The 'Aur Batao' syndrome

The phone rings. It’s really not one of your speaking days, yet you sigh, cradling the phone in your palm, and exchange the mandatory greetings.

Barely a minute into the pleasantries, and you hear that most annoying of questions –‘Aur Batao' (loosely translated as ‘Tell Me More’)?

You reply with the listless, non-commital ‘Nothing much, things are pretty decent,’ statement that you have mugged-up for precisely such moments.

Hoping that the person on the other side of the line gets the hint, and gives you the opportunity to parrot that much-too-obvious-cheerful ‘Bye.’

She is made of stronger stuff though and it’s easier said than done to shake her off.

And so she starts venting. A not-so-brief vent / crib.

About the weather.
The latest scandal to have hit tinsel town.
The so-called smug friend who drops names lavishly.
Her year-end plans to go for an oh-so-romantic cruise.
Colleagues who make her hair stand up on end.
Upcoming movies that have made it to her definitely-must-watch list.

You try a couple of times to butt-in, but you obviously cannot manage a word in between.

And then the ironical expression resurfaces – ‘Aur Batao.’ Yeah Right!!

You hitch your eyebrows, and manage to mumble a lame ‘Nothing. All is well.’

To which, the joker, oblivious to your reticence, chants an ‘Oh, ok.’ And her most favourite expression comes flooding back. With a vengeance!

‘Aur Batao.’

Aaargh! Bite Me!

Telecom companies must sure love these two words that probably standalone marshal a sizeable revenue for them.

You wish the phone lines would snap, thus ending the meaningless conversation that is taking place (horror horror) in your very own life, and not from some monotonous family saga that some women swear by religiously.

Ha! Fat chance! If your luck were really that good, you would have hit the jackpot a couple of times by now, considering you had bought tickets to every Lotto since you were 15.

Your walk down memory lane is interrupted by yet another ‘Aur Batao.’ (In Tone #77 - there are different pitches and tones in which this question is uttered, you see - from a sighing fashion to a more upbeat one, from a squeaky falsetto to a deep-throated one).

Sheeeesh! Why the constant prodding?

Christ! If you did want to tell her in the first place, you wouldn't need the constant nudging for sure!

It’s easier to get a dog to part with his bone that it is to elicit a response from you, by using that obnoxious, Nosy Parker-ish, intrusive query, innit?

Don't people learn?

Aur Ab Aaap Batao?*
(Cheshire-cat grin)

*(Loosely translated into 'And now, you tell me more).

An overdose of red and pink - Valentine's Day!

It all started with a soft beep last night.

My cell had just received a message.

Nothing extraordinary about it – I receive a fair share of messages everyday.

Except that this one came from a person who I had not been in touch with for ages.

A saccharine-sweet, threatening-to-give-diabetes-to-me message unfolded right in front of my eyes, much to my surprise.

And then it dawned upon me - the clock had just chimed twelve…

And it was Valentine’s Day. The day Cupid works for all year round, but gets credit for only today...

I was just wondering the other day why this day whips up so many otherwise sane people in a frenzy. Sample the following:

For some people, preparations start right in earnest as long back as a fortnight or even a month before the actual day.

- Premier tickets to the pulling-at-your-heart-strings, achingly sweet movies - TICK
- Couple sessions to the his and hers spa - TICK
- Romantic horoscope books (zodiac-wise) - TICK
- Aromatherapy candles in every possible fragrance - TICK
- Pay budding guitarist friend to serenede object of affection with his / her fave song - Uhmm, yeah TICK

A field month for card and gift makers, flower-sellers, jewelry manufacturers, spa and resort owners, even gadget giants – who go grinning like Cheshire cats, all the way to the bank. Oh did I mention the (cheesy) matching ‘couple’ watches?

Shades of red (and pink) which I had never known existed, seem to be shouting off the rooftops in the form of abundant soft, furry toys that make me

a) Grimace
b) Break out in a cold sweat
c) Both the above

An up market coffee place has even come out with “innovative” Valentine shakes, complete with one straw (how exceedingly orally-hygienic. Ahem.) for the oh-so-much-in-love couples…

Promises to be quite a mentally-progressive sight.

