Showing one's true colours

With the festival of colors barely four days from now, the kids in my colony never had it better.

Especially since my ample posterior literally cries out to them, begging them to perfect their water-balloon target throwing skills upon it. And the obliging souls that they are, they obviously can’t say no to such a sincere request.

The lil devils, armed to the teeth with their stash of ‘missiles,’ take refuge in balconies, terraces; behind bushes, and cars, ready to swoop upon any unsuspecting victim who decides to make an entry in the declared-danger zone.

The unwary prey approaches, oblivious to the shock that is about to befall him.
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With a war cry that is clearly enough to wake the dead, the young fiends come out in all their united glory. As if caught in a trance, the victim blinks – once, twice, and then, before comprehension dawns upon him, all hell breaks loose.

The water pichkaris (water guns) are pulled out, releasing a stinging current of colored water upon the poor soul. As the chap gasps, trying to regain his startled breath, a regular stream of water balloons descend upon him, pelting him as hard as probably a bunch of stones would. Wiping his face and looking at his clothes with a dismayed expression on, his look changes to one of sheer horror when he looks up at the balcony of giggling uns, and suddenly realizes that they are not done yet. No Sir!

Whooooosh! A bucketful of icy cold water greets his face and clothes, making him look like a cross between a mangly, wet puppy and a rotten custard apple that even the friendly fruit vendor leaves for the bees.

Our man is now livid. Shivering and spluttering, he brandishes an angry fist, piecing together some incomprehensible words which he can only spit from his furious mouth.

Deciding to take pity on the miserable watery mess, the adolescents look away, already on the lookout for their next victim. It comes in the form of the boy and girl, laughingly riding a mo’bike.

The ‘Splash’ and the subsequent howl signal that the deed has been accomplished.

A cyclist, a postman perhaps, meets the same fate, his cycle teetering dangerously close to the car that always remained in its same parking spot, day in and day out, thanks to an owner who believed more in driving away children who played ball near his house, than drive the darn vehicle.

Two giggling college girls fare no better – two huge balloons greeted them inside the autorickshaw they were travelling in.

A lone street dog, busily playing with a balled up piece of paper on the road, whimpers, looking around itself in alarm, and then, tail between its legs, ran to tell its just-been-hit-by-a-water-balloon story to its pals.

The smiling fruit seller is next. He however, poses, looks up, waves at the children, his pearlies flashing endearingly at them.

A twenty-year something, harried door-to-door salesman looks up, and ducks in time. Grinning, he smiles mockingly at the kids, and gets a big one right on his shoulder. Tut-tutting, he quickly makes his way to the next neighborhood, trying to convince some bored housewife to purchase the water purifier he was selling.

A scrap-dealer, cycling languorously in the sun, fares no better. He looks up, smiles sadly, and cycles on, his mind clearly occupied with thoughts of the evening meal with his nagging wife.

On Holi Day, the chaos reaches a crescendo. If you venture out, be ready to be attacked by a horde of people who all look alike in their colored-ness. Out of nowhere, a pair of hands make their way to your face, and before you know it, one of your cheeks has been brushed with the brightest pink gulal, while the other looks like the shade your Mum turned in your school days, when you returned from school yet again, in all your muddied glory.

For me right now, I only lok forward to the day after Holi, when people return to their more sober colors. Pun intended.

Holi (Kyun)Hain?!!!

Moan Machines

Haven’t you ever been at your wit’s end because that pesky colleague right across the corridor / sometimes-friend-sometimes-foe puts the “W” in Whining?

Constantly cribbing, their kind ensures that no one in their vicinity of a kilometer forgets that their life is the saddest, most bleak, utterly-devoid-of-rays-of-sunshine, yada yada. For them no day is perfect – it is either too hot, too cold, too wet, too dry, you name it – they are bound to nitpick.

They are the ones who sit on their despair / pity pots, but unlike the rest of us, forget to flush, leaving their lives, as well as of those around them, full of, uhmmm, muck.

Bigotry is their middle name. The higher the hemlines go, the more their blood boils. The lower the neckline, the lower is their tolerance level, though they don’t mind the odd peek. Disguising their moral indignation with conspicuous, hard-to-miss halos around their swollen heads, they are the lone, valiant warriors out to battle it out with the depraved souls, who, according to them, have infested the world, almost like a severe invasion of the dreaded bubonic plague.

Heated arguments are their forte - they can outshine / outwit any seasoned lawyer waiting for his turn in the crowded courtroom. Heaven help those poor souls who decide to axe their own feet by daring to step into a dispute with them. Silly creatures – don’t they know that the best man wins, and undoubtedly, they are the best as best can be.

Freshly-boiled milk can, within minutes, turn sour – one look from them is all it takes. Ditto for an-in-the-pink-of-health-and-bloom plant, which can wither with one scornful look from these sorts. And to think that some people still imagine that they can win a quarrel with them. Oh well, that’s what is called optimism, I guess.

They are the reason for petty people like us scurrying for cover, and all because we prefer to retain that pleasant taste in our mouths than the obnoxious, bitter one that results post a discussion with them, a discussion that is, to most parts, dominated by them. What is a common man to do otherwise? And especially when their sighs and moans are audible from miles away, they really leave us with no choice.

Day after day, such people trudge along to wage their individual wars with the world, sneer plastered fixedly on face, index finger pointing accusingly at the wicked world, perfectly-arched contemptuous eyebrow in place, lips drawn out into a half-snarl – waiting to pounce upon their next prey.

Life sure is tough for them.

God bless these gallant sorts.

The Quintessential Drinkers. Hic!

In a country that stigmatises women drinkers, I sometimes commiserate with yours truly, who truly likes to be ‘spirited’- well at least sometimes.

Anyway, this blog post is not a rant against societal norms which frown upon women tipplers, but about how when they drink, both fine ‘samples’ of genders turn from silently sober to indecorously inebriated, causing a trail of frequently-displayed behaviour patterns, that either cause their friends to laugh and slap their hands to their head, groaning ‘Oh no, not again,' or look away in clear mortification, provided they are not too dead drunk / totally sloshed themselves in the first place.

