My favorite bank, a four letter titled institution started giving me a lot of grief lately. The culprit was Customer Service (CS), a hitherto well trained, intelligent bunch of people who seem to have suddenly lost a lot of intelligence perhaps answering calls from people like me or due to working in a bank. My cousin brother who works in bank says it is the former. I don’t believe him though. I think he is just being mean because he hates bank account holders. A sweet lil girl like me can never give grief to anyone.
Me to CS: Your system is not accepting my account number.
CS: You are not an account holder.
Me: Oops!
My problem was simple. The security system that guards the small change that is deposited every month-end in my account under the head “Salary”, was not allowing me to carry out any online transaction.
“Your salary is laughable,” said the message that flashed before my eyes cruelly every time I logged into my account, followed by a wicked “You are better off begging at the signal light ha ha ha”.
Kidding. It doesn’t say all that. It just informs me in crisp English that I was a moron and should perhaps end my miserable life.
A phone banker actually told me the other day that whenever she gets depressed or fed up of her job/life/hairdo, she takes a peek at my “Salary Account” and promptly falls off her chair laughing. Then she feels all nice. I was very touched by her story and slammed the phone on her face. She called me back just as promptly to inform me that I had a large fan club in the bank. This time she slammed the phone before I could take the lead, thereby taking away the tiny scrap of self-dignity I could scrape out of this situation.
I decided to change my account. The first two banks laughed me off the premises. The other two didn’t let me past the door. The watchmen told me kindly to either buy 1) a Piggy Bank or get a 2) Post Office account.
The last two options were nationalized banks and friends advised against it as most of their account holders were on drugs or under treatment for chronic depression. The rest were all dead waiting for customer service. I decided that I didn’t need another source of misery in my life besides the SMS alert from the bank every month-end alerting me to the peanuts that were being dropped into the account.
So I was stuck with my most favorite-now-fast-becoming-least-favorite four letter titled bank. And that was a scary thought as I had only one bank account. *gulp*
Every attempt to contact them failed as the bank has a 'phone banking only facility', which means you cannot call someone and scream at his face. So you are stuck with Phone Banking, a euphemism for “Hitting yourself on the head with a hammer”.
After you have punched the various keys in your telephone that identifies you, your account number and other details like your past three boyfriends phone numbers, an efficient sounding phone banker picks up the phone and asks you politely to give your name, account number and past four boyfriends phone numbers. After that the person listens politely to your complaints and replies just as crisply as before that she will get back to me soon. I swear she was yawning when she said that. My cousin brother, the one who works in a bank says that I am just assuming things and that she wasn’t yawning. Bankers are alert people he says, who can work 24/7/365 on a cup of coffee and a couple of hundred cigarettes without yawning. I don’t believe him though. I think he is just boasting.
Note to self: Cut him off my will.
And then you wait and wait and wait and after a year of paying bills standing in mile long queues, you suddenly remember that your complaint has not been attended to! You send a furious mail to every email ID on your bank’s site blaming them of really bad customer service, triumphantly touting the compliant date and finally you get a mail asking you to call their phone banking service. And that is when you shift your account to a Nationalized Bank.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
A valentines day tale
Yesterday our house was full of relations who had come to Bangalore for a wedding. Among them was an ungle called JK. JK is a favorite uncle of ours as he is very sporting unlike the usual conservative mallu ungles who frown on everything non mallu the moment they cross the Kerala border.
Oh look! The milestone says Bangalore is 200 kms away.
*frown*
Look! A river!
*frown*
That looks like a Kerala State Transport Bus that has toppled off. Must have been speeding.
*smile*
See what I mean?
I started pulling uncle’s legs asking him what he had in store for his wife all of 52 years, for Valentine’s Day. Uncle sighed, pulled a sad face and said that he had lost interest in V Day a long time ago. I was intrigued. Uncle was by no means a shy guy and had a reputation for being a ladies’ man in his youth. I queried him gently about the tragedy. Uncle sighed again and reluctantly told me about an incident in his youth that had scarred him forever off V Day.
Uncle had done his schooling in Africa and his parents sent him to Kerala for his higher studies. He stayed with his father’s brother and his neighbors were social workers who ran some kind of an NGO. The family consisted of a father who was Malayalee, a mother who was Irish and a daughter who was a pretty combination of the two. Irish girl (IG) had many admirers, suitors and stalkers. Her reputation as very ‘liberal’ did not make things easier either. Amongst the many people in love with her was my Uncle. Uncle had noble intentions unlike the others who were mostly hoping that they would be recipients of her ahem… ‘liberal largess’. I mean can you imagine a mallu guy of the 60’s walking into his house with a white girl?
Achcha, Amma, this is IG. We are getting married.
*sock* *slap* *biff* *choke* *kick* followed by a hastily arranged marriage to Thresiakutty Varkey from Poovathingal veedu, Kadnadu at the nearest available church.
Uncle did manage to speak to IG whenever he got the chance to catch her attention from the crowd that seemed to hang around her perennially. Then one day IG’s parents decided to move to Delhi. Uncle was heartbroken. The crowd around IG’s house cleared and he and his aunt and uncle saw the facade of the house for the first time! It was blue with pretty flowers flanked by a hedge painstakingly grown by IG’s mom. Ok…that was a bit off topic.
Back to our story again! Valentine Day approached and Uncle decided to send IG a letter or a handmade card. The rest of the fan crowd had no clue what Valentine’s Day was. He was told that the Indian postal system may or may not deliver the letter and delivery, if it happens might be on Christmas Day if he did not post the card on January 1st. Uncle was in a dilemma when someone suggested the Indian Telegraph service, a formidable service that delivers urgent messages in 72 hours and very urgent messages in 71 hours.
So uncle paid for a telegram and being shy decided to choose a subtle message template thoughtfully provided by the Dept. of Posts and Telegraphs. He prayed that it would reach her in time. The telegram did reach her, but instead of the subtle message, the telegram read “Hearty congratulations on the new arrival". To cut a long story short, Uncle did get a reply that left his ears burning, skin peeling and with a vastly enhanced vocabulary in Irish epithets.
Wishing you all a very happy Valentine’s Day!
Oh look! The milestone says Bangalore is 200 kms away.
*frown*
Look! A river!
*frown*
That looks like a Kerala State Transport Bus that has toppled off. Must have been speeding.
*smile*
See what I mean?
I started pulling uncle’s legs asking him what he had in store for his wife all of 52 years, for Valentine’s Day. Uncle sighed, pulled a sad face and said that he had lost interest in V Day a long time ago. I was intrigued. Uncle was by no means a shy guy and had a reputation for being a ladies’ man in his youth. I queried him gently about the tragedy. Uncle sighed again and reluctantly told me about an incident in his youth that had scarred him forever off V Day.
Uncle had done his schooling in Africa and his parents sent him to Kerala for his higher studies. He stayed with his father’s brother and his neighbors were social workers who ran some kind of an NGO. The family consisted of a father who was Malayalee, a mother who was Irish and a daughter who was a pretty combination of the two. Irish girl (IG) had many admirers, suitors and stalkers. Her reputation as very ‘liberal’ did not make things easier either. Amongst the many people in love with her was my Uncle. Uncle had noble intentions unlike the others who were mostly hoping that they would be recipients of her ahem… ‘liberal largess’. I mean can you imagine a mallu guy of the 60’s walking into his house with a white girl?
Achcha, Amma, this is IG. We are getting married.
*sock* *slap* *biff* *choke* *kick* followed by a hastily arranged marriage to Thresiakutty Varkey from Poovathingal veedu, Kadnadu at the nearest available church.
Uncle did manage to speak to IG whenever he got the chance to catch her attention from the crowd that seemed to hang around her perennially. Then one day IG’s parents decided to move to Delhi. Uncle was heartbroken. The crowd around IG’s house cleared and he and his aunt and uncle saw the facade of the house for the first time! It was blue with pretty flowers flanked by a hedge painstakingly grown by IG’s mom. Ok…that was a bit off topic.
Back to our story again! Valentine Day approached and Uncle decided to send IG a letter or a handmade card. The rest of the fan crowd had no clue what Valentine’s Day was. He was told that the Indian postal system may or may not deliver the letter and delivery, if it happens might be on Christmas Day if he did not post the card on January 1st. Uncle was in a dilemma when someone suggested the Indian Telegraph service, a formidable service that delivers urgent messages in 72 hours and very urgent messages in 71 hours.
So uncle paid for a telegram and being shy decided to choose a subtle message template thoughtfully provided by the Dept. of Posts and Telegraphs. He prayed that it would reach her in time. The telegram did reach her, but instead of the subtle message, the telegram read “Hearty congratulations on the new arrival". To cut a long story short, Uncle did get a reply that left his ears burning, skin peeling and with a vastly enhanced vocabulary in Irish epithets.
Wishing you all a very happy Valentine’s Day!
Monday, February 07, 2011
The family league
As the IPL auction got underway recently, certain people in my family were watching the auction very keenly. These are the ‘IPL Team Owners’ of our family with avowed interest in the teams because they happen to be living in the home city of the teams.
Kochi Kunchacko, an uncle from Kochi who was an ardent supporter of the team even before the idea was conceived, was sitting with family in Kochi and calling my Dad with his 'expert comments' on the 'purchases’. His family consisting of a cat, a dog and a wife have walked out on him during every IPL match and came back to realize that he wasn’t even aware of their absence.
Mrs Kunchacko: Honey, I am back!
Mr Kunchacko: When did you leave?
Mrs Kunchacko: Sob!
Mumbai Mathai (MM), another uncle from Mumbai who "owns" the Mumbai team in the family is similarly engrossed in the auction. His three sons are closet Delhi, Chennai and Rajasthan supporters. They are too scared to come out of the closet. Their dad is waiting outside with a bat to clobber them on their head if they dare to. And like people living in closets, they live a lie every day, making uninterested cries of joy every time a Mumbai batsman hits a run or gets a wicket, while suppressing their real feelings for their teams.
MM: Mone Rahul. We have the best team I think.
Rahul (uninterestedly): Wotever.
MM: Rohan, Do you think we should have gone for one more bowler?
Rohan : Who cares!
MM: Ryan mone….
Ryan: Shut up dad!
In Delhi, my army colonel uncle, Delhi Dominic is twirling his handle bar mustache looking pensively at the auction. He hopes that 'he' will get a good team. His two sons studying in Bangalore are vociferous Bangalore supporters. Delhi Dominic is least bothered. His dog Caesar, Simba and Ikroo (wife's dog), his orderly, gardener, driver and entire unit ( infantry) are Delhi supporter unless they want something really nasty to happen to them like a court martial or 50 rounds around the parade ground carrying a 100 pound sack of stones.
DD: Caesar! Who will this year’s IPL my boy!
Caesar: Woof!!
DD: Good boy!!!
Caesar: Woof?
Reggie Rajasthan (RR) has two daughters, whose support for the teams wavers according to the players. The team with the best looking cricketer gets their vote. But they are also scared to tell their dad the truth and try to suppress yawns when an ordinary looking cricketer hits six sixes in the last over and wins the match by one run and ball to spare.
Patros Punjab and his wife are Punjab supporters. His one and a half year old twins, a boy and a girl wore the Kings Eleven Punjab logo on their diapers last year. They are too young to do anything about it. But the rest of the family is waiting with bated breath to see what happens in a couple of years when they will have to wear chaddies with the same logo.