The D-Day has come. Complete with all the fanfare you can imagine.

Couples, dressed all in their finery (read more shades of crimson), walk all lovey-dovey, hand-in-hand, casting deep looks of adoration at each other.

Oblivious to those around them, they proceed to their chosen venue – a restaurant, a hotel, a tapri, a park, McDonald’s (depending on how deep their pockets are).

Some of the men cast furtive looks around - hoping, wishing, praying that they are not spotted by anyone who will snitch on them to the boss. After all, all that bulldozing by the lady love had made them call up at work with the lame, 'I-don't-feel-well-enough-to-come-to-office ruse...As if a day's earning not reaching their pockets was not enough, they have to also make peace with endless rounds of the swanky mall, and (sob) paying for obnoxiously expensive items...

Ohhh, and can I forget, they are armed with bouquets – blushing flowers (again of the red-hued variety), carrying them like war-trophies. Some hands are also laden with chocolates (in heart shapes, no less), cushions (again of the heart-shaped variety), CDS of the mushiest-possible numbers - and other such 'heart-y' paraphernalia.

(The flowers have been purchased at triple their actual costs, making many flower-sellers break out into merry jigs).

Quite a few cliched 'proposals' do the rounds on this day...The 'L'-word is spluttered out, causing immense merriment for friends the next day, who leave no stone unturned in tormenting the poor souls who uttered the dreadful word...

With looks that speak a thousand words, the couples then start the customary gift-giving (procured from beaming merchants). Ooooohs and aaahs follow in quick succession. Furtive pecks, kisses, caresses, you name it - do the rounds.
And that’s what Valentine’s Day has come to…For quite a few folks…


Though the next morning many of these selfsame couples may go back to their quibbling selves, for one 'glorious" day, love is definitely in the air.

And how!

The Curious Case of the Accented Crowd

The other day, I happened to be in the restroom of a plush South Delhi hotel where a known Emcee was speaking with a couple of her friends. They were like any other giggling, late-twenty somethings - sharing some light moments, powdering their noses, exchanging notes about the new salon in town, making plans for the upcoming weekend etc. Nothing singular in that.

So far, so good.

Which is why, it came as a surprise, when outside the hotel, when she was approached by a ‘Zoom’in channel for a quick byte, she drawled her reply in a noticeably fake, nasal American accent.

Leaving me and the others very startled at the sudden accent-switch.

Now I am all for accents. I quite like some of them - the clipped Brit accent, the soft Scottish and the laidback Aussie accent (even though they do eat most of their syllables).

However, the key to liking all of them is the same - authenticity.

Which was not the case with the above Emcee in question. Dressed in her vintage Chanel dress, red-soled CLs, an LV bag in tow, and an Omega Constellation (yes I do notice these details), she hardly seemed to be in want of confidence – which is why it was harder to put down her accent as a case of one of those low self-esteem days.

Which led me to wonder – why do some people imitate accents? And do a bad job at that?

Madonna couldn’t carry off her weirdly-pronounced Brit accent either, drawing many mocking jeers and stifled chortles from those who heard her. Closer home, Bollywood’s brat – SK – and his ex-flame, the ethereally beautiful Miss World – AR (or is it ARB now), are known, albeit infamously, for their nasal accents. Mid-life crises, anyone?

The nerdy Ross from the American sitcom F*R*I*E*N*D*S, also tried his hand at a British accent, but only managed a hint of an Aussie one. But full marks for effort - he after all, did manage to have the viewers in splits.

It’s plain amusing to ask someone where they picked a Texan accent, and hear that they ‘can’t help it,’ ‘it’s au naturale’ (they were raised all their lives in some North-Indian town) or because they studied overseas - for a semester, no less! Ahem!

Some people do it subconsciously – speaking with their friends in their ‘regular’ English, and as soon as they are approached by a blonde tourist at let’s say, a watering hole, embark on a put-on accent. The kind that makes their friends eyes pop out, faces distorted with barely-conceled hilarity, waiting for their chance to hoot at their accented friend.

Is it some deeply-entrenched inferiority complex that makes these people break out into an American twang / Irish accent?

Do they want to blend in and adapt with the accent of the listener?

