-03-30T15:21:00.011+05:30

Now, I don’t know whether the general quality of humour is on a rapid downslide or whether it is just me.

May be I’m getting too old and crotchety to appreciate a certain variety of jokes. Or maybe - and I am inclined to think that this is the probable reason - some so-called “jokes” are just not funny.

Man-slipped-on-banana-peel type humour has never really appealed to me. But I tolerate it. I tolerate the widespread glee it causes in those around me - those quite obviously not in my immediate friends circle, of course.

I know that the perception of “funny” differs from person to person. So much so that I placidly tolerated this cow who used me as a back rest, arm rest, head rest and what-have-you while she was convulsed with laughter over a theatrical performance that I thought was absolute hamming at best.

Of course, I have been in stitches myself over silly, childish things. The sight of BC tripping on the stairs and falling at the feet of an usher at the cinema or running down steps into a banyan tree turned me into an absolute wreck. My “bob sledding” on my knees down a flight of stairs, all the while taking care not to upset the pile of books I was carrying, resulted in tears of laughter and bruised knees for weeks after.

This morning I awoke to find a text message on my phone. It read: “Indian cricket team penalised by animal activists for hunting 11 kangaroos last week. Pledges to pay penalty by hunting 11 terrorists today” (the day of the Indo-Pak cricket world cup semis).

And you know what? It made me plain angry.

I tried to brush it off, ignore it, rationalise it and attribute it to PMS, the summer temperature or general irritability. But it continued to bother me. I then ran it past BC and Terror. They did not think it was funny either. We found it downright offensive.

I don’t really know the sender too well having had the good fortune of working with the bloke for just a few months. Nonetheless, I replied, telling him I thought his “joke” to be “in very bad taste”. It was the most polite rebuke I could think of, given my foul frame of mind.

Whatever happened to good old-fashioned sporting rivalry? I am pro-Ferrari, pro-Real Madrid, pro-India, pro-Federer, pro-gender equality, pro-nudity, pro-meat, pro-butter, pro-matching-underwear. Does that make me anti-animal or anti-Pak or anti-men? NO. There is a distinct difference.

I am all for poking fun at people, as is evident by the snide barbs that pepper my blog. However, I am apt to think that there is a fine line between “funny” and “offensive”.

Inzamam-ul-Haq running after a cheeky spectator with a cricket bat - funny. Sreesanth’s pantomimes - annoying or strangely embarrassing. Pakistani cricketers being branded “terrorists” - offensive. Downright disgusting. Pathetic. Infuriating.

In our quest for funny, have we abandoned all sense of decency or civility? I’d like to hear the same ones laughing when they are at the receiving end of such crass humour. Crassness in the guise of “patriotism” is okay, apparently.

My mind wanders back to Ducky - you know, the one who got his camouflage knickers in a bunch over the perceived insults to his lineage, primarily his spinach-propagating aunts. While driving through Tamil Nadu to get to a holiday destination, we passed miles and miles of arid farmland, taking in the sight of scorched farmers toiling away under the unforgiving blistering sun.

Ducky remarked, “These Tamilians are such blackies, no? Ha ha ha!”

I am not sure what happened after that. I must have burst a blood vessel. But the next thing I knew, I had burst into tears. I heard myself, in a strangely strangled voice, hysterically howling about what a disgusting thing that was to say, calling him a *bleep bleep bleep* and more *bleeps*.

I was furious beyond belief and felt extremely hurt. Hurt because this was a terribly unkind remark about people of a state that I will always regard as home even if I am not originally from there. A state that gave me the best education one could ask for. An education that taught me tolerance and acceptance of anyone from anywhere. On the other hand, I was also irked by his scathing unfunny remarks about people from the north east - a region I owe no allegiance to. So there is the possibility that I might just be over-sensitive.

I only calmed down once I had cried myself out and was dizzy from the bawling, having convinced myself that I could expect no better from a chap who had been brought up to believe that light skin is beautiful. I had seen enough kitchen concoctions dumped on his face by the family after every beach holiday - the same family that lectured me on the harm I was causing my complexion by standing in the balcony at noon - to forgive him his absolute insensitivity.

So here’s the toughie. Just how do you explain the difference between class and crass, especially to morons with the intellect, wit, personality and charm of a mildewed boulder? Is offensiveness or borderline racism okay because it appeals to a possibly wider, obtuse and insensitive majority?

And if you don’t agree with my crabby rant here, blame it on PMS. Or the summer heat. Or the stench of boiling cabbage wafting from my neighbour’s kitchen.

Blundering Through the Punder Years

2011-03-21T20:52:00.004+05:30

An old windbag, after waxing on about what a genius at embroidery her daughter was, once asked me what my talent was. I blinked, stuttered a bit, and then weakly said, “I like writing”. She snorted. “No, don’t you have any real talent?”

No. I don’t actually, coming to think of it.

I could sketch decently once. That is now limited to doodling during telecons or drawing boxes for KO. My singing attracts amorous camels. I’ve done one stint of Salsa fairly recently, but my dancing isn’t going to be impressing any rain gods any time soon.

I am not really musically challenged, seeing as I can tell an A Minor from a G-string, but I have never really taken to a musical instrument. Some people are born to play, and others are born to be played for. I can cook and bake in a non-Michelin-starred-chef kind of way. That’s more likely to add weight to a matrimonial resumé.

I can bring my feet up to my face. But I don’t think that qualifies as a talent. Anyway, it’s not as cool as Bunny’s ability to skip using his arms. He once asked me what I thought he could do with it; I suggested he do it at the traffic lights to make some money. May be I’m good at making nonsense suggestions. Does that qualify as a talent? I morph and create rude pictures of BC to be sent out on every festive occasion. That’s nonsense again.

The written word. It’s pretty much all I’ve really got. I think.

As I think back over the years, my attempts at writing have always gotten me into trouble. Well, trouble with the wrong sort, anyway – the sort without a sense of humour. The kind of people not really worth knowing or tolerating as far as I am concerned.

Writing and trouble – oh, yes, we go back a long way.

Reading just sort of goes hand-in-hand with writing. And so I learned of the birds and the bees slightly earlier than those around me. Consequently, at around the age of 7 or 8, I found myself being chased around the playground by an incensed Fightercock Lakshmi, who was yelling, “You said babies come from the bottom!” “Not bottom,” I shot back over my shoulder as I scooted ahead, “I said ******, stupid!” “You called me a stupid!”, she squealed still galloping behind me. “No, I said ‘stop it’, you idiot!” I shouted back as I tried to put more distance between us while avoiding an obstacle course some kindly diarrheic cow had laid out earlier that day.

Then there was that matter of that Garden of Eden depiction with my pal Mushroom a while later.

When I was all of 10 or 11, a handful of us were hauled up for penning fake letters to a classmate as a joke. Well, the rest were contributors while I did the actual penning. Unfortunately, the said victim did not have a sense of humour. She ratted us out to the Maths teacher, who took it upon herself to lecture us on immorality, the wages of sin being death, the “foolishness of virgins” and how she would like to “hung her head in shame” for our wicked deed. It’s a different matter that I might have wanted to “hung my head” at the grammar.

Nonetheless, she must have been fairly convincing. For she had me praying fervently to the Lord for forgiveness when I was beckoned to the principal’s office soon after. I was certain I would be expelled. As it turned out, it had nothing to do with those letters. Oo, KO’s sister who now traipses around Ireland with a butterfly net trying to catch leprechauns, had chosen that week to faint at the breakfast table. I was the sole witness when she flopped face-first into a bowl of icky wheat porridge. I can’t really blame her. You should have seen that cess-pool matter they called porridge. The principal, for reasons best known to her, simply wanted to know how long Oo had been comatose. She’d regained conscious right about the time I yanked her head out of the bowl. I left the office with a commendation for having saved Oo from drowning in porridge.

Anyhow, I digress. Again.

Cut to 2010. I was in trouble again. This time for penning a post that supposedly showed my community in a bad light and insulted Ducky’s “lineage” in front of “the whole world” (I love that they thought my readership was that huge). A post that most people chuckled at. Except the ones that lacked a sense of humour and figured the piece was all about them. I was given lectures on tradition, “respecting elders”, how no Brits would touch me with a barge pole (which would prove a tad ironic later), how I churned out no material of “journalistic excellence” (who’s going for a Pulitzer anyway?) and so forth. Plenty of drama that would put an Indian soap opera to shame later, the offending post stayed. The non-funny-boned, sons-of-our-soil, last-standing-bastions-of-tradition people did not. Nonetheless, when people are more hypocritical than they are critical, it’s easy to cut your so-called losses and blog on.

So, yes. You can take the blah out of my writing. But you cannot take writing out of Blah.

What absolute piffle. It sounded a tad better in my head. Then again, this is my blog. I can put whatever the hell I want in here.

That’s right. For the whole world to see.

Gimme a Brake!

2011-03-14T12:42:00.021+05:30

Musings at a Bangalore Traffic Signal

1. One spends roughly 35% of one’s life in Bangalore waiting at a traffic signal.

2. The signal turns red to green and back at least three times before it is finally your turn to cross over. Cyclists, pushcarts and pedestrians wait until you are crossing the intersection before attempting to kill themselves under your wheels.

3. Eunuchs badger women to divulge the brand of cosmetics or methods of makeup they use. Whatever happened to the good old clapping, demands for money, threats of nudity and blessings (debatable) of a 100 male children?

4. You develop symptoms of repetitive strain injury from shaking your head and flapping away enthusiastic offers to sell you non-motorised Segways, plastic apples with waving leaves, silver mobike minis that dance on their haunches and other such things that the sellers insist are absolutely vital to producing those 100 male heirs those vain eunuchs deprived you of.

5. An argument between two motorists always holds everybody up. The altercation invariably involves plenty of head shaking, finger pointing and spitting by those actually involved as well as plenty of general standing around, lectures on the use of local language while arguing and scratching of private parts by a larger number of uninvolved persons.

6. No expletive is more infuriating to the local populace than “nonsense” (pronounced "naansense" or "naanshense"). Fs and Bs are passé. The exchange usually goes:
- (Thoo, bleddy) Nonsense!
- What nonsense?! You nonsense!
- What nonsense?! You big nonsense?!
- You so big nonsense!
And so on.

7. While waiting for pedestrians to cross over, you spend your time crouching below the steering wheel anxiously asking your puzzled co-passenger, “Is he gone yet?” Bangalore is a city where the six-degrees-of-separation theory holds true and the would-be-glad-to-avoid-every-fifth-person theory holds even truer. The first row of traffic at a pedestrian crossing would appear, to the uninitiated, to have several driverless cars.

8. The traffic cop thinks a shake of the fist and casting aspersions upon a signal jumper's lineage is sufficient. He would rather save his energy for doing a poor Fred Astaire imitation in the middle of the road to try and stop suspected drunk drivers after 11.30pm.

9. Dark tints on one’s window are an open invitation to chronic nose pickers to pass their time at a traffic signal showing you - up, close and personal - what they do best.

10. Women on two-wheelers take utmost care to completely shield their faces from the sun, pollution and leering male creatures in other vehicles. The same care is, however (and, most times, unfortunately), not extended to their cheeky derrieres.

The Bother of Birthdays

2011-02-24T14:18:00.002+05:30

I have never been a birthday person. I don’t remember ever having looked forward to a birthday. It is not that turning a year older has really bothered me.

What does bother me about birthdays is the absolute fuss created over them. I balk at the attention. I have come to realise that there are birthday people and then there’s us who are rather unruffled by it all.

“Come to Delhi for our birthday, okay? We can have chocolate cake with gems!” said my wide-eyed niece, Piggy, excitedly. She and I share the same birthday. I looked at Piggy’s excited, cherubic face and mulled it over. I absolutely love her to bits. I do. She is the best birthday present ever. But I don’t quite fancy spending a birthday wading through a bunch of hyperactive, screaming four-year-olds to get to my chocolate cake with gems.

It is simply too unnerving considering the utter violence I was subjected to in my early days at the merciless hands of Terror#1 and his equally diabolical sibling. And I now have my hands full with BC and KO screaming, pinching, biting and clawing each other every time they disagree over what to order for dessert.

Birthdays are harrowing experiences for anyone who doesn’t much care for them. Of course, Bin does not share my sentiment. Bin adores birthdays. She is the type who begins planning her next birthday the moment she blows the candles off her current birthday cake with the pink icing and the silver bells.

One year, Bin called me up about a month before my birthday. “What plans for your birthday?” she squealed excitedly. “Nothing. May be just head out for a drink with the hobbler and the squabbler or something. I don’t care for birthdays anyway. Blah,” I replied tonelessly.

“What! How can you not like birthdays?! I feel like a princess on my birthday! It’s the ONLY day anyone ever pays any attention to me!”

“Err…”, I said in a valiant attempt to sound empathetic.

“But then you wouldn’t know anything about how that feels now, would you, Principessa?!” she shrieked back all distraught.

Oh, dear. I had just succeeded in irking the Keeper of Birthday Sanctity or something. Now every time Bin enquires about my birthday plans, I put up a cheery front, punch the air and add, “I am having the best birthday party ever, with balloons, frilly party frock and my awesome tiara. I am so excited!”

Then there’s BC, who decided we would celebrate by downing one shot of tequila for every year we’ve spent on earth. We quickly gave up on that idea. We realised that if we pressed on, we would probably spend an equal amount of time calling Jesus on the big porcelain telephone.

The stress of planning a birthday celebration is far too much for the likes of me. It must stem from planning those birthday parties back in boarding school. Oh, the tough decisions young infantile minds had to make. Coconut balls or elephant ears or scones or samosas? To invite the fightercock and the crybaby or not?

I haven’t come too far since then. Now it is all about deciding between vodka or gin or beer or a sickly sweet fruity cocktail. Or choosing between apt responses to keep the peace between friends who are gauging each other’s eyes out over the pronunciation of “Thomas”.

Yes, this birthday shall have to be a peacekeeping mission like any other day. Unless there's an offer of skydiving someplace or a nude wedding.

So, sorry, Piggy. Not this birthday. May be our next birthday - you'll be five and old enough to crack open your first can of beer and all that.

The Art of Giving Unsolicited Advice

2011-02-23T11:26:00.002+05:30

1. One must be above the age of 30 to be eligible to impart so-called pearls of wisdom. If not 30, then one must be at least three years older than chosen advisee.

2. Always be on high alert for any opportunity to begin advising; even if met with mild protestations, suddenly vacant rooms, requests to use the restroom or feigned deafness. Keep in mind that not everybody actually wants advice; but everybody needs advice.

3. No conversation is above being interrupted for your pearls of wisdom. Pick up on snippets of a conversation and take off from there. Nobody dare argue that it is completely out of context. If they do, follow #4 - it unnerves them.

4. Remember, your stance is important. Clutch your left breast (or moob or whatever), tip your chin slightly upward and wax eloquent with your eyelids half closed, nodding emphatically every now and then for effect. Master #4 and the world is your advisee oyster.

5. Left-breast clutching must always be accompanied with the opening line, “As an older and wiser person, I will tell you…” Never shy away from stressing the fact that you are older and hence, automatically wiser.

6. Advisees are stupid people. Period. Never listen to their differing points of view, no matter how logically argued. As an older and, ergo, wiser person, you always know best. It doesn't matter that people may think otherwise. You know best!

7. Persistence pays. Unwilling advisees can be worn down if you keep repeating a line until they pipe down. Raise your voice if you need to. Shout “lalala” and shut your ears if you must. You will and must have your say.

8. Advisees must be treated like complete nincompoops. Smile patronisingly at all they have to say. Chuckle indulgently. It infuriates them, weakening their defences.

9. Everything and everybody is your business. Dispensing free, unsolicited advice has no bounds. There are no jurisdictional limitations on where you can advise people. At home, at the airport, in a public restroom, at the traffic signal, in a supermarket aisle.

10. Try and corner your advisee in a tiny space where escape is difficult. At the water cooler, the copier room with the single exit, the lift. Do not shy away from using an arm or a knee to pin them down. (There's no better listener than someone with a squashed windpipe).

Remember, everything you say IS “advice” because you say so. Sound all-knowing. It is not WHAT you say that matters, but HOW you say it.

Take it from an older and wiser person.

Siren Vs. Siren

2011-02-14T16:45:00.010+05:30

Men and their priorities!

While everybody looked on in wonder when an ATM alarm began blaring for no apparent reason, a guy (note: with a girl on his arm) appeared oblivious to it all.

You can see where his attention lay. Blaring sirens be damned.

Based on a real-life incident.
Illustration: Cousin Binky
Concept & idea: KO and Basically Blah

Ur in trouble, missy

2011-02-12T20:35:00.000+05:30

I always think twice now before I pen a post on a visit to the hospital for an ultrasound scan. After my last post on the subject, I was flooded with email, texts and messages on Facebook – 80% of which bore the words “Good news?!”

I have just two things to say to those "well-wishers":
1. Such “news” at this point in my life would hardly be “good”.
2. In case you were wondering why you never heard back from me, I’ve read that the use of the interrobang (?!) denotes a rhetorical question.

I have come to loathe ultrasounds given my rather bizarre experiences with the people handling them. This time around, I showed up bright and early, hoping to beat the queue of techies who invariably arrive on a Saturday for their company-sponsored medical checks - proudly flaunting their stool samples while fumbling with precariously balanced urine samples. You know you're in Bangalore when people around you are pulling stool and urine samples out of laptop cases.

The woman behind the desk beamed kindly at me when I presented my scan requisition form. I beamed back, thinking nothing of it until I plonked myself on a plastic chair near here. “Sit on the cushioned sofa, ma. You will be more comfortable, you know”, she said gently before casting a not-so-discreet glance at my belly and beaming. Oh, Lord. The beamer thought I was pregnant.

Do no single, non-pregnant women have ultrasound scans these days?

I sat there for an hour, glugging down water every five minutes. I did not want a repeat of the “Is your bladder full experience”. An hour and three chapters of Bill Bryson’s Mother Tongue later, I had a bladder that would bring a tear to any good radiologist’s eye.

“Basically Blah?”

“Yes?”

“So sorry, ma, but the machine is out of order. Can you come back after two hours or on Monday?”

Great. So much for gloating over my scan-worthy bladder. It was now reduced to a plain case of bloating. And when you gotta go, you gotta go.

I did what anybody, who shies away from hospital loos, would do. I called KO who lives nearby. A friend in need is a friend indeed and all that. Or so I thought. However, this is KO we’re talking about. The one who insists on burying her phone in a bag so large that it also doubles up as a cover for the Chinnaswamy Cricket Stadium during the rains. In fact, if you are in Bengaluru and spot a bag with legs - that's KO.

There was no answer to my desperate calls.

I finally drove back home at top speed, hazard lights blinking, horn a-blaring et al. This was an emergency as good as any other.

Hardly five minutes after I had sighed with relief, my phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hello, ma. The machine is working. Can you come now?”

“I can get there in half an hour,” I said in dismay.

“Come with a full bladder, ok?”

Absolutely. Why don't I just swing by the local supermarket on my way there and pick you up a nice full bladder?

I drove all the way back, downing gallons of water on the way with the AC on full blast while saying “Ssssssssssssssssssssss” – hoping something or everything would do the trick. Classless. Absolutely classless. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

Is there a God? I cannot say for sure. However, this is certain: There is @$#@$ Murphy and his @#!@$ law.

Adam’s in Brine

2011-02-03T16:44:00.012+05:30

You know you are at a Braying Adams concert when:

1. Someone at the gate offered to pay you to take all his tickets.

2. Tickets were being hawked for a “charitable cause” – the BA Aids Foundation.

3. You spot your dad and his cronies in the crowd.

4. Your dad thinks he spots his dad and his cronies in the crowd.

5. Everybody, including the samosa vendor, the stagehand and the traffic cop, knows every lyric of every song. Everybody except the teenager in the “I Love BA Forever” t-shirt who is pulled onto stage to sing along.

6. There’s a group of screeching Persian-speaking chicks clawing, biting and poking their way through the crowd to get to the edge of the stage.

7. One of the Persian chicks has a clump of your hair, which is possibly still in her mouth.

8. You are standing on one foot because there is no place to put the other one down.

9. Your cousin isn’t even on the ground; she’s hanging onto the collar of the unknown guy in front of her, who is slowly but surely dying of strangulation.

10. You finally find a solid bit of concrete to stand on. Ten minutes later, the guy behind you tells you that you’re standing on his feet.

11. Mr Concrete-Blocks-For-Feet decides to tell you where he’s from, says you look familiar and then asks whether you would like to sit on his shoulders.

12. There’s a middle-aged rotund drunk jumping up and down and dancing when people barely have place to stand.

13. People are playing pass-the-parcel with the middle-aged rotund drunk, steadily shoving him out of the crowd.

14. People are pointing and laughing at a woman who looks like she’s been in labour for 72 hours but who is really just on the verge of fainting.

15. You can tell firsthand that the guy pressed up behind you has chosen today, of all days, to go commando.

16. You are so tightly squashed against the person in front of you, there’s no way you couldn’t have lost a cupsize.

17. While leaving, you have to scramble over the middle-aged rotund drunk now lying face down on the ground with a Pepsi billboard thrown over him.

18. You leave the concert venue looking like you’ve been dragged backward through a hedge, drenched in perspiration that is not your own, vowing never to attend another BA concert.

