tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81454237229036473662024-03-14T02:36:11.802-07:00MusingsandamusingsOn this blog I am going to inflict upon you true (and truly exaggerated stories) about myself and the wildest lies about others. All those believing the latter will be sued for naivety beyond permissible limits (yes, there is such a law) and those believing the former are my friends.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8145423722903647366.post-17634384691301017262014-06-07T12:31:00.002-07:002014-06-07T12:31:55.653-07:00Come clean<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The thing about cousins is that they have known who you are all their lives, but if they haven't met you for a long time, then they dont really know who you are.You get my point, dont you? I am their father's older brother's daughter but, the question still remains- who am I?<br />
For example: their uncle was such a clever man, so clear headed. So was their aunt. Would they ever imagine, that the daughter had completely lost it?<br />
(On the other hand some relative strangers who sat in the next seat to her during college lectures would never believe the said uncle was remotely sane, going by the antics of his offspring, but there you are- at least she was duly recognised for her (lack of) talents by someone or the other).<br />
To that end, cousins-who-haven't-met-one-in-a-long-time are at a peculiar disadvantage. It is quite possible that when they knew one in another life (the one in which the good influence of the sane parents was still strong), one was dutifully making long plaits, eating one's porridge with a spoon, writing with an aim to make one clear ...and whatever else sane people are supposed to do (Gosh! making a 'what sane people do' list like this is so taxing!), so they naturally assume things haven't changed. Then there are the things called genes which are supposed to make people in a family rather like each other, but that doesn't work either. Teenagers are always mutants and sometimes people don't mutate back, but become so weird, even <i>their</i> teenaged children find them fairly crazy! (That's quite a feat, you know).<br />
Just this morning a cousin came over to Mom's place. I went over, too, and we sat and gabbed about this and that. Cousin, it turned out (see? I didn't know her either), was an extremely house-proud lady with a firm belief in the 'proper' division of roles.<br />
She had strange neighbours who, instead of cleaning their houses after a dust storm, would dress up and go out to enjoy the good weather that followed- LeavingTheHouseInTHATcondition!! Such a tension free life- I point out and Cousin laughs out loud at the joke. Who will notice the dust if everyone is out enjoying the good weather?-I persist and Cousin is duly impressed by my wit.<br />
Then she mentions another neighbour who was cool with anyone dropping in at any time- EvenWhenHerHouseworkWasNotDone! She's not likely to turn into a cranky woman with a rich experience in heart attack survival and a load of worry wrinkles, I muse. We are jolly and laughing.<br />
Cousin's friend, on the other hand, asks her- Are we the only people who work so hard and look so haggard?<br />
To tell you the truth, I think Cousin looks gorgeous. I'm sure she doesn't sit up late nights' getting dark circles trying to do stupid things like writing a blog, but if she likes feeling unhappy at being one of the most conscientious housewives around, who am I to snatch away her trophy?<br />
Then she suddenly says she wants to see my house.<br />
"By all means", I say, "But before we go I would like to draw your attention to the GLOW on my face, my dear. Please do NOT miss it!"<br />
Now she gets it and we are laughing loudly. Finally I am enjoying the joke and she, poor thing, can do nothing else under the circumstances. <br />
Then we go to my house and she doesn't proceed more than 5 feet and 15 seconds inside.<br />
After all she is in a great hurry to get back to her house and do some cleaning up!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUBGsbkU8yvLMwx8FQzd6l9wV9FXWLHLLcHmXPIXOqI4MhVhdQfFKmxF-TtE24e0qMbwxwQChrAJPj7oZa4kHUArD3Gv1Rksq9tUphiWRbpY3AcQRcOjgzuEY1F6Ud6tWjZAWkHsYUkO8A/s400/Housework-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUBGsbkU8yvLMwx8FQzd6l9wV9FXWLHLLcHmXPIXOqI4MhVhdQfFKmxF-TtE24e0qMbwxwQChrAJPj7oZa4kHUArD3Gv1Rksq9tUphiWRbpY3AcQRcOjgzuEY1F6Ud6tWjZAWkHsYUkO8A/s400/Housework-2.jpg" height="320" width="288" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8145423722903647366.post-13824353284227574172013-10-19T04:53:00.000-07:002013-10-19T04:58:16.541-07:00The day Neena screamed<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:View>Normal</w:View>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:SnapToGridInCell/>
<w:WrapTextWithPunct/>
<w:UseAsianBreakRules/>
</w:Compatibility>
<w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><br />
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:View>Normal</w:View>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:SnapToGridInCell/>
<w:WrapTextWithPunct/>
<w:UseAsianBreakRules/>
</w:Compatibility>
<w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><br />
<!--[if !mso]><img src="//img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" />
<style>
st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) }
</style>
<![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:10.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;"><i>I wrote this story for 7-9 year olds, to order. I was offered a nice sum of money for it. Then it turns out that one of the conditions was that I would not get credit for writing it. How stupid is that? I'd rather everyone read it, patted me on the back if they liked it or told me I'd better shape up if they didn't (not that they should have any hopes of me improving- not if they've been reading my blog!). </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;"><i>Let's do this without the moolah! :)</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">THE DAY NEENA SCREAMED</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">One day Neena screamed in the park. It was a
very loud scream. Lots of people heard it. Some of them came out in their
balconies. Others ran to the park. Neena’s mother heard someone calling out and
she knew something was wrong. Neena had told her that she was going to the
park. It was early afternoon and the other children were still busy with their
homework. Neena’s mother got worried and hurried to see if her daughter was okay.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">Neena was fine. She was calmly telling all the
aunties that there was nothing wrong with her. Yadav aunty, whose house was
just opposite the park, told her mother that Neena was clutching her stomach
and screaming. Maybe she was ill. Others agreed that they had also seen her do
so.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">All day Neena’s parents asked her several times
if her stomach was paining or if something had scared her. The answer was
always no. Dadi remembered Neena had been eating an apple. Did a monkey snatch
her apple? Finally mummy decided she would take Neena to the doctor the next
morning.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">At night Dada came to tell Neena her bedtime
story.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“Once there was a girl who was 8 years old,” he
began “One day she went to the park in the afternoon when there was no one
around and the swings were free”.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">Neena looked at him suspiciously. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“This is our secret mystery story” he told her
and smiled. “You may have to help me when I get stuck, since I don’t know
everything.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">Neena understood that Dada would not tell
anyone. They would pretend this was the story of some other girl, but he could
help her understand if she had made a mistake. She was thinking of telling her
best friend, Anya, in school the next day, but she wasn’t sure. Maybe Anya
would laugh at her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">The story continued: “Since it was not so hot
in the afternoon anymore, her mummy let her go. She sat on the swing and pushed
higher and higher. There were some birds in the trees, but no monkeys who may
have politely asked her for her apple.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">Both of them laughed and Neena remembered the
time a monkey had snatched her sandwich when she was rushing to catch her
school bus with her uneaten breakfast in her hand. Mummy had told her that
monkeys were no longer afraid of people since a lot of people fed monkeys.