Do they think they make the cut and sound cute / hip / hot?

Do they love being the obnoxious jackass that everyone listens to carefully, only to be made the butt of severely-unkind remarks behind their backs?

Do they suffer from a tragic case of low self esteem and image?

Do they think an accent elevates their status?

Let’s hear your thoughts...

Shove at First Sight

The other day, on my way to work, I saw a 20-something girl beating the daylights out of a similarly-aged boy. Though I was at a distance, I could easily fathom that what could have been a minor lovers’ tiff had done a volte-face, taking an ugly turn. The boy stood apologetically with hands folded, looking beseechingly at his lady love, who in turn, looked in no mood for any compassion. She stood erect, one hand holding what was perhaps the boy’s mobile (no doubt holding some telltale clue to the aggression on display). With the other hand, she pummelled his chest with all her might, hurling vitriolic abuses at him, her face contorted with blind fury.

There was of course an expected stream of curious bystanders. Some had even pulled up their vehicles to witness this tussle - commenting, giggling and cheering-on the two agitated parties.

This led me to wonder – while people and quarrelling are inseparable, what makes even busy people stop dead in their tracks to become onlookers at brawls?

We see it all the time – two neighbours are quarrelling loudly outside their homes – a bandwagon of people gather around them in the twinkling of an eye. The spectators get completely caught-up in the squawking, taking sides, shaking fists, doling out unsolicited advice that was bound to cause bodily harm to either or both of the two warring parties, and giving free wings to their repressed anger - in the form of unparliamentary language. All this while, they forget their own household chores that need attending to. More often than not, they are often unaware of what caused the commotion in the first place. Minutes later, when the two neighbours decide to call it a day, the crowd disperses, chattering excitedly, and taking steps back to their humdrum lives.

There is the oft-reported pub-scene where highly-'spirited' men exchange sneers over beers, moving on to risky whiskey, brandishing unsightly middle fingers in each other's faces, and finishing with kicks and blows after consuming a few more. They are egged on by the other patrons, till the fed-up owner of the lounge sends in a couple of beefy bouncers to extricate the two.

We also see the occasional scene when a speeding motorist rams into the car ahead of his. Bam! The owner of the first car steps out - fist clenched, a snarl all too evident on his frowning face, smoke billowing out of his ears. He dives into the driver’s open window of the second car, switching off the ignition and pocketing the car keys triumphantly. A push and an unkind shove are next, followed by rude vocabulary that involves doing unspeakable acts to the other’s mother or sister. A loud smack is often heard, leaving an audience of 20 stunned, waiting with bated breath for the next slap. ‘Witnesses’ who weren’t there in the first place, zoom up, stepping forward, adding to the drama as it unfolds, ensuring a trail of blows, ear-pulling, swearing, eye-poking and collar-grabbing. Name-dropping is at its most generous and phone calls to relatives or friends who are in the higher rungs of the police ladder, are lawyers, or goons, are made in quick succession.

It's just too bad if your car happens to be behind – as obviously the two parties have no qualms of stopping right in the middle of a busy flyover or crossing. You smack your forehead in annoyance, praying that the two sort out their differences before they come to blows and neutral police have to be called for assistance.

What is with people, we included, that makes us stop all that we are doing, to see one guy pounding the cr*p out of another?

Are we all proving something to ourselves?

Or is watching a fight equivalent to making up for something lacking in us?

Does seeing someone nailing a punch on someone and making him kiss mother earth equate to a primal instinct in us to fight?

Does it take us back to our youth, when a resounding slap and a stern mouth said it all?

Does our latent sporting talent get a resuscitation when we see a chap do some good footwork on another?

Is it the sheer adrenaline pump of watching an action flick unfold right in front of us?

Does it stem from one of our oldest urges of curiosity?

Does it unleash our dormant sociopathic streak?

Is it our gut feeling of betting and waiting to see who emerges winner?

Or do we think that violence is the solution to everything?

Any other lame reason for doing so?

You tell me...

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….