Here, in no special order, are the common categories into which some drinkers fall, some in the royal-pain-in-the-rear varieties, some in the plainly obnoxious category:

1. The Of-course-I’m-not-drunk – One of the commonest categories, these people believe in words being louder than actions. What else can explain their loud proclamations of their sobriety, and their indignant denials of their inebriation (before they crash to the floor in an embarrassing heap)
2. The full-nighters – they take the word ‘night out’ literally, drinking faithfully till the wee hours of the morning. They do stop – but only for either two-minute breaks to answer nature’s call or, because of the smoking ban, for five-minute-huddled-smoke-breaks at designated places in and around the watering hole for puffers. God created alcohol – and these people sure know how to enjoy it, downing the bottles / tumblers eagerly. Hic hic. Amen. Stamina is their middle name, and no one knows it more than these chuggers and gluggers. They are the ones who keep the bartenders busy and up on their feet – all night…Somebody should perhaps just hand them a hose, attached to a beer factory. But knowing these sorts, they'd perhaps be delighted...
3. The variety-is-the-spice-of-life drinkers - The Budweisers and Fosters flow smoothly, before making way for the more regal Chivas Regals and Johhnie Walkers, closely followed by shots of tequila. Coming up next are the fat Old Monk bottles, as are the Bacardi vodka bottles, which make a shy appearance on the threatening-to-collapse table. All these are nicely rounded up with a last glass of gin and lime juice cordiale or another pitcher of beer – you DO get the gist, right?
4. The I-am-a-superhero kinds –A few drinks down, they fancy themselves to be avatars of their favourite Marvel comics superhero. Superman, you've got tough competition. It’s actually a marvel they don’t try their hand at flying…TGFSM 5. The I-know-my-wine sorts – Move over Tom Collins, Pilsners, and Steins. With a clink of flutes, stem glasses, and goblets, the wine-connoisseurs present themselves, swirling their favoured Merlots, Chiraz, Cabernet Sauvignons, Chablis, Chardonnays and pink wines, taking in the heady aroma, and the scene around them. The most sober category, they are every hostess’ dream-guests come true, though not necessarily the most frugal. But then quality comes for a price, innit? (customary wrinkling-up of nose)
6. The (irresponsible and irrepressible) I-will-drive-insisters – No matter how many bottles, pints, and pitchers have made happy entries in their by-now swollen tummies, these are the sorts who will disdainfully toss their heads and turn up their noses at any comment that they are sloshed. Time your watch by their regular ten-minute-speeches into the drinkathon, where they insist that they will be the ONLY ones who steer their prized pair of wheels. The road better be empty though. Or the people out there better watch out! Hic. One more for the road, you there! And make it large!
7. The I-am-better-than-Russell Peters – they consider themselves the country’s answer to a class comedian act; however instead of the audience laughing WITH them, they laugh AT them. Now that’s a fact clearly lost on these delusional souls. They alternate their generously borrowed stand-up acts with an equally ample dose of much-compiled shero-shairi (popular Hindi / Urdu short verse, spoken with dramatic effect). They are the sole reason why their audience can be seen reaching out for headache-relieving pills…
8. The-leading-the-headbanger-club – a specimen, this category, they are the ones most likely to hold imaginary mikes, doing karaoke renditions of popular numbers, jumping onto the podium, strumming invisible guitars, headbanging for all their worth (complaining that their head feels strangley woozy afterwards – surprise, you’d think). You’d think that’s all – but wait, hear this out – they also croon in voices upon hearing which a frog would consider itself a more suitable candidate for the dime-a-dozen-on-the-idiot-box talent shows.
9. The apologisers – Regularly spouting the ‘sorry’ word, these soppy sorts request for forgiveness at the drop of a hat. Even if you happen to dig your deathly stiletto heel onto their foot or poke a bony elbow into their unmentionables, instead of yelping in distress, they will look their most contrite, and utter an apology. I’ve never been able to fathom these ones. Pardon me. And the pun!
10. The you’ve-hurt-me-terribly sorts – These are the toughest to placate – they have taken it into their minds that they have been hurt (by you, no less). And will follow you around like the loyal puppy of a leading telecom provider, all the while muttering how deeply injured and upset they are by some inadvertent comment made by you (or hopefully, someone else a decade back). All pleas to be forgiven fall on deaf ears, and they continue their business, threading their ways miserably through the crowd, a permanently wounded expression writ large over their gloomy faces
11. The I-miss-my-ex sorts – it’s been four years that their significant other has decided to part ways (un)amicably, but that doesn’t mean that the miserable pig cannot be called over the phone and:
a) shouted at for ruining their lives (at 3 am)
b) begged to be taken back into their lives (at 3.30 am), followed by
c) the deep I miss-him/her-conversations to anyone who is even half-willing to listen (4am onwards and counting)…
12. The alcohol-makes-me-get-in-touch-with-my-real-self-and-makes-me-lose-my-inhibitions sorts – it’s another matter that within the next three hours, these ‘real’ selves, after connecting with their uninhibited sides, have to be rushed to the hospital to get their stomachs pumped, after they have puked themselves silly over themselves, over the table, your jeans, the adjacent table, the car etc, of course, with some parts of their clothing missing (generous souls that they are, they do not even remember who they donated them to).

And my personal favourite

The-professing-eternal-love sorts – Glazed look in eyes, these are the ones most probable to hold you in a bear embrace or clutch your hands with their own sweaty, greasy palms, and upon giving you a soul-searching-stare from which you flinch, constantly affirm their undying love, and everlasting fidelity to you. Slobbering kiss - optional.
Slurring words - an obvious.

And when you reassure them that the thought of their infidelity did not even cross your mind, they will thump their hand to their heart, do the penetrating-soul gaze all over again, and swear – that they will never let you down.

Ever.

Over and over again…

The Agents of Disaster - Matchmakers

Put two perfectly independent standalone words together, and you have all the trappings for a potential debacle.

Case in question – the words ‘match’ and ‘make.’

Place them adjacently in a sentence, and the result is guaranteed to induce one or all these symptoms - unbridled squirming in the seat, characteristic awkwardness, cringing, and a flood of painful memories that make you wince each time you walk that path.

The matchmaking is usually done by well-meaning friends and relatives, with the latter of course, wrestling ahead by a clear, authoritative margin. Notwithstanding the high rate of divorce among couples who are clearly not meant to be with each other in the first place, these shining examples of frontrunners, committed to wipe out all traces of singledom from this world, trudge valiantly on this chosen humanitarian mission...

The results are disastrous, to say the least, much more perhaps than a recipe gone awry.

Leaving the matchmaker with guilt, sadness, a red face, and ears that have smoke billowing out of them – thanks to the unparliamentary language they have been subjected to. But the matchmaker in them intact – already spinning the next ‘knotty’ venture...