Otherwise monkeys may have kept away from humans like other wild animals did.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“It was quiet. Everyone was indoors having
lunch or taking a nap. There was not a soul to be seen.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“But there was!” Neena butted in, “Two men were
standing next to Yadav aunty’s car fiddling with the door.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“Did they see the girl?” asked Dada</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“No,” said Neena, “They were not paying
attention and the swing was in the shade.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“She must have wondered what they were doing”
Dada said. “But there was no one to ask.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">Then he fell quiet as Neena continued.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“She could have gone home, but she was afraid
she would have to pass close to them since the car was parked next to the gate
of the park. Maybe they were trying to open Yadav aunty’s car.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">Neena could not bring herself to say that she
thought they were trying to steal the car and may have been dangerous people,
but Dada seemed to understand.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“Did she feel sick?” he asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“No, but she thought if she called out to Yadav
aunty, they may try to stop her. Yadav aunty may not even hear her. But any
child can be in pain and people help children in pain, don’t they?” Neena said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">Dada nodded smiling and said, “So the girl
screamed so loudly they heard her all the way to </span><span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">China</span><span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">. Doctors came
running with their stethoscopes…”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“Fire men with their fire brigades…” Neena
suggested.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“Judges with their gavels…” Dada said solemnly.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“Pizza men with their pizzas?” Neena giggled.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“Oh, yes! You would love that, wouldn’t you?”
Dada tickled her chin.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">Then he became solemn. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“Did Yadav aunty come out and see those men?”
he asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“Yes,” said Neena. “She did not say anything to
them, so I think they may have been repairing her car or something. Did I do
something very stupid, Dada?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“Not at all!” Dada said. “You were alert and responsible.
Suppose they were really thieves? I’m proud of you. Now go off to sleep and
I’ll go and complete the girl’s story.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">Neena looked at him puzzled.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“We don’t need her mummy to take her to the
doctor, do we? He may just give her some silly medicine to make her hate pizzas
for the rest of her life!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">By</span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span lang="EN-NZ" style="font-family: Tahoma; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">Anjali Dahiya</span></i></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8145423722903647366.post-53074526715137986002012-04-06T02:37:00.014-07:002012-04-06T03:34:07.417-07:00You who?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">One day my kids asked me to relate the embarrassing things I had done in my life. When they were tiny, they wanted to hear stories about "When I was small", so this was an indication that they were now in their teens and they believed that I had hidden a lot of tales from them because, as far as they could see, a person like me <i>must have </i>embarrassed herself several times a day. They were not wrong. But the unfortunate part for the lot of you who are now expecting to hear it all, is that I have forgotten each little incident so you may as well go back to the important work that your boss needs by this evening while I complete this piece, so that you have no embarrassing tale to tell your folks at home like, "Honey, I got fired because I was reading up a useless blog while my company's billions were going down the drain". (How embarrassing will that be when he/ she discovers that you had no hand in the plumbing scenario, eh?)<br />
<br />
Oh well, so you have been warned. And you persist. Maybe you have a death wish and think boredom is a good way to die.<br />
<br />
To my dying day I will hear the story of how I used to trap & kill tiny frogs with my tiny slippers, all of 3 inches long, and how I used to catch flies with my bare hand and quick eye and pop them into a tiny tumbler ostensibly meant for drinking water, (and keep them there with my other tiny hand till I had a whole cricket team, with extras). Four generations of my extended family repeat this tale at every family gathering in fear of the awful scenario where they will have forgotten all the embarrassing things I ever did. As if I have no creativity in this respect! I scoff at their lack of faith. Its not even like I'm smart enough to keep all the stupid things I do from them (or anyone else in the world for that matter).<br />
<br />
Everyone has heard of Mrs K who said "Hi" to me at the Sector 14 market. How she immediately gleaned from my expression that I was desperately trying to remember which friend-of-which-daughter's mother she was. Do you remember me? she asked.<br />
Of course! I said, and how is your daughter? (Upto here I'm fairly smart, all little girls hate boys and I have been doubly smart in restricting my progeny to the same sex)<br />
So she goes on about her daughter for a bit and sure enough I have nothing else to say after that.<br />
You dont remember me, she says kindly, willing to tell, but now its time to put my foot in my mouth, a feat I will easily accomplish with all the practice I have.<br />
I decide to continue the small talk by asking her if she lives in the vicinity. This would have been another smart move because I only met my children's friends in school and it would be safe to say I didn't know where they live, but bear with me a bit (if you haven't accomplished your suicide yet) and you will soon know why it wasn't.<br />
She shakes her head, pityingly this time and repeats "You dont remember me", and I suddenly remember.<br />
But I do, your daughter is Kritika, I say, wedging the fore-mentioned foot so well in my mouth its not going to come out without some painful surgery.<br />