Talking over the cell while in the loo - a 'bunch of crap'

You are at your workplace. Bladder bursting, you trot to the restroom on your floor. Alas! Both are occupied. You wait (im)patiently, tapping your foot to distract yourself from that all those waves of pressure that are hitting you. Causing your toe to curl, and you to cast woebegone looks at the doors. Your bladder threatens to embarrass you any second now, and you wish you had a couch where you could at least plonk and cross your legs, never mind the drama.

And then you stop dead in your tracks. There it was. No, not the warm sensation of you losing control in little short spurts in your pants. Phew!

But a smothered chortle from the closed door on the left.

And a muffled stream of conversation from the door on your right.

You purse your lips, wondering if there was a secret hole between the two adjacent washrooms, which enabled both people inside to exchange niceties while they did their business.

And then it dawns upon you. They were both talking, not to each other (TGFSM), but over their respective phones. This is also the precise moment when your nightmarish time begins - your sphincter warning you not to take the call of Mother Nature lightly while two exasperating people speak animatedly into their mobiles.

Several thoughts cross you mind as you contend with violent cramps...

Would it be rude to rap your knuckles at the locked doors?
Did you want to warrant a kick with your spanking new leather shoes?
Would clearing your throat give a hint to the two inside to step out?

You decide for the last option, clearing your throat in an aggrieved fashion that would have sounded more appropriate in the chambers of a seasoned laryngitis specialist.

Silence.

You wait to hear the welcome flushing sound to trickle into your ears. Some shuffling of feet and a brisk zipping sound of the fly being done up...

No such luck. After 10-seconds, the conversation(s) inside resume(s) from where it / they had been left off – at your all-too-evident and unmistakable throat-clearing. Darn!

You groan – clutching your sides, the call of nature hot on your tail. The last time you had clutched them so tightly was when you had stitches in your side from laughing uncontrollably during a particularly funny episode of your favourite sitcom. Except that that last time had been a pleasurable sensation, as compared to the dreadful one presently that looked intent on making you do what your 6-year old nephew was scolded for – pant-wetting.

After what seems like an eternity, you finally hear the flush. You almost make the exiting individual topple over in your haste to lock the door behind you and sit on the john. Forgetting to give him / her the much-perfected scowl which you thought he / she truly deserved. The startled, still-talking-into-the-mobile dude sails out, talking pointedly about people who could do with some impatience-management. At any other point, you would have stood your ground and retaliated with a seething answer. But today you were just thankful to enter and take that much-needed leak.

Leaving you with the big question...

Why? Why? Why? Why a toilet? For God’s sake? Weren’t there any other places to yap? Had the workplace run out of places where you could ring up people?

I’ve seen people talking over phones and carrying them nonchalantly into the restroom, continuing their conversation and taking care of their business at the same time. Leaving me horrified. Do they even wash up after that? I don't even want to go into that (unwashed) territory...

Just the other day, I was in a theatre, and had to attend to some urgent short business. Right before I could relieve myself, I heard some strains of the latest Bollywood number, and then the sound of a lady answering the ringing phone from the stall adjacent to mine. Now, the call was no emergency I could tell - I overheard Ms Pisser tell another Pisser about the pissing day she had had – in loud and dulcet tones. Well she truly deserved the ‘crappy’ day, pardon the pun, I almost wanted to holler. Especially since after she let out relieved 'ahhs' regularly after each soft but unmistakable 'plop plop,' and passed wind brazenly, the malodour of which caused me to retch and gag, such was the sound and smell show! Blech!

Too bad for her that I flushed noisily when she was about to mouth the second ‘I-lurrrrrve’you’ into her mouthpiece...*evil grin*

I came out repulsed – wondering what was more unacceptable – talking in the loo or talking during a movie?

Don’t people realize know it’s rude? Besides being unhygienic? And gross? All rolled into one.

Or am I missing a pee, oops wee bit here?

Good Bye (and Good Riddance?)

There it was again – another sleep-inducing, farewell email from a fellow colleague, who had no doubt done a not-so-neat cut-copy-paste routine from his predecesor not so long ago.