So where does my Dad figure in all this you might wonder. He would have really loved to support Royal Challengers, despite his name starting with a P. But he has decided to remain neutral and with the other "non owners" in the family has taken it upon himself to ensure that during weddings, funerals, baptisms and First holy communions and miscellaneous family get-togethers, Patros Punjabi, Reggie Rajashtan, Kochu Kuriakose, Delhi Dominic and Mumbai Mathai don’t maul each other to death.
So in effect my dad and the rest of the male family members are the Fourth Umpires of the ‘Family Indian Premier League’.
Kochi Kunchacko, an uncle from Kochi who was an ardent supporter of the team even before the idea was conceived, was sitting with family in Kochi and calling my Dad with his 'expert comments' on the 'purchases’. His family consisting of a cat, a dog and a wife have walked out on him during every IPL match and came back to realize that he wasn’t even aware of their absence.
Mrs Kunchacko: Honey, I am back!
Mr Kunchacko: When did you leave?
Mrs Kunchacko: Sob!
Mumbai Mathai (MM), another uncle from Mumbai who "owns" the Mumbai team in the family is similarly engrossed in the auction. His three sons are closet Delhi, Chennai and Rajasthan supporters. They are too scared to come out of the closet. Their dad is waiting outside with a bat to clobber them on their head if they dare to. And like people living in closets, they live a lie every day, making uninterested cries of joy every time a Mumbai batsman hits a run or gets a wicket, while suppressing their real feelings for their teams.
MM: Mone Rahul. We have the best team I think.
Rahul (uninterestedly): Wotever.
MM: Rohan, Do you think we should have gone for one more bowler?
Rohan : Who cares!
MM: Ryan mone….
Ryan: Shut up dad!
In Delhi, my army colonel uncle, Delhi Dominic is twirling his handle bar mustache looking pensively at the auction. He hopes that 'he' will get a good team. His two sons studying in Bangalore are vociferous Bangalore supporters. Delhi Dominic is least bothered. His dog Caesar, Simba and Ikroo (wife's dog), his orderly, gardener, driver and entire unit ( infantry) are Delhi supporter unless they want something really nasty to happen to them like a court martial or 50 rounds around the parade ground carrying a 100 pound sack of stones.
DD: Caesar! Who will this year’s IPL my boy!
Caesar: Woof!!
DD: Good boy!!!
Caesar: Woof?
Reggie Rajasthan (RR) has two daughters, whose support for the teams wavers according to the players. The team with the best looking cricketer gets their vote. But they are also scared to tell their dad the truth and try to suppress yawns when an ordinary looking cricketer hits six sixes in the last over and wins the match by one run and ball to spare.
Patros Punjab and his wife are Punjab supporters. His one and a half year old twins, a boy and a girl wore the Kings Eleven Punjab logo on their diapers last year. They are too young to do anything about it. But the rest of the family is waiting with bated breath to see what happens in a couple of years when they will have to wear chaddies with the same logo.
So where does my Dad figure in all this you might wonder. He would have really loved to support Royal Challengers, despite his name starting with a P. But he has decided to remain neutral and with the other "non owners" in the family has taken it upon himself to ensure that during weddings, funerals, baptisms and First holy communions and miscellaneous family get-togethers, Patros Punjabi, Reggie Rajashtan, Kochu Kuriakose, Delhi Dominic and Mumbai Mathai don’t maul each other to death.
So in effect my dad and the rest of the male family members are the Fourth Umpires of the ‘Family Indian Premier League’.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Going bong
Growing up in a metropolis like Bangalore can be a rich experience. It can be a devastating experience too, like when you are told that Bangalore is not a Metro as per the Income Tax Department and hence you will get only Rs. 500/- as HRA for a 40K 1BHK hovel. Or when my dad discovered that he can claim only Rs 100/- as school fees per child which made him mad because even the local government school charges Rs 150/-. He tried to get an appointment with Mr. Chidambaram and but was turned down by his secretary when he explained the purpose of the meeting as “To get a list of schools in India that charge Rs 100/ pm as school fees.” Ok, that last line was off topic. Please ignore after you have shaken your head in agreement.
As I was saying, growing up in a metropolis can be an interesting experience. Especially when the people you grow up with (i.e. your friends, not family silly), are like you but their parents are from a different state than yours. Though they are as sterilized as you are from any regional cultural contamination, we all are fed massive doses of parental regional culture in a desperate attempt to keep us within the community fold. A losing battle if I may say so. But his kind of selective culturalization has its humorous moments. You don’t laugh when it happens, but after a point of time when you have cooled down from the ignonimity of it all, you manage to smile or at least pretend to find it humorous.
Like my friend whose parents were from Bengal. Bengali gal, lets called her Pinku (bongs are as bad as mallus in naming conventions), was convinced by her parents that she was a Bengali. Poor girl had no choice. Her parents spoke Bengali, they ate what she thought was Bengali food and couldn’t understand why she had to travel every year to some god forsaken village in West Bengal, when there were perfectly good vacations spots here in south India.
But her mom had bought her up well…to our dismay. Though she was as Bengali as I am a Punjabi, whatever she had learned she implemented patriotically, over us!!!! And that hurt….real bad.
During the time she spent in our school (one year to be precise) she drove us 'bongs' (as we liked to refer it today between shudders of pure terror).
Pinku had a thing about wasting salt. Apparently her mom had convinced her that ‘salt’ was a mineral with supernatural powers and hence to be respected. So every time anyone spilt salt, Pinku would insist we say “Dasarath”. This was exasperating… very exasperating, especially at lunch time:
Girl 1: I bought fish biryani today. Damn! “Dasarath”.
Girl 2: And I bought…f$%# err I mean “Dasarath”.
The rest of the school thought we were crazy. We continued Dasarath’ing” away merrily for half an academic year, till somebody had the brilliant brain wave of not bringing salt to school. Pinku who was mortally afraid that some god or goddess would hurt us a real bad heaved a sigh of relief.
Bangaloreans will remember the glorious era of road side temples and chapels when you would be periodically startled out of your skin and onto the main road at rush hour by the sudden clanging of a temple bell as you walked down a footpath. And by the time you collected your wits, you would find your forehead smeared with copious amounts of sandalwood paste/kumkum/other and married to a blushing groom/your head tonsured/or on your way to Palani with a strange head gear on your head. Some people have ended up in Kasi and Kailash too I heard, though this piece of information is not verified.
Now Pinku was a very pious soul. And to make things worse, she was fed a lot of Do’s and Don’ts about places of worship whether it was a church or a temple, by her folks. One day on the way to the movies, she went into one of those roadside temples to pay homage to the deity presiding over the temple from atop a Blenders Pride carton. We waited outside chatting and keeping a vary eye for those massive Bangalore cows that look so cute but before you can say “cho chweeeet” will chew up your, kurta/dupatta/hand bag/ notebook etc thoughtfully like a food connoisseur critically tasting gourmet fare. Bangalore is called the air-conditioned city not only for its weather, but for the huge holes your clothes develop without your knowledge if you stand on the footpath/road/market etc. for more than five minutes.
Suddenly Pinku rushes out and drags us away from the temple. She looked angry and scared. “You will get the corses (curses) of the gods” she hissed as though the gods would hear her. “You mustn’t stand with your back to the temple!” she hissed again. It was getting irritating, this hissing. It was so loud that we felt tempted to tell her to pipe down. But wiser counsel prevailed. After the movie, she took us home and burnt some dried red chillies and made us spit in all directions. This would ward off the ill effects of our “transgression” she said. We were too busy coughing, choking and gagging at the burnt chilly smoke to bother. The gods, I am sure were rolling on the heavenly floor laughing their heavenly a**es off at our plight.
After this we were very careful. We had no intention of inhaling chilly smoke again. But you cannot avoid the various temples, both official and the non-official footpath ones. If you faced one temple you were turning your back to another. Our footpath walks became very interesting….we walked like rolling dervishes to our destination. When we could not take the spinning anymore, we decided to bring this madness to a halt. We decided to do “katti” (breaking friendship) with Pinku. And we did. Monday morning when she came to school, we walked up to her and showed our little pinkies to convey that we were no more friends.
By lunchtime, Pinku had managed to revoke the ‘katti’ decision and we were back to being friends again. But not for very long. We sat down for lunch and Pinku fought hard to ignore the salt being liberally spilt onto the ground. After we had finished lunch, we saw Pinku looking perplexed. She had some curry left in the tiffin and as the curry was a ‘prasad’ (offering to god) she could not throw it away. Nor could she take it back or her mother would scold her for wasting food.
After we had choked down the vegetable curry, tears streaming down our faces because it was so pungent, we decided to tell her politely but firmly that she could peddle her superstitions elsewhere.
But Pinku was too busy scrubbing her tiffin with soap, because we had eaten from it and it had therefore become ‘jhoota’ (dirty) and as per her belief’s a “jhoota’ tiffin couldn’t be taken home without washing it thoroughly.
Mercifully the term came to an end soon after this incident and Pinku left the shores of Bangalore leaving behind a bunch of extremely nervous and jumpy girls who took a long time to recover from their ordeal.
As I was saying, growing up in a metropolis can be an interesting experience. Especially when the people you grow up with (i.e. your friends, not family silly), are like you but their parents are from a different state than yours. Though they are as sterilized as you are from any regional cultural contamination, we all are fed massive doses of parental regional culture in a desperate attempt to keep us within the community fold. A losing battle if I may say so. But his kind of selective culturalization has its humorous moments. You don’t laugh when it happens, but after a point of time when you have cooled down from the ignonimity of it all, you manage to smile or at least pretend to find it humorous.
Like my friend whose parents were from Bengal. Bengali gal, lets called her Pinku (bongs are as bad as mallus in naming conventions), was convinced by her parents that she was a Bengali. Poor girl had no choice. Her parents spoke Bengali, they ate what she thought was Bengali food and couldn’t understand why she had to travel every year to some god forsaken village in West Bengal, when there were perfectly good vacations spots here in south India.
But her mom had bought her up well…to our dismay. Though she was as Bengali as I am a Punjabi, whatever she had learned she implemented patriotically, over us!!!! And that hurt….real bad.
During the time she spent in our school (one year to be precise) she drove us 'bongs' (as we liked to refer it today between shudders of pure terror).
Pinku had a thing about wasting salt. Apparently her mom had convinced her that ‘salt’ was a mineral with supernatural powers and hence to be respected. So every time anyone spilt salt, Pinku would insist we say “Dasarath”. This was exasperating… very exasperating, especially at lunch time:
Girl 1: I bought fish biryani today. Damn! “Dasarath”.
Girl 2: And I bought…f$%# err I mean “Dasarath”.
The rest of the school thought we were crazy. We continued Dasarath’ing” away merrily for half an academic year, till somebody had the brilliant brain wave of not bringing salt to school. Pinku who was mortally afraid that some god or goddess would hurt us a real bad heaved a sigh of relief.
Bangaloreans will remember the glorious era of road side temples and chapels when you would be periodically startled out of your skin and onto the main road at rush hour by the sudden clanging of a temple bell as you walked down a footpath. And by the time you collected your wits, you would find your forehead smeared with copious amounts of sandalwood paste/kumkum/other and married to a blushing groom/your head tonsured/or on your way to Palani with a strange head gear on your head. Some people have ended up in Kasi and Kailash too I heard, though this piece of information is not verified.
