Sunday, October 28, 2012

Family khap panchayat

Approximately ten years to this day, she held the tiny sleeping bundle in her arms and smiled at the miracle of creation in her hands. He slept blissfully in her arms, wrinkling his face and stretching, like little babies do.  She giggled at the funny faces he made in his sleep and hugged him closer...a wave of maternal feelings sweeping over her. As she drifted to sleep with her little one beside her, a smile lingered on her angelic face.

Her sweet slumber was broken by harsh voices. They had come for him, her precious little bundle of joy. He was a mistake they said. His father was no good they said. They wanted her to abandon her little one. She clung to her precious bundle fiercely…protesting against the injustice. But no one would listen to her. They took him away and gave him to the old lady who lived down the road in an orchard.

A few years later, she was walking down the road by the orchard when she saw a familiar face. She instantly recognized him, her little one who was so cruelly taken away from her years ago. He was playing blissfully with some kids. He had grown big and strong and handsome.  He stopped and stared at her when he felt her watching him. He looked at her quizzically, before returning to play with the boys in the orchard.

Years passed and one day her feet took her down the orchard road again and she saw him again. He was playing with a little one who looked so much like him when he was small. She felt a rising excitement within her. She was a grandmother!! Her grandson, like his Dad was the cynosure of all eyes. She picked him up and looked at his playful eyes. He wriggled impatiently, like little kids do. She put him down laughing and watched as he bounded off to play.

Next day she took her parents to see her son and her grandson.  She hoped they would feel remorse for what they had done when they beheld their great grandson. The parents looked at the stray dog and his puppy, gamboling around and scratched their heads. They wondered which one of the 568 stray pups they were forced to remove from their stubborn little daughter hands and hand over to maids, car washers, vegetable vendors, security guards, dhobi, meter reading man, LPG supply boy etc etc etc … was this dog and his pup.  The father was sure this was puppy number 431, but the mother felt it was puppy number 315, judging by his age. Then they looked at each other as a startling revelation hit them. It didn't matter which puppy this was, what mattered was they managed to get rid of it. Then they heaved a sigh of relief and slinked away shadily into the sunset.

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

Seeing red

While cooling my heels at my grandparents home in Kerala during a hartal/bandh, I decided to write a blog post. The blog post has nothing to do whatsoever with the bandh mind you! I was chumma time-passing, just like that. So here is the blog post, another FAQ just like this one, though not related.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The term “commie” used in this post refers to a fictitious group of people. Resemblance to any group, caste, race or political party or ideology is coincidental and unintentional.

Why did the commie cross the road?
Because his leader told him to duh!

What did he do there?
He waited for his next order duh!

What is the best way to prevent a strike call by the commies?
Buy up all the red colored fabric in the city.

What is the favorite color of the commie!
Bankroll Green!

Why did the commie get a Sony television!
Because he had raided a Sony Television shop duh!

What did the commie say when his employer gave him the pink slip!
Thozhilali Aikyam Zindabad!

Why did the commie come late for work?
He came to work? Really? Oh my gawd!!!

What happened when the commie got a really bad performance appraisal?
He was immediately promoted to Senior Comradeship!

How did the commie celebrate his birthday!
I have no idea! I wasn’t invited!

What was the commie’s favorite childhood bedtime story!
Red Riding Hood and the Imperialist Wolf!

Who was the commie’s childhood hero?
Comrade woodcutter who killed the Imperialist Wolf!

How do you make out a commie from a non-commie.
The non commie goes to work.

How many commies does it take to change a light bulb?
None. Changing light bulbs are for the bourgeoisie who work in air conditioned cubicles in Bangalore.

Wednesday, April 11, 2012


Age 10: Beg, plead, cry, sulk, beg, plead, cry, sulk, and scream till your parents get you a point and shoot camera.

Click away happily taking some awesome pictures.

Age 18: Beg, plead, cry, sulk, beg, plead, sulk…. till your parents give in and get you a DSLR camera.

Click away happily and realize unhappily that you cannot click away happily till you've learned to set the camera.

Click away unhappily as you miserably fail to get the hang of the ISO, F stop and a trillion other settings.

Look wistfully at the nice-nice pictures you took with your old point and shoot camera.

Look wistfully and wince at the horrible deformities you took with the DSLR camera.

Discard the DSLR camera and go back to happily clicking awesome pictures with your point and shoot camera.