I dissed it, barely glancing at what I knew would have read somewhat like this:

Hi All / Dear Friends,
With mixed feelings of happiness and sorror (yeah right!), finally the time has come for me to bid you a fond farewell / As some of you may know, today is my last day at XYZ Company.
It has been a professionally rewarding experience here (tongue-biting). Thank you for the unending support you have constantly provided me during my golden (huh?) carrier (yeah some of ‘em do write that) here.
I hope you stay in touch with me. Though my official email id would get deactivated by today evening, please keep in touch with me at abc@yahoo/gmail/hotmail.com
Good bye!

Is it the boredom of reading a done-to-death valedictory email? Is it the sheer repetitiveness of it all that shrieks Fake Fake Fake in bold lettering? Whatever be the case, this is the exact moment when my eyes get droopy and leaden, yawning gets the better of me, and I roll my eyes exaggeratedly.

Of course I can cut the guy some slack – on his last day at work, there are a hundred pressing issues to be dealt with – accounts, tax, clearance certificates, reference letters, the last shared coffee and lunch, much hand shaking and back-thumping…leaving the poor chap with hardly any time to compose a farewell email.

Yet, in all objectivity, how much time would it really take to put together a brief, decent paragraph? Nothing fancy, mind you. Just a simple draft in which he a) bids farewell b) mentions the memories he takes ahead with him and c) includes the personal email address bit? And leave the recipients to nod their heads and smile in unison instead of making them gag in disbelief at the OD display...

He needn’t mention the fairly obvious truths he may have come across in his work-spell, like Chris Kula, the comedy writer, whose farewell speech was ripped and re-hashed by a guy from JPM and floated across the Firm in a stinging email, burning bridges in the process. Both make for equally amusing reading, but are strictly avoidable, unless you fancy the idea of your F&F payment never making it to your bank account.

Now, while many would not be as game (or as good) as him in whacking the management with a malacca cane, is it really asking for too much to abstain from one of them a dime-a-dozen B-O-R-I-N-G Good bye emails that sound like soporific movie award speeches?

Nobody really pays attention to the cine stars as they clutch their awards and rave about who all helped them achieve their dream, their (over)generous thanking of everyone under the sun (dog included), and the all-too-obvious-contrived tears..(Years of hastily-applied glycerine looked primed for a decided death).

Can we please at least have some genuine-sounding Bub-Bye emails, if not the flashing-the-middle-finger-boldly ones?

Though we’d like to add that we do enjoy the occasional witty verbal treat too, you see. Thank you.

Watching spooky flicks - a 'ghost' of a chance for me...

I grew up on a regular diet of books. You could call me your regular bookworm. However, there was one stack of books I never did touch - my brother’s collection of horror novels (No he wasn’t a bookworm, he just kept them to keep me from fiddling in his shelf).

The only ghost I could see without scaring people half to death with my bloodcurdling scream, was Casper. And he didn’t really count – cute, white, slightly obese kid-ghost. That he stayed in a gravestone only added to his quirkiness…
So here I am - an incurable phasmophobe. In simpler words, I fear ghosts. Many might share my fear, I know. It gives me some solace that there are many others like me whose hearbeats increase rapidly, a feeling of dread descends, their mouths go dry - when they as much as hear a friend narrate a particularly spooky story in the middle of a night.

Best friend is a sucker for horror, spooky tales. And movies. If she’s watching one at home, chances are that it would be along the likes of The Exorcist, The Haunting, Poltergeist, Blair Witch Project, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, the Evil Dead, or Ring. And to think that during the most scary parts, she calmly pops popcorn into her mouth. More recently – she’s been gushing about the home-video Paranormal Activity, a spooky flick about a young couple who have a demonic presence in their apartment. Even hubby dearest is partial to this very same movie. Argh!

Which brings me to that eternal question – why do people pay big bucks at theaters to get terrified?
Is it the thrill of getting to assess their threat levels?
Does it elicit some primal behavior?
Do they like the escapism factor?
Do they get an adrenaline rush akin to like going on a rollercoaster ride?
Do they like the idea of watching someone’s fear unfold in a controlled environment?
Or do they like to count their palpitating heart beats?

Beats me!

What's your say?

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?

Of chipped cups and manky mugs...

It's a grey, wintry day.

The sun has decided to go into hibernation behind the gloomy clouds.