19. Someone at the gate is still trying to pay people to take his tickets.

20. You stay up all night with your cousin discussing people at the concert rather than the actual performance itself.

Laws of Revulsion

2011-01-24T23:07:00.008+05:30

Excerpts from “Every Indian guy’s secret guide to impressing a woman”

1. Stare. Stare. Stare. (Creepiness is irresistible)

2. Talk at the top of your voice. Be brash, rude and crude. (Gentlemen prefer blondes and genteel women prefer Attila the Hun)

3. Sit with your legs splayed apart, tapping one foot in a slightly epileptic gesture. (Nothing screams “come hither” louder than a rampant display of sexual frustration)

4. Send her a note through the waiter so that she is blown away by your ability to scrawl like a four-year old and form sentences like you’re six. (It could bring out her maternal instinct, increasing your chances)

5. Walk up to her, plonk your glass of beer in front of her and squat on your haunches. Then rock back and forth on your heels while you compose your thoughts. (There is something irresistibly sexy about this particular simian-like stance)

6. Do the “cool dude” dance which involves alternatively clutching at your family jewels and revving a pretend motorcycle. (Smooth movements vertically are indicative of smooth moves horizontally)

7. Imbibe so much alcohol so as to crash into her on the dance floor sending her grappling at her girlfriend for support like a desperate lesbian. (Nothing like a little girl-on-girl to get a party started)

8. Send her a text or an email that reads “Hai” (spelt exactly like that) and for added effect use the clawing “Dear”. (Imagine hearing her say, “You had me at ‘hai’” a la Jerry Maguire)

9. Be an “ass wipe” at the gym. Literally. Leave rivulets of sweat on a workout bench. When the woman, looking to use it after you, asks for it to be cleaned up, wipe the perspiration off with your bottom. (Don’t forget to laugh raucously at your cute innovativeness)

10. Ogle at the print on her t-shirt and say “Nice” very appreciatively. When she looks at you all aghast, quickly remark, “No, I meant your tee.” Then add, “Not that THEY are not nice…” before scuttling to safety. (No bigger turn-on than the scent of desperation)

The Blahs Must Be Crazy

2011-01-20T12:55:00.003+05:30

“Is there a history of mental illness in your family?”

Humph! That was ripe coming from Terror #1. You know, the little pipsqueak of a boy, who, along with his younger and brattier brother Terror #2, supplemented his childhood diet with little chunks bitten out of me. All because they believed they were vampires - a delusion that lasted a few years, closely followed by another few years of forcing me into playing mud-ball cricket with them.

Anyway, I digress. Mental illness in the family. Right, let’s see.

Paternal grandfolksies

Grandpa would physically place a bowl over his head before instructing a barber to cut hair only along its rim. The proverbial “katori cut” of the Indian army. He did not believe in stopping the practice even when he lost most of his hair in his dotage.

Grandma thought the ideal snack for a long-distance car journey in sweltering heat was a boiled egg. Actually, make that a bunch of boiled eggs (wrapped in an ever-dry nappy) that she would choose to open with all the windows tightly rolled up. The vicious onslaught upon the olfactory senses of the unfortunate occupants of the car made them think something had died - and the maggots within now celebrating puberty in gaseous delirium.

Maternal grandfolksies

Grandpa was one of the earliest proponents of gender equality. He vociferously stood up for women’s rights. However, when it came to sheep, his views were exactly the opposite. He was blatantly sexist and racist when choosing mutton at the local market. Only a male white sheep would do. No butcher could hoodwink him. He would insist on inspecting the tail of the sheep before buying his week’s supply of mutton.

Grandma was clear evidence of the serious lack of wealth-management knowledge in our family. She insisted on transporting tins of sand - collected by her slightly mental kids at the beach - around with her, for dozens of years, believing them to contain something of great value. She never opened them to check. Just hoarded them. OK, so if one were to argue that it was, perhaps, some sort of misplaced sentimentality, how would you explain her throwing away boxes of rough rubies? Yes. BOXES. She thought them to be worthless stones collected by her slightly mental sand-collecting kids, who had also supposed the reddish stones sieved from a river bed were just reddish stones to be hoarded for a rainy day when the world ran out of reddish stones or something.

Folksies

Dad thinks the answer to all the problems in the world is WD40. That spray for squeaky, rusty hinges etc. Crackling telephone line? “It will clear up now. I gave it a squirt of WD40,” says Dad in all seriousness. Ulcers, rodent infestation, head lice, noisy neighbour, irritable bowel movements. My Daddy says there’s nothing WD40 cannot alleviate.

Mom has a distinctive sense of interior decorating style. For reasons best known to her, she left two rotund apricot seeds and a phallic-shaped smooth white pebble strategically arranged in a little glass bowl. It was hard not to look at it and see a bizarre representation of the male genitalia. It may have been her way of explaining the birds and the bees to yours truly of the young and highly impressionable mind.

Sibling

Scion believed that throwing salt on a sparrow’s tail would render it flightless. OK, so even if I do admit that I might have planted the idea in his head in a moment of mischief, explain why Scion concluded that a bird dropped a giant pair of ugly chequered pyjamas on his balcony? He tends to overestimate the physical capability of birds and underestimate their aesthetic sensibilities.

By process of elimination, it would appear that I seem to be the only sane one in the family. Or am I?

Note to self: Quick, start coming up with rational reasons for having called out to random men on the street thinking them to be valet parking attendants, groping people inappropriately whilst fainting at the sight of blood or having an inexplicable need for Gummy Bears as soon as the power goes out (vis-à-vis a torch).

Quipper Snapper

2011-01-13T19:18:00.017+05:30

Given my current spring-cleaning state of mind, I’ve ruthlessly hacked through my burgeoning shoe rack and closets, discarding everything that hasn’t been used in the last 24 months. In keeping with the anti-clutter spirit, I turned to the random store of photographs on my mobile. The ones that I keep clicking and saying, “I so have to blog about this!” and then doing nothing about. Here is some of what I found:

This is possibly the closest I’ve come to doing it like an Indian man (peeing, you know, in maximum public view et al - if goats count, that is). The ladies restroom at this Kamat in Amboli, while on a road trip to Goa, took some getting used to. I walked in, whooped and did a bit of an “oh-my-god-I-did-not-expect-to-win-this-crown” pageant winner act while the washroom attendant eyed me expressionlessly. I then clicked a couple of pictures, which got her to raise an eyebrow before shaking her head, calling upon some God and returning to her mopping. Shrubbery made up most of the missing fourth wall, and I battled with performance anxiety as a few curious goats peeked through the foliage every now and then.

I know, I know. Misspelled signboards are a dime a dozen through our land. Don’t you just love them? I cannot get enough of them. So this guy seems quite capable. He can vanquish your "enemy" "abrode". As long as your problem does not pertain to beating that enemy at the national spelling bee, all is good.

Appetising, innit? Available at your nearest Barista. I must add here that KO loved it. But then KO would, considering her penchant for rotten food. Yes, you read right. Spoilt, stale, rotten – any food item in its dotage. At the top of the list reads rock-hard buns and putrefied paav bhajji. See, KO is the type, who, while the rest of us are gagging and rolling up the car windows in a hurry while going past a sewer, will wind down her window as much as possible and inhale deeply. She claims "seweromatherapy" is aphrodisiacal in nature. Personally, I think this donut would tackle that enemy better than aforementioned Mr. Life Problem Solver.

What exactly does one say to a friend who has exited a suffocating, dead-end relationship, none the worse for wear? While most people fumbled with what to say, BC, Bin and KO did it with typical panache. Nothing says “Hurrah! We’re glad the gangrene’s gone” better than a surprise plate of gooey Mississippi Mud Pie and a cheery “Congratulations!”

This is a picture of BC’s foot preparing for attack. BC has crab claws for feet, I swear it. One word out of place and you feel those pincers pinching an apology out of you instantly. I am quite certain BC's dreaded foot must be part of the country’s clandestine cache of torture implements.

Right. So my mobile is all cleaned up. Next stop: Facebook "friends" list.

All this getting rid of old and useless stuff reminds me of Chennai's "Bogi" festival, which I heard about during a (mercifully short) stint of schooling there. I was clueless about "Bogi" so a classmate condescended to explain it to the alien child. The conversation went something like this:

- Everything old and useless is burnt in a giant bonfire. Do you want to contribute anything?
- Oh. How about Radha Miss*? She is old and useless, no?
- Radha Miss! White Pig** wants to kill you in the fire!
- White Pig!
- Yes, Miss?
- That is a bad joke. Good girls do not joke. They work hard for centum***! Get out I say!

Tsk. And to think I wasn't even joking.

*A crochety Math teacher
**Literal translation from the Tamil nickname my endearing class had given me. I love their originality.
***Chennai's obsession with 100% in every subject.

The Multiple Worgasm

2010-12-30T20:59:00.006+05:30

I love words. It is as simple as that. Words have been a passion, a refuge, an icebreaker, a relationship maker, a relationship breaker, a reputation creator and wrecker, a way to wheedle my way through life. I take to words in every form; be it a book, a blog, the back of a toothpaste tube, the back of an autorickshaw, rude graffiti on the door of a public toilet or even a well-spoken person.

There are the word bores and the word whores. I loathe them and love them, respectively.

Then there’s that lot of people who automatically assume that if they throw a whole lot of pseudo-intellectual psycho babble at me, it’s going to open doors… in more ways than one. NF, the pompous so-n-so from oh-so-many years ago, springs to mind. He waxed on about the umbra and penumbra of the moon in some kind of poetic verse, oblivious to the fact that my eyes had rolled back into my head. He didn’t even stop when I began to gnaw my way through the plaster on the wall in a desperate bid to get away (or at least imbibe some turpentine to ease the pain). He didn’t even stop when I had left. He probably noticed my empty seat three hours later when a bit of wall plaster fell into his eye and blocked his view of the blasted penumbra or whatever.

“You should find out whether a guy reads PG Wodehouse first before anything else, “ advised Terror #1 as I stifled a guffaw and decided I’d give the young fellow, still green behind the ears et al, a patient listen – if only to humour him.

A few days later, whilst KO, BC and I satisfied a craving for gelato and froyo, we spied a chap seated alone at a neighbouring table reading – you guessed right – PG Wodehouse. KO, who is always ready to pimp her friends out just so that she can have her cheap entertainment (what with the price of movie tickets in this city), began goading me. “Go on,” she whispered with her trademark evil gleam in the eye. I actually considered it for a second.

“KO,” I said pensively, rolling a bit of froyo around in my mouth, taking in the young fella’s ill-fitting beige-and-brown checked bermudas, bright green t-shirt with something that looked suspiciously like Tweety on crack printed on it under a lint-infested cardigan.

“Yes, child?”

“He is terribly chappal-party,” I said, uncharacteristically resorting to a more vulgar vernacular expression as words had suddenly failed me.

For there, peering cheekily at us from under the table, were his horrendous pair of leather flip-flops. You know. The kind that men here seem to embrace with great enthusiasm when they turn 50. Replete with that gargantuan ring custom-made for a gorilla’s big toe.

So much for Wodehouse.

If you’re thinking, “Gee! Judgmental b*!@#”, you’re probably right. But is there any other way to be?

However, Krazy Frog probably described best how I take to words. Although I must caution here that Krazy Frog is terribly prone to exaggeration. He needs to learn to put that bottle of Black Dog down at some point.

I yammered on excitedly about a word someone, who may or may not have caught my fancy, had used. A word long since forgotten by a world that thinks “awesome” and “kewlness” are the only words one needs to know to get by.

“Oh, my god! He used the word ********. Who even uses that nowadays?” I gushed. “Hmm,” said KF, before adding, “You know what?”

“What?”

“A man does not have to physically pleasure you. All he has to do is keep throwing fancy words at you and you’re done.”

And that, folks, is a “worgasm”.

Who Stole the Cupcake from the Cupcake Tray?

2010-12-24T16:22:00.002+05:30

That's Noddy, my one-year-old Dobidor (or Laberman). I thought he was pretty useless (but lovable). I am now beginning to realise he just might have some great acting potential. This is what I achieved using a dog treat, a camera and a tray of freshly baked cupcakes.

How to Lose a Girl in 10 Seconds

2010-12-23T14:41:00.005+05:30

1.Fart in the middle of that soulful dialogue about her beautiful eyes on a quiet, moonlit evening on the beach. Such sound effects are sure to break up the mood.

2.Dribble while chewing your food open-mouthed. She probably has a dog back home who does the same thing - but then, he still gets to share her bed at night because he looks cuter even while slobbering all over the floor.

3.Pick up the bill at the restaurant and then pass it over to her as soon as she offers to pay or split it - without even the semblance of an argument or something about going dutch. Pick your nose before doing this. Worse, DRIFT (Dig, Roll, Inspect, Flick, Taste)

4.Ride your fancy motorcycle in a stance not unlike a woman giving birth.

5.Stare at her cleavage. When confronted about it, tell her you were just admiring her dolphin pendant (which was actually a flower, but then, who can really tell the difference, eh?) or worse, say, “Tell your b**bs to stop staring at my eyes”.

6.Borrow money from her on your first date. Never return it or say a word about it - even on the off-chance there might be a third or fourth date.

7.Confess that you really cannot remember her name from the previous slightly drunken night when you asked her for her number at the club.

8.Unload on her the heart-breaking story about your ex-girlfriend who was an absolute b!*&# because she wouldn’t put out.

9.On your very first date, suggest names for the several children you plan on having with her.

10.Share with her material on your as-yet unwritten book titled “A Million Lovable Facts About My Mom”.

With creative inputs from Terror #1 (especially on points 3 and 5) as well as others, who wish to remain anonymous for fear of winning the ongoing “Who Dated The Biggest Dingleberry” competition.

If you liked this, you will definitely like fellow-blogger Bhumika's take on Ball Breaking

Gosh, I can be gauche!

2010-12-14T13:12:00.004+05:30

A lot can happen over coffee. Hell, yes. Like horrific self-realisations about how gauche I can be, even if only fleetingly so.

KO and I seated ourselves down for coffee and a quick bite in the middle of our mammoth shopping trip. We cooed with delight, noticing the bottles of hand sanitizer on each table. Since we’re both rather finicky about it - we carry our own sanitizers everywhere (KO sometimes showers with it) - we thought it was one of the best things to happen to coffee chains since umm… well, since the introduction of those tasteless chocolate doughnuts.

We placed our orders. Two energy drinks, rather dubiously named “XXX”, a samosa for KO and a chilli puff pastry for yours truly. Not so difficult to remember now, is it? However, it appeared that both the staff and I had left our brains back home that afternoon. Our waitress came over twice to reconfirm our order - and that proved once too many times for a feeble-minded flake like me apparently. I completely forgot about what I had ordered.

Our drinks and a plate with two samosas were placed on the table. The dubious drinks had nothing else on them except for “XXX” - we had to figure out for ourselves which one was grape and which was wild berry. KO’s tasted suspiciously like tobacco. We were right. The fineprint said the drink was a substitute for nicotine. The irony? Both KO and I are non-smokers. One sip and I felt like I was sucking on an empty carton of Gold Flake Lights. Sick.

“Mmm-hmm”, said KO, gesturing toward the plate of samosas. “How strange”, I thought while helping myself to one, “Why can’t these people place the samosas on individual plates for each of us?” Yes, I was having one of my blonde moments and had begun to believe that I had ordered a samosa as well.

I wolfed it down, still blissfully unaware that it wasn’t my order in the first place. I was too busy swapping tales of dodgy dreams. After I’d gulped down the last crumb, KO very matter-of-factly asks, “Hey, hasn’t your order come as yet?”

The horror of what I had done descended upon me. I had just gobbled up KO’s food. Without batting an eyelid. Unapologetically. Unthinkingly. “Oh, my God! KO, I ate your samosa!” I howled loudly, oblivious to the attention the rather dramatic response was drawing from other patrons. “No, no, it is quite all right. I was not going to eat the second samosa anyway”, KO said magnanimously.

I felt my cheeks burning with shame. “I am so sorry!” I lapsed into silence mulling my terrible social faux pas. How could I have been so obtuse and unaware? Then the second wave of horror struck - as KO chuckled at my beetroot-red face.

-KO?
-Yes, child?
-What if this had been a date?

O.M.G. It could happen. I am now watching myself...very, very carefully.

Veni, Vidi, Visa

2010-12-13T16:05:00.007+05:30

It is that time of year again. Indulgence. That is the key word and what better way to kick things off than with some hard-core retail therapy?

Armed with cash, cards, cheery smiles and a mental must-buy list, KO and I shopped our way through dozens of stores across the city this weekend.

My planned list comprised of jeans and dresses. Shoes? Definitely not. Although I would have loved to add more to my burgeoning shoe rack, which would give Imelda Marcos a hard run for her money, I simply do not have the space for anything more (despite having recently given away over 30 pairs – that is how dire the situation is). So unless someone could point me in the direction of a nice delicate pair of white or off-white stilettos, footwear was strictly off my shopping list.

Just jeans and dresses. That was the plan. And what did I end up with? Well, three pairs of jeans, a pair of capris, a wee denim skirt, two tops, de-stressing aromatherapy products, dozens of junk accessories - including earrings, bracelets, necklaces, finger rings - a maroon clutch, tiny terracotta artefacts for the house, a wall plaque with a nasty message for Bin and a hot pink rubber cow that flashes like a strobe light when you shake it.

Not bad. I didn’t veer that much off my planned course now, did I? Also, on the positive side, I haven’t changed my mind about any of my purchases. Yes, not even about that pink flashy cow.

On the downside, the dresses were disappointing. I almost found something I liked. However, one look at myself in the trial room mirror (subjecting KO to a horrific preview as well) and I couldn’t get out of the little black number fast enough. The dress screamed “Forget the drinks, dinner and gripping conversation; let’s move this to the bedroom right away – and oh, keep the money on the night stand”. Yep, prudently discarded that.

KO fared almost as well. With just jeans on her agenda, she ended up with two pairs of jeans, capris, a bunch of handbags - including one gigantic enough to house a healthy Shetland pony - aromatherapy products, clutches and junk jewellery. Of course, KO decided that she would also shop for our Christmas presents and kept barking at me to stay away from certain sections of the store. After she’d bellowed at me a couple of times, I was forced to feign interest in a pink pig table lamp that lit up when its nose was jabbed just to kill time until she had finished shopping for our presents. Oh, the wretched indignity of it all.

Six hours, aching feet, bulging shopping bags and considerably lighter wallets later, we joined BC to bask in the refreshingly tangy iciness of kiwi frozen yoghurt, pleased as punch with our fruitful shopping binge.

As Swoosie Kurtz said, “Veni, vidi, visa”.

The Non-Oestrogenic Existence

2010-11-23T12:15:00.007+05:30

Surviving more than a quarter of a century as a female in India** has given me a fairly strong sense of what I would like to do if I am reincarnated as an Indian man. Those with no sense of humour (which often goes hand-in-hand with poor comprehension skills) would be well advised to stop reading right now.

At the risk of being a veritable rabble-rouser, here goes (in no particular order):

1. Scratch and dig at every part of my anatomy that itches in public (this would also reassure me that everything I was born with hasn’t fallen off in some freak accident)

2. Urinate on every public wall, tree and milestone I see (the more public viewers, the better because it pays to advertise, you know)

3. Similarly, flaunt the tightest pair of speedos I can find on the beach, strategically positioning myself in front of sun-bathing women who are otherwise distracted by other male forms in boxers (because if you’ve got it or not, you have got to flaunt it)

4. Leer at, pinch, grope, rub and/or fondle every slightly desirable female form I encounter on a public street (because that is what women are on this planet for)

5. Do exactly as my daddy says (because my daddy’s the strongest, greatest and most importantly, male)

6. Use every opportunity as a platform to advertise my manhood (because I might secretly doubt it myself). For eg.:
- Get me the choco latte…because I am a man.
- Move your car out of the way, damn woman driver, man coming through!

7. Declare the kitchen out of bounds for a man with the cliché “a man’s place is not in the kitchen” (because a freak accident could damage what I was blessed to be born with)

8. Order all women who might have had the misfortune of crossing paths with me, voluntarily or involuntarily, to do my every biding - be it in terms of food, beverage, household chores, bedroom chores and so forth (because women will always be lower than pond scum)

9. Dispense advice rather freely that relationships can only work if women “suppress their personalities” and make “200% of the effort” (because a man making even some semblance of that effort would be tantamount to castration)

10. I. Me. Myself.

Acknowledgments:

- Terror#1 - for suggesting that I blog this

- IMM - for making me aware of the existence of an “International Men's Day”

- All the related and non-related men in my life, including the ones who’ve come and stayed (and shown me that there are endearing exceptions to the aforementioned) as well as those who have exited (graciously or otherwise)

**No racist or anti-national sentiments here. This is the only country and race I am qualified enough to comment upon.

If you liked this, you will definitely like fellow-blogger Bhumika's take on Ball Breaking

Knock Knock!

2010-11-11T12:30:00.005+05:30

There’s a good reason why KO’s blog is called “Kaotic Workshop”. Where KO goes, chaos is apt to follow. Not that KO is not a good egg. She’s the best there is, but she ought to come with a hazard warning taped to her bottom.

So, thus it was that another mundane chinwag with the aforementioned blessed damosel triggered a rather bizarre experiment of sorts. Well, the International Man of Mystery had a lot to do with it as well (I said I would give credit where it is due, didn’t I?)

At the end of a 30-minute conversation with KO, I had been sufficiently egged on to send out a simple text message saying “Knock! Knock!” to a random lot of people from my phone book. Within seconds, minutes and an hour, I had my various responses:

"Who’s there?" - 60%

"Howdy dudee" and other forms of greeting - 20%

"How you doing?" (Including details of how the respondent was doing and where they were doing it at) - 10%

Promises to call soon (and reasons as to why they could not talk at the moment) - 10%

Variations in spelling of “who’s/who is” - 30%

I must add here that KO refuses to let me lecture here on the right spelling and grammar citing the “flexibility of text messaging language”.

When no response was received to the “Who’s there?”, 50% of the target group followed up. Apparently, (as Pest ranted on about), it is sacrilege to not carry a knock-knock joke forward once one has set it in motion.

The more colourful follow-ups included 10% cussing with a “Wtf?!” and another 10% suggesting that perhaps I had sent the text message to a wrong number?

30% of my target group tried calling me to no avail, while 10% texted me asking if I was all right.

The aforementioned Wtf-ers also suffered a breakdown of their vehicles within seconds of cursing me. If you spotted a crazed man, who has allowed prosperity - and a lot of it- go to his waist, herding vehicles away from his stranded car last night, that was the Pest.

Terror #1, who must learn to stay off the sauce, sent a follow-up which read, “Nobody here said the man who isn't there”.

Our (foregone) conclusion? I am in touch with all the right people. I dare say that if I had used people from the Chicken Shit series and other vile beings (black)listed on my phone, the results would have been different.

My thanks to the following people (in no particular order):
- My unsuspecting target group - For the 100% entertainment you provided.
- International Man of Mystery - For inspiring the chain of events with your “timely” response, which took all of five hours.
- KO - For inciting chaos as usual.

To all those who now want to hunt me down and kill me: Why knock when you can ring?