Now Pinku was a very pious soul. And to make things worse, she was fed a lot of Do’s and Don’ts about places of worship whether it was a church or a temple, by her folks. One day on the way to the movies, she went into one of those roadside temples to pay homage to the deity presiding over the temple from atop a Blenders Pride carton. We waited outside chatting and keeping a vary eye for those massive Bangalore cows that look so cute but before you can say “cho chweeeet” will chew up your, kurta/dupatta/hand bag/ notebook etc thoughtfully like a food connoisseur critically tasting gourmet fare. Bangalore is called the air-conditioned city not only for its weather, but for the huge holes your clothes develop without your knowledge if you stand on the footpath/road/market etc. for more than five minutes.
Suddenly Pinku rushes out and drags us away from the temple. She looked angry and scared. “You will get the corses (curses) of the gods” she hissed as though the gods would hear her. “You mustn’t stand with your back to the temple!” she hissed again. It was getting irritating, this hissing. It was so loud that we felt tempted to tell her to pipe down. But wiser counsel prevailed. After the movie, she took us home and burnt some dried red chillies and made us spit in all directions. This would ward off the ill effects of our “transgression” she said. We were too busy coughing, choking and gagging at the burnt chilly smoke to bother. The gods, I am sure were rolling on the heavenly floor laughing their heavenly a**es off at our plight.
After this we were very careful. We had no intention of inhaling chilly smoke again. But you cannot avoid the various temples, both official and the non-official footpath ones. If you faced one temple you were turning your back to another. Our footpath walks became very interesting….we walked like rolling dervishes to our destination. When we could not take the spinning anymore, we decided to bring this madness to a halt. We decided to do “katti” (breaking friendship) with Pinku. And we did. Monday morning when she came to school, we walked up to her and showed our little pinkies to convey that we were no more friends.
By lunchtime, Pinku had managed to revoke the ‘katti’ decision and we were back to being friends again. But not for very long. We sat down for lunch and Pinku fought hard to ignore the salt being liberally spilt onto the ground. After we had finished lunch, we saw Pinku looking perplexed. She had some curry left in the tiffin and as the curry was a ‘prasad’ (offering to god) she could not throw it away. Nor could she take it back or her mother would scold her for wasting food.
After we had choked down the vegetable curry, tears streaming down our faces because it was so pungent, we decided to tell her politely but firmly that she could peddle her superstitions elsewhere.
But Pinku was too busy scrubbing her tiffin with soap, because we had eaten from it and it had therefore become ‘jhoota’ (dirty) and as per her belief’s a “jhoota’ tiffin couldn’t be taken home without washing it thoroughly.
Mercifully the term came to an end soon after this incident and Pinku left the shores of Bangalore leaving behind a bunch of extremely nervous and jumpy girls who took a long time to recover from their ordeal.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Making news
News presenters and reporters never cease to amaze me. Their skill and innovativeness are absolutely amazing.
A few days back there was a near miss incident between two aircrafts at an Indian airport.
As soon as the news channels got a whiff of the news they were at the airport faster than a VIP motorcade in a hurry. When I switched on the TV, the reporter was already in front of the airport, breathless and choking. You would have thought she ran all the way from the news studio to the airport at the way she was hyperventilating.
As soon as the reporter saw the camera focusing on her, she straightened up, took a deep breath and screamed a brief summary of the incident into the microphone, ending the summary on a chilling note. Cameraman wiped the spittle off the lenses with a soft cloth.
I waited expectantly to see the offending aircrafts and perhaps the shamefaced pilots and who knows some scared looking cabin crew too. But all I saw was banners of various airlines with smiling happy crew members promising to look after you better than the airline in the banner above, below and to the left/right of their banner.
The camera then started zooming in and out the logos of the two airlines on the reservation windows at the airport. After a long time of zooming in and out of the logos from various angles, the reporter started screaming again, catching me off guard. I picked myself up from the floor and listened as she screamed the obvious again... about how the passengers had a close shave, over crowded airports blah blah etc.
After this the camera panned to the faces of bewildered passengers who were wheeling their baggage trolleys out.
Reporter: Were you scared when you realized that you had just missed being mangled and minced and charred to death in the aircraft?
Pax: No!
Reporter: Why?
Pax: We had no clue till we walked out of the airport and bumped into you.
Reporter (turning to the camera red-faced): Ahem...as you can see the passengers are in a terrible state of shock.
Reporter then looked gravely into the camera and said that the passengers were thanking their lucky cricket and Bollywood stars that they got out alive and unharmed.
Camera zoomed out to show a shot of the airport. (Still no aircraft in view)
Camera was back on the reporter's face after lingering on the airport for a few seconds and she recounted the near miss incidents that had happened this year. Animated sequences of near misses in the past start playing on the television screen. The aircraft's in the animation reminded me of very old video games.
Reporter faced the camera again and I flinched and cowered in fear of another tongue lashing. But a retired looking gentleman comes into the frame instead and the reporter introduced him as a retired civil aviation official/pilot/air force pilot/some other retired person remotely connected to aviation.
Reporter: Mr. XYZ You are an expert in *some aviation expertise*. Can you shed more light on this incident?
Retired guy: The sudden rise in air traffic has put tremendous pressure on the aviation infrastructure leading to incidents like this.
Reporter: Is the government doing anything about this?
Retired guy: In 1856 when I was the *some aviation designation* of *some aviation organization* I worked in we had submitted a report on the dangers of overcrowding our runways.
Reporter: And what happened….
Retired guy: They modernized the airports and runways.
Reporter: Err...
Retired guy: I guess it’s time to submit another report!
Reporter: Err thanks! (shoves him out of camera view muttering “Kahan kahan se chale aate hai”)
Reporter looked at the camera again. I dived under the sofa in sheer terror. From under the sofa I watched in fear as she summed up the situation by stating more obviousess and signed off by giving her and the cameraman's name. I heaved a sigh of relief, my nerves in shreds.
And that is how modern reporting is done peoples. 20 minutes of audience engagement on pure hot air!
Don’t worry about that irresistible itch to scratch your head after watching such news. It’s not dandruff, but just plain bewilderment at the 20 minutes of missing time in your life that you just cannot explain.
A few days back there was a near miss incident between two aircrafts at an Indian airport.
As soon as the news channels got a whiff of the news they were at the airport faster than a VIP motorcade in a hurry. When I switched on the TV, the reporter was already in front of the airport, breathless and choking. You would have thought she ran all the way from the news studio to the airport at the way she was hyperventilating.
As soon as the reporter saw the camera focusing on her, she straightened up, took a deep breath and screamed a brief summary of the incident into the microphone, ending the summary on a chilling note. Cameraman wiped the spittle off the lenses with a soft cloth.
I waited expectantly to see the offending aircrafts and perhaps the shamefaced pilots and who knows some scared looking cabin crew too. But all I saw was banners of various airlines with smiling happy crew members promising to look after you better than the airline in the banner above, below and to the left/right of their banner.
The camera then started zooming in and out the logos of the two airlines on the reservation windows at the airport. After a long time of zooming in and out of the logos from various angles, the reporter started screaming again, catching me off guard. I picked myself up from the floor and listened as she screamed the obvious again... about how the passengers had a close shave, over crowded airports blah blah etc.
After this the camera panned to the faces of bewildered passengers who were wheeling their baggage trolleys out.
Reporter: Were you scared when you realized that you had just missed being mangled and minced and charred to death in the aircraft?
Pax: No!
Reporter: Why?
Pax: We had no clue till we walked out of the airport and bumped into you.
Reporter (turning to the camera red-faced): Ahem...as you can see the passengers are in a terrible state of shock.
Reporter then looked gravely into the camera and said that the passengers were thanking their lucky cricket and Bollywood stars that they got out alive and unharmed.
Camera zoomed out to show a shot of the airport. (Still no aircraft in view)
Camera was back on the reporter's face after lingering on the airport for a few seconds and she recounted the near miss incidents that had happened this year. Animated sequences of near misses in the past start playing on the television screen. The aircraft's in the animation reminded me of very old video games.
Reporter faced the camera again and I flinched and cowered in fear of another tongue lashing. But a retired looking gentleman comes into the frame instead and the reporter introduced him as a retired civil aviation official/pilot/air force pilot/some other retired person remotely connected to aviation.
Reporter: Mr. XYZ You are an expert in *some aviation expertise*. Can you shed more light on this incident?
Retired guy: The sudden rise in air traffic has put tremendous pressure on the aviation infrastructure leading to incidents like this.
Reporter: Is the government doing anything about this?
Retired guy: In 1856 when I was the *some aviation designation* of *some aviation organization* I worked in we had submitted a report on the dangers of overcrowding our runways.
Reporter: And what happened….
Retired guy: They modernized the airports and runways.
Reporter: Err...
Retired guy: I guess it’s time to submit another report!
Reporter: Err thanks! (shoves him out of camera view muttering “Kahan kahan se chale aate hai”)
Reporter looked at the camera again. I dived under the sofa in sheer terror. From under the sofa I watched in fear as she summed up the situation by stating more obviousess and signed off by giving her and the cameraman's name. I heaved a sigh of relief, my nerves in shreds.
And that is how modern reporting is done peoples. 20 minutes of audience engagement on pure hot air!
Don’t worry about that irresistible itch to scratch your head after watching such news. It’s not dandruff, but just plain bewilderment at the 20 minutes of missing time in your life that you just cannot explain.
Monday, January 03, 2011
Auto-phylactic shock
I heard the soft beep of what sounded like a medical gadget through the haze that I was floating in. I was drifting between consciousness and haze. The anxious faces of my family members swam before my eyes. I tried to focus but I kept drifting back into the haze. After what seemed an eternity I drifted into consciousness again.
“Look who is back!” I heard my brother M say. I heard my mom sob. A white coated figure appeared out of nowhere, took my pulse and declared me out of danger. And that is when I realized that I was in a hospital.
“What happened” I asked groggily. “You fainted.” sniffled my mom. “Thank god it happened near your office gates or god knows what would have happened.” she sobbed.
“Could you tell us what happened?” asked the doctor.
I tried to recollect the day’s events. I remember getting into the auto to go to office. But before that I remember hailing the auto. The driver, a neatly dressed gentleman in his 50’s stopped next to me and inquired politely in chaste English, where I wanted to go. When I gave him my office address he thought for a bit and asked again, in really good English, which gate I wanted to be dropped at. After I had given him the details he asked me politely to get in. He waited till I was seated before driving off. I looked at him and felt a little troubled. As a Bangalorean, I am not used to unnatural sights like pot hole free roads, traffic rules abiding drivers, polite auto drivers etc. I was surely dreaming or had too much to drink at the New Year party.
We reached a traffic signal and the driver stopped the auto, took out English newspapers and calmly began to read the contents. Now I was sure that I had too much to drink at the New Year party and the drink was spiked by some hallucinogenic substance! Instead of cursing the red light and honking incessantly, this man was using the time to catch up on the news!