And the steaming cup of hazelnut cappucino looks up at me invitingly, the aroma of greshly ground coffee beans wafting towards my happy nose.

I cup my hands around it, taking in its warmth, and then with one hand, lift it towards my soon-to-be-gratified mouth.

This is where I freeze, purse my lips, and glower at the frothing coffee.

Hubby dearest takes one look, senses what’s happening, and hands me his own cup.

I nod at him in silent gratitude. A quick examination and I take a sip. It wasn’t hazelnut, but I’d make-do with it.

That’s what chipped cups and crockery do to me – they make me break out into my surly-frown-pursed-lips routine.

For many people, crockery should be just functional. What is a mere chip or a crack here and there. Not to me. I’ve walked up in many a restaurant to get my chipped cup / plate exchanged for a non-chipped one. I’ve been known to squirm in my seat at people’s places – and asked them if they could possibly change my cup. Sometime, I’ve just made an excuse to drinking from one.

Some people keep chipped crockery at bay – ‘cos the chips can harbor bacteria. I keep those darn chipped items at bay – because I can’t stand the sight of them. I anyway don’t mind the odd germs, and am all for growing our immunity. Just give me an intact mug, and avoid making me go off my rocker. They look ugly with a capital ‘U.’ They can cut your lip. They look manky. Do you need more reasons? I don’t think so...

My bro, who’s more interested in whether the food’s cooked properly rather than a chip in the plate, calls me dotty. So does hubby dearest. They’ve both got their reasons, I’ve got mine. Fair and square...

Call me wasteful. Call me queer – if I had my way, I’d drop all chipped crockery into the nearest landfill.

Or probably smash them into smithereens... And clap my hands gleefully...

And maybe, just maybe, I should start carrying my favorite mauve cup around. And earn more nicknames for myself like the weirdo who whips-out a mug from her bag !

Two wrongs don't make a right

What can I say about people who, whether intentionally or otherwise, point you in the opposite direction from your intended destination?

That they are evil. Besides being inaccurate, of course. The irony is that some genuinely want to help – but fail, despite their noblest of intentions...

Could it be perhaps that bred in an urban culture that considers not offering to ‘help’ an improper and impolite mannerism, people look up and down the street, eyebrows knitted in concentration, and then point out along the road that looks fairer? You smile at them, acknowledging that they stopped whatever they were doing – driving, riding, walking, reading the newspaper, eating talking – to give you directions, and along you go...

The only hitch – they were clueless. But would sooner eat a hat than admit it that they have no idea where house number xxx on avenue 123 along street XIV was located.

Which explains why after the seventh right bend, you are where you started, or worse even further from where you wanted to be. A poultry farm stares you in the face instead of the house you had to visit. Guttural sounds of disgust do nothing to relieve your state of mind...And to think that you thought the chap knew what he was talking about.

Are we that conditioned to believe that not knowing something as trivial as a site location is a sign of inadequacy, a limiting factor, an Achilles’ Heel? Does not knowing the way to a certain locale make us insufficient and cause us to question our own competence?

Going a step further – those who create their own directions. These are a seriously malevolent one. One look at your harried face and perspiring brow – and voila! They have found a simpleton - willing victim, pardon the colloquialism – a ‘bakraa’ - for their sick humor. As soon as you push off on the deliberately-sent-upon-wrong-route, they burst into raucous guffaws, while you, all too oblivious to their perversity…till a few blocks later. By then, it’s too late – for your appointment.

As well as for you to lay your hands on the chortling scoundrel!

The only consolation – you escaped being tried for cold murder by an unsympathetic judge.

A Fate to Fade...

Barring that illegible doctor’s scrawl in the prescription, I can’t think of too many handwritings I get to see these days.

Save perhaps my Mum’s printed handwriting in one of her letters.

Or hastily scribbled forms.

Or neatly signed cheques.

But such cases are less and far in between.

Of course there was the much-publicized hand-written letter by Barrack Obama in May this year, to the openly gayelle army soldier in Missouri, pledging the repeal of the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell (DADT) law. But then, such letters fall again in the category of exception than the general rule.

After all, who does handwrite letters anymore today, you’d think?

