Breathing down your neck

Akin to a dragon who is spewing orangey-ginger flames, almost singing your hair – such feels the breath of people who breathe down your neck. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

And boy! Isn’t it wildly annoying?!

Irrelevant of whether a boss does it to you, making you feel like the most-wanted-criminal-who-just-got-caught-and-must-now-be-escorted-to-the-gallows; or a nosy Parker who edges closer to you at a party to look down your ermm…twin assets; to the person elbowing you exasperatingly while you stand in line at a relatively-uncrowded multiplex to purchase tickets to the new flick that is playing – most of us have been there, i.e. been at the receiving end of such excruciating torture, an inordinate urge to skin, or better still, strangle the life out of that creep.

But we don’t.

Instead we shuffle our feet awkwardly, hoping the infuriating dolt gets the hint. Or give a sheepish, watery smile, and take two paces backwards, hoping he would follow suit. Fat chance! Even if you do move two spaces rearward, he would walk two spaces – FORWARD.

Making you grit your teeth in sheer frustration.

Quite some time back, I ticked-off a woman at work who would stand too close for comfort, almost breathing down my neck – making me feel extremely uncomfortable, and crotchety. Not only did she invade my personal space but she also brought me within arm’s length (pun intended) to that demon who can read one’s soul. So while she would talk to me with a soul-stare, I would shuffle my feet awkwardly, invoking all the Gods from above to bring the blessed conversation to an end.

The ticking-off went off worse than anticipated. She was clueless about the existence of such a phrase as ‘personal space.’ Accused me of being a mean, icy-hearted woman. And topped it all off with a teary-eyed outburst.

I ran as fast as my feet could.

It goes without saying that that was the last day she talked to me (and Thank God for that).

Wish life were as simple as ticking off a person.

At the unrivalled way I can tell off people, my life would definitely be the least bumpy.

Accidental Husbands?

Bred on a healthy diet of Mills & Boons, TV soaps, glossy magazines, what you will – women, despite being privy to the completely transformative nature of marriage, were only too happy to trade-in their shopping bags for ones stuffed with groceries. And their designer togs for kiddie-stuff.

The same did not hold true for men though.

They would raise eyebrows at the very mention of matrimony (which they said sorta rhymed with monotony), and cited a zillion reasons about how they would rather cut off their third left finger than sport that tell-tale band, or a sparkling diamond around it (designed as a conspiracy no doubt by them darned Tiffany's, Cartiers, and Harry Winstons – to invite sniggering looks and barely-concealed gleeful chuckles and nudges).

You had to give it to them – their reasons ranged from:

a) The logical – I wanna earn my own pair of wheels, a fat bank balance, and own apartment before I decide to get hitched)
b) The crude - to-get-a-pail-of-milk-why-should-you-buy-the-whole-cow theory
c) The (un)realistic – I'm (sigh) still looking for that (elusive) Miss Right. Till then lemme make do with all the Miss Right-Nows
d) The Nostradamus-sorts – Marriages lead to divorce. And expensive alimony. And yet more expensive child support. So avoid Step 1 – marriage. At all costs
e) The carefree – I'm a social butterfly. Plus I have no social / familial pressure to get married (knock on the wooden-wine-cork). You want me to give up all this, and don those rings, that (shudder) look to me like miniature handcuffs (and not the naughty ones. The kinds they use at Scotland Yard). You kidding, righto? No? (sheeesh)
f) The rigid and / or fearful – I can't change. I can't compromise. Marriage will force me to change. And compromise. That is not acceptable to me. So tht means, marriage is not acceptable to me. Well, at least, not right now. But yes, if Angelina Jolie / Catherine Zeta Jones were to ever split from Pitt / Douglas, they should keep our numbers on speed dial. We'll pick at the first 'ring' (pun intended)
g) The career-driven ambitious sorts - I'm very involved in my career right now. Cracking deals. Forging associations and contacts. Making bullet-proof strategies. Blah Blah Blah. It wouldn't be fair of me to marry. I wouldn't be able to give undivided attention to my wife. She would be resentful of the other woman in my life - my Blackberry. So let me step-up the corporate ladder first. And then maybe I can take steps towards marriage.

Lies. All the above.

The only reason that men shied away from marriage is that they want to enjoy single life. Each moment of it. As long as they can. Till some ambitious woman drags him, maybe by issuing an ultimatum, to that most-dreaded place – the aisle.

Where the next day, after the effects of the reception alcohol has worn off, he sits in the loo, a dazed look on his face giving way to a much-horrified one, staring sullenly at the tell-tale band on his third finger.

And the previous day's ceremonies come flashing by his mind, in blurred, and then, vivid sparks.

And the enormity of his step dawns upon the just-coming-to-his-senses guy.

Not any more.

A role reversal is very evidently in place, with today’s men hankering after commitment. Marriage. Grocery shopping. Mother-in-laws. Kids. Pesky relatives. The works.

They are ready to give all the above a shot.