The quotient of matchmaking increases by leaps and bounds in social gatherings, with marriages topping the list. Almost every single guy or nubile girl who strolls into a marriage is sized up and down, and pounced upon in various degrees of swiftness by relatives - dowagers in particular. Parents are called for, heads are seen bowed together in hush-hush discussions, fingers are pointed innocently to the unsuspecting victim, and winks and grins are exchanged with gleeful abandon.

Those parents who are reluctant to go along with this matchmaking are slyly recounted horror stories about the dejected (and rejected) girl who wheeled in her twenty-fifth tea-trolley to a prospective groom’s family, only to be turned away yet again. Or the crestfallen 30-something guy who had disconsolately submitted to the arms of the friendly dancer with the heaving bosom at the cushy private lounge and the charms of the beckoning-invitingly bottle of heady spirit. The customary shudder post this narration is enough to make even the most assertive of parents think of the ‘no-harm’ clause that this matchmaking illustrates. And give a nod of approval, casting looks of pure gratefulness to the well-intentioned relative that God has bestowed upon them.

Big mistake.

Awkward coffee meetings and drives to the nearest mall are suggested. And worse, organized meticulously! The two disoriented victims are literally bundled into a car, nudges are freely doled-out, and as the car disappears around the bend in a cloud of dust, relatives and family go into a collective ‘Awwww.’ Hands clasped, these relatives go into an orgiastic overdrive about what a pretty picture the two make, predicting happy endings, exchange of wedding rings and garlands, and of course - a brood of healthy children. A few more discomfited meetings are arranged, under the loving eyes of family and friends. All seems to be going well. Just when the candyfloss romance and pink balloons look geared to become a reality, the drama begins –the victims proclaim irrevocable incompatibility, and absolutely refuse to step out for yet another drive. All hopes are dashed in one swift, fluid movement. And while the relatives scream ‘Foul’ in indignation, the victims breathe a little easy, and look up at the sky in gratitude.

Cut to another month – the marriage season is upon everyone again. ‘Pandits’ have red-lettered several days as being auspicious for nuptials. While relatives smack their lips in sheer ecstasy at the prospect of all that matchmaking, youngsters this time are smarter. As they say – once bitten, twice shy.

So while the guy – Victim #1 from last season, swears bitterly about the every-increasing truckload of work that has ‘suddenly’ descended upon his hapless neck, Victim #2, the girl with sparkling eyes who's partial to showing-off her ethnic drapes, makes a mental note to not arrive at any wedding unchaperoned. Help is at hand - in the form of her friend’s brother who (after his palms were greased with a much-sought-after invite-for-two to a hugely-hyped party in town),
performs the role of attentive beau, to perfection. That he just came out of the closet is information that only she is privy to, and she smiles at her very own private joke cum secret.

She’s ready for the wedding season – fabulously armed!

Looking gooey-eyed at her chaperone, she blows him a kiss (knowing that this will send the onlookers into a frenzy). It does! He does the much-practised and perfected sighing-grinning-from-ear-to-ear routine; she blushes, drapes her sequinned scarf tightly around her embellished attire, and walks with her fingers knitted trustingly in his.

Matchmakers be damned!

Another wedding.

Thankfully, not her own.

She sighs in relief.

Banding together against Shaadi Bands

As is wont, post-dinner and a recap of the day’s news bulletin, last night hubby and I began our nightly schedule – walking, that is (What did you think?). We were barely into our second round of the neighborhood park when we spotted a glittering string of fairy lights making its way slowly, strains of a decidedly loud sound system accompanying the light show.

A wedding procession - groom in tow on a white mare, an assortment of animated pink-turbaned men, heavily-embroidered saree / suit clad women dripping with jewellery (never mind that Christmas was a good months away), and some gleeful children - threaded its way to the venue.

It was a usual enough scene.

Except that a few seconds later, the band and the procession stopped right before the main entry gate of the Trauma Care Speciality Center, belting out tunes from the latest Bollywood chart busters. This was the cue for the relatives to plunge into a riotous dance routine, all shaking a leg merrily and making a nuisance of themselves right outside the medical center where hundreds, if not thousands, lay on the road to recovery (or maybe not).

So while inside the medical center, grim surgeons wielded shiny surgical equipment; outside a number of shiny instruments - trumpets, French horns, euphoniums, clarinets, cymbals, saxophones, trombones, drums, boomed and kept the audience on its feet. A few other members of the red-white-blue-and-generously-sprinkled-with-gold uniformed band members shuffled their feet carrying kerosene-spewing light fixtures. An oily-looking thirty-something cleared his throat and looked ready to launch the next song from his endless repertoire.

And then there was silence.

For a moment, a feeling of unbespoke relief swept over me. Perhaps some near and dear ones of the victims that lay inside the trauma center, had taken it into their heads to come and give the giddily-happy wedding party a piece of their mind. The disturbing anomaly of glee looked extremely inhuman outside the gloomy walls that spelled accidents, comas, and frightful deaths. Probably a lathi-charge would not have been out of place for these insensitive ecstatically-cheering and dancing souls, who chose to stand right outside those walls inside which so many people battled for life right that minute.

But that was not to be. The band had stopped only because some inebriated people in the procession had a few music requests for the band. And unlike my gym which frowns upon any music requests, the band was only too happy to comply, knowing that there was no dearth of heavily-lined pockets that would disgorge currency notes any minute. Rightly so. As the crescendo built up, notes of different nominations were flung into the air, much to the delight of the band people who clutched them. Dizzy with dancing men cried hoarsely to the visibly red-faced groom, whose 5-year nephew gave him company on the weighed-down poor white mare.

And the music became louder. Probably to drown out the honking of the cars behind the procession.

A yelling match looked promising. But was soon dissolved as it was time for some pyrotechnics. One after the other, several firecrackers from last year’s Diwali (Festival of Lights) hissed and fizzed to life, zooming off into the skies above, before disintegrating into a million sparkles. Of course, the sound of all these was hardly mild, to say the least.

That, coupled with the still-earsplitting music was enough to drown out my protests….

Presents at a Price?

There it was – nestled comfortably between the spangled saree and the paisley paperbag it came packed in. Nothing about it was inconspicuous – it stood out like a sore thumb.

Rupees 2800 only – it declared proudly in italicised letters.