Vote for this budding writer

2010-11-11T12:24:00.002+05:30

The things I have to do for friends and the things friends make me do just because I have a blog!

This is a request to all you readers out there: Please go on over to www.storywala.com. Click on "Authors" and vote for Author Number 41 - Ajay Kuruvila with a story titled "Drugs, A Girl And A Scam".

If he wins, I get his gratitude for life, which must be displayed in the form of cash and/or alcohol.

How to Tell You Are a Nosy Busybody

2010-10-18T10:09:00.004+05:30

Here’s a quick quiz to tell if you belong to that aggravating tribe that suffers from the chronic inability to mind their own business.

Situation #1: There’s a clearly 18-year-old girl standing at the bus stop sporting rings on her toes. You:
A. Think she has pretty feet and that it’s probably time you got a pedicure yourself.
B. Ask her whether she is married. When she says she isn’t, you scowl and look accusingly at her ringed toes.
(+ 10 if you lecture her on how only married women in India must wear toe rings)

#2: There’s a garden party on at your neighbour’s house. You:
A. Peek over the wall, wonder what the occasion is but say no more.
B. Hang your head over the wall, supply minute-by-minute updates on who is at the party, what is being served, what style of clothing is being flaunted and so on
(+10 if you telephone your neighbour to ask what is going on and shamelessly wangle an invite for you, your family, your son’s classmate’s ailing grandmother, her incontinent cousin etc)

#3: Your colleague opens up her lunch box. You spy cheese and deep-fried goodies. You:
A. Say “Oh, yum!” and go back to your “feast” comprising of two peas and a carrot.
B. Give her a lecture on what a terrible diet she has, the effects of cholesterol, the advantages of eating two peas and a carrot.
(+10 if you supply a calorie count for each item in her lunch box, +2000 if you call her fat, +3000 if you aren’t exactly a poster child for health & fitness yourself)

#4: You hear that a couple has gotten a divorce recently. You:
A. Go “tsk, tsk”, make some expression of sympathy and shrug it off with a “C’est la vie. It is probably better this way.”
B. Exhaust every contact you might have to find out what went wrong, speculating over “obvious reasons” like did he cheat, was she “too dominating”, was it the in-laws?
(+10 if you are judgmental enough to say how frivolous youngsters these days are for walking out of a marriage without suffering it through for the rest of their lives unlike the good old days)

#5: There’s a couple stranded on the road; the guy busy changing a flat tyre: You:
A. Offer to lend a helping hand or go “Tsk, tsk” and carry on.
B. Stand around scratching your arse, offering advice on the best way to do things or sniggering at the stranded duo.
(+10 if you ogle the female occupants of the car and +200 if you then scratch other parts of your anatomy)

#6: You see a car stopped next to a toppled scooter. You:
A. Wonder what happened but carry on since it really isn’t any of your business.
B. Stop, gape and automatically assume the lady driver knocked the scooter over.
(+10 if you give the driver, whom you instantly presume must be guilty, a lecture on the cardinal sin of not knowing the local language.)

#7: You’re regularly checking on my blog because you:
A. Think it’s a decent read or “time pass”
B. Think it’s the best way to keep tabs on yours truly, providing you enough dirt for your next gossip session with the rest of your group of jobless busybodies
(+10 if you have texted/Facebooked/emailed me asking who/what I was referring to.)

#8: You’re reading this post and thinking:
A. Haha! Right on! You tell ‘em, girl!
B. Oh, my god, is the b*t** referring to me?
(+10 if you’re thinking “I wonder who she is referring to? Let me text/Facebook/email her and see.”)

Scoring:
Mostly As: You are one of a dying breed. It would be lovely to catch up over a cup of coffee some time. Text/Facebook/email me.
Mostly Bs: As BC says, you are appallingly “downmarket”. Remember to carve that on your epitaph before hurling yourself before the nearest speeding bus and doing us all one big favour.

The War Against Wassup

2010-09-28T23:47:00.008+05:30

“Wassup?”

Or other variations of that irritating word.

Nothing can be more annoying than that single word popping up on my cellphone. Is it a greeting? An expression of concern for my well-being, perhaps?

For the most part, it appears to be a handy substitute for all those who have trouble making any semblance of decent conversation – and there are plenty of that sort out there as I’m beginning to find out all over again.

“I would like to lynch the next person who sends me that singularly most annoying word again as a text message”, I cribbed to Terror#1 this afternoon. “What is with the word anyway? What is one expected to say in response?”, I spat.

Terror#1, who often shares my sentiments on a lot of things like this – blame it on our “hilly-billy” backgrounds (as BC puts it) – reasoned that it probably stemmed from people being in AIESEC, where it is supposedly a way of greeting. He then went on to explain that since the word is used in Budweiser advertisements, the “Wassupers” were probably hoping to star in the brewer’s next commercial. I suspect Terror#1 might have had one too many Buds to come up with that explanation!

I would even venture that one’s usage of “wassup” is a keen indicator of one’s social prowess. Take for instance the little episode the other day as BC and I shared a couple of laughs and a chinwag over some fruity cocktails and chicken wings.

Well into the pleasant evening (pleasant up to that point at least, eh, BC?), a waiter came up and looking rather apologetic told me, “Ma’am, your bill has been paid already”. “What?”, I asked feeling rather stupid. “That guy at the bar insisted on paying the bill”, the waiter replied sheepishly as BC and I exchanged slightly alarmed but flummoxed glances.

“Can we reverse that?”, we pleaded, sneaking a peek at our benevolent benefactor, who leaned against the bar watching us expressionlessly. The waiter shook his head, his face mirroring our confusion and angst. I considered giving him an earful for not having checked with us before being a total pushover and acceding to the man’s demand.

My inner bitch grappled with my inner goody-two-shoes – should we ignore the bill payer or go over and say thank you? The Pushover brought us a note from the guy, who continued eyeing us uncertainly. The note said something to the effect of “Could I join you guys? I only want some conversation.” We gave it the once-over, noting the bad handwriting, awkward sentence construction but decent grammar and perfect spelling. We nodded our approval to the Pushover, who then plonked another chair next to BC and not me. Was I ever glad! (Guess who was in line for a fat tip that night?)

For the next what-seemed-to-be-eternity, our benefactor waxed on about social media and made some polite chit-chat – the major part of which I refused to contribute to, opting instead to feign deafness as the music was “too loud”. In doing so, I put BC in a spot – she took it upon herself to act as an interpreter of sorts until I told her to give it up. Each time he asked me something, I would signal “Loud music, I cannot hear! Forget it!” BC has yet to forgive me but loves me still, bless her good little heart.

To his credit, Social Media Bloke was decent and had played his cards well up until then – our basic courteousness compelling us to give the man and his near-monologue on social media a patient listen. We are nice like that. It could have continued to be that way. However, he made one catastrophic mistake – he sent us both a few text messages with that singularly annoying word – “Wassup”.

Almost needless to say, Social Media Bloke has never seen or heard from us since. Yes, my inner bitch won – and after some wrestling with her conscience, so did BC’s.

Death to all Wassupers is all I can say at this point – and no prizes for guessing what their one-word epitaph will read.

Basically Bla...

2010-07-20T17:42:00.005+05:30

If you're looking to lose your dignity in a hurry, quick, head to the nearest hospital and ask for a procedure that involves a) some degree of nudity and/or b) some sort of organ involved in excretory and/or reproductive functions, and voila! You've got yourself a winner!

Having decided that there was no better way to spend a fun Saturday afternoon than make three wasted trips to a hospital while they sorted out their ultrasound appointments, software and radiologist's schedule, I finally found myself in the waiting room with Cousin Binky waiting for an ultrasound.

We found the only two available seats in a corner of the crowded room and settled in. I glugged down water at routine intervals since they usually insist on a full bladder before conducting the scan.

After a longish wait, the nurses yelled out, "Basically Blah?!" "Yes!", I hollered back, leaping to my feet, preparing to wind my way up to the desk. "Is your bladder full?", they shouted across the crowded room, while 40 people now hung at the edge of their seats to be informed about the state of my bladder. Feeling slightly flustered at having to share such information with 40 nosy strangers, I mumbled something about "Hopefully. I've been drinking water" before slinking back down into my seat.

Five minutes later, I hear the same chorus: "Basically Blah?!"

40 heads automatically turned toward me, obviously now well and truly intrigued by the well-being of my bladder.

-"Yes?"
-"Is your bladder full?"
-"Yes."

Repeat the above shouting match about five times. My "full" bladder now had the fan following of a Colors TV soap. Step aside, child bride, BB's Bladder is the new star.

Having now convinced the nurses that I had a bladder worthy of being scanned by their tardy doctor, I was ushered into the examination room. The doctor threw me a look like I was a worm who'd popped out of a delicious fruit salad.

She barked, "Is your bladder full?" (Jeez, whatever happened to good, old-fashioned "Hello" ? Or should I have introduced myself as "Basically Full-Bladder Blah"?)

-"I think so. I've had a lot of water."
-"I asked you something, you're answering something else."
-"Yes, my bladder is full."
-"Do you feel like passing urine?"
-"Slightly."
-"Is it urgent?"
-"No."
-"Then your bladder is not full." (Guess who got out on the wrong side of the bed this morning?)

Awkward silence ensues, during which BB curses her indolent bladder.

Doc Charming, nonetheless, condescended to scan me and my sorry excuse for a full bladder. Then there was the incident of the cheeky gall bladder.

- What did you drink? Coffee?
- No.
- Then why can't I see your gall bladder?
- Old gally ain't feeling too sociable today and is in hiding, deal with it.

A while later, I walked out of the room, results in hand, and exited the place with Cousin Binky by my side. As we left, an infant in the waiting room mouthed its first words ever...

You guessed right.

"Bladder".

Gibbering Over A Gecko

2010-07-11T13:57:00.010+05:30

Anyone who has known me long enough or well enough would know my severe aversion to the common gecko. Although I am crazy about just about every creature great and small, geckos (and men?) are not on that list.

The little fiends have terrorised me for years now. The aversion really kicked in when I spent two years in Chennai - possibly the worst two years of my life (not counting the two wasted with Ducky, of course). Geckos would bide their time in the common bathroom, waiting for me to trot in. Once I was well and truly in the midst of my bathing routine, they’d hurl their writhing bodies into my bucket of water or, worse, land on my bare back.

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve run screaming from the bathroom in terror. I once ran full tilt, clad in only a towel, into my hostel warden. She glared at me in disgust, eyeing me not unlike a smug gecko, before declaring, “You Ooty girls have no shame!” (I had spent ten years in Ooty before moving to Chennai). “We Ooty girls also have no courage in the face of geckos!” I called back cheekily, before scurrying away to safety - away from conniving geckos and seething wardens.

During a mandatory early-morning meditation session, I’d find myself face-to-face with a colourful garden lizard, replete with cilia-like spikes down his back, doing his morning push-ups, regarding me with a bright, beady eye while I looked on in mute horror.

Last night, the gecko brigade unleashed its horror on me again. While I scrubbed myself down with St.Ives’ apricot scrub in the bath tub, I heard a distinct “clink” beside my foot. Looking down, I spotted a young, pale-faced gecko eyeing me in the most disconcerting manner. In a split second, I was out of the bathroom. However, I have obviously developed some courage over the last decade. I returned to the scene of the attack brandishing WD-40. (Yes, it was the only thing closest and quickest to grab. Besides, it is touted as a versatile product with 2000 uses - I might have added #2001).

Then, standing six feet away from my tormentor, I spritzed like I’ve never spritzed before. My assailant first tried to dive for cover behind a giant bottle of strawberry bubble bath. However, I kept at him, like the cops dispelling a mob with a water cannon. Horrors! Completely disoriented (and possibly rust-free for life), he ran straight for me! I squealed, leaped over him and took cover in the bathtub again, keeping my finger down on the spray gun. I was GI Jane with that WD-40 I tell you.

This is when he breached the boundaries of battle, the unsporting scoundrel. He hopped into my bedroom at top speed like a highly caffeinated kid on a pogo stick. Too chicken to follow him immediately, lest he leap at me, I allowed him to skip under the bed before throwing on a bathrobe and dashing out for my weapons of mass destruction. Oh, yeah! Bring on the Baygon Multi-Insect Killer.

He was nowhere to be seen when I returned. “Fire first, ask questions later”, I reasoned with myself and doused the entire room with Baygon, spraying liberally under the bed, until I could taste the chemical on my tonsils. I swear I heard my neighbour, two blocks down, gag.

And just like that, it ended. I heard and saw no more of my attacker. What has become of him still remains a mystery this morning. Is he dead or plotting a more ferocious attack?

There was one positive thing to the entire episode. I am severely hematophobic - I’ve been known to faint, grow dizzy, break out in a cold sweat and clutch at inappropriate animate or inanimate objects for support at the sight of blood.

You can imagine my terror when I had to undergo a routine blood test this morning. However, five minutes after meekly offering up a vial of blood, I was trotting out quite normally with my dignity intact.

How did I manage to stay cool and calm this time? Simple: I kept my eyes closed and my mind firmly on the offensive gecko, reliving the horror of him making like a wallaby and scurrying under the bed.

One phobia to conquer another. And that’s how it’s done. *Holstering WD-40 and taking a bow*

The Monsoon Madness is Upon Us

2010-07-07T16:14:00.003+05:30

As the Indian monsoon set in and the roads turned murky with suspicious flotsam and jetsam bobbing merrily into gutters, potholes and other unfortunate orifices, the damp air appeared to have affected the workings of otherwise rational human minds.

Monsoon madness, it would appear, is upon us.

How else could you explain why Bin would hurl a whole bottle of Bacardi Breezer in the Ant’s face, mistaking the figure skulking by her car to be a -- of all things -- a watermelon thief? Never mind that there may have been laptops, mobile phones, wallets and other valuables lying carelessly about -- oh, no sirree, that crouching form must most certainly have come for watermelons. This begs the question -- what watermelons? I have no answer to that one, simply because there were none in the vicinity. A more likely explanation would be that Bin has been afflicted by the monsoon madness.

The madness does not end there.

No doubt the deluge of Jamaican Passion upon the Ant’s face coupled with the shock of being pronounced a watermelon thief had a more damaging impact on the Ant’s brain than initially suspected. Some days later, in the midst of a mundane conversation, I mentioned something to the effect of “I will give her a call” or something equally bland. The Ant went saucer-eyed before exclaiming, “What! KO has nipple rings?”

I was completely befuddled. How on earth did a completely innocuous statement suddenly transform into something with earth-shattering implications? I mean, if KO sports radical pieces of jewellery, I can bet my bottom paisa that the pope would sport a tattoo -- if you get my drift.

KO reacted with the expected level of shock and horror when accused about her “dirty little secret”. The allegation, born out of a much mildewed mind, had a profound impact on the poor lass. She packed her bright red suitcase, wrapped a brighter green ribbon around it and presented herself at Oo’s doorstep in Ireland, calling herself an early Christmas present. I haven’t seen her in almost a month. (Read KO’s Irish escapades here)

The only apparently unaffected soul is BC, who appears to have pulled through the dreary weather relatively unscathed. However, considering that even BC has been babbling something about her being possibly kidnapped and taken back as a price bride for the Kikuyu people, I might just have to resign myself to the fact that I seem to be the sole survivor of this drizzly season.

I am Legend! Woot!

(As you can probably tell, Basically Blah has no material to blah about and is looking to incite a riot. My apologies to my regular readers, especially the ones who take all that time and effort to Google my blog every single day!)

What’s In A Name?

2010-06-14T10:54:00.011+05:30

In a country where possibly 7 out of every 10 people are addicted to Bollywood, well versed in the who’s who (or should that be who’s doing whom?) and what’s what of tinsel town, trust B-C, Bin and self to stick out like sore thumbs yet again.

B-C was to cover the launch of a spa in the city recently and I tagged along for lack of anything better to do. The press release boasted the presence of several “high-profile” Bollywood celebrities - Ritesh Deshmukh (which I confess was the only name I recognised on the list), Ashish Chaudhary, someone else, someone else, yadda yadda….

B-C made it through the barricade of big bouncers with me, increasingly wondering why I had turned up there, in tow. A long painful wait ensued during which I foraged around the snacks table, obliging the generous waiters who quite obviously thought I was a reject from a home for consumptives, and followed B-C on a guided tour of the spa, quite easily envisaging it to soon turn into a house of pleasures providing Bollywood wannabes and C-graders for a suitable price.

Finally, the first “celeb” arrived - fashionably late. His name was not on the list of expected VIPs. To our credit, B-C and I instantly recognised who he was, although his actual name completely eluded us. “Salman Khan’s brother”, B-C scribbled on her notepad. His name?

“Arbaaz Khan!” I declared triumphantly before B-C clicked her tongue dismissively. No. “Altaf?” I ventured again. No, B-C indicated with a quick nod of the head, her own brow furrowing in thought. “It’s definitely something with an A” I said again, determined to get this right and as self-assured as the time I’d smugly declared “They’re all Ganeshas!” while standing in front of a row of what I was later informed were idols of Hanuman, the Hindu monkey god.

“Ayaaz?” No. This was futile.

“Let’s text Bin” suggested B-C, telling me, in not so many words, that when it came to Bollywood knowledge, I was as helpful as Paris Hilton on a Mensa test. While she shot off a text message to Bin, I sent one to Cousin Binky - “What is the name of that weird-looking brother of Salman Khan?”

“Sohail Khan” came Cousin Binky’s prompt reply. Right on the money! Cousin Binky saves the day!

Bin’s not-so-prompt response, on the other hand, took the cake, the baker and the whole goddamn confectionery.

“Sulaiman!” she texted back gleefully.

Tsk. There isn’t much else to be said. It must be hard being Salman Khan’s hardly famous brother.

Of Chillis, Berries and Mithuns

2010-03-26T19:54:00.009+05:30

So I’ve got the King of hotness at home.

Well, before certain males begin to preen and the curious gossip-mongering lot make a dash for my Facebook page in an attempt to dig up the latest and greatest on yours truly, let me cast a slight damper on things.

I am referring to the Naga King Chilli, sourced from an acquaintance who hails from the state of Nagaland. This particular variety of chilli (as Wikipedia told me) has earned its place in the Guinness Book for its spiciness.

Having long been the Dallay chilli’s greatest fan (arguably), I was quite excited to get my hands on this variety. Unfortunately, I’ve managed to source just a couple of dried ones, ready to have their seeds planted. Let’s hope that in three months’ time, I’ll have more to write about the little dynamite. (Alternatively, if you are in Nagaland when you’re reading this and of altruistic disposition, let me know if you could send me some fresh stuff!)

That aside, I have a little box of something called ‘bukari’ from Nagaland. I can only hope that is how it is spelled or pronounced, for Google has failed me, as have Wikipedia and every other self-proclaimed storehouse of knowledge.

For the adventurous gourmands, this is a made of a particular borum and tastes a lot like the variety of tituara or lapsi I got from Darjeeling (the sweeter, blander sort as compared to the Nepali/Sikkimese/Kalimpong stuff). It’s peculiarly sweet-ish, got the slight aftertaste of an overripe-bordering-on-rotten fruit and leaves a fat round seed lolling around in your mouth. Not really much to write home about, but considerably worthwhile blogging about I thought - since it’s a) new and novel (to me at least) and b) the Internet can’t shush me for yammering on about a trifling berry.

Thanks to the new Naga acquaintance, I’ve also learned that the Mithun is supposed to be incredibly delicious! No, gross… not that inebriated-looking Disco Dancer silver-suited Bollywood actor fellow of yesteryear with the son whose only claim to fame is his strange moniker. This is a species of gaur that is also Nagaland’s state animal.

The sombre-looking beast - the sort that throws you a look that could fry an egg or wither a blimp - appears perpetually irate. I suppose it’s wise to say one ought not to proffer him one of those king chillis.

It Just Trips Off The Tongue

2010-03-23T18:00:00.007+05:30

“Language -- we play with it, argue about it, spar with it, judge others on it. Who said language was only for communicating?”

When A-Word-A-Day’s daily snippet popped into my mailbox this morning, the lines above got me thinking. One’s command over the English language, which I long thought was a really solid advantage anywhere, is, as it turns out, something of a double-edged sword.

Choosing to look at the glass half-empty, let’s see how one’s fluency in this language of foreign origin now adversely impacts an Indian in India - here are the commandments for all those (unfortunate?) Indians who are apt to believe their first language/mother tongue is English:

1. Thou shalt be entitled to titles.

No “Lady” or “Lord” type British titles for you. The titles bestowed on the comfy English speakers here are a lot more colourful. While my dad dealt with the likes of “East India Company”, I had to contend with tags like “White Pig” (literally translated from the Tamil phrase) thanks to delightful classmates in cordial Chennai - until the day I walked up to a blackboard and corrected a Tamilian’s Tamil spelling for the word “yaanai” (elephant). Almost needless to say, the look on their faces was absolutely priceless. Then there’s the more mundane “So-n-so’s British.” My mother’s son-of-the-soil brother insists that his “sister is British” because “her father was British!” Who am I to point fingers? I tell everybody “my mother is British” and “KO is related to the Queen.”

2. Thou shalt be the butt of all jokes.

You are always the “outsider” in any gathering where a vernacular language is the chosen medium of communication. Even if you do choose to converse in the vernacular, your conversation is subject to intense scrutiny by the vernacular experts who cackle at any slip-up or, having found no grammatical errors, then attack your “anglicised accent,” mimicking you with an even more ridiculous accent - something akin to playing a Geoffrey Boycott commentary on slow.

3. Thou shalt be infallible in all things English.

If you are good at the language, the bar is set even higher for you with almost no margin for error. This mean you cannot afford a single typo, errant comma or grammatical error in any of your written works - be it a simple email to a colleague, a note to a neighbour, your college thesis, the to-do list tacked to the fridge, or a hurriedly scrawled recipe for prawn curry. As for pronunciations and the spoken word, God save thy soul if you happen to spout a more vernacular expression. For instance, an “Arre yaar” or a more colourful vernacular expletive. (No, B-C, that still does not mean we will stop laughing at you for saying “I promise on Lord Jesus…”)

4. Thou shalt be witness to double takes.

You speak in the vernacular. Listener does an exaggerated “I-freeze-in-my -tracks” before saying, “Oh, my God! You speak Tamil/Hindi/Kannada/Malayalam/Fill-in-lingo-of-your-choice?”, which may or may not always be followed by the obscure observation “You do not LOOK like you speak xyz lingo.”