When the traffic light turned green, he folded the newspaper neatly and kept it away. This continued at all the red lights. As we sped down the fairly clear road leading to our campus, he remarked at the brief winter and the sudden change in weather to warm. I distinctly hear him say that the weather was “balmy”. I pinched myself to make sure I was not dreaming.
In between maneuvering the auto through the narrow road, he talked about the onion prices, inflation and its effects on the price index. I was very sure I was in the Twilight Zone now.
We reached the office gates and I got down. He held out his hands to warn an approaching car that I was disembarking. I got out shakily. There was no way this guy was for real. Such auto drivers do not exist even in my most improbable dreams!! I curbed an insane desire to touch and see if he was real.
The meter read 62 rupees and not 78 and 80 like in other autos. His meter was perfect to the last meter. I had 60 rupees in change and the rest of the notes in the purse were hundreds. I asked him apologetically if he change for a 100 as I had only 60 rupees in change. He politely told me that he was fine with the 60, pocketed the money… and drove away.
And that is when I fainted.
“Look who is back!” I heard my brother M say. I heard my mom sob. A white coated figure appeared out of nowhere, took my pulse and declared me out of danger. And that is when I realized that I was in a hospital.
“What happened” I asked groggily. “You fainted.” sniffled my mom. “Thank god it happened near your office gates or god knows what would have happened.” she sobbed.
“Could you tell us what happened?” asked the doctor.
I tried to recollect the day’s events. I remember getting into the auto to go to office. But before that I remember hailing the auto. The driver, a neatly dressed gentleman in his 50’s stopped next to me and inquired politely in chaste English, where I wanted to go. When I gave him my office address he thought for a bit and asked again, in really good English, which gate I wanted to be dropped at. After I had given him the details he asked me politely to get in. He waited till I was seated before driving off. I looked at him and felt a little troubled. As a Bangalorean, I am not used to unnatural sights like pot hole free roads, traffic rules abiding drivers, polite auto drivers etc. I was surely dreaming or had too much to drink at the New Year party.
We reached a traffic signal and the driver stopped the auto, took out English newspapers and calmly began to read the contents. Now I was sure that I had too much to drink at the New Year party and the drink was spiked by some hallucinogenic substance! Instead of cursing the red light and honking incessantly, this man was using the time to catch up on the news!
When the traffic light turned green, he folded the newspaper neatly and kept it away. This continued at all the red lights. As we sped down the fairly clear road leading to our campus, he remarked at the brief winter and the sudden change in weather to warm. I distinctly hear him say that the weather was “balmy”. I pinched myself to make sure I was not dreaming.
In between maneuvering the auto through the narrow road, he talked about the onion prices, inflation and its effects on the price index. I was very sure I was in the Twilight Zone now.
We reached the office gates and I got down. He held out his hands to warn an approaching car that I was disembarking. I got out shakily. There was no way this guy was for real. Such auto drivers do not exist even in my most improbable dreams!! I curbed an insane desire to touch and see if he was real.
The meter read 62 rupees and not 78 and 80 like in other autos. His meter was perfect to the last meter. I had 60 rupees in change and the rest of the notes in the purse were hundreds. I asked him apologetically if he change for a 100 as I had only 60 rupees in change. He politely told me that he was fine with the 60, pocketed the money… and drove away.
And that is when I fainted.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Bribe ok! Fine yakke???
The title of this post is the motto of our Trafficku Police’u in case you are wondering.
Today, I was driving peacefully at a comfortable cruising speed of 40 kmph as stated in the Driving School Manual, when I saw the traffic light turning Amber. Now, as a good little product of a driving school I slowed down, braked gently and stopped short of the white line. The very next moment, twenty one pair of eyes were glowering at me very angrily.
The eyes belonged to the BMTC driver whose bus was halfway up the kerb, the cab driver whose Qualis was on top of the BMTC Bus, the Reva driver who was under the BMTC bus, the pick-up van driver whose van was shamelessly showing its privates as it lay on its back and several mobikers whose bikes were piled neatly on top of each other in a formation that would have my PT Sir very proud indeed. Bought back memories of Sports Day formations...sigh.
Did I mention the traffic copper who was half way up the flag post in the traffic island? That made it 22 pairs of eyes looking very angrily at me indeed. According to the Bengaluru Drivers Union Road Rules (as opposed to the Indian Union Road Rules) you are supposed to speed up when you see the Amber light!
I was so embarrassed!!! I wished the earth would open up and swallow me. But then the Driving School manual, page no 768, para eight states that “Thou shalt not leave thy vehicle on the road even if you desperately want the earth to swallow you up which is natural when you follow road rules in Bengaluru.”
Yes peoples I am a driving school product. :( A much hated, reviled and despised species on Bangalore roads. We are so despised that we had to make a support group to support our support group. We even despise each other. Every Saturday, in a dark corner of a room in that building next to Mayo Hall, we meet to discuss our problems and how we should deal with a world that is increasingly becoming hostile to minorities like us. Our meetings were raided twice by the traffic coppers. The laathi charge, the coppers hoped, would make us forget road rules and intimidate us into joining the mainstream drivers on the road. But we held our own folks. We taught them a lesson they won’t forget in a hurry. And how did we do it?
We ran for our lives in single file on the “left side” of the road.
Ha! That taught them a lesson! Long live the cause!! We shall prevail or die on the roads following traffic rules! *gulp*
I slid down in my seat while the people picked themselves up from their respective piles. The traffic copper meanwhile had climbed down from the pole and was miserably hoping he had stayed up there. Traffic was in a snarl and the drivers were practically baying for each others blood. An inspector and couple of more coppers rushed in and started clearing the traffic.
After what seemed an eternity the jam eased up and cars sped away clearing the road around. I felt a tap on the car bonnet. It was the Inspector. I was screwed. I expected a stiff fine and a lengthy session in Kannada epithets. Instead he leaned over, smiled rather agreeably and asked.
Which driving school?
As I sped away thanking my stars for getting off so lightly I felt an enormous amount of pity for the Driving School Director cum Sole Driving Instructor cum peon.
And did I get a ticket in the mail? No. I didn’t. But the driving school owner is now footing the bill of some traffic copper’s annual trip to Haridwar we heard. The copper has reportedly gone there to wash off his sins.
Today, I was driving peacefully at a comfortable cruising speed of 40 kmph as stated in the Driving School Manual, when I saw the traffic light turning Amber. Now, as a good little product of a driving school I slowed down, braked gently and stopped short of the white line. The very next moment, twenty one pair of eyes were glowering at me very angrily.
The eyes belonged to the BMTC driver whose bus was halfway up the kerb, the cab driver whose Qualis was on top of the BMTC Bus, the Reva driver who was under the BMTC bus, the pick-up van driver whose van was shamelessly showing its privates as it lay on its back and several mobikers whose bikes were piled neatly on top of each other in a formation that would have my PT Sir very proud indeed. Bought back memories of Sports Day formations...sigh.
Did I mention the traffic copper who was half way up the flag post in the traffic island? That made it 22 pairs of eyes looking very angrily at me indeed. According to the Bengaluru Drivers Union Road Rules (as opposed to the Indian Union Road Rules) you are supposed to speed up when you see the Amber light!
I was so embarrassed!!! I wished the earth would open up and swallow me. But then the Driving School manual, page no 768, para eight states that “Thou shalt not leave thy vehicle on the road even if you desperately want the earth to swallow you up which is natural when you follow road rules in Bengaluru.”
Yes peoples I am a driving school product. :( A much hated, reviled and despised species on Bangalore roads. We are so despised that we had to make a support group to support our support group. We even despise each other. Every Saturday, in a dark corner of a room in that building next to Mayo Hall, we meet to discuss our problems and how we should deal with a world that is increasingly becoming hostile to minorities like us. Our meetings were raided twice by the traffic coppers. The laathi charge, the coppers hoped, would make us forget road rules and intimidate us into joining the mainstream drivers on the road. But we held our own folks. We taught them a lesson they won’t forget in a hurry. And how did we do it?
We ran for our lives in single file on the “left side” of the road.
Ha! That taught them a lesson! Long live the cause!! We shall prevail or die on the roads following traffic rules! *gulp*
I slid down in my seat while the people picked themselves up from their respective piles. The traffic copper meanwhile had climbed down from the pole and was miserably hoping he had stayed up there. Traffic was in a snarl and the drivers were practically baying for each others blood. An inspector and couple of more coppers rushed in and started clearing the traffic.
After what seemed an eternity the jam eased up and cars sped away clearing the road around. I felt a tap on the car bonnet. It was the Inspector. I was screwed. I expected a stiff fine and a lengthy session in Kannada epithets. Instead he leaned over, smiled rather agreeably and asked.
Which driving school?
As I sped away thanking my stars for getting off so lightly I felt an enormous amount of pity for the Driving School Director cum Sole Driving Instructor cum peon.
And did I get a ticket in the mail? No. I didn’t. But the driving school owner is now footing the bill of some traffic copper’s annual trip to Haridwar we heard. The copper has reportedly gone there to wash off his sins.
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
Hostage situation
Child psychology. I don’t haz it :(
Proof: A little three year old hyperactive, kinetic and nuclear plus Chocos energy powered brat was left at home for us to baby sit. Brat had a towering reputation as a nuclear reactor powered tornado who could talk faster than a tape recorder in fast forward. He also was not easy to amuse.
I decided that I would show him magic tricks while his parents darted to the dentist, did a hurried cavity fill and were back before brat could do some real damage to us.
So I took out a pack of cards and made him choose one and then retrieved the card from under a pile of cards. Brat looked totally unimpressed.
After hurriedly consulting the “Basic Magic Tricks: For Dummies”, I showed him the Cut and Restored String, Rising Card and other tricks, created specially for suckers. By the time I had finished the rising card trick, brat had disappeared and I heard my dad howling as brat dropped his precious TV remote to the floor from atop the TV that was on a highly complex show case housing his precious collection of liqueurs and cigars and other male artifacts from around the world.
Then brat picked up a really rare bottle of whiskey and decided to drop it from the liquor cabinet that was above my mother’s precious crystal collection, when my brother M appeared from nowhere and caught my dad in mid-swoon.
Grabbing a one rupee coin after depositing Dad’s lifeless body on the sofa, he showed it to the brat and then coolly put it in his back pocket without making any pretense of hiding his action. Then he showed his empty hands and brat clapped... after he had deposited the bottle of whiskey on the cabinet. He looked mesmerized.
M then took the one rupee coin from his pocket and showed it to brat. Brat was thrilled to bits and totally in awe of the lame ass show. From the corner of my eyes I could see my mom fanning my dad frantically with a newspaper. She was alternatively sniffing at some smelling salts. I was impressed by her multi-tasking abilities but could not leave the “magic show” to convey my appreciation. I just couldn't abandon my brother when he was in danger. There was no way I was going to break brat’s mesmerization which was directly connected to our collective sanity.
Then M told brat to do some magic tricks for us… and he did it and… how!! Brat picks up the coin, throws it behind him and shows us his empty hand. We scrutinize his hands diligently like overly suspicious morons. Then he searches for the coin around the room. I spot the coin under the sofa and quickly push it out onto the carpet. Brat spots it, picks it up and holds it up triumphantly for all of us to see. Every one claps. I don’t remember a family event where all of us have clapped with so much passion and emotion….of various kinds.