Age: 20: You are still trying to convince your parents that the awesome pictures you took after age 18 were with the expensive DSLR camera and not the point and shoot camera and that the lack of difference in the quality of the pictures was because of their err...amateurish eyes.

That was a blast from my past.

Of course now I am a DSLR pro. All the awesome pictures I have taken are not from Corbis. I swear on my DSLR!!

Wednesday, April 04, 2012

Poverty whines

Salary days are well....salad days. But salary discussions are well...quite over the top specially when you take your payload home in a truck.

Very well paid exec in our office: If my salary is delayed by one day, there are four cheques that will bounce.

Another disgustingly heavily paid exec: If my salary is delayed by two days, there will be six cheque bounces and I would have got an eviction order (he has his own palatial flat bought in cash).

Another deplorably over paid exec
: If my salary comes on time, then all my cheques are paid and by day 11 I am looking for people to borrow heh heh.

Poor me who is disgustingly and deplorably and miserably underpaid : If my salary doesn't come on time, I have my savings *looks around smugly expecting to see the faces round me turning red in embarrassment*

Execs: Wow! Now we know who to borrow from midmonth.
Me :!!!!!!

Note to self: SHUT THE EFF UP!

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Tangled webs of familial conflicts

My uncle and aunt are not talking to me. So are my other uncles and aunts. And grand aunts and grand uncles. And other extended family members too *sob*

Well… the extended family members usually talk behind my back, so I am really not bothered about them. But I am heartbroken at the heartlessness of my uncles and aunts and grand uncles and aunts at a teeny-weeny misdemeanor of mine!!!

Ok… the teeny-weeny misdemeanor bought a whole lot of shame and scandal to the family I agree. But I was only trying to help!

It all began one harmless day in February 2012 dear people, when my niece asked me for some help. She wanted my help to fill her college application forms; specifically the column that gives thousands of Bangalore students a compulsory vent for their creativity. Yes, I mean the “
reason for applying to this educational institution” field in college application forms.

Now my niece is creatively challenged (I cannot tell lies like you), so she wanted her “highly creative” chechi (elder sister) to help her out with this very important minor detail. I was more than willing to help. This was one area where I can wax eloquent without the teeniest blush or prick of conscience. To be fair, I don’t have a conscience. That died a long time ago answering questions like “So what sins do you have to confess this week my dear girl!” to “Why do you want to join our company!”

For a Brahmin Society run college form I made her write: I love animals and want to study in a college that is run by people who don’t eat them. (She got instant selection in the “untouchable quota”)

For a college run by Nuns I made her write: I want to study in a spiritual environment. (The nuns are still trying to figure this out since they know that she is related to me and I studied here. But she stands a good chance says the helpful office clerk after I gave her a five hundred for coffee and another five hundred for tea and a thousand for lunch. I believe her. She is related to the Sister Superior you see.)

And for a college run by priests I made her write: I want to become the future Pope!

And this is where I landed my niece in trouble. Before we could say “Holy ****” a posse of priests landed up at my niece’s house and told her bewildered parents that she was selected to their college and that they have also got her a seat as a Novitiate ( trainee nun) in a nearby convent. And before the parent’s could say “over my dead body” the priests had whisked their daughter away and got her admitted to the convent. And before her parents could collect their wits and jaws from the floor their daughter was already dressed in a nuns habit saying dawn prayers in the church at 5:30 am followed by morning prayers at 8 am followed by mid afternoon prayers at 11 am followed by a massive groan and rebellion at 12 pm. And before the parents could rush to get her out of the convent, their daughter had removed the nun’s clothes and thrown it on the mother superiors face and to the collective gasp of the convent put on a teeny tiny denim skirt with a spaghetti stringed top and walked out swearing bloody revenge on her by-now-absconding-chechi.

To cut a very long and violent story short, the story spread and my niece is now labeled “the girl jumped the convent wall” which is worse than being called a “woman of easy virtue” in mallu land.

My Bangalore born and bred niece thinks it is cool and has forgiven me. Her parents haven’t. The result: no one is talking to me. The teen brigade in the family is mighty impressed with me though and has officially elected me their mascot. I don’t know whether to rejoice or cry or watch my back. Currently I am doing all three.

With mixed feelings I wish you all a great week from the highly secretive location where I am hiding dear people. My aunt and uncle are looking for me you see. And they don’t want to talk. Their unlicensed gun will do the talking, they have promised the family.

Such ungrateful people! Makes me ashamed to call them relatives! Bah!

Pray for me people! *gulp*