5. Thou shalt be the English language ready reckoner.

Move over, Google, Websters, Oxford, Wren & Martin. You are a cheaper, handier version of a dictionary and thesaurus. You shall provide spellings, definitions, usage and synonyms at anybody’s behest for any word or wannabe word in the English language. A failure or inability to do so will cause ripples of amazement wider than even George Bush Sr.’s keeling over and throwing up on the Japanese PM evoked.

6. Thou shalt be the Brit wannabe.

Somehow, an “English language expert” in this country is immediately construed as being one who idolises the Brits and all things Brit,is dying to live in the UK, turns up the old honker at anything Indian. Does having fluency over a foreign language immediately make one a traitor to your land? How about looking at it as being able to cock a snook at the Brits in their own tongue? In any case, I don’t quite get what all the competitive hype and hoopla is about when it comes to the various races. I am not the one who hoists the Union Jack every morning nor do I even know (or care)what the UK national anthem is. I prefer a hot samosa to a drab old scone any day. I might be guilty of preferring a man in a suit to a lungi, but then, that really is a matter of personal taste rather than allegiance to a country! (Basically Blah prepares for hate mail from a certain N Rajakutty)

7. Thou shalt be perceived a snob.

The “English type” come with a tag attached that can never be shaken off. Absolutely no opportunity to prove otherwise. You have been, are and always will be a snob. It doesn’t matter that you may not actually think of yourself as too cool for everybody else around you. You are “one of those” and you just have to be a snob, looking down upon anybody else who may be more fluent in the vernacular and whose English skills leave a lot to be desired. Sigh! When a neighbourhood nanny trying to get a colicky baby to sleep shushed a woman squabbling on the road outside for disturbing the little fellow, the belligerent passerby shot back, “Oho! You English people in your bungalows (we live in apartments, fyi) think you can tell us what to do?” The nanny had made the mistake of speaking in the lingo of the sahibs. So apparently, speaking in English makes you appear to be a cut above the rest - who cares what you really think about yourself?

To the wise auto driver (a dying breed in Bangalore) who said that learning and knowing good English in this day and age is a must else it will get you nowhere - there is plenty of truth to what you say.

However, in my next life, Oh Big Guy Upstairs, can I please be Vatal Nagaraj, bastion of the local language? For starters, he is male (I haven’t heard anything to the contrary); secondly, he is on the other side of the fence (or the 'English Channel' as I like to think of it) and it looks like the grass is far greener on that side - just ask the camel he's seated on (not seen in pic).

Mushroom & I

2010-03-17T12:35:00.004+05:30

This post has taken a long time coming. The other day, I got around to reminiscing about the days of old with KO, who has known me since I was knee high to an ant. The conversation wound around to one of my best buddies from boarding school, Mushroom, who I still keep in touch with from time to time despite being separated by miles of ocean. In retrospect, Mushroom was the proverbial trouble maker.

The one thing that drew us together - a sure-fire reason that still draws me to some people more than others - was our shared craziness for all creatures great and small.

After returning from a weekend home, Mushroom ran up to me, bursting with excitement. Drawing me away from prying eyes, she showed me a biscuit tin with holes poked in the lid. Raising the lid, I spied a bunch of cabbage leaves with a whole lot of tiny butterfly eggs.

Thrilled to bits, we kept the tin in her desk in our classroom, waiting for them to hatch. And hatch they did. Right in the middle of a Math lesson. We suddenly noticed a sea of tiny caterpillar larvae swarming out over her desk. As inconspicuously as possible, we tried to herd them back into the tin, only to have them pop right back out through the holes in the lid.

Growing more adventurous, they then swarmed over to other desks, creating quite a row with girls squealing in horror and running for cover. Needless to say, we were thrown out with our precious biscuit tin to release the wannabe butterflies in the woods surrounding our playground. However, we kept finding stragglers in the classroom for days afterward.

Our foray into entomology didn’t end there. There was the matter of the housefly called Snoopy - held hostage in an empty glue bottle by a couple of curious eight-year olds. Snoopy, R.I.P.

Entomology aside, Mushroom and I were probably “wiser beyond our years.” Engrossed in drawing the Garden of Eden for a Scripture class, we decided to go all out and ensure Adam and Eve were “anatomically perfect.” When we sat back to admire our handiwork, it suddenly struck us, “What will the teacher say?!” In panic, we grabbed an eraser and hastily tried to erase Adam’s generous manhood.

Erasers, back then, were ineffective things that left an ugly black smudge on paper. Ultimately, we ended up with an erroneous Adam with a suspicious black cloud over his crotch area, which, when held up to the light, even boasted a hole in the paper.

A terrible giggle fit later, we found ourselves thrown out into the corridor once more, wielding our masterpiece; Adam now sporting green-crayoned “grass” scrawled up to his waist with Eve almost up to her eyeballs in misshapen foliage.

Many Furlongs Away From Home - Part II

2010-03-15T16:41:00.014+05:30

Day II dawned later rather than early. With no clock in the room, I slept on until nearly 9 before one of the group sounded an alarm that the breakfast may be running out.

Once breakfast was done, and B-C (who would put Rumpelstiltskin to shame) was roused and scrubbed behind the ears, we opted out of the trip to see a waterfall and settled down to a game of carrom.

When the group returned, full of tales of a terrific clamber and scramble over rocky terrain to get to a fabulous waterfall, I steeled my morose heart by telling myself that city slickers, who haven’t been born and raised in the boonies like I was, would find three stones and a pebble challenging.

I don’t care that the photographic evidence might have declared otherwise. I don’t trust technology anyway. (Hey, who threw this grape at me? It is sour!)

After lunch, which was the previous day’s re-hashed lunch plus re-hashed dinner, I waddled off for a siesta, accompanied by B-C and KO, while the rest worked themselves up over settling the bill and what time we ought to leave.

The ride back was relatively uneventful, save for the time Team Red decided to play dirty so as to gain the No. 1 spot in our little cavalcade. We resorted to the old stop-we-want-to-buy-tender-coconuts-hoo-hoo-hoo-sucker ploy- you know, the one where you flag your “rivals” down and tell them you’re stopping to buy tender coconuts because you’re dying of thirst and then step on the accelerator and zoom off into the horizon as the suckers eat dust.

Well, we didn’t so much zoom off into the horizon leaving a trail of dust - it was more a slow taxi and takeoff as the confused GC meandered about a bit in confusion as a bunch of hysterical women shouted in his ear to “Go! Go! Go!” just seconds after screaming for tender coconuts. I swear, if we’ve put him off women for the rest of his life, I can scarcely blame him. We did leave the other two cars behind, blinking in utter bewilderment, calling us up to tell us that it was okay to “have our coconuts.”

GC, I fathom, got his back on us for all the trouble our fickle-mindedness had caused him by hitting a speed breaker at high speed, causing some of us to bump our ~~coconuts~~ heads on the roof.

As I crawled back home well past midnight, it struck me that I’d actually had a really good time, with scarcely a moment to brood over other brow-furrowing events. There is something to be said about going on a holiday where one plays no part in the planning or execution, with your sole responsibility being to just show up at the appointed hour (or an hour later with a plausible excuse) and then just going along for the bumpy, muddy ride.

Besides, a tiny bump on the head is a small price to pay for a car-full of laughter and memories that provide plenty of fodder for private jokes between a bunch of people who will forever remain my closest friends.

[For the politically incorrect version of events, visit Kaotic's Workshop.]

Many Furlongs Away From Home

2010-03-15T12:03:00.010+05:30

Basically Blah is back from a very quick but much-need weekend getaway.

This little break marked the first holiday with just friends in more than two years. I had almost forgotten how much fun those could be - oh, my god! I almost became one of “them” - you know, the couples who always holiday together or with other couples only because everybody was one of Siamese twins in a previous life and can’t get over it.

Luckily, this break (if you can call something like 48 hours including 12 hours on the road a break) snapped me back to my continued existence as “I” rather than “we” despite having tied a knot somewhere along the way.

Destination: Texwoods Resort near the Bhadra Wildlife sanctuary close to Chikmagalur.

Joining a bunch of strangers on a holiday was a first of sorts for me. While I knew I had KO for company, B-Complex decided to join the dozen or so of us setting out on this “trekking” adventure after initially having opted out since the trek did not include palanquin bearers for her personal comfort.

As with all big groups going on holiday, we set off (in three cars) a good hour or so later than planned once all the stragglers and their excuses for tardiness had been gathered. As always happens when you have men at the wheel, the three vehicles got into a surreptitious race to stay at the head of the cavalcade.

Of course, the four women in “Team Red” might actually have nudged their genial chauffeur (GC) into it. We must be allowed our juvenile delights once in a while. Speaking of juvenile delights, one of mine is to keep people from sleeping during a journey, and hence, I found myself making some incessant chatter much to the chagrin of B-Complex and KO who cannot (otherwise) keep their eyelids open in a moving vehicle. Well, the outcome of that "intellectual" discussion was that we inferred that buns without yeast are biscuits. Go figure. *snigger*

We made it to Muthodi under Ms. Zeus’ able navigation and GC not-so-helpfully asking around for “Bhadra Life Century”; deciding against Texwoods’ owners directions with distances given in furlongs. Who, in this day and age, gives distances in furlongs?

Anyway, some, I don’t know, 20 furlongs later, we found ourselves transferring into Texwoods jeeps for the bumpy, dusty crawl up to the resort situated in the middle of a coffee plantation.

Post an uninteresting lunch, B-C, KO and I caught an afternoon siesta, while the rest bobbed about in the swimming pool with leaves and orange bugs for company. Then leaving B-C to her own devices, KO and I set off at a brisk pace to explore our surroundings in the hope of finding something more interesting than coffee bushes. We were sorely disappointed and returned to the resort just as darkness completely set in.

The night brought with it a bonfire under the watchful eyes of a statue of Infant Jesus sporting blue nail polish. Everybody sat around it in a semi-sombre silence, smoking, drinking, munching on supposedly barbecued chicken, exchanging a private joke or two within their little cliques or sharing obscure jokes with the bigger group.

After dinner, which consisted mainly of a re-hashed lunch, Team Red, sans GC, sat by the pool, dangling our feet into the icy water and taking in a spectacularly clear night sky. We then decided to call it a night just as a few wine-soaked others thought a midnight swim was the need of the hour.

[Part II to follow]

Top 20 Lessons People Wish I Would Learn

2010-03-11T12:52:00.012+05:30

(Or top 20 things people have said or wish they could say to me)

1. That cool pub in Chennai is called Bikes & Barrels not Bird & Basket. (And it really is cool, so your mocking laughter is uncalled for.)

2. We cannot understand your tendency to laugh raucously at a scene in a movie that was not meant to provide comic relief in the first place; we also object to your tittering even 10 minutes after the scene. Your misplaced mirth is a catalyst for B-Complex whose glee has a tendency to create tremors measuring 1.2 on the Richter scale.

3. You watched Saw 1 through 4 back-to-back and thrive on gory horror flicks but keel at the sight or even suggestion of blood in real life? Don't you think there is something amiss in that?

4. It is not normal to shout out you cannot find the Gummy Bears as soon as the lights go out instead of groping around for a flashlight like the rest of us.

5. Give up claiming you can speak Telugu; all you can really say are a bunch of offensive lines someone taught you back in hostel. Besides, it isn’t polite to comment on the size of anyone’s anatomical parts no matter what language you may say it in.

6. Relax, it is only a friendly game of Scrabble; not the World Championship and you don’t need to win at everything.

7. Not everything green, leafy and in your plate is part of some underworld plot to eliminate you slowly but painfully.

8. Wouldn’t it be easier to spell your surname just like the other 1,000 people from your community or must you be difficult and different all the time?

9. While on the subject of spelling names, it really isn’t worth cultivating a haematoma just because somebody inserted that extra “H” in your first name.

10. The correct term would be “bindi” for that dot on the forehead, not “moni” - however that came about!

11. No, painting the dog’s toe nails pink or silver does not speak volumes about HIS fashion sense.

12. Get a grip on your creative juices; during work hours is not a good time to experience a creative Big Bang.

13. Learn to hang up the phone; yawns followed by a light snoring should give you some indication that this conversation was over a long time ago.

14. Recording a person snoring and then assigning that as a personalised ring tone for whenever the person calls is not okay.

15. Respect your elders. That includes refraining from regaling people with tales of how your sibling ran after a sparrow with a salt shaker or accused a pigeon of hanging a large pair of chequered pyjamas on his balcony.

16. Not everybody even three years your junior still wears diapers or can be referred to as a “foetus.”

17. Dirty socks do not go in your mother’s handbag - same as that picture of the beaming moustachioed politician in a crisp white shirt and tri-colour scarf does not belong in her wallet next to the family picture.

18. Some of us like to saunter up mountain slopes not dash up to the summit like there’s a scalp-collecting brigand on your tail.

19. People tend to spook when you smile at people just because you got a funny image of them in your head or heard an unintentional innuendo.

20. Do not tease people on a diet with food or complaints about your high metabolism. You really are toeing the ragged edge of disaster with that one.

Women's Reservation And All That Jazz

2010-03-11T10:37:00.005+05:30

After much bordering-on-comic drama, the Rajya Sabha finally passed the contentious Women’s Reservation Bill. I am not sure on which side of the fence I sit on for this one. Women ought to be able to make it to Parliament on their own merit (and vote-bank politics, and goondaism, and promises of free colour televisions).

For this is a country where 90% of men believe that women belong in the kitchen, must be leered at and not heard, must cater to a man’s every whim and fancy etc. and 8% pretend to think otherwise (since it is “cooler” to appear “broad minded”) but secretly agree with the majority.

The remaining 2%? Well, I’d venture that 1% are “open minded” meaning they are open to having their male friends and relatives tell them what they ought to believe. The other 1% is an urban legend.

After the fireworks the Bill incited in the Upper House, which is usually the more “civilised” of the two, it will be interesting to note the reactions and counter-reactions in the Lok Sabha as more male chauvinists, representatives of the common man no less, get their dhotis in a knot.

If the RS folks could leap onto the Speaker’s lap and rip the "offensive" bill up - inadvertently providing yet another example of blasé masculine brute force being used to snuff out the possibility of having women on an equal footing - could we expect any better of the Lower House?

Regardless of the outcome of the Bill (and the accompanying dramatics courtesy the Yadavs & co.), here’s my question: will it change the life of the average Indian woman, one with no political aspirations, in even the smallest possible way?

True gender equality cannot be got by burning undergarments, mailing pink ones to misogynists, dedicated pink bus services or frenzied celebrations and women-oriented art exhibitions on International Women’s Day.

It is about changing mindsets, altering thinking and reason ossified by generations of traditional and cultural conditioning and ultimately, getting that neanderthal male ego to move over just a tad.

Hahaha! As if! Just blame that last bit on my wishful Piscean day dreaming of Utopia.

New Beginnings

2010-03-09T11:34:00.004+05:30

Another birthday over and done with. Cakes cut, glasses clinked, gifts ripped open and awww-ed over, calls galore and all that. Whew!

Time for new beginnings.

Time for a complete revamp of self, life and blog included. It's called spring cleaning. (What? Am I a tad late?) Out with the old, in with the new, good riddance to right rotten rubbish and whatnot. Fret not, Basically Blah readers... It's just that all this dull green could really do with some livening up. Or a touch of Tabasco and a dash of dynamite, perhaps?

Watch this space!

Older...Wiser...Oh, Crumbs!

2010-02-25T13:17:00.002+05:30

*Groan*

There’s another one around the corner. There ought to be some way of suing a year for having flown by too fast with provision for additional petitions against one of the lousiest 12 months ever.

With another birthday creeping up to bean me one full in the face when I most expect it, I’ve decided that us ageing mortals really ought to come up with an anti-ageing strategy that works. Although I’ve been blessed (or cursed, as I see it presently) with looking at least a decade younger than I really am, I do think there will be probable cause for concern a decade down the line.

The best I’ve come up with is the “Forever 25” - you know, the one where I insist I am 25 for as long as I can - until someone either calls my bluff by digging up my passport or my dentures fall out while I’m laughing raucously at the “in” sitcom that is a favourite with the youngsters of the day.

Besides that, I’ve already begun fibbing and fudging my age in places where I know I will not get caught. Like when a young lass walked up to me at a grocery store recently and asked me to fill out some forms for a free health drink or something like that. I just went ahead and knocked a couple of years off my life. Just like that. Without batting an eyelid. Of course, that innate guilty conscience kicked in right away, for, as I walked way, I am quite certain a bunch of brinjals and a cheeky bottle gourd called me names that I’d blush to repeat. Stool pigeons.

As B-C and I mourned over the merciless ticking away of time last night, we decided that for the next X number of years we’re going to keep celebrating our 24th and 26th birthdays, respectively. And we’ll do that till our very last breath or until we bust a hip while attempting the 2030 equivalent of the Macarena mania.

Of course, the only one who is super thrilled about her age is KO. Naturally, she would choose to opt to be happy about something just so she could appear cooler than the rest of us. Either that or she simply enjoys being able to look down her honker at us humble souls and scoff at “these youngsters” or spout geriatric mumbo-jumbo about “30s being the new 20s”. Honestly, KO? It’s easy to see wisdom doesn’t automatically come with age!

Oh, and that would be another point against the blasted ageing phenomenon.

*Groan*

Down But Never Out

2010-02-16T10:31:00.007+05:30

"Burger with bun or burger without bun?"

That is primarily what I remember of Pune's German Bakery. After a tour of the nearby Osho Ashram, Bin, B-C and I went over to the renowned bakery for a bite to eat. I had somehow convinced myself that I would never make it out of the Osho Ashram due to some strange mind hex that would be put on me! Of course, the tour turned out to be far less adventurous. We were taken on a short walk of the garden area, told to maintain absolute silence and informed (with much feigned regret) that this area, that area and the next were all out of bounds. Of course, B-C would choose just such a solemn occasion to point out that someone in the group had "alien toes."

Anyhow, I digress.

The German Bakery's menu was very unusual (being completely organic). While I chose the "burger with bun" and stuck to a more familiar fresh lime water, if my memory serves me right, B-C opted for a more exciting beverage - pumpkin and orange or something like that. Memories of happier times.

These memories came flooding back to me as I watched the news recently - the cool, calm cafe now obliterated by a terrorist bomb and I felt quite a pang. I am unsure whether anything justifies the killing of innocent civilians.

As the media goes berserk, countries issue travel advisories, security goes on high alert all over India, we, the general populace, are left wondering: What next? Who next?

In a country where the average lifespan of a person is over 60 years - given that each day is a battle to survive considering our rash road culture, rickety constructions where some engineer made a quick buck, carelessly open sewers and wells, domestic violence, rabid street dogs and more - it is surprising that even half the population makes it for as long as they do. Add to all of that: acts of terrorism. It's just another risk thrown into the mix. We're a resilient race. Down but never out.

The tears, fears, panic and anger may be pouring out now. However, the fact remains: We'll survive yet. That resilience alone speaks volumes about our indomitable strength.

Mind Your Language

2010-02-10T16:37:00.007+05:30

Having put myself through the paces of a community social gathering, I thought I left with my sanity and dignity intact.

Until I received “feedback”.

All golden (*preen*)…

Friendly? Check.

Of fair countenance? Check.

Linguistic abilities? N/A

Huh?

Oh, yes, that’s right; I do not converse in my native tongue.

How terrible, and that coming from someone who has ne’er said anything beyond “hello” before proceeding to nestle up with the cronies and reminisce about the good old days when they used to live by a river bed, cross a paddy field and enjoy somebody’s spinach crop (or something like that - I have long since stopped paying attention).

Having been born and brought up outside of the confines of my community well, I have long since come to terms with the fact that I am a social outcast of sorts when it comes to hobnobbing with my country cousins. Any non-conformist accusations were really just water off a duck’s backside.

Until now.

Suddenly, it has become of paramount importance to speak in my native tongue - something that could do, but opt not to simply because a. I’d actually have to think before I speak - something that I am not used to since I can rattle off like 300,000 words per minute without stressing the old bean out too much and b. I’m not really into paddy fields and munching spinach if you get my drift.

So, that imperfect score card kicked off “Operation Force-Her-To-Blah-In-Native-Tongue-Or-Else”. I had about much enthusiasm about the whole thing as a prospective visit to the dentist would evoke. If anything, it only awakened my inner rebel who was now determined not to do anybody's biding!

When my own flesh and blood never had issues with it, must society now force me to conform simply to please everybody?

What makes people think they have the right to go around clamping down on others’ freedom of expression (in whatever language that might be)? And don’t even get me started on this being a nationwide phenomenon. I am limiting my rant to the confines of my immediate society only.

Personality and virtue be damned, society says. What matters is that you uphold tradition. True enough, but does that mean it must be imposed on one such that it breeds resentment to the point of revulsion almost?

At the end of the day, the sad thing is that such imposition has only served to make me believe that the people who can make me feel most like an alien are my so-called community by birth.

Live and let live: is that such a bad thing and is that too much to ask?!

Down To Bra Stacks

2010-01-24T18:56:00.006+05:30

They’re right up there on my “Yech! Hate it” list along with lizards, queue cutters and people who say “I am looking forward FOR”……

Who?

The salesgirls in lingerie shops. Indian lingerie shops at least.

I’ll tell you this: we Indian women are a disadvantaged lot when it comes to undergarments. The number of brands available - limited. The sizes, colours and styles - limited. Sales personnel knowledge on the subject - limited.

After an SOS from KO, who needed just the right kind of bra to go with some newly acquired dresses, I accompanied her to just about every lingerie store on Bangalore’s Commercial Street. While the search was quite fruitless for the most part, the attitude - or more pertinently, ineptitude - of the sales personnel really got our goat.