By the time brat had learned how to keep the coin on my dad head and retrieve it to the “astonishment” “admiration”, “gasps of disbelief” from his audience (and murderous rage of my dad), his parents were back. We were too exhausted to say bye, but the parents didn’t mind. They had the look of relief of people whose loved ones* are returned safe, after an armed hostage standoff.
By loved ones, I mean us and not the brat.
Proof: A little three year old hyperactive, kinetic and nuclear plus Chocos energy powered brat was left at home for us to baby sit. Brat had a towering reputation as a nuclear reactor powered tornado who could talk faster than a tape recorder in fast forward. He also was not easy to amuse.
I decided that I would show him magic tricks while his parents darted to the dentist, did a hurried cavity fill and were back before brat could do some real damage to us.
So I took out a pack of cards and made him choose one and then retrieved the card from under a pile of cards. Brat looked totally unimpressed.
After hurriedly consulting the “Basic Magic Tricks: For Dummies”, I showed him the Cut and Restored String, Rising Card and other tricks, created specially for suckers. By the time I had finished the rising card trick, brat had disappeared and I heard my dad howling as brat dropped his precious TV remote to the floor from atop the TV that was on a highly complex show case housing his precious collection of liqueurs and cigars and other male artifacts from around the world.
Then brat picked up a really rare bottle of whiskey and decided to drop it from the liquor cabinet that was above my mother’s precious crystal collection, when my brother M appeared from nowhere and caught my dad in mid-swoon.
Grabbing a one rupee coin after depositing Dad’s lifeless body on the sofa, he showed it to the brat and then coolly put it in his back pocket without making any pretense of hiding his action. Then he showed his empty hands and brat clapped... after he had deposited the bottle of whiskey on the cabinet. He looked mesmerized.
M then took the one rupee coin from his pocket and showed it to brat. Brat was thrilled to bits and totally in awe of the lame ass show. From the corner of my eyes I could see my mom fanning my dad frantically with a newspaper. She was alternatively sniffing at some smelling salts. I was impressed by her multi-tasking abilities but could not leave the “magic show” to convey my appreciation. I just couldn't abandon my brother when he was in danger. There was no way I was going to break brat’s mesmerization which was directly connected to our collective sanity.
Then M told brat to do some magic tricks for us… and he did it and… how!! Brat picks up the coin, throws it behind him and shows us his empty hand. We scrutinize his hands diligently like overly suspicious morons. Then he searches for the coin around the room. I spot the coin under the sofa and quickly push it out onto the carpet. Brat spots it, picks it up and holds it up triumphantly for all of us to see. Every one claps. I don’t remember a family event where all of us have clapped with so much passion and emotion….of various kinds.
By the time brat had learned how to keep the coin on my dad head and retrieve it to the “astonishment” “admiration”, “gasps of disbelief” from his audience (and murderous rage of my dad), his parents were back. We were too exhausted to say bye, but the parents didn’t mind. They had the look of relief of people whose loved ones* are returned safe, after an armed hostage standoff.
By loved ones, I mean us and not the brat.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Whisky please and fill 'er up
Read this really umm... interesting news today about fuel alcohol, which, according to indications will soon compliment or replace altogether, regular fossil fuels in cars. I am not sure I am ecstatic at the news. I mean I have read about the dangers of using bio fuels too.
As per this news the world is ready to use fuel alcohol and it got me wondering about the "cheap, clean and non polluting gas" (as claimed) that will soon be used around the world. And it created disturbing images in my mind. Very disturbing images indeed!
Imagine driving on the highway in the night and some dacoits hold you up. You stop the car and get out and watch in fear then, bewilderment and then absolute shock as the dacoits drink up all the alcohol in the gas tank and do stupid things like mooning passing cars, dancing in the nude on the highway and then passing out cold while you escape in the pitch dark night hoping to hit the nearest gas station before you freeze in the cold. Scary no?
No? Well then think of this scenario. You and your husband are driving down a lovely seaside road and the husband stops the car because he has heard some noise in the back. He gets back inside the car and this is the conversation you have with him.
You: Honey, what was wrong?
Hubby: Oh nothing, just a false peg err alarm.
After the 25th stop to check tyre pressure, boot decor, roadside grass evaluation and other cheesy excuses, this is the conversation you have with him.
You: Honey, what is wrong? We seem to be having a lot of problems.
Hubby: *hic* Noshing...the gash tank was giving some *hic* problemsh *hic*
Then the cops come and stop you and arrest your husband for waylaying cars on the highway and drinking all the fuel from their fuel tanks after he had drained your car and then sending them on their way singing "Chalte Chalte mere yeh geeth yaad rakhna...*hic*"
And that is when you throw him into the sea. Kidding. And that is when you throw him into the sea... after fastening him into the seat securely with a seat belt and locking all the car doors.
See how dangerous it is!
But seriously folks, who would send a guy on the way with a full tank of alcohol? He wouldn’t get past the front porch leave alone the gate! I rest my case.
As per this news the world is ready to use fuel alcohol and it got me wondering about the "cheap, clean and non polluting gas" (as claimed) that will soon be used around the world. And it created disturbing images in my mind. Very disturbing images indeed!
Imagine driving on the highway in the night and some dacoits hold you up. You stop the car and get out and watch in fear then, bewilderment and then absolute shock as the dacoits drink up all the alcohol in the gas tank and do stupid things like mooning passing cars, dancing in the nude on the highway and then passing out cold while you escape in the pitch dark night hoping to hit the nearest gas station before you freeze in the cold. Scary no?
No? Well then think of this scenario. You and your husband are driving down a lovely seaside road and the husband stops the car because he has heard some noise in the back. He gets back inside the car and this is the conversation you have with him.
You: Honey, what was wrong?
Hubby: Oh nothing, just a false peg err alarm.
After the 25th stop to check tyre pressure, boot decor, roadside grass evaluation and other cheesy excuses, this is the conversation you have with him.
You: Honey, what is wrong? We seem to be having a lot of problems.
Hubby: *hic* Noshing...the gash tank was giving some *hic* problemsh *hic*
Then the cops come and stop you and arrest your husband for waylaying cars on the highway and drinking all the fuel from their fuel tanks after he had drained your car and then sending them on their way singing "Chalte Chalte mere yeh geeth yaad rakhna...*hic*"
And that is when you throw him into the sea. Kidding. And that is when you throw him into the sea... after fastening him into the seat securely with a seat belt and locking all the car doors.
See how dangerous it is!
But seriously folks, who would send a guy on the way with a full tank of alcohol? He wouldn’t get past the front porch leave alone the gate! I rest my case.
Monday, November 15, 2010
My mom and other hazards
There are different kinds of job hazards in this world. Scientists in nuclear facilities get cancer and coal miners get lung diseases. Some are physical, some mental. There is a professional hazard to being a mom too. Especially being "my" mom. Being my mom has a lot of hidden hazards that God never warmed her about. She bought another baby into this world thinking she will be normal like her eldest son and almost-normal-later-turned-crazy second soon.
One such hazard is living and dealing with the innumerable dogs that dotted my life from the age of three. Now dealing with dogs is not easy as you think. Over a period of time, you lose touch with reality and the ability to make sensible decisions etc. I realized that my mom had unfortunately fallen prey to the professional hazard of being my mom when I overheard this conversation between her and my doggy Honey.
Mom to Honey: Come back here and finish your food.
Honey: *woof?*
Mom (arms akimbo): I said finish your food.
Honey: *Yawn*
Mom: Don’t you dare yawn at me!! Don’t you know there are so many dogs in this world that have no food! Now finish everything in your bowl.
Honey (disparagingly): *woof* **
**Crazy lady! (in dog language)
One such hazard is living and dealing with the innumerable dogs that dotted my life from the age of three. Now dealing with dogs is not easy as you think. Over a period of time, you lose touch with reality and the ability to make sensible decisions etc. I realized that my mom had unfortunately fallen prey to the professional hazard of being my mom when I overheard this conversation between her and my doggy Honey.
Mom to Honey: Come back here and finish your food.
Honey: *woof?*
Mom (arms akimbo): I said finish your food.
Honey: *Yawn*
Mom: Don’t you dare yawn at me!! Don’t you know there are so many dogs in this world that have no food! Now finish everything in your bowl.
Honey (disparagingly): *woof* **
**Crazy lady! (in dog language)
Monday, November 08, 2010
Dogsense
I get so many mails from people who are interested in getting a dog after reading my blogs. These are genuine souls with a lot of affection for animals who want a companion that they can love, and care for. I try to help them as much as I can with advice on selecting a good breed according to the person’s temperament, lifestyle, type of home etc. Of course I do this for free. Who would charge for this noble work that brings happiness to millions of people across the world!!
Here is one such happy pet owner I helped out recently.
Dear Silverine,
I have been reading your blog whenever you write about your dogs as that is the only readable matter here. After reading about your dogs and your experiences with dogs I have decided that I will take the plunge and get me a dog. I just love they way they mew, climb trees and purr! And I think I am going to go for a Persian cat breed. What do you suggest?
Regards,
Wannabe Pet Owner.
Dear Wannabe Pet Owner,
That is a splendid idea indeed! Dogs make great companions and are great to have as pets. I suggest you read a book on dogs and familiarize yourself with the different breeds and decide what you are looking for in a pet before you decide to buy one. And err Persian cat is not a good breed of dog, though they are a very good breed of cats.
Regards,
Silverine
Dear Silverine,
Thank you for your reply. I think I will need your advice on choosing a breed. This is kinda urgent you see. I am a single guy who is about to die with no one to leave my millions to when I die which will be about 40 days from now according to my doctor. Do you think a African Parakeet breed of dog is good for a lonely old guy living in a 400 room mansion in downtown Bel Air to leave his inheritance to?
Regards,
Wannabe Pet Owner.
Dear Wannabe pet owner,
Where do you live? I am a dog. And I think I am just the right breed for you.
Regards,
Silverine
Who says you cannot make money from blogging. I just did! It actually works! Yoohoo!
p.s. See you folks in 40 days. Till then have a nice life and Ta Ta err... Woof Woof from my side.
Here is one such happy pet owner I helped out recently.
Dear Silverine,
I have been reading your blog whenever you write about your dogs as that is the only readable matter here. After reading about your dogs and your experiences with dogs I have decided that I will take the plunge and get me a dog. I just love they way they mew, climb trees and purr! And I think I am going to go for a Persian cat breed. What do you suggest?
Regards,
Wannabe Pet Owner.
Dear Wannabe Pet Owner,
That is a splendid idea indeed! Dogs make great companions and are great to have as pets. I suggest you read a book on dogs and familiarize yourself with the different breeds and decide what you are looking for in a pet before you decide to buy one. And err Persian cat is not a good breed of dog, though they are a very good breed of cats.
Regards,
Silverine
Dear Silverine,
Thank you for your reply. I think I will need your advice on choosing a breed. This is kinda urgent you see. I am a single guy who is about to die with no one to leave my millions to when I die which will be about 40 days from now according to my doctor. Do you think a African Parakeet breed of dog is good for a lonely old guy living in a 400 room mansion in downtown Bel Air to leave his inheritance to?
Regards,
Wannabe Pet Owner.
Dear Wannabe pet owner,
Where do you live? I am a dog. And I think I am just the right breed for you.