This wasn’t the first time that some no-doubt ‘well-meaning’ friend / relative had done the unforgivable – left the price tag on a gift. Not only does it look tacky, but it also makes me feel as if they are weighing how much I mean to them monetarily by spending a said amount on me.
Oh him – let’s give him a 1500-rupee wallet.
Ohh she – let’s see – this 750 rupee shirt will do.
For him, uhmm – this 400 rupee folder is good enough.
And for added measure, let’s leave the price tags on.

Both those ladies – Miss Manners and Dame Etiquette will probably have fits. Not of laughter. But of spluttering indignation.

Now, I can understand leaving the store’s tag and bar / scan code on, if the recipient might want to exchange it. Stores nowadays have an exchange policy even if the price is obliterated or ripped off. I’ve been there, done that – to exchange for a better sized piece of clothing or a different colored item. Without a price tag, no less!

But heck no – the gift-giver refuses to part with the price tag. So before taking the fume out from its velvet case, you have to first deal with the annoying yellow label that sticks out prominently.

So even before the heavenly fragrance can reach my happy nose, the thought that I owe the giver a specified monetary value, takes away from what would have otherwise been a delightful moment. It’s almost as if the giver just rubbed it in my face how much he / she shelled out for a prezzie for me, initiating thoughts that I should reciprocate with an equivalent-valued gift. I’d rather do without that someone-spent-a-mini-fortune-upon-me gift, thank you very much.

A few weeks back, I chanced to overhear a fifty-something lady getting a gift packed at a swish mall. The attendant, while cutting the ribbons and wrapping paper, asked if he should put a piece of scotch-tape on where the price was and remove it. The lady smiled, shook her head, and went back to animatedly describing the gift she’d bought for a relative (and its cost) to somebody on the other end of her phone line. Brought up in a household where leaving the price tag on was frowned upon, I couldn’t help but cast a woeful look at the lady in question.

I’ve also seen people take the discount tag off from an item and keeping the original price tag on. What do the less harsh people have to say to that ‘act of forgetfulness?’ Ha!

It’s almost an insult. Like the gifter is blatantly flaunting his wealth / social prestige – ‘See, I bought you that Swarovski pendant for your birthday / anniversary, simply because I can afford to. Did any of your other other so-called friends get you a premium gift?’

Completely takes the thoughfulness out of the gift giving, don’t you think?

Or do you disagree?

'Picture' Perfect? Not quite!

A picture speaks a thousand words, someone said.

I’ll say it does two thousand! Phew!

There are two kinds of people in this world – those who like to splash their vacation pictures all over the sun and moon, and gush on and on in that nauseating monotone about the verdant mountains / scenic beach they visited for summer. Not to mention the cute ‘friend’ they hooked up with.

And those pesky sorts who will corner you over the phone, over social networking sites, at the gym, in the mall, at the neighborhood bistro, hell - right at your work desk, and demand to know (in that hugely-annoying sing-song falsetto) why you still haven’t mailed/ posted the url of the pics you took while you were on vacay.

Of course, there is a third set of people – which includes me.

Those who don’t care a rat’s ass about showing pics of their holiday snaps to people who for brevity’s sake, we’ll term somewhere between strangers and acquaintances.

And who are equally indifferent about being made to see yet another carefully-maintained album of some poor joker’s last trip to Waikiki. Frankly, I care two hoots about hearing some bozo’s account of how much fun they had on the sun-kissed beaches, languorous breakfasts overlooking the ocean and all, while I was working my rear off at the workplace. Doing my job. And probably his too!

My eyes glaze, my auditory senses take a backseat, and I wait impatiently for him to rattle off his rehearsed script.

And nope, the trinkets you bought at the flea market don’t exactly fascinate me. Those orange flip-flops are hideous, that floral dress would probably look better on a dead Jersey cow, those Chanel sunglasses scream ‘FAKE’ from a mile away, you were ripped by that ‘local’ who passed off a cheap bottle of port wine to you as Pinot Noir, you paid way too much for that straw hat (and to top it – it’s not exactly your color), and those beads – who do you think you are - a Zulu tribesman?

And please don’t bore me to death by showing me yet another ‘angle’ your ‘super-genius’ younger sibling took of you throwing pebbles like a retard into the rippling pool. He / she undoubtedly deserves a worthy mention in the Mensa International.

Good for him / her. Just spare me the details!

I also do not want to know about the glorious weather you enjoyed and how deep your lady luck runs, since the weather Gods were kind upon you, and rains did not disrupt all the canoodling you had planned.

I don't mind a couple of lines, or max, a paragraph, but Gawd - don't take my polite nodding as signs of encouragement to tell me about the coconut you kept in your room as a lucky charm!!! I'd appreciate brevity, not a full blow-by-blow account of those two wonderful weeks. Frankly, you'll either leave me gagging or frothing at the mouth. And believe me when I say I don't look appealing either way...

The only pictures I like to see are those of dogs, not because I am one myself (ahem ahem), but ‘cos I love them. Don’t make an exception to this rule and try to sneak upon me some pictures of friends / cousins / kids, because if you ask me how they look, you’d better be prepared to hear my no-holds-barred chili-laced commentary.

You shouldn't even get me started on the pictures of the red-eyed retards, asses hanging out of their pyjamas, groping hands at all the wrong places, puking all the cheap alcohol they had managed to lay their paws on. I’m a democrat – so let me tell you that there are three places for such snaps –
the fireplace,
the deep sea,
or
six feet under the ground.

The same goes for pictures of men lying half-naked in hammocks, scratching their you-know-what beneath those red Santa knickers. George Clooney can’t carry off that look, pecs notwithstanding. What makes you think you can?

And since we are on the subject – perhaps it would be best to altogether skip that pic of the ten of you eyeing the complimentary buffet like a pack of hungry wolves.

Numerous interactions with people like the ones have wisened me, and now instead of an open, ‘Hey, how was your vacay,’ I leave nothing to chance, and instead put a closed ‘Bet your vacay was fun, eh!’ When the intended recipient of the question nods or replies with a ‘Yes,’ or a ‘you betcha!’ I give a high-five or slap him on the back, and move on with an enthusiastic ‘Way to Go, man!’

My ears don’t hurt, and he gets a nice sorta feeling at being asked...

Works all the time...

Go on - try it. You can't go wrong with that one.

And remember, you heard it here!

Not upto 'Scratch'...

Agreed that there is probably no better pleasure in scratching that part of your body which is itching like crazy (next perhaps only to releasing your full bladder).