While their female counterparts, hitherto the vulnerable lot, have taken it upon themselves to postpone their wedding diaries, pooh-poohing those who drop meaningful, sarcasm-dripping comments along the lines of the biological clock ticking away, yada yada.

Face it - today’s women are a fussier lot. I am one. I should know.

However, what happened to the erstwhile lot of men who believed truly in doing the I-stick-my-tongue-at-those-who-point-out-I-should-marry routine?

What I don’t know however is why today’s men so unashamedly admit, unlike some years back, that they NOW want to trade-in their beers, TV remotes, sports channels and tirade-laced car chases with the donkey up front for something so mundane like holding Merlot (if they are lucky, that is, or perhaps just wallow in self pity, what with the drab glass of orange juice staring them in the face), holding diapers and rattles, looking agitatedly at mind-numbing TV soaps (ok ok, I’m painting it too bad), and driving without uttering any colorful phrase.

Miracle? I think not.

Curious – I certainly am.

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth

So the other day, after an excruciating 9 hour-something stretch of work, even the bumpy ride home in my office cab couldn’t keep me from putting my head back on the seat and (wobbly ride notwithstanding) trying to grab some much-needed shut-eye.

So when, a little over an hour later, the vehicle dropped bleary-eyed me to my residence, I could scarcely keep myself from closing my eyes. After the pain-in-the-rear ascending the stairs (which I managed to totter through like a tipsy gypsy), a quick dinner, some sweet-nothings on the phone with TOOMA - and I was ready to call it a day.

The bed beckoned invitingly, and sure enough, I was off to sleep in a trice.

Holy Cow!!!!

What in the name of all that is merciful, WAS that!?

As I woke up with a start, I couldn’t help but grit my teeth and spout unpublishable-names for my second-floor neighbours, who had taken it upon themselves to do a dummy run of their undoubtedly new idiot box / sound system.

And boy! Could the darn thing screech!

As I rubbed my knees and invoked the names of all the names of the deities I could recollect to calm myself down, and try to return to slumberland, some stray thoughts of revenge did cross my mind. After all, midnight is hardly a time to sound out your new woofers.

And it’s not that it was the first time. So forgiveness was really not on the cards. This was unpardonable.

To cut matters short, I hiked the blanket over my ears, muttered some more cussing remarks which included doing some unmentionable acts with one’s sister, and slept with both ears plugged.

The very next morning, a throbbing headache announced its arrival, and bore stark testimony to the unforgivable act perpetrated by them pesky neighbours below.

I sought refuge in the arms of one of my most dependable friends – the World Wide Web. And guess, what I found?

Aptly named, ‘Revenge CD,’ this $8 CD is bound to make your pesky neighbours sit up, and take notice.

Besides rue about the day they disturbed your sleep. Cos they would get none now.

The 20 tracks on the CD are bound to haunt and distress them to the very core. And serve the pests right.

The manufacturers have even included a pair of handy earplugs, so that, when your neighbours are squealing in despair / horror / disgust / irritation / what have you, and hunting you to throttle and / or shoot you, you can just sit back, with your feet up, and enjoy languorous sips from your trusty hip-flask.

Just in case this kind of vendetta is just up your street (I read you right - you DO have that streak of sadism in you - full marks to me), let me tickle you some more by telling you what these annoying 20 tracks are.

In no particular order, here they are: Drill, House Party, Orgasm, Train, Drum, High Heels, Cat in Heat, Doors Banging, Towering Rage, Unhappy Dog, Violin Practice, Traffic Jam, Garbage Truck, New Born, Phone Ringing, Ball Game, Pigeons, Spring Cleaning,Cock-A-Doodle-Doo.

Ohh, did I forget to perhaps mention Inhuman Screams?

Pure genius, I tell you *(Devil grin)*

Get it here.

Your neighbours wouldn't forget you in a hurry.

Testing times

While next month is a happy one for me, it couldn’t be more far from the truth for some. And I guess I speak for quite a few students who will be writing their school / college examinations.

Examinations. Arghhhh. That dreaded word that was the sole reason I couldn’t finish my novels and Cosmopolitan (the magazine, silly) at the time I would have liked to. Many were the occasions when I had to unwillingly drag my eyes from the beckoning, glossy pages, to those that promised a worthy mention on the report card / mark sheet.

And when the morning would dawn bright and clear, worried, creasing foreheads would emerge out of rooms that had not been slept in, the previous night, and bleary-eyed students would march, some with sheepish, apologetic faces, to the examination hall.
While some would make their way straight to their designated roll-numbered-chalked-desks, there would be others who would stand outside, looking at the multitude of fellow-students, some of whom were identical in terms of preparation and anxiety levels.