Regards,
Silverine
Who says you cannot make money from blogging. I just did! It actually works! Yoohoo!
p.s. See you folks in 40 days. Till then have a nice life and Ta Ta err... Woof Woof from my side.
Monday, October 25, 2010
It figures!
We stood in the crowded elevator, between fat pot bellied men, shapeless women and pale young guys who looked like they had stepped out of a cave after a really long time. All of them worked in a US MNC that shares some floors with us in our building. Getting into the elevator is a nightmare with this kind of crowd every day. They look ill at ease when they see us. Ditto with us.
Colleague (female) and me looked at each other over the well oiled hair of the people in the lift and made faces and barfing gestures. The motley, uninteresting, silent crowd looked as zoned out as crack addicts on a relapse.
Getting out of the lift, we wandered to the glass windows and looked wistfully at the other buildings in the campus and the normal looking guys err... I mean people that inhabited them. Pulling a sad face at our fate, we went to our seats to begin yet another day of work.
Lunch time and we are in the same lift with only one person, a fat jolly looking gal from the same company. Seizing the chance, we decide to quiz her.
Us: Hi!
Fat Jolly gal (FJG): Hi!
Us: What happens in your office?
She: Huh?
Us: We mean, is this a call center or development center!
FJG: Oh sorry. I didn’t understand your earlier question.
Us (rolling eyes): No problem!
FJG: This is the Finance Center of our worldwide operations.
Colleague: Oh!
Me: Aha!
FJG: We manage accounts, salary etc for all our operations worldwide.
Colleague: You mean all the people in this building are finance people?
FJG: Yes!
Us (looking at each other): That explains a lot.
FJG: Huh?
Us: Err... nothing.
We now use the stairs.
Colleague (female) and me looked at each other over the well oiled hair of the people in the lift and made faces and barfing gestures. The motley, uninteresting, silent crowd looked as zoned out as crack addicts on a relapse.
Getting out of the lift, we wandered to the glass windows and looked wistfully at the other buildings in the campus and the normal looking guys err... I mean people that inhabited them. Pulling a sad face at our fate, we went to our seats to begin yet another day of work.
Lunch time and we are in the same lift with only one person, a fat jolly looking gal from the same company. Seizing the chance, we decide to quiz her.
Us: Hi!
Fat Jolly gal (FJG): Hi!
Us: What happens in your office?
She: Huh?
Us: We mean, is this a call center or development center!
FJG: Oh sorry. I didn’t understand your earlier question.
Us (rolling eyes): No problem!
FJG: This is the Finance Center of our worldwide operations.
Colleague: Oh!
Me: Aha!
FJG: We manage accounts, salary etc for all our operations worldwide.
Colleague: You mean all the people in this building are finance people?
FJG: Yes!
Us (looking at each other): That explains a lot.
FJG: Huh?
Us: Err... nothing.
We now use the stairs.
Monday, October 04, 2010
Pest cemetery
I was walking the dogs on the lane behind my house, when I heard what sounded like a cricket chirping. Kree kree went the shrill loud sound, and it was decidedly annoying. I remembered hearing it before. And then it struck me. I remembered a godawful device my dad had bought some years back (among others of course) that made the same sound. It was supposed to keep cockroaches away. We tolerated the sound for some time, due to our love and respect for our dad and patience borne of years of putting up with his counter measures against, cockroaches, ants, kambli boochees (tiny spiny caterpillars), bats and cockroaches. After what we thought was a respectful period of giving him and the device a decent chance, we threw it out of the house. Dad didn’t protest. He had got his chance and he is a fair man.
I giggled in derision at the house as I thought of the expression on their faces when they find out that it doesn’t work and that they were now 75% deaf and that the cockroaches were actually liking it and perhaps sleeping well after a long time listening to its sweet lullaby.
Smirking to myself, I started walking and nearly smashed a line of cockroaches walking out of the house with the godawful sound. Yes, they were leaving with bag and baggages. Some were wearing ear mufflers! The device was working! Puzzled I looked around and saw – you won’t believe this – that the cockroaches were walking out of that house... and into the neighboring houses!
And then I remembered that our neighbor who had come to inquire about the godawful sound emanating from our house had also bought the device after hearing about it prowess from my dad. So did a few other neighbors. In short, we had exchanged roaches!!
This information goes with me to the grave.
But before that, I need to go meet the neighbors of house with the godawful device, and persuade them to buy the device. *snicker*
Let the games begin!! And I don't mean the CWG, heh heh!
Have a nice week folks!
I giggled in derision at the house as I thought of the expression on their faces when they find out that it doesn’t work and that they were now 75% deaf and that the cockroaches were actually liking it and perhaps sleeping well after a long time listening to its sweet lullaby.
Smirking to myself, I started walking and nearly smashed a line of cockroaches walking out of the house with the godawful sound. Yes, they were leaving with bag and baggages. Some were wearing ear mufflers! The device was working! Puzzled I looked around and saw – you won’t believe this – that the cockroaches were walking out of that house... and into the neighboring houses!
And then I remembered that our neighbor who had come to inquire about the godawful sound emanating from our house had also bought the device after hearing about it prowess from my dad. So did a few other neighbors. In short, we had exchanged roaches!!
This information goes with me to the grave.
But before that, I need to go meet the neighbors of house with the godawful device, and persuade them to buy the device. *snicker*
Let the games begin!! And I don't mean the CWG, heh heh!
Have a nice week folks!
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Connecting the dots
Soo Kim, my Korean colleague was distraught. Her visa papers were misplaced. She remembered giving it to someone in the office, but couldn’t remember her name. Distraught she approached me for help, after ascertaining that I looked equally bad in English as her. I did not disappoint her.
Hai
Hai
You An...an...an
Jali
Yes, An Jalee
Yes?
My hmmm visa paper hmmm cannot find, yes cannot find.
Cant find? Bad, very bad
Yes, yes!
Where did you keep it?
Yes?
Where, you put? *gesturing into my bag*
No, no, no bag. Lady!
Great! We have approx 200 ladies here.
Yes, Yes, Yes!
Sigh
I called all the ladies on my floor, told them the reason for the meeting and asked Soo Kim to identify the person. Soo Kim, looked around and shrugged her shoulders. A clever colleague we call "Einsteina, asked Soo “What lady wear?" pointing to her clothes.
Soo Kim thought for a minute and said "big mole". Crap, I thought, what if the mole was someplace where looking for it could land me into a sexual harassment case with the HR!
"Where?' asked Einsteina, pointing to her hand and face. Soo Kim pointed to the forehead. It was obvious she was referring to a bindi or pottu.
What color?" someone asked.
"Red" came the reply.
All heads turned to Ms Blah Blah, who wears saucer sized red bindi’s. She wasn’t wearing one we noticed. We groaned at the thought of identifying the person all over again when Ms Blah Blah spoke up “Oh! This is the lady who gave me the papers today morning! How do I know she is the same Korean. They all look alike!!"
After restoring the papers to the rightful owner, we got together and bought a pack of bindi’s that we stuck on Ms Blah Blah's forehead with super strong glue so that it doesn't fall off again. She suffers from oily forehead you see.
We get frequent complaints from her that it doesn’t come off even when washed with the strongest detergent. But what the heck, till Soo is here, we are going to make sure, it stays. Every landmark is important to foreign tourists and we at Dot Bust Corporation ensure that our foreign colleagues are well taken care off.
In the meantime does anyone know of an industrial solvent that will remove really strong glue off delicate material like err skin?
Hai
Hai
You An...an...an
Jali
Yes, An Jalee
Yes?
My hmmm visa paper hmmm cannot find, yes cannot find.
Cant find? Bad, very bad
Yes, yes!
Where did you keep it?
Yes?
Where, you put? *gesturing into my bag*
No, no, no bag. Lady!
Great! We have approx 200 ladies here.
Yes, Yes, Yes!
Sigh
I called all the ladies on my floor, told them the reason for the meeting and asked Soo Kim to identify the person. Soo Kim, looked around and shrugged her shoulders. A clever colleague we call "Einsteina, asked Soo “What lady wear?" pointing to her clothes.
Soo Kim thought for a minute and said "big mole". Crap, I thought, what if the mole was someplace where looking for it could land me into a sexual harassment case with the HR!
"Where?' asked Einsteina, pointing to her hand and face. Soo Kim pointed to the forehead. It was obvious she was referring to a bindi or pottu.
What color?" someone asked.
"Red" came the reply.
All heads turned to Ms Blah Blah, who wears saucer sized red bindi’s. She wasn’t wearing one we noticed. We groaned at the thought of identifying the person all over again when Ms Blah Blah spoke up “Oh! This is the lady who gave me the papers today morning! How do I know she is the same Korean. They all look alike!!"
After restoring the papers to the rightful owner, we got together and bought a pack of bindi’s that we stuck on Ms Blah Blah's forehead with super strong glue so that it doesn't fall off again. She suffers from oily forehead you see.
We get frequent complaints from her that it doesn’t come off even when washed with the strongest detergent. But what the heck, till Soo is here, we are going to make sure, it stays. Every landmark is important to foreign tourists and we at Dot Bust Corporation ensure that our foreign colleagues are well taken care off.
In the meantime does anyone know of an industrial solvent that will remove really strong glue off delicate material like err skin?
Monday, September 06, 2010
Personality developers
Human beings are people and like most people they shape their personality from traits inherited from their parents, environment and the substances they snort or parents snorted. Any geneticists, sociologists or anthropologists will tell you that. But to hell with geneticists, sociologists and anthropologists. It is the Astrologers, the highly knowledgeable community of people with their highly complex and scientific study of human nature called Zodiac Signs that dictate what we are and what we will be.
Here is an example of what Zodiac predictions have done to the people over the years.
Aries: Arians are normal people who believe that they are creative, adaptive, and insightful and the life of the party, (even if they have never attended a party) because it is written in their Zodiac description. They also believe they have excellent sense of humor thanks to the Astrologers who have drawn up the Arian character map. Most failed stand up comedians and known PJ'ists are rumored to be Arians. Also most party crashers are Arians who cannot understand why despite Astrological proof they are often not invited for parties.
Taurus: Taureans are people who are born between April 20th and May 20th. This is another group of people who reject evolutionary theories and believe in their Zodiac sign that says that they are like the animal that represents them. They are all about strength, stamina and will. Stubborn by nature, also a loving, sympathetic and appreciative sign. This makes them very confused and the result is that most loving husbands turned wife beaters are Taureans.
Gemini: Geminians believe that they are flexible, balanced and adaptable. They believe they can turn from hot to cold and may be prone to noticeable mood swings but have tendencies of being affectionate, and imaginative. Most serial killers were normal people till they read that they were a Gemini.
Cancer: I belong to this group. Period. I am NOT a traditionalist, and DO NOT enjoy operating on a fundamental level. I HATE history and am not fascinated with the beginnings of things (heraldry, ancestry, etc.). The moon is NOT my ruler; therefore I am NOT a bit of a contradiction and sometimes moody. I am NOT conservative, which makes me hide my moods from others altogether. I do NOT have a reputation for being fickle. However I do HATE astrologers who tell me who I am hmmpph!
Virgo: Another set of cruelly wronged people who are pleasantly surprised to hear that they have keen minds, and are delightful to talk with, often convincing others of outlandish tales with ease and charm. And that they are inquisitive and are very skilled at drawing information from people. They do not protest to this generalization because they are taken in by this outlandish description.