Which probably explains why so many people can be seen holding a magazine over their ahem…and getting down to business. You also have the ones who refuse to take ‘refuge’ behind the pages of some glossy, and scratch furiously in full sight of everyone who chances to look their way. And by the time you get that much-perfected disdainful expression on your face, you see that after their Michael Jackson crotch-holding impersonation, they bring up their fingers to sniff at them, or worse – delve into a frankfurter.

Of course we all suffer from the – ‘Have-an-itch-will-scratch’ syndrome. The degree and subtlety of the action differs from person to person. It would be a generalisation to say that all men do it (I have seen enough women scratching their cameltoes in my life).

But there are those who scratch as f there’s no tomorrow. If you were to hand them a back loofah, they would probably cast you a look of pure venom, and proceed to do the deed with their claws / nails / talons – what you will. The sound is agonizingly annoying.

It’s not like chalk scratching upon the classroom blackboard.

It’s not like the sound when a DJ moves a vinyl record back and forth over a turntable.

It’s not even faintly like the sound which a hooligan makes while scratching someone’s car by taking a key around it.

It’s not like the scratching sound made by a mongrel who is offering from an acute case of ticks / lice.

It’s not even like the sound made by the 10-year old girl scratching her head, and making the dry skin / dandruff fall off in flakes.

Neither is it like the scratching sound which you make while you are hurriedly jotting the number of the insurance agent.

It’s not like the sound made by your filer over your nails in a D-I-Y session.

It’s not like the sound when you push the brake pedal all the way down.

It’s worse!

Scratch-scratch-scratch-scratch – they go vigorously! Making you cringe, and almost making your hands go up by themselves to cup your ears.

Agreed we descended from apes – must we ape them so in this regard too?

Then perhaps, we should also go Ga-Ga over bananas, swing from branches, and bare our teeth at the very thought of shinning an orange tree...?

Who made all the rules about post-marriage mores?

In a world where marriages are the defining point in your life (and I don’t disagree with that), some people definitely get carried away with its very concept.

I speak with authority.

I am a bride of just over a fortnight.

Married to my beau of over two years, I take great pride in him and his family, who accept me the way I am – a spunky, light-hearted, twinkle-eyed, cheery bride, who still swears by her faded jeans, and who, even when she is in one of her many giggling spells, does not goof up her etiquette norms.

However the hunky-dory picture is marred by comments by acquaintances, sometimes colleagues, all of who have taken it as a matter of my personal impudence and effrontery by not following what they term ‘tradition.’

So I can just barely keep from biting their heads off when I hear comments to the tune of:

Where is your Mangalsutra*? You have one, right? Why don’t you wear it?

You should have at least worn the ‘Chudaa’** for a month. You took it off after a day!! Tut tut (incredulous stare)

Gawd! Doesn’t your husband object? Doesn’t he ASK you to wear them? I’m sure he WANTS you to.

Oooh. How do you step out of your house without Sindoor*** in your parting? (Horrified look)

And one of the most despicable–

You were born in the wrong country. Our country is still traditional (there you go, you have the word again), you know. Why are you such a rebel?

For someone who believes in keeping to herself, far, far away from the public eye; getting thrown pell-mell into the limelight (and not in a good way at that), these days are certainly not the most pleasant ones for her.

I fail to comprehend how people think that I love him less as compared to the average ‘Pati-vrata’**** new wifey who diligently goes out to her regular kitty-parties, bedecked in jewellery, flaunting all the ‘trappings’ of a married woman.

Add to that the aghast looks I get when I proclaim that stories are the only things I can cook, as compared to the more ‘traditional’ cooked fare, and you have all the trappings of my very own personal episode of ‘The Bad Bad Bride’ – Series 1.

Of course, it doesn’t help either that I am surgically inseparable from my (before marriage) garb. So you have the team of people who try to cajole me into wearing ethnic Indian attire to work. The pachyderm that I am, I snub them, refusing to give people the opportunity to double up with unrestrained glee at my expense, by dolling myself up like a previous year’s Christmas tree.

Too bad they wouldn’t get to see me attired in an atrociously-garish, Swarovski-laden something which closely resembles something the goldsmith would only be too happy to display in his stall at the jewellery souk.

Too bad that I can grin merrily, instead of barely being able to smile, for fear of creasing a pan-caked face - a face which has seen all the make-up items in my vanity case being made abundant use of. (Now my face is not sans-makeup, but at least you can see my skin...)

Too bad that instead of whispering coyly and shuffling feet in awkwardness, eyes down, I smirk and stare at them insolently.

Bring it on folks.

See if care!

* An auspicious thread or cord, usually made of a string of black beads on a gold chain
** A set of red and white bangles
*** Red powder (vermilion) applied at the beginning or completely along the parting-line of a married woman’s hair
**** A woman staunchly loyal to her husband

A 'Shred' of truth perhaps?

My cluttered desk at work had long been crying for attention.

So a caving-in me decided to clean up my (desk) act today.

Taking a deep breath, I made a half-hearted dive into the large pile of paper that had accumulated over the better part of the last two months, and which had clearly been shrieking their lungs out at me.

Several minutes later, at first dazed by the volume of paper that stood accusingly in front of me, I had bundled them all neatly into three piles – important, not so important (but still to be retained), and to-be-shredded. Depositing the first two piles safely in my commodious work-drawer, I heaved the last to the gleaming white shredder that still hummed happily on account of a colleague’s presentation that had to be re-worded to suit a manager's whimsical mood.

I inserted a part of my bundle into it; the machine greedily sucked in the paper. Its appetite was insatiable – lapping up paper after paper gleefully.

The analogy to some people with insatiable appetites was unmistakable.

Ironically, the machine that was invented with the intention to protect one’s privacy, resembles those people most who love to intrude into yours. Your privacy, I mean. You answer one irreverent question with an equally irreverent answer, hoping it would shut them up. Fat chance! By some twisted, dim-witted logic, they take your answering for encouragement – and then follows that grueling episode of being subjected to the Scotland-Yard-meets-NYPD rigorous cross-questioning round. The string of questions that these Nosy Parkers pose even infringes into your time with your loved ones – leaving you sore, frowning, crotchety, and not really the sunniest sunflower in the garden.

There are those who, like shredders, insist on ‘destroying’ all around them – such souls destroy all sanity, sanctity, felicity in their relationships, making the sorry bum who’s in a relationship with them, look up at the star-studded sky, hoping to wish upon a shooting star…

Sometimes the humming sound of a shredder is almost like that of that person who whines (to you) in that utterly-wretched bleat about the meaninglessness of his /her life, and who insists on your complete, undivided attention while narrating sotto voce about the many troubles that plague them.