Because you see, her daughter was Kritika, no doubt. But I had also remembered another important fact that should have convinced me to admit I had actually not recognized her, if I was smart thinking in the first place (something I would have done well to practice than the useless kinds of yoga I've been going on about here). I had designed her house & supervised the construction for a year. And no, it was not in the vicinity. No doubt she was now convinced that I was completely crazy. And I hope you are also convinced that I have such a bad memory and you wont get a single embarrassing tale out of me. I really have forgotten them all.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8145423722903647366.post-83847372433764386172011-10-05T01:47:00.000-07:002011-10-05T01:47:36.022-07:00Tax(i)ing times<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Taxis have changed the way one thinks in the capital of the country. If one happens to live in some of the areas in the National Capital Region (we don’t use words like suburbs, you see, for fear of offending regional identities), then taxis affect one in a big way. Acutely affected individuals give up driving & prefer to travel on the floor of the vehicle where they cannot see out of the windows and, maybe, get a glimpse of these monsters.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">One of the reasons all of those in the Haryana region of the NCR love the Metro is that they can cock a snook at the taxis. But if the Metro isn’t going their way, often they have no choice but to call the taxi guy. Only a few hardy creatures would dare wait for the bus service, which many equate with the Loch Ness monster & the Yeti, but I assure you it exists. I have missed getting run over by a Roadways bus once and, while you groan over my blog, you do realize that I’ve lived to tell the tale.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For those of us who work in places where the Metro may not deign to go in another 20 years, we have the “Office taxi” which we gratefully board every morning, mainly because we would rather be in it than next to it or in front of it, and eventually under it. News channels often just report accidents as “3 people were seriously injured when the car they were travelling in was hit by a speeding.” They have got to quickly get to the next “breaking news” which their rivals reported yesterday, and besides we all know what a “speeding” is. (With the exception of a sub-species known as “cab drivers” who have been brainwashed into believing that every other driver on the road is just plain jealous of them, by their colleague whom they all look up to and who has mowed down 17 vehicles in less than a year <i>and still has a licence</i>!- What a man!)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">When not wreaking terror on the road, the office taxi driver is a largely untapped resource. I would recommend he be called to board meetings where employee performance is evaluated. An odd one listens to Bhajans while he zips in and out of the traffic causing dents & heart attacks, but by and large the cab driver is listening to his passengers. Who hates who and for what reason, who manages to stay in his boss’ good books, but is a totally useless worker and who is leaving for what salary, the driver knows it all. From 9:00am to 5:00pm, while his stupid passengers are struggling with office politics, he is sitting with his colleagues working out all the equations. So, in my humble opinion, if one doesn’t want to offer him a job in HR, one could at least lean out of the window and ask “Oye, Anil! Mr Gupta ka promotion hona chahiye ya nahin?” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You can be sure to get the right answer, even if Mr Gupta lands up in hospital on his way back home in the office taxi and is perforce non-productive for the next 2 months.</div><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8145423722903647366.post-4244125637285804572011-03-13T05:21:00.000-07:002011-03-13T05:21:47.555-07:00Revenge: sweet & garnished<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">The two best ways to get the better of one's opponent: Pursue the illogical path or refuse to fight. All the serious guys and diplomats can go back to work right away, this blog may not be for you.<br />
<br />
(Which serious guy was looking at my blog anyway, whom am I kidding, eh?)<br />
<br />
Woman gets into Delhi bus. Conductor leers "Where are you going to, Madam?" Woman ignores the tone, gives the money and tells him the destination. Conductor gives her a ticket and continues to leer, "Here you go, Madam." She takes the ticket. Then she says in a very dignified tone (guess what): "Thank you". Later her friends ask her what sort of mad woman she is, who ever says "thank you" to a Delhi bus conductor. The answer is, well, no one. Which made it all the more priceless: his expression when he nearly fell off his perch, glared at her suspiciously and muttered "Is that so?"<br />
<br />
In our office we had an office boy who only deferred to the boss. The rest of us were treated with impatience bordering on contempt while the young fellow struggled to find his feet and fortune in the big city. The idea was to tell him what to do & then to turn completely deaf. But once the senior most architect snapped and gave him a mild rebuke. To his horror the lad stood in the middle of the office & yelled his head off. All work was suspended, all eyes were riveted on the fight scene. Would the general shoot the soldier or would he run for cover? The eyeball match did not last too long and the senior said gently, before turning back to his work, "Who would have thought some one who read the Bhagwad Gita all day long would be so full of anger?" A miracle occurred that day and our office boy now treated one more person like a human being (while the Bhagwad Gita got more dog-eared and rest of us still waited for our Krishna moment).<br />
<br />
Ok, so those were the Gandhians. We can't all be like them. Some of us like our revenge, we gloat while our enemies splutter indignantly or beg for mercy and no logic stands in our way.<br />
<br />
I stepped out of my Gole Market office one day and found the buses had been diverted because of a religious procession. I was at the mercy of an autorikshaw driver who refused to start his meter & was asking for a flat rate thrice what I would need to pay him in less desperate circumstances. But then I had no choice and we set off towards Gole Dak Khana & thence towards India Gate. Less than a kilometer down the road we discovered another diversion ahead and I quickly calculated there was no short route towards my destination & I would have to leave this auto & walk a bit to catch another mode of transport. But wait, what about my revenge? <br />
<br />