At the end of the ordeal, I had a thing or ten to tell lingerie sales women:

1. Do not judge your customer and throw her holier-than-thou looks; as if she is morally less upright than yourself for not having asked to see your cloth-bag-cum-emergency-parachute range of brassieres that would put her rosary-counting great grandma to shame, opting instead for racier numbers

2. You will never be an expert judge of size. Period.

3. If you don’t have it, don’t put posters of it up on the wall and then nod forlornly when asked for it

4. Do not assume that everyone needs a white bra; not all women like to shroud what nature gave them in Indian mourning attire

5. Not every customer is Winona Ryder; if you are convinced that all lingerie tryouts are guaranteed shoplifts, put those bar code thingies on the undergarments instead of shouting across the floor, “Madam, where is your bra?”

6. Finally, “Multiplay” is a line of multi-way bras (from Enamor), new on the market; do not act like we’re nincompoops who walked into a lingerie store asking for contraception

Interestingly, we found exactly what we were looking for in a little section of Arihant Plaza… ably guided by… a man.

A Spa-sitive Start to the New Year

2010-01-07T17:56:00.008+05:30

I am not one for New Year resolutions – simple because I see no point in making something only to break it later. That appears to be more the norm than the exception at least.

Anyway, this post isn’t really about new year resolutions or their dissolutions, it is about a first for me. I decided to lose the “spa virgin” tag. If you’re a spa junkie and gasping in disbelief, I’ll have you know that I am icky about being touched by “non-designated” people and coy about baring all to a perfect stranger.

However, with years of being a ‘mouse potato’ beginning to take a toll on my back, I decided to kick off the new year with a visit to Asian Woman, a spa which promised a touch of Bali in the heart of Bangalore. Recommended by the minx KO, whose opinion I hold in great esteem (what with her being related to the Queen of England et al), Asian Woman was serene, calm and welcoming as a pal I shall call "B-Complex" and I entered.

B-Complex opted for the hot stone therapy, while I went with the traditional Balinese massage that promised to relax tired muscles and de-stress mired minds.

After leaving our footwear at the entrance, we were ushered into a room and asked to change out of our clothes. I shall quickly skip through the next few minutes, because it involves an embarrassing moment when one of us inadvertently flashed the other....*reliving horror*....at least now we know those things are diaphanous, eh, B-C?

The massage with aromatic oils lasted an hour and a half, lulling me into a semi-consciousness broken only by the rattling of pebbles on the floor courtesy B-Complex’s somewhat butter-fingered masseuse.

Masseuses at Asian Woman are extremely polite and professional. No giggles, awkwardness, nosey questions, nothing. At the end of it all, I was completely relaxed with not a knot to complain about.

Once done, I chose to take a shower while B-Complex opted for a scrub in the large tub. We wrapped it up with some Chinese tea while we settled our bills and haggled over where to head for lunch.

What a day! Pure bliss!

Asian Woman – The Villa
3rd Block, Koramangala, No. 374,
Sarjapur Road (Near Greenwood High School),
Bangalore 560 034
email: info@e-asianwoman.com
Call 080 32510725 / 080 41219198 / 98457 70764 for appointments

A "Rose" By Any Other Name

2009-12-24T11:40:00.007+05:30

It’s that time of year again when everybody is absolutely sloshing around in festive bonhomie.

Almost everyone I know seems especially fond of this time of year, barring an otherwise-genial former boss – although I suspect his animosity was more to do with Rudolf’s red nose than anything else. But that’s another story.

So this is that time of year when my neighbour puts out her garish thermacol cut-outs of bells and scary Santa faces that can only be termed paedophilic to say the least. Not to be outdone, I string up my single green tinsel wreath and single string of twinkie lights.

After baking a batch of choux buns to be served at a small Christmas brunch being hosted at my place – well, just a brunch that was convenient since Christmas is a non-working day – I settled down to a conversation with my old pal KO.

So much for festive bonhomie! The vile... oh, wait, I shall call her names until after her Wine & Cheese Xmas eve party this evening... Well, the woman calls me an anti-national.

The reason for this slight upon my oozing patriotism you ask?

Rose cookies!

Yes, I shall still call them “Rose Cookies”. KO, who balks at saying anything vernacular in nature for fear of her innate Britishness buggering the pronunciation , mocks me for calling them “Rose Cookies” as opposed to what she deems is the proper name – “Achappam”.

Achappam? “Who, outside of Kerala, even knows that term” I spat and sparked off a long-drawn argument with Her Royal Highness over what the real and proper term for these fried Christmas delicacies is.

Finally, I decided to settle the matter. Who else would be a better judge than Lord Google? Final scores read: Rose Cookies 84,30,000, Achappam 7,680.

KO, what do I say? A rose cookie by any other name may taste just as sweet – to slightly borrow a phrase – but I and 84,30,000 search results prefer sticking to Rose Cookies!

{Oh, but you and 195,000,000 Mallus say "Achappam"! Sigh!}

Thekkady: Of boats, boars and boors

2009-11-04T16:51:00.010+05:30

The single biggest draw in Thekkady is probably the boat safari. Of course, one wonders what the scenario is like now, post the tragic boat capsize that killed 40-odd people. We were on that boat exactly a week before the mishap and almost ironically, I had commented on the utter lack of safety gear on all the nine boats docked there.

Anyhow, our experience was far more pleasant. Thanks to KTDC’s super-efficient Mr Ravi (no, I am not getting a commission to mention his name on my blog this often), we had our tickets to the upper deck of “Jala Raja”, one of the biggest boats there.

As the boats chugged along, expertly dodging the dead trees in the lake, I couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast in the kind of crowd in the upper and lower decks of each boat. The upper decks were full of tourists from all over the world, cameras clicking away at the gnarled trees, the lush green jungle set against the red muddy river bank and the benign elephants plodding about their business as usual. The lower decks, however, were bursting at the seams with local romeos, grinning from ear to ear, cameras clicking away at anything vaguely human female, oblivious to the glares from certain other disapproving males. (*Ahem*)

We spotted a herd of elephants with their clumsy babies, an absolute multitude of bison, sambar deer (a name which a lot of people pronounce like the South Indian lentils curry), grouchy wild boar, and half a dozen snake birds and kingfishers.

No tigers. Tsk.

As we spotted each lot of animals, the boat would slowly spin around in circles so that everybody got a good view regardless of where they were seated. The excitable types would rush to the edge each time, clamouring at the top of their voices – until the ever-efficient Mr Ravi shushed everybody saying noise would scare the animals away. (Seriously, no commission)

The boat ride lasts a good two hours and you are almost guaranteed to spot an elephant or five this way. However, as we slowly chugged back to the docks, a sense of ennui set in amongst the crowd; even the know-it-all Bengali man stopped broadcasting his vast store of trivia to an admiring group of foreigners who’d lapped it all up until they could lap no more.

That is the moment the old foreigner seated in front of us chose to raise himself slightly and let one rip (or passed a noisy wind, if the former sounds too crass), and then sat back down absolutely poker-faced. His wife, although startled for a split second, remained unconcerned -which is more than I can say for Ducky. He began choking with laughter and set me off too.

The elephants were nowhere to be seen. They probably ran for cover.

The old windbag’s wife then handed him a candy. “That’s to combat the weakness he must be feeling after that expulsion”, said Ducky before dissolving into more laughter.

And thus it was that "Jala Raja" chugged back to the docks, with two grownups, belonging to an organization known for being prim-n-propah, snorting with laughter like two juvenile school kids.

Thekkady: Bamboo rafting and an eight-hour trek

2009-11-04T14:00:00.005+05:30

Going on a tiger hunt, I’m not scared...Got leeches by my side, guavas too...

The prospect of bamboo rafting and trekking through areas of Periyar sanctuary that are otherwise off-limits for everyone except forest rangers was a cheering thought. No loud, lecherous camera-toting locals or excitable squealing tourists – just us, a bunch of forest rangers, a rickety bamboo raft, and the great outdoors...

Whatever. Okay, so I thought I’d get lucky and see a tiger. Put it down to fanciful Piscean day-dreaming.

The efficient Mr Ravi introduced us to our guides – rangers from the Kerala Forest Services – and I was immediately mimicking their strong Malayalee accents in my head for future use against certain “fake” Mallu friends of mine.

As it turned out, our trekking group was just the two of us with a young German couple. Ravi told us to don their improvised “leech guards” – khaki stockings that end just around the knee. The prospect of the little bloodsuckers around didn’t daunt me – I’m quite used to extricating them from self and dogs with a squeeze of lime or a pinch of salt (and tequila?) – which is more than I can say for the terrified German couple who thought the things got under a person’s skin like Guinea worms. Tsk.

We set off, traversing the first part of the river on a rickety bamboo raft that looked nothing like the one in the brochures. Our guide excitedly pointed out Touch-Me-Nots. “Oh, whee!” I thought, “this is going to be a whole lot of fun! Touch-Me-Nots?!!” I steeled myself for another “100% natural jungle” type rip-off.

Fortunately, the trek got more interesting as our guide was full of trivia about other flora and fauna as well. The only fact that he erred about was attributing the zoological name of a frog “Rana something-or-the-other” to Rana Pratap Singh, the Maharaja of Mewar (the "Frog Prince" of Mewar?).

My hopes of seeing any wildlife shrivelled as quickly as the Touch-Me-Nots. I had to content myself with heaps of elephant dung in various stages of freshness, an elephant skeleton, a tiger pugmark, a couple of noisy Drongos, a red dragon fly, some tadpoles and fish, a herd of bison (that Ducky quickly shooed away with a well-timed cough), and a fleeting glimpse of an elusive Malabar squirrel.

The Germans, who weren’t very fluent in English, didn’t know what a squirrel was. Pity for them, they will never know – although equally ‘well-informed’ Ducky helpfully told them it belonged to the pig family! (*Snort*)

The German girl looked increasingly flustered, most so when she asked to use the restroom during our stop for a tasteless lunch. The guide very politely pointed her in the direction of some thick trees and bushes.

Although I claim excellent bladder control most times, my luck ran out that day and I sheepishly waddled behind a bunch of bushes myself, keeping my fingers crossed that none of the greedy leeches who came dashing toward me became ‘bottom feeders’.

Towards the last leg of our trek, we trudged back in the hot sun, as one ranger enthusiastically plied us with all the wild guavas we could eat. We reached the last bamboo raft waiting to take us back to our starting point and I cautiously stepped onto it first.

As my rotten luck would have it, a bamboo log gave way and I sank knee-deep into the dark 120-foot deep water. Pure reflexes and an irrational fear of water made me leap to safety in a fraction of a second. If you thought the boats in Thekkady have no safety equipment, try the bamboo rafts!

I was more than grateful to limp back to my room and soak in the tub, gingerly nursing the awful blister on my foot that the ‘leech guard’ had created.

Thekkady: Jumbo safari = 100% natural rip-off

2009-10-26T17:39:00.003+05:30

The elephant safari promised a ride on elephant back “through 100% natural forest”. What we got was a ride on an elephant through a 100% cultivated cardamom plantation. For someone who has been reared in 100% plantations all her life, I was 100% super let down. So much for my envisioning us chancing upon an angry tiger who’d then send the elephant scurrying in terror with little old me clinging to its big ears for dear life.

All I did was cling on for dear life. I found myself seated right atop the elephant’s shoulders which wasn’t comfortable at all, especially when “Rooba” ambled down slopes. All I could do was pray that Ducky would grab my jeans if I fell down headfirst. 100% wishful thinking. He’d probably grab the camera first to capture the moment before hooting with laughter.

Nonetheless, despite the disappointing environment, I was cheered up by the prospect of being able to interact with the gentle four-legged giants. We fed them and patted them, amused with their names: Rooba, Shankaran Kutty the tusker and the little rascal whose name I have now forgotten. Someone doesn’t have an elephant’s memory, that is for sure.

The highlight of the trip was when Shankaran Kutty showered a squealing foreigner who’d opted to bathe him with water, twice. 100% natural shower. At least somebody got their money’s worth.

Thekkady: Acco, food and service

2009-10-26T17:31:00.004+05:30

Aranya Nivas is one of the Kerala tourism (KTDC) resorts located within Periyar Wildlife sanctuary. The others are the frightfully expensive Lake Palace, located bang squat in the middle of the Periyar lake, and the budget resort Periyar House. Would I recommend Aranya Nivas? Absolutely. No second thoughts about it, although it can do your wallet some damage. But then, with tourism being its mainstay, Kerala is bound to be expensive.

The staff is amazingly polite, helpful and very pleasant – everyone from the restaurant staff to the reception staff ooze congeniality. We were greeted at the desk with a free room upgrade to a premium suite, which meant total privacy, wooden decor, muted lighting, large bay windows, plush comfy bed and sofas (not to mention a “love seat”), large bath tub and shower, complimentary bath accessories including bubble bath – yes, I was a happy, contented woman.

There’s a clean swimming pool for use by guests only. In case you’re wondering, it offers you total privacy from the lecherous eyes of the local men folk who frequent the reserve purely to gawk at women, although it is in full view of some of the guest rooms and the dining room.

Now the more important aspect: food. Breakfast and dinner (usually buffet) are included in the room tariff. Breakfasts included a large spread of western-style eggs and toast with watermelon or pineapple juice as well as more Indian fare like pooris, Kerala-style puttu, dosas and more. Dinners offered good non-veg Kerala-style food as well as suspicious-looking Indo-Chinese fare. Note: No booze apart from beer is served here so it’s best you carry your own if you can’t do without. Even the beer is available only in a slightly dingy-looking room (“beer parlour”) with a barman and morose fish in an aquarium for company.

Ravi (pronounced more traditionally as “Ray-vee”), the KTDC guest relations officer, was efficiency personified. As soon as we arrived, he took out one of his many brochures, informing us about the various adventure activities and sight-seeing possibilities in the area. This was not going to be a lazy holiday I soon realized as we enthusiastically signed up for the bamboo rafting and eight-hour jungle trek, elephant safari and the more mundane boat ride on the river. Ravi took care of everything – all we had to do was show up at the appointed hour and he’d have the tickets, guides and everything ready. He was also a big help getting our daily passes (mandatory for anyone visiting/staying in the reserve) updated.

The reserve is closed at 6pm, so the area is absolutely quiet and peaceful after the crazy crowds have finished with their boat rides and left for the day. Aranya Nivas is a stone’s throw away from the edge of the lake, but the compound is locked up once darkness falls – whether to keep the elephants out or troublesome humans in is anybody’s guess – so there’s not much chance of a midnight walk around the area.

Aranya Nivas contact details:
For reservations (advance booking is a must): 04869 321930 (Thomas)
Email: aranyanivas@sancharnet.in
Address: Periyar Wild Life Sanctuary, Thekkady, Kerala - 685 536

Satire Over Attire

2009-09-16T10:18:00.005+05:30

The following letter popped into my email this morning and I thought it worth sharing on my blog (although this is not in keeping with my usual servings of original content):

Part One

HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY

On this poignant occasion I would like to make an observation after my recent visit to Delhi/Gurgaon and having met Col Moorthy I hope you all will take this constructive criticism and not negative comments about Defence services in India.

Let me first start by the experience that I had in Defence Service Officers' Institute, Dhaula Kuan. I attended a private party there but was stopped because I was wearing Kurta Pyjama - a very Indian dress!! I had to change into shirt and trousers to attend.

I just could not believe that after 63 years of Independence the Defence services are not only still following but also robustly enforcing a British legacy dress code that was meant to keep "Indians" out of the British establishments.

Can anyone of you explain to me why this archaic and anti-Indian rule is still being enforced with such vigour? India is a democratic country. DSOI is not a private club but is paid for by tax payer's money. If Dr Manmohan Singh, the prime minister of India, were to come to DSOI he will not be allowed to enter if he is wearing his usual Indian dress!!! How can Defence services be proud to be Indian and ask civilians and politicians to strengthen the defence services when they cannot shake off the British legacy?? - Dinesh Verma

Part Two

Dear Shri Verma,

I do not know you, your age, profession and other details. Hence I am keeping my viewpoint brief and pointed. We shall discuss each issue raised in the mail.

Firstly the title goes overboard without establishing any base for a viewpoint.

Secondly the DSOI is a club wholly funded by the members and some private and regimental fund. No public fund is involved. Hence the Institute is a private club and no taxpayers money is involved.

Thirdly, the Kurta Pyjama maybe Indian; so is a Langot which is the only garment worn by many children in rural areas. In the south men wear only lungis around their waist and tie a towel around their heads. In many tribes of India women go bare breasted. These are all Indian dresses. Surely it is not your case that the DSOI should permit all these dresses purely because they are worn in some parts of the country.

Fourthly, I usually wear a kurta pyjama to sleep as night suit; it may be worn in some parts of North India as a casual dress (however fancy; it still remains a casual dress) to each others homes, but that is a regional practice. By the same logic, if Kurta pyjama is allowed in the DSOI, children should be allowed in Langots and adults in Lungi etc.

Fifthly, the dress code in the Army is laid down in the Red Book (an amendment to Dress Regulations for the Army). The formal dress is the National Dress or Dinner Jacket (Black Tie/Tuxedo), for an event in a club ordinarily one is expected to dress formally. So the guests could be in the National Dress which is what the PM is often seen wearing. The PM does not wear a pyjama to the office.

Sixthly, in India the bulk of the people wear a trouser and shirt. It has ceased to have any colonial connotation; those who try to attach some such non-existent significance to it are off the mark. In fact the club has gone to the extent (which I am not in agreement at all with) of even allowing T shirts with collar; for male members. Even the tie has been done away with, in deference to the hot climate.

Seventhly, just for the record we tend to run down the British (though I am no fan of theirs) in their own English language.

Eighthly, being a private club meant for defense service officers and their families the members are at liberty to lay down the dresses which are allowed in the club.

Ninthly, the club by allowing an individual to utilise its facilities albeit at a fee is within its rights to expect the guests to adhere to its customs. Taking off from your analogy if you are invited to the Presidents Estate you would take pains to find out what to wear; why not to your friends party.

Tenthly, if you are in the corporate world try going to your office in a Kurta Pyjama with the same logic that it is an Indian dress.

Lastly, the dress is usually mentioned in all invitations from service personnel. If left out one must enquire, particularly if at a Defence Establishment, that much is elementary.

This rejoinder may be impersonal in tone, but I have had enough SH*T with people telling the Army what to do. Our brainless media and the half educated public are often commenting on matters on which they have no idea; from Golf Courses, Canteen facilities, orderlies, the AWWA etc.

I say damn FOOLs, before you express an opinion, least you can do is find out.

With Best Wishes,

Yours Sincerely,

Col PK Nair (retd)

{I thank the latter for my morning's dose of chuckles.}

The "Healthy" Flu Bug

2009-09-04T12:53:00.006+05:30

I have decided to purge my world of a scourge that has slowly but surely taken it over. Not being overly ambitious, let me try small, like with this blog for starters.

I just woke up one day, and lo and behold, just about everybody who is anybody and wants to be somebody is pronouncing the humble word "healthy" differently. TV anchors, advertisements for cooking oil, and even the local grocer appear to be saying "hell-dhee".

Okay, so who changed the accepted pronunciation while my back was turned? As it turns out, nobody really. The dictionaries still specify its pronunciation as ˈhel-thē. So, this is, apparently, a "cool" new way of saying it. It appears that some Page-3 type mispronounced it and started an infectious trend that has claimed more victims than the Spanish Flu. At least in this country.

I chuckled in delight as Bobby Chinn, a food show host on Discovery Travel & Living, raised an amused brow and mimicked a girl in Punjab someplace when she said "helldhee". The pity, however, was that she didn't get it.

Unfortunately, this mispronunciation has become so well entrenched in society, it doesn't look like it will go away any time soon. On my part, I refuse to succumb to the hell-dhee pandemic. Even if it means I am ostracized from hip society. I shall say it right until my last breath, and I shall judge people who say it wrong. In fact, I might even have "A ˈhel-thē human, the last one standing" carved on my epitaph.

My Ears are Burning

2009-09-04T11:57:00.007+05:30

I am a celebrity in my own right. For some reason, no matter what I do or don't do, I manage to set certain gossip mongers all a-twitter. This blog, of course, must be their most valuable resource to keep tabs on me, since I have most unfortunately dropped off their daily radars.

This post is dedicated to all those who seem to have nothing better to do with their lives than sniff around for tidbits of information about me.

I suppose the inability to ferret out juicy gems worth their weight in ash from my rather non-controversial, non-ripple-creating blog has forced you to seek other sources. Well, let me save you the trouble and have you know that my buddies really have lot more on their daily agendas. A chinwag with you about insignificant little people like yours truly is not and never will feature on their priority list.

And let's say, like for real, you are genuinely concerned about my well-being, whereabouts and what-been-uptos.... Okay, I cannot even continue that sentence without sniggering over the total unlikelihood of it all. Anyway, my point is that if you really want to know about me, you know how to contact me. May be we could have a good colloquy about the weather. Who knows, if you are really nice, I might actually tell you all about how I digested my latest meal.

Truth be told, I am sick to the gills of being nice and decent despite your obvious fixation with my otherwise quotidian existence. I feel like Truman in The Truman Show. It is such a pity that I have had to deface my blog with disclaimers to stop you from reading between the lines and jumping to conclusions. Much as I appreciate the fact that some of my posts moved you enough to hold mini what-do-you-think opinion polls, gee, you really shouldn't have. I think most fondly of you too - you are like an itch that cannot be scratched.

The bottom line really is: Go get a life. Oh, and while you're at it, could you get me a bag of gummy bears, pretty please? I really feel like biting a couple of heads off right now.

Hungry Newsmen: Stop Crying Wolf

2009-09-02T11:42:00.012+05:30

A few days ago, a well-known Indian TV news channel ran a story about an Indo-Chinese skirmish in Sikkim. "Indian and Chinese troops involved in a skirmish in Nathu La", said the ticker tape, followed by "More Indian troops being deployed at the border". I watched in disbelief as the channel then went on to make this headline news, complete with visuals of Chinese soldiers marching on snowy slopes.

Viewers were being led to believe that our nation was going to war. While the smug newsmen must have sat back to enjoy their soaring viewership, the only thing that shot up in my household was blood pressure.

Fortunately, my nerves of steel held out and I reasoned that the media is quite geographically challenged. It is probably never ever going to know the difference between Shillong and Sikkim, let alone Nathu La and North Sikkim. Besides, the footage shown looked nothing like Nathu La in recent times. Moreover, snow in August seemed quite implausible. A quick phone call confirmed my hunch: CNN-IBN has a bunch of irresponsible ignorant journalists. Nathu La was as peaceful as ever, with not even flies to swat at that altitude. Troops at Nathu La were themselves probably alerted about this ongoing "skirmish" through their TV sets like the rest of the country!