Such people moan, groan, drone.

The works.

That one time when you clicked your tongue in sympathy listening to the ‘plagued’ soul, now costs you aplenty, ‘cos he / she now adeptly downloads troubles into your (un)willing ears. The icing on the cake – by some cruel hand of fate, they could be from some quarter of someone dear to you. So while the ‘moaning’ experience is a cathartic one for them, you are plainly itching to do some serious acupuncture damage to some part of their body.

And when such people take on the form of creepy, lousy, thick-skinned and thick-headed, semi-educated, wannabe clones, who make you want to wish that you had taken that weekend course in anger management and / or how to cope with imbeciles, what can I say but…

Tie those shoelaces, and brace yourself for the 100-meter sprint.

A run with higher stakes.

'Cos at the end of it, it is not a ribboned medal that would be your prize.

But peace of mind.

Amen.

The Have-Nose-Will-Dig Syndrome

A couple of days back, while TOOMA* and I were (im)patiently waiting for the traffic signal to turn green, we chanced to espy the woman sitting at the wheel of the car on our left.

With one dexterous finger, she wove in and out of her nose like the way a seasoned archaeologist spades in an excavation ground, convinced that his quest to unearth the highly sought after treasure chest was about to come to an end.

Except that instead of the mandatory applause and admiring looks, the lady in question got an amused look from TOOMA who proceeded to mock-ape her shovelling act, and an extended ‘Ewwww’ from me.

Such was the reaction her activity elicited.

She is not alone - probably joined by thousands who have absolutely no qualms in digging out those boogers from within their nose, in full view of anyone looking in their direction.

Talk about having no inhibitions.

In the midst of a pondering spell, they carelessly take out some ‘booty,’ play with it, and with the same kind of nonchalance, toss it. Talking over the phone, they lovingly scrape their itching noses. While sitting in the bus, they unselfconsciously do some serious digging action.

Oblivious to the gagging sounds you are making, and your saucer eyes that threaten to pop from their sockets any minute.

Do they think that their greenish-brown boogers (okay okay – I get the drift, let me not get into specifics here) are loose cannon balls that need to be hurled into the vicinity of two meters?

Or do they harbour a fondness for playing with the aforementioned slimy glob between their index finger and thumb?

Eitherwhichways, a loud, consistent ‘Blech’ is all that they get from me.

Tapping into science, I found that the term for digging up that loot from your nose using your fingers, is called rhinotillexis - people who do so compulsively are called rhinotillexomaniacs. The next line is ickier - there are some who actually, take it out from their nose, and uhmmm...put it into their mouths – mucophagy they call it. Are you retching yet?

And then you have the Austrian Doctor, Friedrich Bischinger, who strongly campaigns for mucophagy in children, declaring that doing so helps them in fortifying their immunity. *wrinkling nose*

I wonder what’s next – a socially-acceptable talent round of very very public farting and belching?

Or perhaps sneezing / depositng phlegm from a choked throat into other people’s dinner plates at snooty restaurants?

*TOOMA-The Object Of My Affection

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.

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.

For crying out 'loud'

Since when is it ok to shout over your phone?

Continuing upon my (extensive) list of pet peeves is yet another – obnoxious people who will insist upon you hearing every gory detail about the lame-assed manager they have been cursed with, that erm..little problem that is affecting someone in THAT area, what they ate for dinner the previous night, what conversation they had with the hot neighbour, what you will. No matter how much you want to ignore them, you can't.

Their louder than louder voices ensure that each bit of their conversation faithfully breezes into your reluctant ears.

Leaving you looking like a mix between a flaming tomato and the exact crimson shade of the Persian rug that sits prettily in your aunt's sitting room. Smoke drifts out from your ears and nose, and you have woken up to the thrills of snorting like the stout buffalo from the Spanish matador's nightmare.

You decide that being a murderer is just not your style, and instead just concentrate on perfecting that that unbecoming scowl on your face.

You can't help but grin you teeth in annoyance when random people holler into their phones as if it is one of two cans held with a string, the kinds that children play with.

I wince each time they increase their decibel, wishing there was a tank or a pond nearby into which I could drown their phone, or better still, they.

While I am tempted to repeat their conversation word for word as they are in the middle of it, my gumption encourages me not to work upon that original plan. Instead I clear my throat impatiently, an abrupt cough rising to the occasion, raise my perfectly-arched eyebrow and give them a death-stare, the kind that always works well.

Except in this case, sometimes it doesn't, and those people who should probably have had silencers fitted into their throats in the first place, also need to invest in a pair of hearing-aids, since they are seemingly oblivious to my (loud) exaggerated cough / clearing my throat.

Which leaves me with the last option…

Now where did I leave my sturdy mahogany cane?

Biting the bullet (literally)!

Of course, it's a fact that everyone wants to wreck their car(s).

Want to sabotage yours?

Simple. Take your home keys, and drag it across the sides, ensuring that the entire front to back gets equally scraped. Then step back, wipe the perspiration off your brow, and enjoy the admirable vandalism you have committed.

Too extreme for you? Chicken, eh?

Then look no further than decal vinyl stickers, all the rage these days, and freely available at stores worldwide.

Taking the world of customising cars by storm. To a new high altogether.

Of course, this is what every car owner wants – giving the impression that he is a badass gangster whose 4 x 4 has been riddled by bullets from a .50 or a .20, isn't it?

And oh boy! Is this fad popular! You bet! How else in the world would you explain the 4 cars that zipped past me last week, their exteriors proudly emblazoned with these 100% vinyl stickers, the hot wheels looking as if they have had more than their share of gunshots?

They look so real that unless you touch them, you wouldn't be able to tell them apart from, let's say, the real deal at the unfortunate Jallianwala Bagh wall.

Ingenious? No other word comes close to it...

Psst – can't locate a store? Fear not. Place an order online. There are a horde of websites who will only be too happy to assist you in making you look like a lame Alphaghetto. Go ahead – it isn't tacky or lame at all - Bullet1, Bullet Hole Decals, oh come on, even Prank Place has them.

Now admit it - isn't that exactly the kind of uniqueness and trendy fashion you were looking for in the first place? (Cheshire cat grin)

TOOMA* was visibly horrified to see a Safari whizzing past his own plain vanilla Accent, rolling his eyes at what he claimed was an 'eyesore.' Being his ever-wise gurl, I woke him up to the entire 'chic fashion statment' theory, exlaining that this was exactly what I called flaunting the 'right' 'With-It,' and with that, we let the subject drift to other light topics.