Soon we were almost at the diversion. By then the driver had mentally sifted through all the options, discovered that getting me to my destination in the decided fare would not be worth it, and tried to re-open negotiation. "The road this side is blocked," he ventured. But he was destined to froth & fume, to watch (by then with relief) as his prey slipped away from his fingers. (In those days that was the appropriate description for the ones who sat in the rear seat of a Delhi autorikshaw: prey).<br />
<br />
I leaned back in my seat and studied my finger nails. "And what" I asked him sweetly "am I supposed to do about that?" <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8145423722903647366.post-25994642220117189172011-03-03T04:57:00.000-08:002011-03-03T04:57:03.252-08:00Con sense<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">My maid was sick and her husband brought home a "Babaji" who gave her some dark pellets to cure her. Of her reluctance to give him all her earnings was what her husband was hoping, and of her skepticism was what Babaji was hoping. The latter got his answer right away when she peered suspiciously at the pellets and declared that there was no way she was going to eat goat droppings. But hats off to the rogue, he was caught, but did he blush? did he hide? Never. He immediately proceeded to explain how a goat roams around the whole forest and eats 300 types of medicinal herbs and thus its droppings are actually worth far more than the 100 rupees he was charging.<br />
<br />
My guess is this is where we are going to beat the Chinese next. In the pharmaceutical industry. Those poor devils face international censure when they kill tigers, make balms and what not. Then they package it all in snazzy looking bottles & sneakily sell it where they can. Our Babajis just take a short walk behind a goat and sell this wide spectrum drug wrapped in a bit of newspaper (its good for everything, if you go by the notice outside the doctor's tent, it only doesn't cure the whatchamacallit one gets from eating animal waste. You've got to take your bleak chances on that).<br />
<br />
If one is not too keen on keeping an eye on the behind of a goat, there are numerous other opportunities. A whole lot of 5 rupee rings set with colourful glass could get a profit of 2000% if sold by a knowledgeable looking guy with a glib tongue. All he needs to do is read your hand and give you the appropriate colour that will guarantee you eternal happiness or your money back (after eternity, naturally). He will, for good measure, make you feel guilty for spending twice that money on a movie, or a piece of butter chicken. This is your Eternal Happiness at stake, dimwit!<br />
<br />
My mother is very secular in her disposition to all religious salesmen who regularly turn up at her doorstep (and on everyone else's, just in case you thought they particularly hated her- although they should, she never gives them much more than a curt brush off). The saffron clad one tried to ask her plenty of questions so that he could invent her future appropriately and get something for all the time he was wasting, but got no more than a hostile stare. The cheerful couple who came to give "Good news" were bluntly told, "Yes, I know. Jesus is coming." The poor guys couldn't even sell a Bible to one who knew it all.<br />
<br />
No one, however, makes the mistake of going a second time to <i>her</i> mother's place. The ones who turn up on a Saturday to take away your misfortunes for a few coins especially give her a wide berth after she offered to take their Shani maharaj and the misfortunes upon herself. "After all," she explained, "I am an old woman and you've got your whole life ahead of you. Come now, give that to me...." For a particularly pesky "Holy man" who wouldn't take no, or go away while she ignored him and worked in her backyard, she pulled out a shallow stool and said, "You may as well sit down if you wont go away." A year later he breezed in, cursed when he saw her, and breezed out. No more than 15 seconds in all. She's training them well!<br />
<br />
Con men come in all shapes of course. On my way to my office one day I was fooled into parting with some cash when I thought I was helping to get a pregnant woman to hospital. A colleague told me that this was a common enough trick those days. A few days later, pillion riding on a motorbike, I saw this group of people pulling the same wool over people's eyes at a traffic light. It was a good opportunity to apply balm on my wounds (no, not the Tiger one, not still thinking of that are you?). I put on my most sympathetic expression and beckoned to the pregnant one. She slowly ambled towards me passing by 4-5 cars full of soft-hearted people who would have easily parted with much more than I was going to. When she reached me the light was about to change.<br />
<br />
"Tell me," I asked her solemnly, "Do you have your baby every day at this very crossing?"<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8145423722903647366.post-4461319536462836172011-02-06T03:57:00.000-08:002011-02-06T03:57:48.873-08:00Here we go<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotOptimizeForBrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> The Metro is the newest form of public transport in India, still out of reach of most Indians, not because of cost, but because of its scarcity, Metro lines being restricted to very few cities & very few routes. Like everything new that is introduced to our country, we have embraced its use, never forgetting that most of us would not bat an eyelid if we had to sit in a bullock cart to get to our homes from the Metro station, if that was the only mode of transport available. As it is we have to take the "shared auto" and that's not a huge difference.<br />
<br />
Before I go further on this post, let me clarify that "overloading" was never a bad word in the world of Indian transport. We're so many of us, and when we gotta go, we gotta go and no lack of transport is going to stop us!<br />
<br />
In fact about 30 years ago the Delhi Transport Corporation which ran the only mass public transport in the city came up with the brilliant idea that an ordinary DTC bus could be converted into a Luxury DTC bus by merely increasing the fares to 3 times. This would result in less people getting onto the bus, so the lucky souls who did could have the "luxury of breathing without discomfort". Either the passengers were conned into getting on by the unassuming exterior- which was a carbon copy of the non- luxury fellow, or they just couldn't get into the bus which went ahead and decided they would forgo half a kilo of onions the next week (an odd fellow would have won the lottery recently, but was not brave enough to get into a taxi or an auto rikshaw, the drivers of which were considered more dreadful than the dacoits of the Chambal). Once a cynical guy who belonged to the former species refused to pay the exaggerated fare and argued that the bus had no curtains, no air-conditioning & no fancy seats, so why was it called a Luxury bus? The conductor solemnly replied, in a tone that brooked no further argument, that this was a luxury bus, "Because the ticket was a Rupee."<br />