Once the smugness of my "I-so-knew-it" victory wore off, however, I felt some amount of anger against this section of irresponsible media. If this had been lawsuit-laden America, a bunch of very worried army families could have sued their feckless *bleeps* for causing undue emotional trauma. Even the visual of the fierce Chinese soldiers was old footage shot, and get this: not even at Nathu La.

Here's a note to all you viewership-hungry newsmen: how about some responsible reporting for a change? Check your facts and learn your geography before crying wolf! In your haste to outsmart and one-up rival channels, do ensure you don't come out looking like total jackasses. It will make all our lives just that much easier.

Oh, and if we want drama, we'll watch Colors, thank you very much.

Our Pseudo Democracy

2009-08-20T12:45:00.007+05:30

There's never a dull moment in India's political arena. Jaswant Singh's new book Jinnah: India, Partition, Independence has invited the wrath of his own party men. The BJP promptly and ungraciously booted him out for airing his views on Jinnah and the partition, as well as some unflattering comments on Sardar Patel. Having condoned Varun Gandhi's inflammatory speeches against a minority community and now kicking JS out for what they deem "pro Jinnah" views, just what sort of a 'secular' message are they sending out to us voters? JS (whose previous books have courted controversy too) remains unrepentant, questioning the right of people to impose shackles on free thinking. Good on you, JS!

While the party can rightly justify their actions to some extent by saying that JS's opinions are not in keeping with the party's ideology, there is absolutely no justification for imposing a ban on the book in a few BJP-ruled states.

The last time I checked, this was a democracy ("the world's largest" as we take pride in trumpeting). As citizens of this supposed democracy, don't we have the right to freedom of expression? Doesn't it also give us the freedom of choice? I can choose to read the book or not. I don't need someone dictating what I should or should not read. I have the right to air my plentiful opinions but I definitely do not have the right to impose my views or restrictions on another individual.

Besides, how will banning the book in a few states, stop anyone from buying it from elsewhere? And then there's always Amazon, just have it shipped right to your doorstep!

JS is likely to have the last laugh. He remains a Member of Parliament, and can probably laugh all the way to the bank thanks to the free publicity that a couple of ignorant, rigid party leaders gave his book. Everybody loves a good controversy. That in itself is a fantastic farewell present.

Good God! I'm Blond!

2009-08-19T20:27:00.010+05:30

It is that time of year again. As the religious festival season rolls around again, I can feel the onset of slight pangs of anxiety that will no doubt become more frequent and intense as the months go by. Okay, I am just going to have to come out and say it. There is no other way to do so. I am not religious. Pause one moment for the gasps of horror.

Now that that is done, and before the saffron brigade and the Bible bashers begin to roll down roads or hold prayer conventions for my rotten soul, here's the meat of the matter. This is a country where 'the guy upstairs' (who I know exists because I hear footsteps and rolling marbles at night) has around 40,000 different names, avatars, and forms of accepted worship. So, life for someone who chooses to remain an agnostic (note: vastly different from atheist, so let's not get our saffron knickers in a knot already, okay?) is not easy.

I had a good and lasting taste of it while driving to my Spanish institute with an equally religion-clueless friend on what could have been a peaceful Sunday morning. I stopped at a traffic signal and surveyed my surroundings. There was something odd by the side of the road - in my defence, it was odd by my religion-ignorant books. The conversation went something like this:

- OMFG, who the hell left so many Ganesha idols on the side of the road? (Brownie points for naming the idol correctly)
- Oh, yeah! There are so many!
- And they're all PINK!
- Strange!

Before we could act any more blond than that, the lights changed and we trundled along to our class with our brows furrowed. Once there, we decided to update the others about our strange sighting that morning. Our 'dramatic' revelation was met with a moment of silent disbelief and then a lot of eye rolling, before the following outburst (I have omitted some of the choice expletives and stinging name calling):

- It's Ganesh Chaturthi!
- How could you not know? Seriously?!
- They're selling idols on the road because it's GC!
- How could you not know that?
- How long have you lived in this country?
- Are you guys even Hindus?
- It's GC.....
- Yadda, yadda, nag, nag, gasp...

You get the drift.

Tears of utter shame and repentance sprang to my eyes and I ran from there and threw myself in front of one of those pink idols, ripping my hair out, beating my chest, groveling for forgiveness and salvation.

Okay, I made that last bit up entirely (that's another black mark for lying, tsk, tsk), but if my life were portrayed on a Hindi soap on Colors, that scene would be played out in slow motion, three times over, with a lot of tan-tan-tan music.

In reality, my ignoramus friend and I just looked suitably ashamed, giving our best I'm-the-dog-who-peed-on-your-floor looks, deciding that there was nothing we could say to justify our blond moment.

Now, we keep our 'religious' discussions between ourselves and helpfully give the other the heads-up whenever one of us hears hints of some festival around the corner in other people's conversations.

{Note: No offense meant to blonds, anyone religious, pink people, dogs who pee on floors and tan-tan-tan music composers.}

Lapsi or Titaura, anyone?

2009-08-10T13:42:00.013+05:30

People familiar with Kalimpong and thereabouts may be familiar with "Lapsi". If you're wondering still, then may be if I said, "the red tamarind-type thing which is a little sour, a little sweet and a little spicy", that could ring a bell or two? This is not to be confused with the commonplace red tamarind sold around Delhi and up north. Lapsi is Nepalese in origin and is commonly found in various forms around the North East.

I first had a taste of this addictive, finger-licking-good whatchamacallit way back in school. A friend of mine would bring little packets of the stuff for us to savour. I remained blissfully unaware of the actual name, ignorantly supposing it to be the common tamarind.

However, I recently found myself trawling the bazaars of Kalimpong looking for the "red tamarind thing", determined not to disappoint a friend back home who had specifically asked for it. I located hoards of it in a small shop run by a crotchety-looking woman, who grunted when I asked her if this was "imli". I take it she meant to say, "Whatever, stupid tourist."

Later, I found that this is actually called Lapsi (pronounced "Lopsy"), which is really a fruit grown in Nepal. The fruit is then used to make various condiments like the sour-sweet-spicy sticky stuff ("Titaura"), pickles, chutneys and whatnot. The plain dried/boiled fruit is sold as well, which looks sort of like an apricot, but tastes and feels like a jujebe of sorts.

More Googling turned up that the stuff is exported from Nepal to the west. I laughed when I discovered that each tiny packet retails for something like $9 on the net, when I picked it up for Rs 5 in Kalimpong! Let's take a moment and gloat.

Really gloat.

Gloat like there's no tomorrow.

Oh, and this goes out to the gossip trawlers (you know who you are): if you're wondering why I've been savouring sour-sweet weird things, no, there isn't one in the oven! I've always loved sour-sweet things. Now go discuss all that, while I sit back and enjoy my Titaura. And if you're wondering whether I might give you some, the (plagiarized) tag line on the packet says "A gift for someone you love", so.....

What's in the trunk?

2009-07-31T11:41:00.009+05:30

The Indian media was agog with the news about an elephant, a young tusker, that ran riot through a film set (read). The elephant gored its mahout to death before ravaging the sets of the movie Ravana being directed by well-known director Mani Ratnam.

Of course, most channels immediately sought to reassure their (worried?) viewers that the stars of the movie, the famous cant-seem-to-get-out-of-your-face couple Abhishek and Ash, were safe and sound. I, however, seemed to be in the insignificant minority desperate for news on the fate of the elephant. Finally, one sensible channel informed me that the elephant was tranquilized. I heaved a sigh of relief. Invariably, the first reaction to any rogue elephant (or leopards that stray into towns, or mongrels that nip an interfering kid) in our land of non-violence is to club it to death. So this was a relief to hear.

The reason for the elephant's rage was musth. Ducky, like a lot of men out there, must be familiar with the phenomenon. I believe its equivalent in women is called PMS.

I was reminded of a picture I snapped during my recent trip to Jaipur. Elephants being made to give tourists a joyride in that scorching 45+ degree desert heat. They plodded along the burning tar roads, quite placidly tolerating the jabs and hoots of their mahouts. I felt immensely sorry for them, watching them amble along, desperately trying to keep themselves cool by spraying their own saliva on themselves with their trunks.

The greatest affront, however, could possibly be what I captured with my camera. Some busybody prying at the elephant's backside, trying to find who-knows-what, the Jaipur jewels? Take a closer look at that picture and tell me what you think he's trying to find! (For the more tech-challenged lot who haven't figured out how to leave a comment yet, email me: emailbasicallyblah@gmail.com)

Anyway, if that pachyderm had run amok after that, I couldn't blame it. Anyone would be super pissed off if complete strangers came poking at their backsides! Wouldn't you be?

Mum's (Not) the Word

2009-07-30T11:04:00.007+05:30

If you believe that all women are born with the maternal instinct and are really all just waiting to experience the glorious miracle of childbirth, then this blog post is absolutely not for you.

There are two types of people in this world: baby people and puppy people. I most certainly and totally belong to the latter. Show me a puppy (or a dog) and I'm pretty much willing to do anything for it. Scoop poop, mop pee, you name it. As for a baby? I'd rather gauge my own eye ball out with my bare hands than go within 100 miles of a dirty diaper, a wailing baby, a precariously dangling snot bubble, or a mound of semi-digested Cerelac that just sloshed its way onto the dining table.

I know some folks are going to blame this lack of maternal instincts on the 'evolution of the modern woman': a woman who has lost her innate (and most important) instinct to reproduce and nurture. However, that is not the case. There are just some of us women who would rather skip the wondrous experience of pushing a watermelon out of a keyhole (as someone once described childbirth). And if that isn't enough, spend the next N number of years in baby hell, surrounded by the stench of soiled clothes and baby barf, screaming tantrums, sore nipples and broken china. All this after 9 months of wobbling around gracefully like a walrus in stilettos.

"But don't you feel the urge to continue your lineage?", I've been asked. Eh? Call me selfish, but I really just want to get through this one life focusing on me, and don't particularly care about leaving behind any bawling legacies. Is that a cardinal sin? Pardon me if I haven't realized that the sole reason I am on this planet is to be the vessel for new life in one of the world's most populous countries. "To create another person in one's own likeness" - that's what God wanted when he created man, I believe, not what I dream about.

I really couldn't care for putting pictures of myself on the net, holding up a young squealer like a competition trophy. Don't get me wrong. I am not against anyone who loves kids or is dying to have one. They are just born like that. I just resent the ones who act supercilious about less-maternally-inclined women.

It is just that popping one out doesn't really figure on my list of life's ambitions. For those women who share my sentiment, there is nothing wrong with us. Just like there are tea drinkers and coffee drinkers, homosexuals and heterosexuals, Einsteins and George Bush Jr, and Ferrari fans and McLaren fans, there are pro-procreating women and the non. Let's just reconcile ourselves to stark reality, accept our differences and move on already.

{This post is a general opinion piece and does not in any way reflect the goings-on in Basically Blah's personal life. This means that those of you trawling this blog for hints of gossip: stop trying to read between the lines!}

Television Never Replace Reliable Old Keyhole

2009-07-25T11:20:00.010+05:30

Television never replace reliable old keyhole.

So says a supposed Chinese proverb. Of course, these hilarious "Chinese proverbs" that throng the Internet are highly unlikely to be either Chinese or proverbs (Man who fart in church sit in own pew?!) in the first place, but they are quite likely to evoke a chuckle or two. Anyway, debating the authenticity of these "proverbs" is not my intention right now (or any time in the future, for that matter). I am just glad they are there so I can put them up as silly status messages on Facebook or Google Talk once in a while.

While the wise saying goes that TV will never equal spying through the (t)rusty keyhole, it looks like this could very well happen with the number of bare-all, expletive-heavy, will-do-anything-for-TRPs reality shows on air. There's a voyeur in all of us and that's why these shows are immensely popular. One of the latest is Sach Ka Saamna, a ripoff of the American show The Moment of Truth. Ripping off a reality show, of course, seems like the prerequisite for reality shows in India.

Like everybody else hungry for a whiff of scandal, I have watched a couple of episodes, gasping at revelations of home truths and rating each participant higher or lower on my "scumbag meter", reveling in my holier-than-thou smugness. Once the truth is out, word spreads and YouTube steps in to cater to anyone who might have missed a spicy revelation.

Now it's time for the culture vultures and moral police to show some signs of life, lest the general population forgets them and their beatings. Not to be outdone, (or possibly feeling slightly eclipsed by the with-the-times, net-savvy Tharoors and so-evidently-do-not-write-this-myself Advanis and Laloos of the political world), members of Parliament have begun protesting "the obscenity" of shows like Sach Ka Saamna. Not surprising though, considering truthfulness has never been their strong point.

So while Mamatha Banerjee reads out a railway budget that is really just a haha-in-your-face-take-that-Laloo tirade, MPs sit by and probably go:
-MP #1: Man, I really haven't a clue why I'm sitting here. I just had to write "BC" on a slip of paper, then people dumped a load of garlands on me, paraded me around town with loudspeakers.
-MP #2: You too? I did all of that, read a big "Banana" list of promises, got a bunch of them farmer guys drunk on cheap brew and sent them to the voting booths.
-MP #1: Ah, yes, it's all about the people, isn't it? Not only that, I got my bouncers to dole out free money and then free beatings to anyone who didn't put my name into the ballot. Works wonders.
-MP #2: Check out the [Mamatha Banerjee screeches] on Sushma.
-MP #1: Pity Renuka isn't around. She had a better [Mamatha Banerjee screeches].
-MP #2: True. Does Sushma always look like that or did she just see one of those new Manforce bubblegum and vanilla flavoured condom advertisements on TV?
-MP #1: Manforce? Isn't that the name of Mulayam's Anti-Womens-Reservation Bill protest campaign?
-MP #2: Oh, I thought that was the name of the new park with Mayawati's gigantic statues.
-MP #3: Dudes, quick, we need to raise a protest and disrupt this parliament session. The railway woman is driving me nuts and her [Mamatha Banerjee screeches] is not worth looking at either.
-MP #2: How about the Manforce commercials?
-MP #3: Dude, we're supporting Mulayam's campaign. We can't protest that.
-MP #1: How about one of those reality shows where women wear skimpy clothes?
-MP #2: No way, we need those. How about the boring one where one guys asks questions and the other answers while his family watches and cries?
-MP #3: Yep, that should do it. It's so bland, even Vajpayee the certified bachelor has better revelations to make. We do everything they confess to doing and more and we don't get an applauding audience. Besides, with no skimpily clad women to ogle at on the show and in Parliament, our existence stinks!

On news channel ticker tape that evening: Members of Parliament protest the airing of television show Sach Ka Saamna saying it goes against Indian culture.

So apparently, Indian home truths must not be voluntarily aired on TV for all to savour; they ought to remain at home, where neighbours can spy on them and spread the gossip themselves. Now that's Indian culture.

Pitaya on my Plate

2009-07-22T11:28:00.007+05:30

So this morning, my mother went off to the local grocery around the corner, Namdhari's, and returned soon after, thrilled to bits with her 'spoils of war'. She took out this flaming pink fruit with tiny green flaps all around it. It is called 'Dragon Fruit' and retails at 160 bucks a kilo. Which basically means you get one fruit for that price.

Since we're both fruit bats by nature, our excitement over this new find could scarce be controlled. I dashed off to get my camera while she ran to telephone her brother with the news. Even the birth of a new baby in the family couldn't possibly evoke as much excitement.

Once the photo shoot was done, I did what any normal person would do in these circumstances. I Googled it. As it turns out, this fruit is also called Pitaya and is found in parts of South America, China and South-East Asia.

Now all that's left is to cut it open and eat it. Aut viam inveniam aut faciam!

They All Fall Down

2009-07-20T10:31:00.012+05:30

Even scorching 45+ degree heat could not deter a chronic shoppaholic like me. So, with Ducky in tow, I strolled around the bustling market of Sarojini Nagar. I've noticed that salesmen up north are much more aggressive in trying to drive up sales than their more benign counterparts down south.

And so it was in SN that we haggled with and were hounded by dozens of salesmen. We finally approached a store where there was a 'fantastic' sale on - pick anything in there for 75 bucks. It had a mound of t-shirts, shorts, kurtis and whatnot with dozens of enthusiastic shoppers burrowing into it like frenzied moles. The salesman, who stood outside the store bellowing for people to check out his fantastic sale, would put any foghorn to shame. "75 rupees, any item, all item, super sale! ", he hollered.

Three women strolled past him, lugging a whole lot of shopping bags. They paid the foghorn absolutely no attention. He would have none of that. "Arrey, Madam! Dekho kya gir gaya!", (look what has fallen down!) he shouted suddenly. Startled, they turned around, worried eyes scanning the ground. "Kya gir gaya?", (what fell down?), one of them asked him anxiously, obviously thinking one of her precious purchases had fallen out of her bag.

"Madam, dhaam gir gaya!", (the price has fallen), he whooped with a broad smile, gesturing toward his shop as laughter erupted all around him.

Stone Deaf

2009-07-16T11:44:00.010+05:30

In Delhi, I got the chance to attend a workshop conducted by a well-known crystal healer and tarot-card reader, Bindu Maira at The Maximum Store. Ducky was dragged along for good measure and cowered at the back of the room while the otherwise all-women audience waxed eloquent about the supposed fantastic power of gem stones on one's life. While I am still quite sceptical, the overall session was interesting.

At the end of the session, I went over to Bindu and asked her whether she could suggest any crystal for Ducky, since he's in the army et al. Only families of defence personnel must worry for the safety and protection of their loved ones every single day. Bindu suggested Larimar for Ducky, saying it would do his lungs good. Rarefied air at his high-altitude post and ciggie smoking is a bad combination!

I promptly told Ducky that he required Larimar and we decided we'd pick it up from Bindu some time later.

Days later, while shopping in Jaipur, I was busy thwarting the attempts of a resolute salesman trying to interest me in earrings made of semi-precious stones. "Ok, Madam, take a look at these bee-yoo-ti-ful earrings made of Lapis Lazuli", he persisted. At this point, Ducky, who had thus far displayed marked disinterest in the proceedings, suddenly pricked up his ears.

"Lapis Lazuli?", he said, eyes gleaming brighter than the gems on display. "Do you have just the stone?" Looking pleased as punch, the salesman enthusiastically fished out a tray with the bee-yoo-ti-ful stones. Deep blue with little flecks of gold. I had to agree. They were bee-yoo-ti-ful.

"Shall I buy it?", asked Ducky. I could see his mind was made up already. Nothing I said could deter him now, not even if I threatened him with the world's largest cannon (Jaivana) that was parked nearby. "If you like it so much, buy it", I said. And so, Rupees 1,550 later, we strode out, Ducky beaming and the even happier salesman doing the cancan behind a terracotta camel.

A day later, Ducky mentioned that he was glad he'd picked up "the stone that Bindu recommended". Dramatic pause.

- What? She suggested LARIMAR, not this!
- What! Then what is this?
- Lapis Lazuli!
- What! I paid 1550 for a stone I don't even need?!
- Hahahaha!
- Why didn't you tell me!
- [Choking] How was I to know that you'd gotten them mixed up? I thought you liked the stone. It is bee-yoo-ti-ful.
- I don't believe this!
- [Sides splitting] Oh, well, if nothing else, Lapis Lazuli has definitely taught you to listen to your woman!
- $$#@&%&*^*^^%**#@

The Giant Momo

2009-07-15T12:19:00.012+05:30

If you're wondering what to have for lunch today, consider this: Thaifu.

I discovered this while frantically looking for a restaurant in Kalimpong that served lunch at 2:30 in the afternoon. Apparently, everybody eats at exactly noon and then looks amused when famished strangers show up asking for lunch at 2.30 pm.

Having been denied nourishment at Cloud 9 and The Park Hotel - both restaurants that I'd recommended in Kalimpong earlier - Ducky and I spotted a Chinese/NE cuisine restaurant tucked away in the basement of a ramshackle building. The restaurant, whose name escapes me now, was quite clean and nicely done up, a stark contrast to the dinghy surroundings.

The friendly waiter, sporting tattoos and a million piercings, probably noticed the disappointment writ large on my face when he said there were no non-veg momos available. He then recommended I try "Thaifu", which wasn't on the menu, but which, he assured us, was very much like a big momo and would taste good too.

He couldn't have been more right. The giant momo on my plate, served with the delectable red dallae chilli sauce, was delicious. The inside was stuffed with mince fried with spicy green chillies, coriander, peas and a little cabbage. Ducky sorely regretted the fact that he'd balked at experimenting with a new dish as yours truly wolfed down the Thaifu in delight.

Five stars for fabulous food and pleasant service, little nameless restaurant in Kalimpong!

Jatties & Jaipur

2009-07-07T14:51:00.008+05:30

Ducky and I just returned from a weekend trip to Jaipur. This trip was a hallmark of sorts considering that Ducky is a Rajput who has never set foot in Rajasthan!

We made it to Jaipur from Delhi in roughly five hours by car and spent almost that same amount of time trying to locate the Officers' Mess where we were to stay. Apparently, nobody can give directions straight in Jaipur. I have concluded that the hot desert sun has fried everybody's brains.

Amidst the chaotic traffic, we got stopped by a cop for not wearing our seat belts - something we'd forgotten in the confusion of hopping in and out of the car to ask for directions. However, the military I-card worked its wonder and we trundled off scotfree. Those of you who know how anal I can be about wearing a seat belt, this is your moment to gloat.

We finally located the elusive Mess (we'd passed it over a dozen times), ably guided by Scion over the phone (he had a satellite map open). Once we'd freshened up, we headed to the local markets. My glee and enthusiasm soon wilted as I found myself groped, fondled, leered at and more - all this with Ducky at my side. Soaring heat and soaring male hormones - that is chiefly what I shall remember about Jaipur.

The rest of the trip passed off in a blur - shopping for jooties, clothes, and knickknacks for an as-yet non-existent house, walking around forts, more shopping while ducking lecherous advances from strange males, and dinner at a restaurant that promised traditional folk dances. The single woman dancing with a couple of pots on her head was only interested in performing for the couple of foreigners sitting in the place. No sword and fire dances - sorely disappointing.