Libra: Libran's believe that they are about balance, justice, equanimity and stability. According to the Zodiac they can be quiet and shy if not persuaded to come out of their shell. In spite of their introverted nature they make excellent debaters, often proving a point from out of seemingly nowhere. Most alcoholics are Librans. Their alcoholic ramblings are an excellent example of their debating nature.
Scorpio: These are people born between October 23rd and November 21st. They are born pretty normal. But Astrology ruins them. They believe they are Scorpions who according to Astrologers are often misunderstood creatures. They can surmount seemingly all obstacles when they put their mind to the task, and they have unshakable focus when the situation calls for it. Most people lying dead at the foot of mountains are Scorpios. The creator of Superman was also a closet Scorpio though he refuses to acknowledge it.
Sagittarius: A group of people who were born between November 22nd and December 21st, forced to believe that they are philosophers. They are told that they have great abilities for focus, and can be very intense but they must channelize their energy or they will waste time and wear themselves out going in too many directions at once. Most people, who refuse to look at maps, or ask directions and can be seen sitting on roadside philosophizing about being lost are Sagittarians. Columbus was a famous Sagittarian though he denies it vociferously.
Capricorn: Another group of people who are led to believe that they are damn philosophical, good organizers, and they achieve their goals by purposeful, systematic means. They do not deal well with opposition or criticism but a healthy Capricorn will often shrug off negative comments towards their character. Suresh Kalmadi and most of the Indian politicians are rumored to be Capricorns, though they may not admit it.
Aquarius: These are ordinary folks who believe that they are simple and unassuming, and go about accomplishing goals in a quiet, often unorthodox ways. They believe that though their methods may be unorthodox, but the results, are surprisingly effective. Jack the Ripper was rumored to be a an Aquarian. His mom says that he showed no tendency to violence till he read Bheja Daruwallahs' book. The cops are currently looking for Bejha Daruwallah as an accessory to murder.
Pisces: Pisceans are people who believe they are beautifully gentle, and generous and hence taken advantage of. In the end, however, the Pisces is often the victor of ill circumstance because of his/her intense determination. They become passionately devoted to a cause – particularly if they are championing for friends or family. Most members of the Gandhi family believe they are Pisceans.
Addendum
Leo: Leo's have been brainwashed into believing that they are about expanse, power and that they are natural born leaders, and they will let you know it as they have a tendency to be high-minded and vocal about their opinions. Most inmates of mental asylums are Leos, where they can be seen being high minded and vocal in their padded cells.
I rest my case.
Have a nice week folks!
Here is an example of what Zodiac predictions have done to the people over the years.
Aries: Arians are normal people who believe that they are creative, adaptive, and insightful and the life of the party, (even if they have never attended a party) because it is written in their Zodiac description. They also believe they have excellent sense of humor thanks to the Astrologers who have drawn up the Arian character map. Most failed stand up comedians and known PJ'ists are rumored to be Arians. Also most party crashers are Arians who cannot understand why despite Astrological proof they are often not invited for parties.
Taurus: Taureans are people who are born between April 20th and May 20th. This is another group of people who reject evolutionary theories and believe in their Zodiac sign that says that they are like the animal that represents them. They are all about strength, stamina and will. Stubborn by nature, also a loving, sympathetic and appreciative sign. This makes them very confused and the result is that most loving husbands turned wife beaters are Taureans.
Gemini: Geminians believe that they are flexible, balanced and adaptable. They believe they can turn from hot to cold and may be prone to noticeable mood swings but have tendencies of being affectionate, and imaginative. Most serial killers were normal people till they read that they were a Gemini.
Cancer: I belong to this group. Period. I am NOT a traditionalist, and DO NOT enjoy operating on a fundamental level. I HATE history and am not fascinated with the beginnings of things (heraldry, ancestry, etc.). The moon is NOT my ruler; therefore I am NOT a bit of a contradiction and sometimes moody. I am NOT conservative, which makes me hide my moods from others altogether. I do NOT have a reputation for being fickle. However I do HATE astrologers who tell me who I am hmmpph!
Virgo: Another set of cruelly wronged people who are pleasantly surprised to hear that they have keen minds, and are delightful to talk with, often convincing others of outlandish tales with ease and charm. And that they are inquisitive and are very skilled at drawing information from people. They do not protest to this generalization because they are taken in by this outlandish description.
Libra: Libran's believe that they are about balance, justice, equanimity and stability. According to the Zodiac they can be quiet and shy if not persuaded to come out of their shell. In spite of their introverted nature they make excellent debaters, often proving a point from out of seemingly nowhere. Most alcoholics are Librans. Their alcoholic ramblings are an excellent example of their debating nature.
Scorpio: These are people born between October 23rd and November 21st. They are born pretty normal. But Astrology ruins them. They believe they are Scorpions who according to Astrologers are often misunderstood creatures. They can surmount seemingly all obstacles when they put their mind to the task, and they have unshakable focus when the situation calls for it. Most people lying dead at the foot of mountains are Scorpios. The creator of Superman was also a closet Scorpio though he refuses to acknowledge it.
Sagittarius: A group of people who were born between November 22nd and December 21st, forced to believe that they are philosophers. They are told that they have great abilities for focus, and can be very intense but they must channelize their energy or they will waste time and wear themselves out going in too many directions at once. Most people, who refuse to look at maps, or ask directions and can be seen sitting on roadside philosophizing about being lost are Sagittarians. Columbus was a famous Sagittarian though he denies it vociferously.
Capricorn: Another group of people who are led to believe that they are damn philosophical, good organizers, and they achieve their goals by purposeful, systematic means. They do not deal well with opposition or criticism but a healthy Capricorn will often shrug off negative comments towards their character. Suresh Kalmadi and most of the Indian politicians are rumored to be Capricorns, though they may not admit it.
Aquarius: These are ordinary folks who believe that they are simple and unassuming, and go about accomplishing goals in a quiet, often unorthodox ways. They believe that though their methods may be unorthodox, but the results, are surprisingly effective. Jack the Ripper was rumored to be a an Aquarian. His mom says that he showed no tendency to violence till he read Bheja Daruwallahs' book. The cops are currently looking for Bejha Daruwallah as an accessory to murder.
Pisces: Pisceans are people who believe they are beautifully gentle, and generous and hence taken advantage of. In the end, however, the Pisces is often the victor of ill circumstance because of his/her intense determination. They become passionately devoted to a cause – particularly if they are championing for friends or family. Most members of the Gandhi family believe they are Pisceans.
Addendum
Leo: Leo's have been brainwashed into believing that they are about expanse, power and that they are natural born leaders, and they will let you know it as they have a tendency to be high-minded and vocal about their opinions. Most inmates of mental asylums are Leos, where they can be seen being high minded and vocal in their padded cells.
I rest my case.
Have a nice week folks!
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Out of the frying pan...
Colleague to new colleague (NC) an ex roomie: Where were you working before you joined us?
NC: ABC Pvt Ltd.
Colleague: What were you doing there?
NC: Same thing as here.
Colleague: Why did you leave?
NC: You referred me here. That's why! heh heh
Colleague: Any openings in your company for a similar post?
NC: My post is still open...
Colleague: Great! I will send you my resume. Please send it your Manager. I hate this place!
NC: :-O :-O :-O
Have a nice week folks!
Monday, August 23, 2010
Elephantine problems
Flash News: The All India Domestic Elephants Association (AIDEA) has declared a one day bundh tomorrow to protest against the injustices meted out to their tribes by the tourism industry. A spokesperson for the association, Pampady Rajan told reporters. “Earlier we ferried tourists and blessed them for money. Life was good. But now we have foreign tourists coming and scrubbing us during bath and that is taking things a little bit too far!"
"We love our daily scrub, but once a day please!" pleaded Kunjiraman an eight year old elephant working at the Wild Life Sanctuary. Kunjiraman is allegedly squeaky clean. The allegation may well be true judging from number of foreign tourists applying for the cultural experience of scrubbing an elephant.
Ithithanam, an AIDEA member from Thrissur-Kerala agreed that getting scrubbed by tourists was a pain. He gets scrubbed about 150 times a day and looks like a nerd he feels. "There was a time I looked for ward to my weekly bath and scrub. Now I have developed a phobia of water," shuddered the pachyderm in sheer terror spraying the reporters with copious amount of water
"And what is worse is getting fed about a dozen times a day by these tourists!” complained Kandan Koran, an AIDEA member from Guruvayoor chewing on a bunch of bananas thoughtfully. He spat it out immediately when he realized that he had already eaten 12 times that day.
“I have put on so much weight" sighed Gajaleksmi. "I have to eat for every tourist. And most of the time they get the angle of the shot wrong and I have to eat again" she said looking at her once round now grotesquely bloated belly.
“It is high time our grievances are addressed” thundered Guruvayoorappan in a bad temper. Guruvayoorappan suffers from acute stomach problems due to the vicious circle of feeding and immediate bathing. His mahout has been sacked for calling him a ‘gasbag’.
The Animal Welfare Minister has promised to look into the elephants problems. A meeting with the protesting Pachyderms went horribly wrong when the Minister was picked up by an irate elephant and hurled into the Pampa River.
He was heard shouting to his Secretary as they ran for their lives, "Next time you come up bright ideas like carrying a bunch of bananas and a scrub down as a peace offering for elephants, I will personally kill you, you #$@%#%!!!!"
The Minister, who is in good shape considering the manhandling he went through, has agreed to look into the elephants demands. Speaking from his hospital bed he told reporters, "That was a close shave! Phew!"
"We love our daily scrub, but once a day please!" pleaded Kunjiraman an eight year old elephant working at the Wild Life Sanctuary. Kunjiraman is allegedly squeaky clean. The allegation may well be true judging from number of foreign tourists applying for the cultural experience of scrubbing an elephant.
Ithithanam, an AIDEA member from Thrissur-Kerala agreed that getting scrubbed by tourists was a pain. He gets scrubbed about 150 times a day and looks like a nerd he feels. "There was a time I looked for ward to my weekly bath and scrub. Now I have developed a phobia of water," shuddered the pachyderm in sheer terror spraying the reporters with copious amount of water
"And what is worse is getting fed about a dozen times a day by these tourists!” complained Kandan Koran, an AIDEA member from Guruvayoor chewing on a bunch of bananas thoughtfully. He spat it out immediately when he realized that he had already eaten 12 times that day.
“I have put on so much weight" sighed Gajaleksmi. "I have to eat for every tourist. And most of the time they get the angle of the shot wrong and I have to eat again" she said looking at her once round now grotesquely bloated belly.
“It is high time our grievances are addressed” thundered Guruvayoorappan in a bad temper. Guruvayoorappan suffers from acute stomach problems due to the vicious circle of feeding and immediate bathing. His mahout has been sacked for calling him a ‘gasbag’.
The Animal Welfare Minister has promised to look into the elephants problems. A meeting with the protesting Pachyderms went horribly wrong when the Minister was picked up by an irate elephant and hurled into the Pampa River.
He was heard shouting to his Secretary as they ran for their lives, "Next time you come up bright ideas like carrying a bunch of bananas and a scrub down as a peace offering for elephants, I will personally kill you, you #$@%#%!!!!"