<br />
All the way back about half a century ago or more, "bus number 11" or our two legs were considered good enough to get anywhere. Back in our village a senior IAS officer would think nothing of walking to & from his office 25 km away in Delhi. Younger men, who offered to keep him company would be gently told, "Son, you wont be able to keep up with me". When one needed to transport luggage, one collared one's neighbour who would pile it onto his bicycle & spend half a day walking with one to the railway or bus station.<br />
<br />
Then along came my generation, pseudo villagers who grew up in the city and would, much to the disgust of the robust villager, fall down & threaten to die after 8.23 km. Alternative transport had to be arranged for us weaklings and so we traveled in horse carts, bullock carts and on bicycle carriers up to the bus stand, only to get into an over crowded bus. Till the advent of the Car. <br />
<br />
Let me clarify, the Car existed everywhere in the world. It had been seen and it's existence was not doubted in the village, but it took a brave man with a stick, such as my father, to bring his car to his village. He had to stop every 500m once he had entered the village, to chase away children (waving the aforementioned stick) who were hell bent on committing suicide by slipping under the wheels. Not that that is what they has set out to do, they were merely chasing the car in an attempt to touch it, a chance that they got only once in a few months. This was never a difficult task, considering the lack of roads usually reduced the speed of the car to walking speeds sometimes and the suicidal kids could be even as little as 3 years old. <br />
<br />
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotOptimizeForBrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> A lot has changed since then, but across the country one can see a vast range of means of transport, some very old but still very much in use. To all the foreigners who have been told by funny Indian expatriates & amusing net friends that we go to school by "Elephant", I'd say, Believe it.<br />
<br />
A friend once picked up an American lady from the Airport on her very first trip to India. "Would you believe it," he later groaned, "in the very first 15 minutes of her arrival to the capital of India, we saw a Camel <i>and</i> an Elephant on the road!" See? She witnessed this with her own eyes, who are we to tell her any different?<span> </span>But if she was adventurous enough, we could take her on even more exciting rides. After all, what sense of achievement does a person who goes down the Niagara Falls in a barrel feel as compared to a Mumbai local train commuter who manages to extricate himself at the station he planned to, eh?<br />
<br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8145423722903647366.post-8394015997608203322010-12-17T03:49:00.000-08:002010-12-17T03:49:13.339-08:00Quotation on successful authors<i>There are two kinds of successful authors, those who are good & those who are inspiring. When one reads the books of the latter, one thinks "If they can write this and be successful, why not I?"</i><br />
<br />
From the book "Happy Sisters' Insights"<br />
<i>(yet to be written, by me of course- when I'm sufficiently inspired, naturally)</i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8145423722903647366.post-50678352199153938222010-12-14T05:26:00.000-08:002010-12-14T05:26:00.185-08:00Way to goWhen I was a little kid, my teacher gave us an assignment to make a map from the school to our respective houses. I dont remember what my map looked like, but ever since I have been afflicted with a bad case of mapophilia. Before Google maps became a rage, I would have voted for the Eicher map of Delhi in the contest for the greatest thing that happened to Delhi in the last century. Given the state of the city, the locals would have sniffed at the award, of course, and would have probably handed it to something like this or maybe a sari from Karol Bagh. But you get the point, dont you?<br />
<br />
Before any reasonable map was available, the only way to get anywhere was to ask for directions. Mostly if you followed the directions faithfully, you would get somewhere, but not necessarily where you set out. The idea was to keep an open mind and possibly lunch out at a roadside dhaba instead of at Kanta mausi's house. If you were lucky you could reach for dinner, but then she may not still be in the mood to feed you, a topic you may want to evaluate before you bravely wandered the city after lunch instead of returning home.<br />
<br />
The office I worked in at that time got regular jobs for property valuation. Every morning a handful of people specifically appointed for the job, would set off in various directions to addresses they were supposed to check on. A new guy, who was obviously doubly handicapped in a city where too many people were themselves lost, would pounce on the first pedestrian he saw outside the office for directions. "Bhai Saheb, would you tell me how to get to..." He would fish out the paper and rattle off the address of a property 7 km away in a city of 11,000 persons per square kilometer right down to the floor he wanted to visit. The result would be that even if the person could have safely guided him to, say, Janakpuri, he would regretfully have to shake his head when it came to 2nd floor, House no. 103, C1 block, Janakpuri. The chances of finding a person who knew exactly that house were so minimal that our friend soon found he had the most challenging job in his life and was completely in awe of those who managed to cover 3 or 4 properties in 8 hours and have a leisurely lunch in between.<br />
<br />
As for me, I greedily devour the city map whenever I go to a new place and often I cant bear it if I'm regularly with someone who knows all the routes in my own city. My husband spends more on petrol when he is traveling alone because he is so used to an aggressive navigator in the next seat, he often takes the wrong turns when no instructions emanate from there. If he is perchance bringing my mother back from an outstation visit, my father and I add an hour and a half to the normal estimated travel time, some for the wrong turns & some for 2 relaxed souls jabbering away and momentarily forgetting where they are headed.<br />
<br />