Off the top of my head, the follow are some marvels you are bound to see in / near an examination hall:

• The cool as a cucumber sorts – handing around mints or gum to all who came near, these were the ones who put the ‘C’ in confident. Whether they were prepared for the writing war that lay ahead, or were just doing a darn neat job of imitating – that was ambiguous. To make matters worse, they had even taken out time to brush their glossy manes, apply some gloss, slap on moisturiser (and perhaps even an SPF 30 sunscreen), and remembered to spritz perfume. These are the ones most looked upon at with envy by their classmates

• The-I-have-nails-will-bite-them category – gloomy-faced, these anxious souls chewed whatever was left of their gnawed-nails. Besides kissing the sacred black thread a million times.
Ditto for the evil-eye bracelet.
And the picture of the ‘good luck’ deity
And the little figurine of the Goddess of learning
Needless to say, their confidence level was at their bottom, and any word you might put to them could be the cause of them dissolving into heart-rending tears

• The ashen face ones – looking the mix of a wet puppy and a child whose candy had been snatched, these sorts make you feel almost sorry for them. So much so that you are tempted to hand them a rag cloth. Or maybe some chocolate

• The hearts-aflutter kinds – one look at these constantly gulping sorts, and a giggle is bound to escape from you. They look as if they have swallowed a frog, and obviously, do not like the lingering taste in their mouths. Forever edgy, they look at you out of striking, startled eyes, while for the life of them trying to fathom why you could be so cheerful

• The smug bug sorts – easily the most hated of the lot, these ones have a constantly scornful smile plastered over their sardonic faces. If you look a little closer, what you actually make out to be a thin smile playing along their lips, is actually a half-smirk lurking in the background. A smirk which you would love to club to death – the little twit deserves a hard spanking (and not in the naughty sense of way)

• The crammer – He is the one who religiously attended classes, the obsessive notes-taker, his pen furiously scribbling in a secret handwriting only he could discern. Such was his dedication to attendance that he would even make a prompt appearance on the days when all had decided to mass-bunk (to catch the movie-of-the-year). Needless to say, he would be the butt of ridicule and scorn for the rest of the year. But who cares. He will take some extra credit from the Prof, earning yet more murderous stares from his mates. This kind is also the one to fill page-upon page of continuation sheets, oblivious to the abusive mutters of those who can barely fill-in the first four sheets

• The loo-natic – With a bladder that threatens to burst every five minutes or so (courtesy their interminable uneasness), these sorts are easily distinguishable by their proneness to stand next to the nearest wash room. Their proximity to a washroom is directly proportional to when they have to answer nature’s call (urge within 2 minutes = five paces, urge within 5 minutes = 12 paces, you get the drift, right). Hugging their tummies, standing on one leg, à la cranes, they are top contenders for participating in the 100-metre dash. Heck, they even stand a chance of winning

• The born-with-a-joke-in-his-mouth – a radically different sorts, he fancies himself a mix between Birbal (from Akbar’s court) and Touchstone (from Shakespeare’s As You Like It. Except that his jokes fall flat on these days, his (usual) audience resembles a trickling number, and instead of the mandatory applause and chuckles, has to make-do with snarls, unkind shoves, and loud ‘Oh-shut-up-please’ rebukes
No points for guessing, I would be the one standing outside, looking at the above specimens.

Which category did you / do you fall in?

And which kind do you think I was? Besides being the one with the alternating-between-amusement-and-resentment facce?

(Un)happy hours

The world’s largest democracy was dealt a disgraceful slap, when just two days before its 60th Republic Day, a self-appointed moral brigade roughed up some patrons at a popular watering hole in Mangalore.

The audacity of the attack! Only women patrons were targeted.

So, besides henna, kohl, and bindis, Indian women were ‘blessed’ with another ornamental piece – the black-eye.

The group of 40 attackers, who claim affiliation to a fundamentalist, right-wing Hindu group, Sri Ram Sena, asserted that they had received complaints from the public, and were only protecting their ‘mothers and daughters,’ insisting that those beaten up, richly deserved so, indulging as they were in depraved activities, and going against our ‘rich heritage and culture.’

I belong to the same culture, and I’d like to know which of the Holy Scriptures instructs these so-called ‘God-men’ to mishandle woman and outrage their modesty.

Calling themselves keepers of religion and culture, these hooligans took the law into their hands, punching and pulling the hair of the unfortunate women. Emboldened by the fear that surrounds the victims, some of whom have received threatening calls, and playing upon the psyche of thousands others, they have also issued ultimatums for the approaching Valentine’s Day.

Quite a few glowing testimonials, you'd agree, won't you?

Misbehaviour is not unfamiliar with the Sena, which, last year, vandalised an exhibition of M.F. Husain’s paintings in New Delhi, besides targeting fashion shows, and ransacking and damaging the central office of a political party.

All the while, religion becomes a politicised issue, yet again. And politicians, they of the glib tongues, folded hands and handcrafted clothes, shake their heads in mock-disbelief, promising that the perpetrators would be seriously dealt with.

However, the next day will dawn bright and clear, and the very same politicos will fold their hands yet again, ascending the steps to another jet that will fly them into the welcome, beckoning arms of an alluring, foreign nation – one where they can ‘afford’ (at our expense) to forget all these trifling troubles.

My blood is boiling.