I was only too glad to get out of Jaipur as soon as possible. The blazing sun beat down on us as we drove out. I rummaged around for something like a towel to hang against the window to keep the heat and glare out. When I found nothing, Ducky suggested that I hang his recently discarded chuddies** across the window. With no better options, I complied. So we drove all the way from Jaipur to Gurgaon with a pair of checked undies flapping gaily in the wind. It most effectively cut the heat. Long live the jatties**.

**Jatties = Tamil language term for underwear; Hindi equivalent would be chuddies

More for the Geographically Challenged

2009-06-10T13:35:00.009+05:30

Continuing my last post on the complete and utter ignorance of a lot of people surrounding India's geography (or rather, just the South and East):

The other evening, I was watching Lola Kutty's GK show on Channel [V]. Not that I am a big fan of the woman who tries hard to mimic the perfect Mallu accent but fails miserably. Not even the frizzy oily curls or the jasmine flower garden atop her cranium makes up for anything.

Nonetheless, the questions are interesting. So, the other day, she went around asking people a couple of questions about basic Indian geography.

- Chennai is the capital of which state?
- Uhhh....
- Madras! Of course, I'm sure. Chennai is the capital of Madras.
- Dunno.
- Uhhh....

- What is Kohima?
- Huh?
- It is like 'Karma'. It's a state of being. [May be I'll give this dude some credit for his pathetic attempt at pseudo intellectuality.]
- It is where they dropped the bombs. [Oh, on your brains?]

Here's my question: How come some of us are so well-informed while the rest are completely clueless? My geography teachers were no great shakes - one would go running from the classroom in tears at the drop of a hat, while another would throw chalk dusters, books, rulers (basically anything she got her hooves on) and call us various bovine names. In all of that, I still know Kohima isn't a variety of minced meat.

Know the North East!

2009-06-09T16:05:00.006+05:30

For years now, I have been grappling to come to terms with the fact that almost nobody north of the Vindhyas knows that there is a lot more to South India than Madras! I've given up on trying to educate the ignorant lot about the vast geography of the south.

- So where are you from?
- I'm from Coorg in Karnataka.
- You are a Madrasi?
- No, I am a Coorg.
- Huh?
- Madras is in Tamil Nadu.
- Yeah, same thing only, na?
- (shrug) So are you a Bihari?
- Nahi! I am Punjabi!
- Same thing, right?
- My God! Don't say like that, yaar. It is very insulting.
- My point exactly. See you around. [Exit]

After so many similar exchanges, I have thrown in the towel. Some people and their basic geography are beyond redemption. For everyone else down south who has experienced similar stuff, you can take heart in the fact that this ignorance extends to the North East of India as well.

Quick, name the 7 sisters of the North East! If you couldn't, you've got plenty of company out there. Since Sikkim has become such an intrinsic part of me now, I feel quite annoyed at the vast ignorance that people display when it comes to any place this part of the map.

When I said I was heading to Sikkim, there were a lot of people who simply presumed it was synonymous with Shillong, Shimla etc. Well, for the ignorant lot out there, here's what won't hurt you to know:
- Sikkim is actually a state by itself (you know, like Uttar Pradesh or Kerala etc).
- The capital of Sikkim is Gangtok (like Bhopal is to MP, or Bangalore is to Karnataka).
- Shillong is the capital of another NE state: Meghalaya (nothing to do with Sikkim).
- Shimla is the capital of Himachal Pradesh (a long way off from Sikkim).
- Oh, and for the record, (this is for the smart alec who tried to flaunt his geographic ignorance to impress), Thimphu is the capital of the country of Bhutan!

Politically Incorrect is In?

2009-05-15T23:22:00.003+05:30

Quick, answer me this: What’s the first comment you hear as soon as you meet/greet someone you haven’t seen in ages?

Chances are “Oh, my god! You’ve put on so much weight!” slash other weight-related observations, right? At the risk of people calling me “racist” etcetera, I’ve observed it is a very Indian phenomenon. I am not sure whether it is our complete ignorance of social etiquette, a total disregard for human sensitivity, or a driving urge to hit a person where it is likely to hurt the most in an effort to make us feel better about our own shortcomings.

When it comes to being politically incorrect, we are completely unapologetic. Unaware of the utter rudeness of it all? Now that is a matter of debate. Doesn’t something strike home when your target grins sheepishly, mumbles, shuffles feet, looks around to count how many people heard that (or to find the closest exit), or gives out a loud, hollow laugh, followed by a rueful “I know.”

The other day at the gym, I watched admiringly as a girl, whom I am now on smile-and-nod terms with, went through her stretching routines and then did a perfect ballet split. She, being of a slightly stocky build, raised many an eyebrow, but it was fascinating to watch, nonetheless. Finally, one of the ragamuffins (the manner-less, inconsiderate, territorial tribe of men who thrive in the gym) commented, “You know, you’re really flexible, but you don’t look it at all.” Just had to throw in a little bit of a sting in that compliment, didn’t you, sweaty towel muncher?

The only way to deal with blatant rudeness is to turn a deaf cheek or offer the other ear. Ha! Who am I kidding? No, the only way, I’ve learned, is to return a ‘compliment’ in the same vein. It works like a charm. For instance, I put up with my pain-in-the-wrong-place insurance agent for quite a while, but my patience wore thin after she chose to open every single one of our meetings with statements about my innate skinniness. Of course, it was heavily tinged with jealousy, for there always seemed to be “a lot more of her” at each meeting. (An inability to pile on the pounds and instant obesity, fyi, are really two sides of the same coin). Finally, one day, she greeted me with a cheery “Oh, you’re so thin!” Equally thrilled to see her, I gushed back, “Oh, you’re so fat!” The expression on her face told me that vengeance was mine. All our subsequent meetings have since been devoid of any more personal small talk. Ah, bliss!

It’s people’s inability to draw the line at delving into the personal that really irks me. Like the painful office gossip that plonks her nosy self on your desk and right away begins to ask about the romantic goings-on in your life like she’s your best friend and confidante. (Of course, she is most likely to clam up and feign ignorance when asked about her personal life.) If people are that starved of spicy stories, might I suggest reruns of The Bold & the Beautiful or closer home, the spate of familial fiascoes being aired on Colors?

How anyone can get away with saying things like, “You’ve put on so much weight, you look like a father of many kids”, “Homosexuality is very common in the army” (to a newly wed army wife), or “You look like you could benefit from this weight-loss program” (to a total stranger in the hallway) is beyond me. When I recall things I’ve heard, it almost seems like I could be reading them off a “Best Quotes from the World’s Stupidest People” list.

The line that separates frankness and total discourtesy is very thin. Unfortunately, there seem to be very few who toe that line. Social etiquette is almost lost. There’s nothing much to do, people, but to give back in equal measure what you receive. When someone completely disregards politeness, all bets are off. Go ahead, point out that that mole on the nose is showing robust growth, ask if female beards are the new trend, whether chewing with the mouth open is a come-hither tactic… anything that takes your fancy really. The results are worth it.

I Can Poll Dance (hoo ya!)

2009-04-26T13:35:00.002+05:30

So India has begun its dance of democracy. I watched with a great deal of skepticism the various gimmicks of the media and other concerned groups to get the indifferent urban middle class to vote. I (rightly) figured that this section of society in Bangalore would disappoint yet again. Of course, when it comes to complaining about our pathetic civic amenities, corruption and so forth, the loudest armchair gripers are from this section of society. If you are reading this AND you haven’t bothered to get out and vote: Yes, I AM referring to YOU, yes, shame on you, and yes, I AM judging you.

In case you ask, I have a perfect voting record, having diligently got that telltale black mark on my finger at every election there has been since I turned 18. In any case, this post isn’t about pointing my inked finger at blasé non-voters. It is about a certain “poll dancer” I encountered at the voting booth.

I tromped into my designated voting station, bleary-eyed at the wee hour of 7:30 am. “No! I don’t want that! I can’t have that on my finger” a voice protested. It belonged to an old (and by that I mean fossilized) Anglo-Indian lady in a trademark pink flowered frock and short gray hair. She was objecting to having her index finger inked. “No! Don’t put a big mark” she barked at the flustered election officer, “I have to attend a wedding today!”

Really, Granma, I hate to break it to you, but nobody is really going to notice you at that wedding, let alone your gnarled index finger. She, however, continued to make her displeasure known. “I won’t cheat. I have voted in so many elections. I know THREE freedom fighters.” (That was kinda my point, Granma.)

Granma Flower Power then made her way to the voting booth. Of course, she (having known THREE freedom fighters) must have been taken aback at the sight of three electronic voting machines. No ballot box and paper? She declined assistance from the still flustered election officer. “I know what to do! You don’t have to tell me. I have voted so many times!” barked our veteran voter before attempting to press one of the red lights on the EVM. The persistent election officer then informed her that that was a light and she ought to press a button.

“I know! Don’t worry! I won’t press it twice” she raged back. She then pressed a button (glory, glory, hallelujah!) and then stalked out yelling, “Why will I press it twice? Nobody is even worth it!” (They don’t make them like those THREE freedom fighters anymore, huh?)

Road Trip to Goa Part II - The Curse of Piles & Fistula

2009-04-26T13:23:00.006+05:30

Just about 2-3 kms short of Belgaum city, I took a left toward Bellaghavi City, rather reluctantly leaving the superb expressway behind. Up to this point, our directions from a dear old colleague, a Goan local, had proved spot on. However, the general chaos and traffic and numerous intersections in the city proved confusing and we had to stop several times to ask for directions to the Amboli-Savantwaddi road. After a slight delay of around 10 minutes as we blundered around in search of the right turnoff, we finally found the right road and set off at a steady pace again, with Ducky at the wheel once more.

My holiday glee and general bonhomie was shaken as we overtook a bunch of rowdy college boys on bikes. One bike sped up and stayed slightly ahead as the pillion rider precariously tried to focus his camera-phone to snap a picture of me through the windshield. I instinctively slunk down in my seat, grateful for my super-dark tinted windows, while Ducky stepped on the gas and left the offenders behind in a haze of dust. However, I continued seething with rage and indignation, brooding over the harsh reality of eve-teasing in India. It is a menace that will never go away simply because the belief that women are nothing but sex objects, far inferior to men, is so deeply ingrained in the psyche of a vast majority of Indian men. I hope those boys contract severe piles and fistula.

Thankfully, the landscape along the Amboli-Savantwaddi road (state highway 121 in Maharashtra) restored my cheery spirits. We stopped briefly to take in the sight of strange fields of sunflowers. I had thus far believed and learned that sunflowers always faced the sun – however, this lot of sunflowers resolutely kept their bright faces turned in the opposite direction! I suppose they were afraid of getting tanned (another “horrific” calamity so deeply entrenched in the Indian quest for beauty and perfection)!

I curiously took in the sights of piles of cashew fruit being sold along the road and the Marathi style of tying a saree. I can’t imagine why India’s moral police is so up in arms over western clothes like jeans and t-shirts when women wearing the saree in this particular fashion flaunt so much of leg AND inner thigh! Hey, Muthalik, Maharashtra is your home state, isn’t it? Have you ever looked at women in your own backyard?

Once we passed Amboli, we began a climb through a ghat section toward Savantwaddi. The view was spectacular with lush greenery stretching for miles around us. Comical monkeys gazed with unabashed curiosity at our passing car – I gawked back equally shamelessly.

We stopped at Vithal Kamat for a spot of lunch. This restaurant was interesting in more ways than one. The “Malvani” thali was delicious, complete with a drink made of kokum and coconut called “Sol Kadi”. Of course, Ducky is famous for always wanting to order something completely incongruous to the place he is in and in trademark fashion, decided to order a Punjabi thali! I scowled and vetoed the idea immediately, so he settled for the Malvani thali as well and later (rather grudgingly) admitted it was good!

Vithal Kamat has the strangest restrooms! The entire place is built to be eco-friendly, but I thought the restrooms were taking things a tad too far. Each toilet has a door and two walls. That’s right, TWO walls. Where the third wall ought to have been, there is a thick green expanse of trees! I must confess it took me quite a while to convince my sphincter muscles to relax and “go”.

Vithal Kamat also had one of the most pleasant and genial watchmen I have seen. He greeted us with a wide welcoming grin, told us not to worry as he’d keep an eye on Slinky while we ate, and saw us off with a beaming smile and a wave as well. We handed him a generous tip, which he didn’t appear to be looking for in the first place, before setting off again.

From Savantwaddi, we crossed into Goa. A lone policeman at the border flagged us down and wanted to see the car documents. What Ducky showed him instead was his military I-Card and we were promptly flagged through. That military I-Card saved us a lot of time and money. Thanks to it we didn’t have to pay toll at any of the toll gates along the expressway, which saved us almost 500 bucks up and down.

After asking for directions to Mandrem, we finally arrived at Cuba Beach resort. This was one fun road trip, plenty of memories and plenty of people (hopefully) reeling from severe piles and fistula along the way. North Karnataka might just have a bountiful grape harvest this year (snigger).

Road Trip to Goa Part I - Slinky Goes Wheee!

2009-04-10T21:43:00.005+05:30

Hurrah! Our road trip to Goa finally materialized after some rather pessimistic moments. We awoke bright and early and set off in our car (which shall hereon be referred to as ‘Slinky’, a name that will not be further explained) at 4:15 a.m. With thumping music and a good deal of glee, we raced out onto the dark and empty roads. Although I had a route map all chalked out, I had failed to find out exactly how to get out of Bangalore city via Yeshwantpur! This cost us about 15 minutes as we blundered around Yeshwantpur before being directed back onto the road to Tumkur (NH4) by a kind soul who had, for reasons best known to him, decided to walk the streets at that wee hour.

The road to Tumkur is awful, made worse by thick truck traffic even so early in the morning. The expressway is still under construction here so look out for diversions and non-existent stretches of road. We finally covered the 67-km rugged stretch to the outskirts of Tumkur and made it to the deceptive fork in the road at 6.15 am — fortunately, Ducky astutely realized that we needed to take the right fork to stay on NH4 and not the left one, which would have taken us into Tumkur city.

From hereon, the road is spectacular. This stretch of NH4 is a smooth 4-lane highway with pretty flowering plants on the median and rows of windmills in the distance. We sped along, flying past Sira and onward to Chitardurga. Everyone seemed to be enjoying the drive for I spotted a man hanging out of a car window, letting the wind whip through his hair. An even stranger sight was a man doing “Surya Namaskar” in the middle of the road on the turn-off to Chitardurga town! Luckily, not too many men or beasts venture onto the highway, which is fenced on both sides (although there are the suicidal few who do). I eyed the tender coconut vendors along the sides of the road, but it was far too early and we were making too good time to stop. We reached the turn-off to Chitardurga at 6.35 a.m and took the right fork along NH4 (the Pune highway), avoiding going into the town.

From Chitardurga and on to Devengere, the highway was nothing to write home about. As the designated navigator for this part of the journey, I found the going tough – there are absolutely no signboards along this stretch although there are rows and rows of poultry farms on the side. We decided to press forward since chickens probably wouldn’t be able to tell us if we were on the right road anyway.

We reached the turnoff to Devengere at 8.35 a.m. and were absolutely ravenous at this point. (No, the poor cooped up chickens had nothing to do with it). We decided not to take the right to Devengere town to look for a decent place to grab a bite and stuck to NH4. However, this stretch of the highway offered nothing to satisfy two starving wannabe beach bums. A couple of shady little joints where truckers took a break were the only semblance of hotels that we saw. At 9:10 a.m, my eyes lit up at the sight of a Reliance A1 Plaza. My hopes of food, fuel and clean toilets were cruelly shattered – none of the A1 plazas along NH4 are open or functional yet. Blast! The bandicoot in my stomach was here to stay.

We entered the bustling town of Rannebennur in Haveri district. No signs of a decent hotel still. I saw signboards for a black buck sanctuary here but the only animal life I spotted in the town was two pigs, one bullock, two buffaloes and three dogs.

As we exited the town, we spotted a Bharat Petroleum bunk with an eatery attached, called Ghar Dhaba. With a great sense of relief, Ducky, I and my screaming bandicoot alighted at Ghar Dhaba at 9.30 am. The women’s loo was passable at best. The door of my stall had a lewd drawing of a certain part of the male anatomy with some Kannada writing and a cell phone number. Being Kannada illiterate, I shall probably never know what it said. It shall have to remain of (my) life’s great unsolved mysteries! The idli-vada-sambar at Ghar Dhaba tasted delicious to our starving palates.

We decided to tank up, but the attendant seemed least interested in serving anybody until he had finished his breakfast. When he did finally arrive, other two wheelers decided that they had the right to break the queue and get fuel ahead of us. I fought to keep my temper in check but silently wished a severe attack of piles and fistula on all the queue breakers.

Having been delayed more than an hour thanks to the dawdling attendant and ill-mannered men on two wheelers, we set out once more on the road toward Hubli. A wonderful 6-lane expressway greeted me—I was pleased I had taken the wheel at this point and kept Slinky in overdrive for what is possibly the longest time in the last five years! We chortled as we whizzed past a signboard that pointed out a village called “Chakapura”.

The drive from Hubli to Belgaum was a breeze on the amazing 6-lane highway. The trucks are surprisingly disciplined here and stick to the left-most lane. They also give way and allow you to pass with no reluctance. Later, we realized that a severe penalty is imposed on trucks found flouting the left-lane and speed-limit rule. Kudos to the vigilant cops along the highway for that!

{To be continued}

Freelancing: Busting Myths!

2009-03-17T23:16:00.005+05:30

I decided to chuck my steady but highly unsatisfying full-time job for a chance to take a shot at freelance writing. It has always been something I have been meaning to do, and I chose to take the plunge during these highly unpredictable times of the recession, economic uncertainty yadda yadda yadda... you get the drift.

I suppose some people shake their heads in disbelief and call it madness. I can't care two hoots for their (freely doled out in liberal portions) opinions. I like what I am doing now.

What I do not like is that fact that people think "freelancing" essentially makes you "free"! So apparently I am free to run errands any time of day, free to supervise the electrician's work in the house at any time, free to up and leave the city on a holiday or attend a stranger's wedding any day.... The list goes on and grows by the day, and frankly, I am fed up! As some lousy recruitment agent put it (in a pathetic attempt to lure me into a job I didn't care for): I am "not working".

Really now? So how would you explain the invoices that I send out and the dollars that are now going into my bank account? American charity toward an "unemployed" Indian brown skin?

I do not have a boss waiting for me to "swipe in" each morning or monitoring my productivity - it's now a whole lot of self regulation, and I ensure I get up at a decent hour and get cracking on work. Believe it or not, we freelancers have such tight deadlines, it is not funny! I had more time to chat online, surf websites and try personality tests online while I had a "real job". Ever since I began freelancing, I do not surf for entertainment until my work for the day is done.

Freelancers do not have set working hours. I cannot call in sick and take a day off on a whim. I do not get a holiday, whether it is for an American holiday or an Indian one. If I do take a day off, I will not get paid for that day simply because we freelancers are not entitled to a set amount of earned "leave" as full-timers are. It just makes me think 10 times over before I decide to send advance notice that I need time off.

No coffee breaks, lunch breaks, office gossip or anything else that constituted a fun day at work. Of course, there are breaks for a now constantly ringing doorbell as everyone seems to have figured out that I will always be at home to cater to their whims. I now work at one long stretch and take a break only when I am actually done for the day.

Contrary to popular belief, freelance content writers do not just sit around everyday, staring into space and swishing a pen around in the air, inadvertently stabbing unsuspecting flies in the genitals.

Yes, I work from home and I am a freelancer. But I do believe that the operative words there are NOT "free" and "home". The words are "work" and "lance" - something I would gladly drive through the skull of the next person who says, "you are free"!

Capisce??!

Breaking My Silence

2009-03-17T23:00:00.002+05:30

I haven't posted here in a really long while. Not that I thought anybody would really miss me, but all the same I would have you know that my lack of blogging activity actually inspired a certain someone to put up not one, but TWO blogs of their own because they were so bored of seeing my non-active blog! How is that for passive persuasion?!

Have We Reached an Undie-standing?

2009-02-13T13:22:00.002+05:30

The self-appointed enforcers of “Indian culture” have called off their plans to protest Valentine’s day celebrations across Karnataka. The reason for this sudden change of heart? “"We fear that any violence on that day will be blamed on us” states Prasad Attavar, vice convenor of Sri Rama Sene—the group behind the attack on young women at a Mangalore pub.

However, a large majority of us are inclined to think differently. It seems highly unlikely that a group that publicly proclaimed the incident a victory of sorts is now shying away from an opportunity to claim more success against growing “Westernization” and “immorality” amongst Indian youth.

Could this have something to do with the moral brigade underestimating the opposition they would receive from a section of society they thought too small, insignificant and voiceless? The counter attack launched by indignant independent urban women—spearheaded by the “Pink Chaddi Campaign” where thousands of women sent pink knickers to the head honcho of the radical Hindu group—seems to have made the self-appointed torch bearers of Indian culture rethink their strategy. Have they now realized they just may have bitten off more than they can chew? That the thus far mild-mannered, passive group of women they decided to target turned out to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing? Has the unanticipated ferocity of the response the Ram Sene provoked proved too much to handle?

While the radicals may be silenced for now, this could very well just be a lull before the storm. The whole issue is essentially a testament to the growing battle within India to balance rapid modernization with its deep-rooted traditions. What we see today could just be a preview of things to come. Neither party is going to back down any time soon. As long as we are a democracy, we have the freedom to protest and more importantly, the freedom to choose which side of the divide we stand on.

For my part, and I suppose I speak for a lot of us, I would like the freedom to walk down a street sporting tight jeans and noodle-strapped tops or grab a drink in a pub without fear of being attacked. I would like to live in a country that allows me, as a woman, to decide how to lead my life as I see fit without having to gift my pink knickers to a strange man to grant me that freedom!

It Takes All Kinds

2009-02-06T18:02:00.003+05:30

“When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained.” – Mark Twain

Bangalore seems to attract all loons—and I don’t mean just the likes of Pramod Muthalik. Thinking back, I seem to remember a few characters with apparent bats in the belfry.