The high point wearing my navigator's cap came when I sat in a bus which plied from the Interstate Bus Terminus to Gurgaon, about 30 km away. While still a long way away, the driver came to a diversion because of some road repairs and was soon lost and looking about helplessly for guidance from the passengers. It was as if I had come across Van Gogh admitting he was colour blind, till I realized the poor guy probably had no need to know a single other route than the one he faithfully followed day after day. I saw my moment and moved to a seat closer to the front. Someone was trying to help and I couldn't just jump in knowing how men in these parts react to women telling them what to do. A little later I made a suggestion, and then another. Soon both the guide & the guided were looking to me for instructions. And so it came to pass that not only did a woman tell a Haryana Roadways driver where to go, but also for the first (and maybe last) time a bus rattled through the posh Embassy area like the Starship Enterprise!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8145423722903647366.post-7615143742290727722010-09-28T05:46:00.000-07:002010-09-28T05:46:23.696-07:00Neat!A lot of mothers, when they hear that my kids have a room a piece, will ask if they keep their rooms tidy. In my humble opinion this question can be answered only with foot notes and clauses. In the first place the whole room is not theirs. There will be "papa's stuff" (hereinafter called PS) tucked away in many corners because the room was occupied by the desperate child after many days of "pleading with papa to clear away his stuff" and in a fit of "this is the best I can get" when papa helplessly wandered around the house trying to ascertain where the remainder of his stuff can be safely stored. So only depending on whether PS is out in the open or under lock & key, will the neatness potential of the room be ascertained. PS is very vast in quantity and varied in its potential usefulness, though I suspect if we got around to figuring it out we could probably run our household on its antique value.<br />
<br />
Lest my kids are reading this and feeling like martyrs- (though only I have the license for that on my blog <evil snicker>), the rest of the house is also theirs to keep untidy, a right they freely make use of. The reasons for spreading out in my room could vary from the correct temperature (only in my room), to the absence of noise (the crazy neighbours all live on their side of the house), correct lighting or correct position of bed to lie in (!!!) Of course they leave these little tokens of love for their dear parents and I could wake up the next morning having dreamt of battling with Alexander of Macedonia, only to find a fat history book under my pillow. (No, I'm not recommending this as a tool for study, it just explains why my neck feels like Alex chopped it off with his sword).<br />
<br />
So let me sum up: neatness really is in our bones. (That's where we get the feeling someone else in the house is dying to clear up, ha ha). It only has a bit of a time lag. We'll definitely clear up somewhere in the hazy future (and definitely once a year before Diwali). Till a few years ago I used to spend 3 days preparing for a party, of which 2-11/12 days used to be spent in cleaning the house. Then I began to feel guilty about the deception of fooling my friends into thinking I was someone different, so now I only spend the mandatory 2 hours cooking. Anyone who is hungry enough will find their way up to the dining table, that's for certain.<br />
<br />
A few years ago my 10 year old daughter's classmate came to our house for lunch. She sat gingerly in my daughter's (at that point, and for obvious reasons,) very neat room looking pretty nervous. I figured she was just shy. Then my daughter took her for a tour of the house. Slowly I could see this transformation in her. When the tour was complete she looked at me with a happy smile & told me "Aunty, this is the most untidy house I have ever seen!"<br />
<br />
I think we pipped her's to the post and only just!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8145423722903647366.post-8840712676607754612010-09-19T05:24:00.000-07:002010-09-19T05:26:57.017-07:00Wisdom T(r)ooth"I'll have to extract this wisdom tooth" she said and I wondered what was holding her back.<br />
Go ahead, I told her, what are you waiting for?<br />
I'm like that with dentists, I've seen them so often they dont intimidate me anymore. <br />
<br />
All the same this doc was not ready to pull out my wisdom tooth till I was upto the gills in antibiotics. After some days she performed the extraction and I went home and waited in vain for the swelling & the pain. I was thoroughly disappointed at not being able to lie in bed and get fussed over. I had to take some action.<br />
<br />
The last time I had a wisdom tooth extracted I observed frenzied activity half way through. The suction tube stopped working, then the doctor couldn't get a grip on the tooth. Finally it came away but a piece was broken off and stayed stubbornly put and required some more struggle. All value for money, you could say. I took a week off & stayed at home with my mother feeding me soft food & listening to my groans till my face was swollen out of shape. She urged me to call up the doctor who assured me that a little swelling was perfectly in line.<br />
"Doctor," I told him, "You extracted my left bottom wisdom tooth and my face is swollen up to my right eye."<br />
There was a moment of silence while he digested this, then he said I had better come and see him the next morning. Funny, how these doctors always want us to see them, we're the one that's ill, <i>he</i> should be seeing <i>us</i>!<br />
<br />
Now let me explain why the doctor telling me to see him was such a big deal. He's an "Armed forces dentist posted in a Metro". These dentists are terribly busy guys. Jawans are taught as part of their drill how to go and see a dentist. The doctor will line up 6 jawans in a row and bark, "Jawans are going to open their mouths! OPEN Mouth!" The Jawans comply with their mouths open at the right angle so that the doctor can spend 6 seconds to peep into each mouth and another 6 to write instructions for the dental assistants. Often a poor jawan has a tooth extracted instead of the guy standing next to him, but he never notices since his boots are the things that hurt him the most anyway. (Ok, so all this is a bit of an exaggeration, but what are you reading this blog for if not this).<br />
<br />
The Officers & their families go in for a slight variation. They are seated in the chair and the dentist cracks the "joke of the day" (he mugs one up every morning at breakfast). This is to put the patient at ease and to ensure that after 3 hours in the waiting room the patient doesn't burst into tears when the doc peers into his mouth and says, "Come back after 3 months, Sir/ Maam/ beta." I have gone through the ecstasy of hearing these sweet words so many times in my childhood and while my mother cribbed all the way home having wasted 5 hours (counting the commute), I was developing a rare condition of dentistophilia.<br />
<br />