Some years back though, the scene was quite different. At any given moment of time, when a person would be stepping out of his house, his mental check-list would have looked somewhat like this:

Home keys – check
Car keys – check
Phone (if he had one) – check
Wallet – check
Pen – check

As compared to now, where the last item invariably sees an unceremonious knock-off.

Even kids these days, would possibly raise their eyebrows questioningly in a ‘you-don’t-really-mean-that, do-you?’ stare if you were to even suggest a module in cursive writing.

In all fairness, I don’t blame them - writing could indeed be messy and time-consuming, as compared to the easier texting on a mobile phone or shooting off a few sentences in a snap of a finger (for which we have the World Wide Web to thank)). No smudging, no dipping fountain-pen-in-ink routine, no looking for pencil sharpeners / erasers, heck - not even rummaging the drawer for a refill!

And now with technologies like fingerless gloves and electrical pattern-recognized algorithms being discussed as future realities, the art of handwriting looks set to fizzle out completely.

It is poignant – this ebbing, fading trend, a trend on its way to a definite extinction…

Especially for the school / college same girl who would use pens of all makes and colors to pen down her thoughts in her distinctive, loopy handwriting, doing-up her ‘i’s’ in fancy little circles, and who has now resorted to the more ‘convenient,’ no-fuss texting in getting a thought across as quickly as possible...

As usual practicality prevails over the channel adopted…

(P)ASSWORDS

Considering the number of passwords I struggle to remember, it’s a wonder that the three odd grey strands of hair on my recently-turned 29 year-old crop of hair, haven’t multiplied by now.

And since I haven’t started colouring them, I can’t even attribute them to some ‘because-you’re-worth-it’ snooty hair colour brand that so many whom I know, are patrons of.

Of course, there are those who never forget any password, and wrinkle up their noses in disdain at me. This article is clearly not for those condescending sorts. But for people like me for whom wading through several passwords is nothing short of a miracle- almost like an inept child trying to swim the Atlantic, that useful link on most webpages – ‘Forgot your password? Click here,’ is a Godsend.

For how else are you supposed to commit to memory at least 30-40 passwords, some alpha-numeric, some in capitals, and some with both upper and lower case. And just when you think you have finally stored your office PC’s password, Bang! It’s time for you to change it.

There are cute little utilities like the Apple Keychain, which saves all your passwords, leaving you free to remember other details of your life. But I do not own a Mac, and will therefore just pause to do the customary shaking-head-in-pity-for-myself schedule.

(Pause)

And now, since the above is also out of the way, the time is now right for me to give you a better idea of how my life is one long swim through passwords.

Giving you an idea of the various areas where I have to wade through. Sample the following areas where I need to remember my ‘unique’ password:

1) Blog password
2) Email account
3) Official email account
4) Internet Banking account (The more accounts, the better? Says who?)
5) Internet broadband password
6) Internet bill password
7) PC password
8) Laptop password
9) Social networking password
10) Blog password
11) Cellfone bill password
12) Cellfone password
13) Credit / Debitcard password
14) Online shopping password
15) Photo editing password
16) Job portals passwords
17) Insurance password
18) Railway booking password
19) Airlines and hotel booking website password
20) NGOs passwords
21) IT returns password
22) Electricity bill password
23) Business Networking password
24) Online cakes and florist website password
25) Clustrmaps password
26) Movie booking site password
27) Onlne book purchasing store password
28) Onlne survey conducting tool password
29) Pet password (yes, believe it or not, our labrador has a membership to a social networking site too)
30) CISCO Phone login password
31) College alumni password
32) Wikipeda editing password

....And the list goes on.....

Too bad Arnold’s ‘Total Recall’ never figured in my lists of favorites.

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...?

(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.

The Mystery of the Magic Wallet

Aladdin had a magic carpet which transported him, in the twinkling of an eye, across the swirling sands of the desert.

I saw an old couple sharing some magical moments with each other, while taking a walk into the evening sun.

Some entrepreneurs have a magical touch; whatever they touch turns to gold, making each venture more successful than the last.

When you are hurt (emotionally or physically), someone’s reassuring, soothing words work like magic.

Cinderella’s fairy Godmother had the magic wand which, with one wave, turned the sweet put plain cinder girl to centrefold gorgeousness personified.