An enterprising poll on one such site asks readers to adjudge if applying decals that look like Bullet Holes to their cars, sends across a bad message promoting violence, or if it's cool? I voted for the former (as did 23.5% who agreed with me), but the remaining whopping 76.3% stated it looked cool and was for fun.

I mean, Foolish ol’ me! I should have had gone along with the safety in numbers theory. Duh!

That the website is dedicated in remembrance of the 9/11 attack could only be a mere coincidence, isn't it?

These guys are pure genius, I tell you.

As are those who buy these oh-so-in-vogue stickers.

Want to order some stickers for your bike / pair of wheels? Go right ahead.

My admiring glance is sure to follow you even seconds after you whiz by...


*TOOMA - The Object Of My Affection

Will someone please take down these Diwali fairy lights? Like Now!

So the other day I heard the following conversation on a leading radio channel, in which a guy kept delivering to another, a chain of Diwali (the Indian festival of lights) greetings, each one longer than the previous one rendered.

The effusiveness only kept getting onto one's nerves.

After replying the first two times, albeit a tad half-heartedly, the other man finally lost his cool demeanour, visibly vexed by the wishes, and especially since the eagerly-circled-Diwali-holiday had long sped by from his Hindu calendar.

A fortnight back, to be exact.

In a huff, he asked why the other dude was insistent on doing the utterly irksome season's greetings bit. To this, guy # 1 replied that the other still had Diwali fairy lights (commonly called ladiyaas) up on his walls, and lit them every night religiously.

Obviously his Diwali was not yet over.

Hence the Diwali greetings.

Point noted.

The same runs true in many other colonies too.

Pretty fairy-lights, rows upon rows of them, make for a sparkling visual treat at night – when the festival season descends upon us.

They sometimes make an appearance a full fortnight before Diwali day, or even before that (in some cases). Strings of lights garland most houses, the owners of some sworn to keeping them on for close to a month perhaps.

Now are these people foolish?

Or do they simply think that they are the guiding light of some people's lives?

You decide.

Yakkety-yak people and their instruments of mass annoyance

If aliens from a planet yonder spend a good amount of time peering at mortals, and if one of them right at this moment is penciling a sketch of one of us, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was an outline of a person with a hand to his ear, holding that much (mis)used gadget – the mobile phone.

Cellphones – ahh. Where do I even start from?

Everyone seems to have one these days.

Which is perfectly fine by me.

Except when it starts grating on your senses, making you want to snatch it.

Like off the ear of the person sitting with you at the restaurant where it has been doggedly perched for the last ten minutes. Instead of enjoying his meal, and using the cutlery neatly arrenged in front of him, the bloke with you is more intent on keeping one of his arms leaning on the teak table, to support the darned thing that is glued to his ear.

It’s only that you have sworn off violence altogether that you are able to keep those murderous intentions at bay, and instead smile sweetly through your second glass of bubbly.

Any other time, and the bubbly would have fizzled out of your chute glass into the surprised face of your companion.

You have many who swear by their cells, probably carrying them to their washrooms too, lest a call / message escape their ever-vigilant eyes.

And if they forget to was their hands after doing their ermm..business, cos they are going yakkety-yak on their phones, what’s a little unhygiene after all. Righto?

Sheesh!

Yesterday, while watching a movie, there were quite a few samples who obviously espoused the have-cellphone-and-my-ringtone-is-by-far-the-loudest-and-don’t-you-forget-that-in-a-hurry syndrome. So right in the middle of a lachrymose dialogue being spouted by the leading lady on the silver screen, an ear-splitting, nasal song announced its esteemed presence.

Several tut-tuts from the people around, and the owner of the offending instrument silenced it. Several minutes passed, and once again the audience settled into some peaceful movie-watching.

Not for too long though.

An old Bollywood number, warning a babu to walk slowly and cautiously on the path to love, ridden with treachery, trilled its tune for all to listen. Gasps of annoyance escaped from the audience.

Oh hell!

Haven’t these people heard of vibrate / silent modes?

And to those insolent people who stare sullenly at me when I stick out my tongue and ball my fist menacingly at them upon hearing their shrieking ringtones, here’s what I have to say…

Bite me!

Of cabs and cabmates...

It’s been over two years since cabs have featured regularly on my weekdays, taking me to that destination called the workplace.

This has put me in a more than capable position to pen my observations about the people who share them with me.

Quite a few specimens, they can be.

So you have the girl with large, soulful eyes, whose main joy in life is to whisper sweet-nothings into the ears of her (un)willing (?) beloved, who might just be cursing Graham Bell’s invention. Anyway, the motto for this lass is ‘till death do us apart,’ a motto she seems to take a tad too seriously.

Then you have the guy who, every five minutes or less, pats his carefully gelled hair,, and who is terribly partial to any shiny surface that even remotely resembles a mirror, and into which he can manage a peek at his shining crop. This guy is the easiest one to deal with – as you have to only touch his mane, which will make him shrilly scream for cover, and mutter to himself throughout the way, leaving you free to smirk all the way.

Then you have the bloke who believes in making everyone present fully aware that he suffers from ADD (Attention Deficit Disorder). Nothing else can explain why, within a spell of two minutes, he has to change the blessed radio station at least seven times. Just as soon you think you can settle down into a cosy doze with an oldie playing melodiously in the background, you are shattered out of your complacence by what can only be best described as a toad which has a severe case of the sinus, and has to make-do with a nasal, guttural rasp. At the end of five minutes, all that you can remember is a throbbing sound where your forehead used to be, and a heart that yells bloody murder.

Moving on, how can we forget the girl who makes everyone sit up and take note? And not because of the flaming lip colour she swears by. This is the girl who strongly believes in the phone syndrome – ‘Have mouth, will speak.’ And loudly, at that! So you can’t help but hear how so-and-so has bad breath or body odour. Or how the bespectacled person at work digs his nose in full view. Or what she had for dinner last Tuesday (with a running commentary of the recipe). Or to which doctor so-and-so had to go to sort out his little ‘problem.’ Ahem! Or where her family would be going on vacation in the next decade. Boy! This lady sure has some thoughts to share.

Next is the girl who is probably preparing for a chequered career in the secret services. How else can you explain the barrage of questions that come your way - How is your work? Do you have a boyfriend / girlfriend? What does he / she do? What, you don’t have one? Why not (look of unspeakable pity and horror write large on her painted face, and in her saucer-like eyes)? Some more digging around - have you never had one? Or did you decide to part ways? Why? Do you plan to stick to the job? Have you seen the new movie being aired at the theatres? What will you do for the weekend? Yada yada. She Till your eyes become glazed, your throat becomes parched, and you have to reach out for your phone to pick up an imaginary call.