The Great Orator
My friend and I are walking in the park one evening—one of those decent parks, mind you, not the strange-characters-doing-stranger-things-behind-bushes sort. We sit a while on a bench and are in the middle of a nice conversation when The Great Orator saunters by. Getting on in age, he walks slowly. He stops short as he passes us, looks over his shoulder and hisses “And good luck to you too!” Then he carries on like nothing untoward just happened. My friend and I are dumbfounded and paralyzed with obvious confusion over what just transpired.

He then walks to another bench, sits down and flies an imaginary kite for a while. The imaginary strong breeze probably stole his fantasy kite away, so he clambers into the middle of the waterless fountain pool and proceeds to give a long speech. I have no clue what his tirade is about and I don’t stick around long enough to find out either.

The Great Orator has been spotted standing upon a cement structure that was once a traffic circle, in the thick of Bangalore traffic, delivering another of his obscure speeches. It is rather like watching a politician at a political rally on mute.

The Dark Knight
We’re standing on a pavement outside a park. A man in a white kurta with a long black coat and dark glasses sidles up and makes himself a part of our threesome. Our conversation trails off as we take in his overall unkempt appearance, prayer beads around his neck, pouch strapped around his waist and rod in his right hand, which he uses to support himself (or more?).

Two of us women move away instinctively. Our first thought is that this is a Ram Sena madman, gearing to instill traditional Indian values into us. After all, two women talking to a guy is taboo to them (and a certain boss at work, but that is another story for another day). The guy with us, who towers over everything and everybody, decides to stand his ground. The Dark Knight moves really close to him and says, “Move out of the way.”

All of us move away and keep moving, deciding to steer clear for our own safety. I am in no mood for a beating with a rod at the moment.

Moral of the stories? Stay away from Bangalore parks. The crazies appear to be crawling out of the woodwork there.

Muthu's V-Day Offer - Hurry! One Day Only!

2009-02-05T11:52:00.003+05:30

Too broke to take the big step this Valentine’s Day? A victim of the recession, inflation or been laid off? Too poor to host that simple wedding you and your beloved so badly wish for?

Fear not! Cupid 2009 Pramod Muthalik is here! Just ensure that you and your beloved are spotted in a public place together on February 14. Muthalik and Shri Ram Sene will provide the following completely free of cost*:

 Free videography
 Free turmeric application
 Free trip to Sub-Registrar’s office
 Free registration of your marriage
 Free wedding audience
 Free publicity
 Free beatings **

Offer is valid on February 14 only!

*Terms & conditions apply. Offer for Karnataka lovers only.
**Only for women.

"Modern" Women - An Insignificant Vote Bank?

2009-02-03T17:42:00.002+05:30

Up until a few weeks ago, Pramod Muthalik was almost unheard of and the Shri Ram Sene even more so. However, when 40 henchmen of the outfit resorted to rather extreme social vigilantism to instill “traditional Indian values” in five unarmed women in a Mangalore pub, fame for the man and his organization was instantaneous.

The timing could not have been more perfect. With the country’s general elections around the corner, this provided the perfect opportunity for politicos to jump on the moral policing bandwagon with an eye on their vote banks. In their trademark style, politicians have chosen to completely overlook the real issue at hand—that of the brutal attack on five unarmed women—but instead talk themselves hoarse about the increasing “westernization” of Indian society. Very few, besides some women leaders, have taken a stand against what is clearly an attack on democracy.

Considering that politicians and political parties choose to air views that will appeal to the masses, thus ensuring themselves a solid vote bank, is there a clearer message for us in the fallout of the entire incident?

As educated, independent women, we have thus far enjoyed the freedom to indulge in recreational activities that are now being frowned upon. Does this now push us into a minority—a section of voters whose views and opinions do not matter, simply because we are too miniscule a section to upset anybody’s applecart of votes.

Leaders of state like Karnataka CM Yeddyruppa and Rajasthan CM Gehlot lashing out against “pub culture” and opposite sexes “holding hands in malls” certainly appear to be setting the tone for the upcoming elections. In fact, the term “pub culture” has come into its own, becoming something of an all-encompassing synonym for westernization of dress and social tradition.

The divide is getting clearer—for “pub culture” or against? In all of this, the real issue has been lost. Do women really have a voice or must we cow down to regressive opportunistic political forces just because we do not have the numbers to rock the vote?

In any case, just who does one vote for? A weak political party that cannot defend its women citizens against blatant abuse or one that clearly shelters, and possibly supports, the perpetrators of that abuse?

My Word is the Law

2009-01-28T16:01:00.002+05:30

“Mangalore Horror!” screams one headline. “The Talibanization of India” proclaims another. When 40 men from the Shri Ram Sena set out to beat up and molest five young women in a pub in Mangalore as part of their strategy to instill “traditional Indian values” in today’s youth, they probably did not expect to create such a nationwide stir. Although the state government tried to sweep the incident under the rug, the media coverage has not let up. Arrests have been made, ministers are making the appropriate noises and women’s groups are promising to see that the culprits do not go scot-free. Just how long this uproar will continue before the incident fades into the remote recesses of public memory is anybody’s guess.

However, the fact remains that moral policing is here to stay. Self-styled vigilantism may be curbed by better law and order enforcement. Nonetheless, our democracy guarantees us freedom of expression and this very freedom also supports moral policing. It makes us free to frown upon another and declare them sinners. While this in itself is not wrong—after all everyone is entitled to an opinion—enforcing your views on somebody else definitely is.

Are we not all guilty of that at some level or the other? People from all walks of life, varying levels of education and different upbringings label certain things “immoral” while completely dismissing others as perfectly acceptable. It could range from drinking, smoking or smoking up, premarital sex, noodle straps, live-in relationships, dancing in discos, friendship with the opposite sex and more.

I have a confession to make. I am guilty of this intolerance as well—I frown upon Smoky Joe (Ducky). Worse, I have decreed that he step outside, even into sub-zero temperature, every time he wants to light up.

Am I in the same league as the Taliban, Shiv Sena, Shri Ram Sena, RSS or even Hitler? For an answer, please check with the human ice sculpture outside with a smoking cigarette in its mouth.

An Officer & A Gentleman

2009-01-16T12:16:00.002+05:30

After a long wait in a mile-long queue for a movie ticket at a multiplex, it was finally my turn at the ticket window. “May I have…” I began before I was rudely jostled to one side. “SIX GHAJINI!” yelled a man sporting a bright yellow t-shirt, thick gold chain and spectacles, before proffering me a generous lungful of “fresh” air from his underarms. Recovering quickly, I felt my hackles rise. This was just plain rude and I don’t mean the assault on my olfactory senses.

“Excuse me” I snapped, “there is a queue here.” “But I am standing here, no?” he shot back. Apparently, that was reason enough to be issued his tickets first. I decided that there was really no point arguing with someone who clearly lacked basic courtesy and thought flashing his gold credit card was reason enough to jump a queue. I turned to the man behind the ticket counter and looked at him questioningly. At least, I hope that was the expression I managed considering I was seething with anger. He looked at me sheepishly and then at the waving credit card. I am quite sure he would have favored the bobbing credit card had the person behind me not piped up and voiced his displeasure as well.

At the software biggie where I worked, it was commonplace to see women being shoved out of the way as their male counterparts rushed through entrance doors, boarded company buses, and grabbed cups of coffee from the vending machine in the miniscule pantry. The narrow office aisles only made matters worse for the fairer sex. Women found themselves bunged out of the way, only just stopping themselves from landing on the laps of other employees seated at their desks. The word “lap top” almost acquired a whole new meaning thanks to a bunch of uncouth men. The cliché “chivalry is dead” could not have been more pertinent.

One time, a group of us five women found ourselves squashed into the back of a company bus, unable to disembark because the men were in a hurry to do so first themselves. “Ladies”, I sarcastically called out, “please remain seated, the gentlemen have to get out first, remember?” Apart from a few puzzled looks from the men in question and a lot of horrified “Lord! Let me pretend I don’t know this woman!” looks from my women friends, the statement failed to incite any positive reactions.

I became so accustomed to crude male ways in the civilian world that meeting a bunch of army officers (read: genuine gentlemen) was a sea change of sorts. They stand when a lady enters the room (okay, I agree that this is a bit much), politely greet her, call her “ma’am” at all times (amusing although unwarranted I feel) and offer her a drink. Men offering women drinks out of pure courtesy and no ulterior motives whatsoever are almost unheard of in “civvie” world!

I had some work at an army club office the other day. As I waited my turn, an elderly gentleman stood up and offered me his seat. Although I politely refused for quite a while, he insisted that I sit and would not take no for an answer. So (I say this with some shame) this 20-something damsel sat down while the kindly 70-something old man stood and waited.

My respect for the complete chivalry that officers of every rank and age display knows no bounds. Gentlemen, you offer a complete breath of fresh air amidst smelly armpits.

A Busload of Bellicose Busybodies

2009-01-12T13:54:00.004+05:30

“If you can’t answer a man’s arguments, all is not lost; you can still call him vile names.”
- Elbert Hubbard (American editor, publisher and writer, 1856-1915)

What is it with Indians and belligerence? The local populace seems to nurse an innate pugnacity – why else would people flare up at the drop of a hat and go to great lengths to assert their egos over the other?

We are a nosy bunch, we are. We like to jump in and join the fight when the issue is of no concern to us at all. Any little altercation on the road, for instance, becomes something of a roadside circus act, where all and sundry are invited for a ringside view. Then everybody takes sides (after first ascertaining that they are in the majority, of course) and a shouting match ensues. Pull out all stops, every aspect of your “opponent” in question can be insulted and degraded. The sidekicks will nod their heads vigorously and chorus, “Ah! Ah!”

One such debacle sparked off on a bus that Ducky and I once boarded from Bangalore to Kundapur, near Mangalore. A passenger wanted to recline his seat to catch a nap and the person behind him objected. Why design a bus with reclining seats, or more importantly, why board a bus with reclining seats if you’re going get so sore about it? Anyhow, logic does not go down well with natural crabbiness.

An argument ensued, which slowly boiled over into a clash of communities. As luck would have it, the two contesting parties were from Karnataka and Tamil Nadu – arch rivals of South India. Each side yelled about how their state was better than the other. I was trying to catch a wink and was getting increasingly annoyed with the cacophony. “How about I stand up and yell that I can spit in their primary water source and they wouldn’t even know it?” I mumbled. Not that I have… or will… or even plan to… but I COULD. (For the lesser informed, Coorg, from where I hail, is the birth place of the Cauvery river, which feeds both Karnataka and Tamil Nadu.)

As the voices became more raised, more and more curious necks craned over their seats for a better view. Our neighbor, seated at the front of the bus, finally decided that he would lay down the law – even if he wasn’t in the least way connected to either of the parties. In fact, I suspect, he did not even have a clue about what they were arguing about.

In any case, loudest and most enduring foghorn wins – that is a given. Also, he silenced both parties by yelling in Tulu – a language local to the Mangalore coast and quite foreign to both Kannada and Tamil-speaking debaters. However, he had some stiff competition. After a series of “Ah! Ah!” indicating agreement, another neighbor stood up and yelled in Tulu. Then to completely drive home the point, he roared in Kannada and Tamil. I was quite flummoxed as to who exactly he was challenging. Nonetheless, his polyglottous show of strength silenced all opponents. All except our neighbor, who added another “Ah!” and a head waggle for good measure.

Suitably silenced, all parties sank down in their seats – reclining or not is anybody’s guess.

Dirt on Darjeeling

2009-01-08T14:27:00.001+05:30

I have very little to say about Darjeeling, and even the little that I do have to say about it is hardly flattering. Touted as the “Queen of Hills”, Darjeeling really is about as attractive as the present Queen of England. You would do yourself and the filthy, crowded hill station a huge favor if you choose to give it a miss!

The Himalayan Zoological Park here (for me it’s all about the four-leggeds, huh?) houses quite a number of animals and boasts of a successful snow leopard breeding program. The snow leopards here have far too much attitude – or so I say because I am rather peeved after I narrowly missed being peed on by one audacious kitty.

If museums and stuffed dead beings in glass cabinets are your things, then a visit to the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute is in order. This has a huge amount of information on the history of high altitude climbs and is the place where Tenzing Norgay was laid to rest.

The Japanese temple and Peace Pagoda are also places of some note and relatively uncrowded. Tourists are too busy gawking at the tea-field covered slopes, snapping pictures of a hazy Kanchenzonga, or haggling at the curio shops in the market and getting ripped off.

Chunnu Summer Falls (yes, that is the name, I fool you not) and the Rock Garden also offer some good photo ops. We were fortunate enough to have my enthusiastic cousin along who more than willingly draped herself in the traditional Nepali garb being rented at the place and posed brilliantly, even braving our hysterical laughter and mockery.

Batasia Loop is a Gorkha war memorial, which has a good view of the Himalayas. The Himalayan railway track loops around the garden, giving the place its name.

The drive to Kalimpong from Darjeeling was quite pretty – lush green coniferous trees dotted with colorful flowers and fluttering Buddhist prayer flags. Kalimpong is a street shopper’s haven. At this time of year, the markets have an array of jackets, jumpers and sweaters to choose from. The pavement vendors also offer a lot of “Abibas” and “Roobok” gear—so much for brand consciousness.

If you’re looking to set up a house with dainty crockery and bone china, this place is a steal! I almost bought out the first store we entered – tea sets, little bone china bowls with prints of the Chinese zodiac and geishas, delicate paddling porcelain tortoises – all at significantly lower rates than places like Gangtok.

Two words for Darjeeling: “Pooh pooh!” All right, if I sounded too harsh, then here’s something in its defense – buy the oranges, they are divine! There is plenty of the famous Darjeeling tea to be bought too, but overall, this tourist hotspot barely even qualifies as Sikkim’s poorest and ugliest cousin thrice removed. As for Kalimpong, shop till you drop, but it is best if you know someone local who can function as a guide.

Gourmands in Gorkhaland

2009-01-08T14:25:00.002+05:30

Having heard a lot about the place, we visited what appears to be the one decent pub in Darjeeling – Glenneries. The place was about as lively as a morgue. The waiter brought us our bill at 9:15 p.m. unasked and shuffled around making it quite clear that they’d really like to call it a day and soon.

A pleasant surprise was a recommendation by a friendly salesman at the Nathmulls tea shop, where we’d gone to pick up the famous Darjeeling tea. He suggested we try this tiny, unimpressive looking restaurant called Kunga for good Tibetan food. The waitress laid a pen and stack of paper in front of us. It took us a while to figure out that there would be no “order taken” – customers have to write down what they want and that slip of paper is then handed over to the chef. The food was delicious and value for money – our servings of fried momos and thupka were enough to satisfy a medium-sized hungry lion.

At Kalimpong, we lunched at The Park – a short but rather steep and winding drive away from the main market area. We quite enjoyed the food and ambience – the hotel seems more like an old plantation bungalow with a charming compound than a commercial establishment. A snoop around the attached souvenir shop yielded an interesting engraved silver ashtray for Smoky Joe.

A “Mess-rable” State of Affairs

2008-12-22T18:40:00.003+05:30

This post has been deleted for reasons best known to the author. Contact the author if you feel it is imperative (and entirely your business) that you read the original post!

A New Roommate

2008-12-22T18:39:00.004+05:30

Having spent more than a month now living with a man, I have a new female roommate for company. She’s got big round alert brown eyes, a white snout, a black body, white socks and a curly prawn tail. Our recent guest is Mayna – I can only hope that the name is correct. This mongrel with absolutely no hint of pedigree belongs to an officer currently on leave.

Sources have it that Mayna has spent the last month or more locked up in her mistress’ room during the night and tied up outside during the day. Feeling very sorry for the poor dog, who has spent nights whining in her room alone, we asked that she be brought to stay with us until her owner returns.

While she appears quite thrilled for the company she has now, Mayna also seems somewhat disconcerted at the sudden change. She slept peacefully last night, shifting place once in a while. That is more than I can say for overly concerned Ducky, who lost precious sleep checking on her every once in a while during the night.

This morning I bathed her – she badly needed some cleaning up. Initially, I was unsure of how she would react to a stranger dousing her with water, but she took so well to the bath that she’d put my two pedigree boys back home to shame. Not a whimper, not a whine. While one of my boys back home would have howled the place down like he were being slaughtered, the other would have slipped out to go flaunt himself out in the open, wearing nothing but soap suds. Mayna, on the other hand, just stood there while I applied ample amounts of Ducky's shampoo on her and gave her a good scrub. (I figured that after his super-short haircut this morning, he wouldn’t need much shampoo anyway.) The water ran black and I definitely needed a bath myself after that.

Mayna was given her marching orders almost as quickly as she was brought here – she turned out to be quite a handful to look after – the idea of cleaning up a strange dog’s poo did not appeal to any of us.

Menmaichhu Lake

2008-12-22T18:38:00.003+05:30

Another day, another picnic, another beautiful locale. Having heard a lot about this lake, my expectations were rather high and, as is becoming regular with Sikkim, I was far from disappointed.

Menmaichhu Lake is about 2.5 kms away from the new Baba Mandir. It doesn’t seem to be a tourist hotspot just yet, which is just as well – the place is pristine, quiet, and absolutely spectacular.

Of course, the approach road leaves a lot to be desired. This probably deters people from making the trip too often. We were driven down in the Army Gypsies, and the ride was rather similar to sitting on a bucking bronco. The road is steep and is made of nothing but boulders. I was spared somewhat, being snugly sandwiched between two other ladies.

After gratefully scrambling out of our bumpy rides, we walked another half kilometer or so. There was a thick mist that lifted just about a foot or so as we approached, revealing clear sparkling water. The weather gods were in a jolly mood apparently – the mist soon disappeared altogether and the sun shone down, setting the water all a-twinkle.

Maintained by the state’s fisheries department, the lake is completely unspoiled. There are rainbow trout in the lake – although we didn’t get a good look at the fish, we could see bubbles rising every once in a while and a slithering form beneath the clear water’s surface.

A well-laid stony path allows one to walk the entire perimeter of the lake – this took us a good hour or more, including breaks for dozens of pictures. In some areas, it was difficult to believe we were in India. There wasn’t a soul besides us in the area and nature shone in all her glory – the crystal water reflecting an aqua sky and the thickly wooded perimeter battling the onset of winter. At the far end, the water escapes down a rocky path over which the authorities have constructed a little bridge. This provided yet another photo op!

Once done with the trek around the lake, we headed back on our bucking broncos for lunch at the Army Hut at Baba Mandir. The walk had made us ravenous. The Pav Bhajji on offer was delicious and we stuffed ourselves to the gills. This time, the souvenir shop was absolutely empty and I got a good look at everything. I picked up a little Buddha head made of fishbone that is supposed to bestow health, wealth, and prosperity – I figured a good dose of each could do us no harm!

On the way back, we stopped off at the war memorial that is a tribute to all those soldiers who gave up their lives during the Indo-China conflict at Nathu La, post 1962. The marble tablets with the list of martyrs’ names are as much a record as they are a reminder of the families those great men must have left behind when they put country before self.

Crooks and Croquet

2008-12-22T18:37:00.007+05:30

A picnic at the Yak Golf Course, the highest course in the world according to the Guinness Book, for all officers at the brigade, their families, and a dog – a Miniature Pincher who is adorable if you fancy wide-set bulbous eyes on a ratty face that is constantly trying to lunge at you and take a good nip.

A croquet course adjoins the golf course and everything was set up by the time we arrived. We quickly divided ourselves into two groups – officers in one team with the ladies on the other team led by one officer.

The afternoon passed quickly as both teams got into the spirit of the game, vying to get the ball around the course first by hook or by crook. We ladies were lucky to have the one officer who believes that winning is everything and no means is too low or too crooked to achieve that goal! To our credit, we did win one game without being sneaky.

After six rounds of croquet, a game of golf – chipping by the men and putting by their respective partners – followed. Ducky teed off with great enthusiasm and just about avoided sending his ball into the little lake nearby. Incidentally, this lake is actually an ice hockey rink when it freezes over later in winter. Once Ducky had chipped our ball back onto the browns, I putted it into the hole in three attempts – a far cry from my nightmare that I’d keep putting till the cows came home before I managed to get my ball home.

I’m not sure whether it was the chill in the air, the physical exercise, the general uncharacteristic bonhomie of the group, or the lovely Sikkimese brewed beer, Dansberg, but I was quite famished by the time lunch came around and quite enjoyed the chicken biryani on offer. The group was livelier and more engaging as opposed to its usual stiff uncomfortable stance and strained conversation about the weather (of each month of the year), children (their games and schooling), and turbulent stock markets (a subject that everyone seems obliged to bring up because of the nature of my job).

Baba Mandir

2008-12-22T18:37:00.005+05:30

The Baba temples – the new one and the old – hold utmost significance for the troops in this part of the country. The temples have been constructed in homage to Harbhajan Baba, a soldier who died in an avalanche in the area. (There are various versions about his death and I will get into these at a later point.)The others could not locate his body until one day, he reportedly appeared in a comrade’s dream and told him where to find his body. They found the body exactly where he’d said it would be. Ever since then, Baba has supposedly looked after the safety and well-being of troops in the area.

The old Baba Mandir has Baba’s bunker that is now a shrine of sorts. His study table has a pile of notebooks in which one must write one’s wishes and they will supposedly be granted by Baba. On Sundays, the temple is crowded with soldiers and tourists alike. The halwa doled out as prasad by the soldiers who look after the place is absolutely delicious. Note: This is doled out only on Sundays – I found out this disappointing fact on my second visit here which was on a week day.

The new Baba Mandir was constructed when the adverse icy conditions of the area impaired accessibility to the original temple. Opposite the new temple is Café Thirteen Thousand – a coffee shop with a nice souvenir shop if you’re game to jostle with and out-yell hysterical tourists for little silk purses, mobile covers, Chinese fans, Buddha statues and other curios.

At the new Baba Mandir, hubby dear and two comrades, all in uniform, were asked to pose for a photograph with an awestruck tourist from Gujarat. He said he was grateful to the men in uniform who protect our nation. It appears that the apathetic Indian civilian population is finally waking up to realize just how much we actually owe our armed forces. It took a disaster like the Mumbai terror attack to evoke this. I can only hope that the recognition, respect and gratitude do not fade with time – public memory seems so short – and that it will translate into something good being done for our armed forces.