The Minister, who is in good shape considering the manhandling he went through, has agreed to look into the elephants demands. Speaking from his hospital bed he told reporters, "That was a close shave! Phew!"
Monday, August 16, 2010
Hotline to heaven
A dear old aundy in the family was in shock, Her only living brother, a 176 (approx) year old apoopan called Varghese Chacko Alphonse Joseph Kurian was in the hospital. Doctors had given up hopes and suggested to the relations to donate his body to the nearest fossil museum.
But Aundy would have none of it. “He is only 176 years old” she wailed. "So young!!" she wailed some more. "How can he die!!!" she wailed again looking at the heavens, while we stuffed cotton into our years.
“We can only pray..." murmured the relations surreptitiously passing around the cotton.
"But the Potta prayer group would be closed now!!!" aundy wailed again while relations held their ears and groaned.
"It is true." my brother M whispered to us i.e. Mom, Dad and Me. "God would have gone to sleep by now." If looks could kill, M would be in heaven right now playing Hard Rock music on the Lyre.
"I think I know someone who might help!" said Elsie, aundy's daughter-in-laws, daughter-in-laws youngest daughter-in-law.
Everyone looked at her relieved. Aundys wailing and crying was getting on everyone’s nerves and people were now stuffing anything in sight into their ears.
"I will call my cousin Susan, She knows someone in Potta." said Elsie dialing a number on her mobile. Everyone looked at her admiringly. Having "connections" in Potta is like having connections in heaven. People nodded at each other knowingly and looked at her with a new respect.
"Ok! Susan will do it!" declared Susie after talking to Susan briefly.
After what seemed like an eternity but was actually ten seconds, Aundy's Son in Law's, Son-in-Law's grandson spoke. (He is 55 years old in case you are wondering). "What is happening Elsie? It is ten seconds and the news from hospital is still bad."
Before Elsie could say anything M looked at Aundy’s Son in Law's, Son-in-Law's, grandson and said solemnly "They are talking to God right now Appacha.”
"Oh." said Aundy's Son in Law's, Son-in-Law's grandson mollified. “Let us all go to sleep then.”
While the relatives rushed out of the house trying not to look too eager to leave, a certain gentleman and lady were seen beating a hasty retreat pushing their hysterically laughing daughter out of the house. The gentleman fought hard to keep a straight face until at least they reached the car.
M in the meantime had the air of a firefighter who had single handedly defused an emotional conflagration. He looked rather proud of himself.
Latest news: The family is still waiting for God's decision. In other words, apoopan is still alive.
But Aundy would have none of it. “He is only 176 years old” she wailed. "So young!!" she wailed some more. "How can he die!!!" she wailed again looking at the heavens, while we stuffed cotton into our years.
“We can only pray..." murmured the relations surreptitiously passing around the cotton.
"But the Potta prayer group would be closed now!!!" aundy wailed again while relations held their ears and groaned.
"It is true." my brother M whispered to us i.e. Mom, Dad and Me. "God would have gone to sleep by now." If looks could kill, M would be in heaven right now playing Hard Rock music on the Lyre.
"I think I know someone who might help!" said Elsie, aundy's daughter-in-laws, daughter-in-laws youngest daughter-in-law.
Everyone looked at her relieved. Aundys wailing and crying was getting on everyone’s nerves and people were now stuffing anything in sight into their ears.
"I will call my cousin Susan, She knows someone in Potta." said Elsie dialing a number on her mobile. Everyone looked at her admiringly. Having "connections" in Potta is like having connections in heaven. People nodded at each other knowingly and looked at her with a new respect.
"Ok! Susan will do it!" declared Susie after talking to Susan briefly.
After what seemed like an eternity but was actually ten seconds, Aundy's Son in Law's, Son-in-Law's grandson spoke. (He is 55 years old in case you are wondering). "What is happening Elsie? It is ten seconds and the news from hospital is still bad."
Before Elsie could say anything M looked at Aundy’s Son in Law's, Son-in-Law's, grandson and said solemnly "They are talking to God right now Appacha.”
"Oh." said Aundy's Son in Law's, Son-in-Law's grandson mollified. “Let us all go to sleep then.”
While the relatives rushed out of the house trying not to look too eager to leave, a certain gentleman and lady were seen beating a hasty retreat pushing their hysterically laughing daughter out of the house. The gentleman fought hard to keep a straight face until at least they reached the car.
M in the meantime had the air of a firefighter who had single handedly defused an emotional conflagration. He looked rather proud of himself.
Latest news: The family is still waiting for God's decision. In other words, apoopan is still alive.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
One way ticket to hell
One fine sunny yet not too warm and perfectly temperatured day, I decided to take the bus to work. Full of good intentions and absolutely proud of myself for taking the bus, I stepped into the bus and offered a ten rupee note to the conductor as fare. A little smile played on my lips as I thought about the good deed I was doing for the environment. I am sure a halo twinkled around my little head too, but I was too modest to check.
The conductor, a tall strapping young man who looked like he had been feasting on human blood the whole night and chewing the cud for breakfast, snatched the note brusquely, pushed his finger into his mouth, swabbed a generous amount of paan stained saliva on his finger, pried a ticket loose from the tight wad he held in his hand with the same finger and pushed the ticket into my hand before I could scream “Nahiiiiiiin” like Hema Malini in the movies. It all happened in a second. I had no time to react. The crumpled ticket with blood red saliva lay in my hand like a Maghai Paan House flavored bus ticket. The smell was overpowering.
I looked at the ticket in horror and then at the conductor. He was gone; to the rear of the bus to sell more paan flavored tickets I presume.
I gingerly lifted my hands and tried to throw the ticket into the bag. But it wouldn’t budge. The conductor has ensured that passengers will never have to worry about losing their tickets and paying fines by - you wont believe this - eating sweet paaan!!! Yes dear friends, the industrial strength sugar syrup in the paan ensured that I could do any thing...like Kung Fu or Karate, or climb a mountain "and" award a few Common Wealth Games contracts on the side without having to worry about the ticket falling down, EVER! Amazing.
I decided to look at the bright side. Suppose the bus turned sharply, rolled over a dozen times and then fell slow motion into a deep ditch like in the movies, I could secure myself by sticking my hand on any part of the bus!!! I would perhaps be the only one standing!!
But it was hard to be positive when there is a terrible stench emanating from your hand. Yes dear friends, by this time the paan syrup had started decomposing and my hand smelled like a morgue. Extending my hand in front of me and covering my nose with the other was an impossible task I achieved due to sheer nausea and great repulsion.
I got out of the bus with great alacrity and sprinted to the office toilet like someone suffering from diarrhea who has seen a toilet after a really long time. After washing the hand a hundred times and being refused the phenyl a hundred times (No dear, you don’t need phenyl to sterilize your hands. Soap is just fine)I walked to my seat, a changed person. The old Silverine was dead. In her place stood a female mutant bus ticket hating ninja turtle err girl.
Nowadays, when the conductor hands me the ticket, I no longer gasp and act like I am being handed a severed human head. I merely hold up an eyebrow tweezer and pluck it straight out of his hands. The ticket is then dropped into a plastic bag that is promptly thrown into the dustbin when I reach office. I do get strange looks from some conductors, but most of them are fine. Because they are too busy wetting their fingers with saliva for the next passenger, to notice.
The conductor, a tall strapping young man who looked like he had been feasting on human blood the whole night and chewing the cud for breakfast, snatched the note brusquely, pushed his finger into his mouth, swabbed a generous amount of paan stained saliva on his finger, pried a ticket loose from the tight wad he held in his hand with the same finger and pushed the ticket into my hand before I could scream “Nahiiiiiiin” like Hema Malini in the movies. It all happened in a second. I had no time to react. The crumpled ticket with blood red saliva lay in my hand like a Maghai Paan House flavored bus ticket. The smell was overpowering.
I looked at the ticket in horror and then at the conductor. He was gone; to the rear of the bus to sell more paan flavored tickets I presume.
I gingerly lifted my hands and tried to throw the ticket into the bag. But it wouldn’t budge. The conductor has ensured that passengers will never have to worry about losing their tickets and paying fines by - you wont believe this - eating sweet paaan!!! Yes dear friends, the industrial strength sugar syrup in the paan ensured that I could do any thing...like Kung Fu or Karate, or climb a mountain "and" award a few Common Wealth Games contracts on the side without having to worry about the ticket falling down, EVER! Amazing.
I decided to look at the bright side. Suppose the bus turned sharply, rolled over a dozen times and then fell slow motion into a deep ditch like in the movies, I could secure myself by sticking my hand on any part of the bus!!! I would perhaps be the only one standing!!
But it was hard to be positive when there is a terrible stench emanating from your hand. Yes dear friends, by this time the paan syrup had started decomposing and my hand smelled like a morgue. Extending my hand in front of me and covering my nose with the other was an impossible task I achieved due to sheer nausea and great repulsion.
I got out of the bus with great alacrity and sprinted to the office toilet like someone suffering from diarrhea who has seen a toilet after a really long time. After washing the hand a hundred times and being refused the phenyl a hundred times (No dear, you don’t need phenyl to sterilize your hands. Soap is just fine)I walked to my seat, a changed person. The old Silverine was dead. In her place stood a female mutant bus ticket hating ninja turtle err girl.
Nowadays, when the conductor hands me the ticket, I no longer gasp and act like I am being handed a severed human head. I merely hold up an eyebrow tweezer and pluck it straight out of his hands. The ticket is then dropped into a plastic bag that is promptly thrown into the dustbin when I reach office. I do get strange looks from some conductors, but most of them are fine. Because they are too busy wetting their fingers with saliva for the next passenger, to notice.
Wednesday, August 04, 2010
A little knowledge of Hindi is a dangerous thing
Mallus and Hindi are as similar as Roti and Puttu. And every other day some mallu or the other rams home that point with vehemence, just in case you have been lulled into an artificial sense of security that mallus have mastered Hindi. Today, one on my mallu colleagues reached the zenith of Hindi blooperism.
Mallu and couple of colleagues were discussing something very animatedly but in hush tones. It was obvious that they were gossiping. Another colleague walks past, glances at them and asks "Kya ho rah hai!"
A perfectly innocent rhetorical question that Mallu should have left alone.
But Mallu looks up and says "Gupt gyan* ho raha hai!"
Don’t judge him too harshly folks. The word "confidential information" is not easy to translate into Hindi. Anyone could have made that mistake.
Now let me go and continue rolling on the floor laughing my a**e off. I took a small break from LMAO’ing to blog this. Ciao.
p.s. Mallu was overheard saying "The word is 'gopneeya'! Dammit."
* loosely translated it means... s** education
Mallu and couple of colleagues were discussing something very animatedly but in hush tones. It was obvious that they were gossiping. Another colleague walks past, glances at them and asks "Kya ho rah hai!"
A perfectly innocent rhetorical question that Mallu should have left alone.
But Mallu looks up and says "Gupt gyan* ho raha hai!"
Don’t judge him too harshly folks. The word "confidential information" is not easy to translate into Hindi. Anyone could have made that mistake.
Now let me go and continue rolling on the floor laughing my a**e off. I took a small break from LMAO’ing to blog this. Ciao.
p.s. Mallu was overheard saying "The word is 'gopneeya'! Dammit."
* loosely translated it means... s** education
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