For some, thankfully, the three magic words – ‘Please, sorry, thank you,’ still exist.

As for me, what magic do I have in my life?

I have a magic wallet.

Pray what is that, you might arch an eyebrow and ask curiously.

Well, to answer your query, I have a wallet, which no matter how much money you put into it, does one of the following:

A) makes the money disappear (one day its clearly there, the other day it vanishes)
B) changes the currency notes into receipts!!

Can you think of anything more magical!

I suspect the glitzy malls that have mushroomed in every nook and corner of the city, have something to do with the case of my perpetually drained-out wallet / purse.

These pesky shops pull me to them, extending their ritzy arms to me, waiting for me to reciprocate their warm embrace.

And once I do, everyone knows the story of the Venus trap, and how difficult, almost impossible it is, to escape from its clutches. It is akin to a flailing fish trying to escape from the tentacles to a triumphant octopus.

Anywhichways, yours truly’s wallet is usually the picture of a barren nation, quite a far picture from the ‘greenery’ she would like to see.

Sometimes, methinks it has an invisible suction cup attached to it, which cunningly siphons off all the hard-earned cash I religiously put into it. Drat!

Good friend from college, let’s call her by her initials – RS, also echoes my feelings, saying that her wallet too has this black hole which constantly makes trips to the friendly ATM to replenish it, almost a bi-weekly feature.

Those plastic shopping bags that produce such a pleasing, crunching sound are also to be blamed, as even when RS and I walk like two horses with blinkers, we inadvertently chance upon bargains that are too-hard-to-pass-up-and-go-by and no matter how hard we bite our lips, we can’t help but take a peek, and then…DISASTER strikes - wallets are whipped-out, payments are made, and those beguiling packets are handed us. Guilt often sets in, within 10-15 minutes of the shopping spree, depending upon the bill run-up.

To drown our sorrows, the strategically-placed bistro / lounge almost calls out to us in a sexy baritone, and we fall victim yet again – to yet another meal, where, for the amount we pay, the portions are surprisingly miniscule.

(The poor wallets scowl, muttering to no one in particular about how they like to be exclusive, and don't like making too frequent appearances, and how they wished their daft owners understood that).

Promises are made – that we would watch where our steps lead us(literally), that we would swear off the FDs (four devils, not the other acronym that my Dad would be proud of if I invested in them). These demons are, in descending order of costs – perfumes, bags, footwear, and clothes / accessories / makeup. Darn!

However, considering that a couple of days back, I made my way through an entire floor of a perfume-sniffer’s delight, without picking up a single bottle, does speak volumes of my turning over a new leaf.

Well, just maybe...

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;-)

Weather Woes

“It’s sooooo hot. I’m so gonna melt any minute now. My prickly heat will put a porcupine to shame!"(Long drawn out “Phew” with the obligatory forehead mopping).

"Gosh! Damn this freezing cold. I can barely feel my rear." Or something equally laugh-inducing.

"If it rains one more day, I swear I’ll take a one-way ticket to Florida. And buy some shoes before I go. The dratted showers have ruined “em all!"

"Whooooooooo! If it gets any drier, I could offer myself my abrasive self as sandpaper. And at least make some money out of it."

"Why can’t it rain? I don’t even remember what color rainfall is. At least my Labrador can loll his tongue out. Lucky him. If I do the same, I would be called a drooling pervert!"

It’s always the same ol’ story.

We can never be happy with the weather. I guess that like the government, weather too is like an easy target.

Or maybe we all take a leaf out of Goldilocks' book, in love with the idea of wanting everything our way, just the way we fancy.

I’m sure that even the people of Florida crib about its gorgeous climate, probably citing that it doesn’t change enough there, or ruing the risk of skin cancer.
Sigh! We are a hard lot to please, ain’t we?

Me – let’s just say that the rains, despite their wreaking havoc on my hair, are still something that make me croon in delight. There's nothing like the pitter-patter of rain on the window panes. Snug pillow, a warm bed, a steaming cup of tea, and a novel to curl up - optional but very well appreciated.

Sucker for the rains.

Oh totally, I’d say!