Aha. Leaving out the self-proclaimed DJ would be a crime. With earphones perpetually stuck to his ears, and a mouth constantly chewing on gum, you can’t help but notice him. Or rather, hear him. So loud is the volume of the rock he is hearing that you are tempted to carry along your own set of headphones the next day onwards.

The above sometimes make way for new faces, notably the girl who can’t stop humming (and who makes you constantly look out for the mysterious bee inside the cab), the guy who can’t wait for the weather to get pleasant, so that he could request that the air conditioning be kept off (and he can conveniently puff smoke-spirals), the guy who constantly drums on the window panes (perfecting his hand at the bongos, no doubt), the constantly-rummaging-in-her-bag-for-something-or-the-other-girl etc.

There is always a constant though - the twinkling-eyed girl who has made it her business to observe them all, to pen her next blog post…

(Optional applause).

Stand back people. Let me give a sweeping bow.

"Penciling" it out

When I “upgraded” from pencils to pens in school, I couldn't be happier; infact, I felt a strange sense of deliverance.

After all, the sound of a pencil on paper is as disgusting to me as a person sucking snot out of his nose into his mouth may be for you.

While a lot of my classmates in school and college flinched when the teacher’s chalk, in a hasty spell of writing, produced a screeching sound where it met the blackboard, I was the only “whacko” who would cringe every time someone would hastily jot down something with a pencil.

It became worse in college, when my roommate (now my best friend), would study with me for the approaching exams. While m textbooks and notes looked like a rainbow, thanks to the multi-highlighter approach I was partial to, she would proceed with her studying by underlining (and boy! Could she underline) the text, much to my obvious vexation.

One look at my perfectly arched disapproving eyebrow, and she would promise not to use the displeasing pencil.

However, ever so softly, within minutes, she would be willfully underlining with the offensive pencil again.

Despite the next to no sound, my keen sense of sound would be in force, and after five seconds or so of keeping my ears pricked like a vigilant cocker-spaniel, I would spring up from the chair or bed, as the case may be, cast a look of pure venom at my now apologetic friend, and fling myself on either the courtyard bench or the corridor stairs, a decidedly scowling look evident on my face.

What else could you expect from someone, who, right in the middle of an entire year of debating, writing, sports, quizzing, and retail-therapy, was rudely awakened by the call of the annual monster – the examinations? And who, while in the midst of a chaotic time of notes-borrowing, cramming, studying with one sleepy and one half-awake eye, on a tummy which craved outside food, but which had to contend with hostel-food for the time-being, had to also cope with dreadful pencil-underlining sounds.

The scene was no better in the college common-room, where students from all three years, probably vied with unsaid competitions of who-will-underline-the-most-and-drive-Vandana-hopping-crazy, leaving me very very hot and bothered.
Till now, when someone picks up a pencil, I look alarmingly at the person, a look of don’t-tell-me-you-are-going-to-use-that-thing-are-you? on my very expressive face.

It is easy if the person is known and if I have a comfort level with him / her, because then I can playfully a) pass a pen into his / her hands (like when I do to TOOMA when he is penciling a writing task) or b) in the eventuality of no pen in hand, plead with him / her not to make use of the odious writing instrument, citing the virtues of oral communication or honing a razor-sharp memory instead.

However, the trouble arises if the person is not too well-known to me, or worse, if I, for obvious reasons, cannot risk myself be termed a weirdo by confiding about my unease at hearing a pencil sound. I have known people who, after hearing about my idiosyncrasy, have a look of disbelief and / or pity at my plight plainly plastered on their sometimes smug faces.

Needless to say, they don’t do wonders for me.

At all such times, I just squirm in my place, waiting for the abominable sound to stop.

Sighing with relief when the monstrous pencil is put down….

This is probably me at her quirky best!

Unsightly "spitting"-images

So the other day I was waitin on the railway platform, waiting for my train to chug-chug me to Momie and Dadie dearest.

The people around me were varied - a young couple, armed with the latest who-dun-it, four-year something kid in tow; the old lady who alternated between looking at her cane basket and her gold wrist-watch; the two girls who looked as if they had just completed their annual college exams and were happily headed home; the young executive who stood pompously with his laptop (office-given?), shaking his head regularly, and clucking to himself; the three army jawans who were enjoying steaming hot cups of tea in the cool, summery night; and yours truly looking intently at them all (when she was not cooing sweet nothings into the phone to TOOMA).

It was then that the couple’s kid decided to whine.

Very characteristically loudly at that.

Shaking me out of my observing spell.

Many pairs of eyes, mine included, peered at the loud child, who seemed to be thoroughly annoyed with someone or something.

The offending thing turned out to be a sticky piece of chewing gum which some inconsiderate so-and-so had spat out, and which had, in turn, stuck to the back of the bench upon which the unfortunate child had chosen to play jumping-jack on.

The more the kid tried to remove the mucky piece of gum, the more it stuck to him. A shrill whimper escaped from his lips, making his parents leave their books upon their luggage, and rush to his rescue.

While they took turns to get the mess off him, I couldn’t help but wonder what makes people spit out chewing gum onto pavements, backs of chairs and tables, walls, public transport etc. While many crib about the odd cigarette butt that you may espy on the road, it is not too uncommon to find a stray chewing gum making its way to the sole of your brand-new Adidas,’ much to your visible exasperation.

So many aesthetically-designed, peeper-pleasing buildings and campuses turn to eye-sores this way. Seeing chewing gum on the road is as disgusting as seeing a giant blob of “gob” which some thoughtless person has spat. In a country where people make their way regularly through mouthfuls of orange-colored betel nut leaves and other forms of tobacco, it is not rare to see these visibly tell-tale orange blobs on the pavements, and many a time, even bang in the middle of the street.

Unsightly-sights them all.

Makes me want to go over personally to the houses of these wayward “spitters” and do a good job of spewing out some of my own onto their carefully arranged carpets, rugs, mats, etc. Blech!

Alternatively, a one-way ticket to Singapore is what I would recommend to such people. And of course they need to be armed with cartons of chewing gums of all shapes and kinds.

Thank God they make top-notch whips out there.

I’m no liberal bleeding-heart, I know.

And I also know I’m definitely going to hell;-)