Of course one can get even a root canal done at one of the smaller units where the dentist will treat your having turned up as a social visit complete with chai & biscuits. I suspect that on the border areas or the Nicobar Islands he will even open a bottle of Champagne kept solely to celebrate the occasion.<br />
<br />
But back to my second wisdom tooth extraction, this was getting nowhere. Considering the first one was for free (since I was still the unmarried daughter of my Armed Forces father) , the money spent on the second was really hurting. I called up the doctor and told her that unlike my previous extraction, this one had resulted in no swelling or pain. "And?" she prompted. I swear sometimes a person brilliant enough to pass the Medical entrance exam can be so dumb!<br />
" I want my money back" I said.<br />
<br />
There was a long moment of silence as she digested this (at least all dentists are consistent on this score, they have these moments of silence when they think of what to say to me. However I suspect this behaviour doesn't confine itself to dentists, but we'll get back to that some other time). <br />
"We have no policy of returning money, " she finally said, "However I shall be glad to extract some more of your teeth free of cost if you just turn up at my clinic right away."<br />
<br />
My family is generally pretty sane, but they were quite hysterical when they heard this. To top it all they wouldn't let me leave. <br />
"You're not going anywhere," I preached, "if you cant stand up for your rights."<br />
You're not going anywhere, they replied, and blocked my exit. <br />
Idiots! Do they have any idea how much Dental treatment costs these days? <br />
<br />
PS. I heard my husband explaining to my younger daughter who seemed very worried that the loss of wisdom teeth has nothing to do with "losing it." I don't know what that was about but sure hope it had nothing to do with me.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8145423722903647366.post-34298023577241870862010-09-15T03:46:00.000-07:002011-01-10T04:12:02.702-08:00Quotation on Snoring(And why not?) <br />
<br />
<i>Blessed is the person who can sleep soundly & snore, for he can sleep. Blessed are the people in his house for they can use ear plugs, a different room or a divorce lawyer. As for me, I can only weep over my wretched fate, for when I wake up having heard a horrendous snore I find I was the only one asleep in the first place.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8145423722903647366.post-6366489083330785172010-09-14T05:11:00.000-07:002010-09-14T05:11:32.735-07:00Rats!<span style="letter-spacing: -0.15pt;">When our cat died these fiends swooped upon our premises in hordes. We had almost begun to believe mice were eradicated from the world like small pox and could only be found in a lab in the US (and maybe one in Russia, just in case), but there they were, coming along, laughing in our faces, and settling down to make themselves comfortable. </span> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> Every morning when I went bleary-eyed into the kitchen, I'd hear one behind an unopened box of wine glasses on the top shelf, crunching away at something. Appeals to the only brave man in the house would be met by a sleepy "Let me sleep, for God's sake!" when all the while God's creatures would be eating only-He-knows-what (in my wine glasses!). And then one morning most of the back of the box was pushed to the edge of the shelf in tiny pieces and I could have sworn a small face peeped out and rebuked me about the quality of the box, but I'm told I must have still been asleep.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> Enough was enough! All the plastic boxes in the kitchen with anything to eat in them were nibbled at the edges and every little packet that came into the house was opened and checked by these miniature "Customs officials" (needless to say, a lot of stuff was confiscated). The worst part was that one kept running into them everywhere, night or day there was always one fellow on beat duty.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> "Do something!" I begged of Brave Man, "Before they get an army together and drive us out of the house!"</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> "Relax!" he said "And anyway there's only one mouse."</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> "Nonsense! There's a dark one that lives in the kitchen on the top shelf, the one with the beard lives behind the fridge, and the one with blue eyes lives behind these books in the bedroom. And that's not counting visiting relatives and friends."</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> I got a strange look and BM muttered "You're right, I'd better do something." (Although he looked like he wanted to do something about me rather than the vermin).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> The first mouse trap was a disaster. Within an hour of laying the bait, one little demon had skipped in, eaten the nice fresh</span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> piece</span><span style="letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> of bread, scribbled us a "Thank you" note and danced out, without the darn trap ever having suspected a thing. The next trap was bought with much care and we spent a good forty minutes checking very scientifically the weight of the mouse that would cause each trap to close. At the end of it the shopkeeper was lying on the floor and wailing "But its only Ten rupees!" over & over again. Silly fellow, no one said we wouldn't pay him.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> Well, we caught the dark fellow and various assorted relatives, but they're still coming in thick and fast. Anyway, Beard & Blue-Eyes are still at large (although every time I mention them I get a stern "Get a hold of yourself! Dont get hysterical.")</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"> Short of hauling them out physically or advertising for the Pied Piper of Hamelin, we've tried everything. Now I'm back looking for one of the species which is "man's best friend". Yes, of course, a cat.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
<i>I wrote this piece 14 years ago. Subsequently we built our house and used a very simple & effective detail for keeping mice out. I haven't seen a single one since then, in fact I've forgotten what they look like. (I still want the cat, though, but cannot keep one for various reasons). </i><br />
<i>Will share this detail with you all some day.</i></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8145423722903647366.post-966678739978351242010-09-13T05:51:00.000-07:002010-09-13T05:53:50.548-07:00In the beginningI was so pleased to see you all ready to follow me till I realized you're probably keeping track to check on the wild lies I may write about you.<br />
(Ah, but it was a nice moment till it lasted).<br />
<br />
So where does one start? At the beginning, I guess.<br />
Once my daughter, who was then about 5, was telling me about something that happened to her. She had proceeded well into her tale when her older sister came and demanded to know what this was all about. So she repeated her sentence.<br />
"No, what happened before that?"<br />
She repeated a longer portion of it.<br />
"Tell me right from the beginning!"<br />
Now everyone knows where the beginning is, but I see a mischievous glint in her eye as she throws back to the oldest living relative she knows and then she solemnly begins, "Once there was a great grandmother..."<br />
<br />
In the beginning, one's first kid is born. No, dont tell me there was a life before that. There was, but it was another one. In that other life one's assorted relatives were dropping hints that it was high time one had a kid. One's own mother, of course, said she didn't care. If she wanted a grandchild (as alleged by a friend of her's), she would adopt one. Well, thank God for some non-meddling folks.<br />
<br />
Everyone who doesn't have a child naturally knows exactly how a child is to be brought up. All such wisdom vanishes as soon as the baby in one's arms cocks an eyebrow at one. She doesn't know the rules, she cheats like hell and vanquishes one several times everyday. But that hasn't stopped <i>anyone</i> from pretending they know exactly when <i>you</i> should have a child, how you should bring it up and how many should follow. If you let them, they will even suggest the sex of your next child. "Have a boy now." No way, I still have to finish my dinner!<br />
<br />
The single child parents are under great pressure to "have another". One lady stood at the bus stop waiting to pick up her first born and all she would talk about was this pressure. Her back was bowed, the spark was missing from her eyes.<br />
"Who tells you to have a second kid?" I asked her<br />
Everyone.<br />
I turn and look at the lady standing on my right. She quickly averts her eyes. OMG! She's one of them. The neighbour of the cousin of her landlady. This has certainly gone far enough.<br />
"Draw a list of all these people," I say "And assign jobs that they will have to do when the child is born. Like changing the diapers, writing the cheque for school, arranging for the wedding party. Draw up the contracts and <i>get them signed</i>!" The stupid woman had her second kid even before she had appointed a lawyer. I went to see her child.<br />
"So sweet!" I exclaimed. "Have a boy now."<br />
<br />
With one baby being born every 1.25 seconds in India one would think the obstetricians would be screaming "Enough already!" But no, they're just like the other folks. Inside of their white gowns they're just someone's cousin's neighbour after all. When I had my first baby, my doc had breezed in at the 5th last minute when her most efficient nurse was tossing up between a heart attack and a stroke. Naturally the 5 minute job was no great shakes.<br />
<br />
"That was easy, wasn't it? Have another."<br />
Yeah sure. I'm still in the delivery chair, why don't you just proceed to deliver the next one?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8145423722903647366.post-57019634435638073712010-09-11T05:26:00.000-07:002010-09-11T05:26:28.992-07:00After procrastinating.I'm late. Almost a month later than I had wanted to be, but just the day I wanted to start my own blog, on my birthday, I did an unexpectedly foolish thing that forced me to put it off till later. (I must clarify, it was the foolish deed that was unexpected, not the fact that I did it).<br />
Now the worst thing one could do when one wants to start something which involves typing would be to burn one's fingers. (Well, maybe one could chop them off, too, but lets not get too gory or extreme). I have a tava, that is just a basic iron plate, no handles. It's not too heavy and I didn't think twice before lifting it right off the burner to move it to the bigger burner which I usually use when I make chappatis. Without going into technical details of how hot a tava can get when one absentmindedly lights the burner under it along with the next burner (which in fact one is going to use) and only notices 5 minutes later in this dramatic fashion- tava falling to floor in a reflex action, horror struck eyes noticing the lit burner and brain registering "Hell,this burner is lit?! When? What? How?..."<br />
Speed, I may remind you is the essence in burn injuries. When my fingers were starting to hurt like hell, of course, I didn't need reminding. In ten seconds (I later timed it) I had opened the freezer, pulled out an ice tray, turned it over on the dining table and with 2 ice cubes held as lightly as possible, returned to the kitchen to pick up a bowl and turn on the tap. Only after the fingers were safely in the cold water, did I do the non-essentials- putting the ice tray back in the freezer, closing the freezer door, putting off the gas. The tava lay on the floor for the next 3 hours, who cared?<br />
I am a strong advocate of mind over matter (and absent mind over absent matter, as you may have noticed). So over the next one and a half hours, wherein I kept replenishing my bowl with fresh ice cubes, I also kept telling myself, "Ok, so now we've had enough, fingers will not hurt, they are healed." and I would take my hand out of the cold water. Speed, as I have said before, is the essence, and you wont believe how fast the fingers would dive back in again.<br />
Finally the mind did triumph, or maybe it was the healing effect of the cold water and I could take my fingers out without screaming, but not for long. Since I had no intentions of appending the bowl to my body forever, however, I turned to new tactics. My next tip for you is that any wound hurts more if the blood is allowed to rush into it. The next hour saw me holding my right hand as far above my head as possible. When it began to ache furiously, I would bring it down, but only till it began to burn furiously. Very pragmatic, that's me, not the brave warrior, certainly not.<br />
3 hours later I was almost as good as new. No blisters. A very small portion of the skin skin peeled off 2 weeks later. I consider myself very fortunate, at least the little brain that I possess can be put to good use. My neighbour spilled a mug of steaming water on himself and the next we knew he was 3 weeks in the hospital and INR 3 lakhs sadder. So thats what you can give me as consultancy the next time you decide to follow my footsteps.<br />
P.S. When my sister heard of this incident she added (as an appendix to my birthday wishes), "I hope you have completed your quota of foolishness for the next year." And when I related this insult to my grandmother, she said "Tell her, its creditable! Everyone doesn't have the guts to do a year's worth of work in a day."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7