Interviews Then
Interview Time: 11 am
Candidates arrives: 10:30 am
Interview begins: 11 am.
Interviews Now
Interview Time: 11 am
Candidates calls up to inquire if she can come next week: 10:55 am
Candidate says she is in native place and hence got delayed on the way back home: 10:58 am
Candidate asks for another time: 11 am
Interview fixed for next day after furious rescheduling of conference rooms, other interviewers etc : 12 pm
Candidate calls and says she is stuck in traffic jam: 10:55 am
Candidate calls again and says she is still stuck in the same spot: 11 am
Facility manager throws you out bodily out of the interview room: 11:05 am
Then he throws the laptop on your head: 11:06 am
Then he throws the laptop bag, your phone etc in the trash can: 11:07 am
Candidate calls and says that she is stuck in an altercation with the traffic cops: 11:15 am
Interview fixed for next day after furious rescheduling of conference rooms, other interviewers etc : 12 pm
Candidate calls and says she is stuck in traffic jam: 10:55 am
You bite back the epithets straining to get out of your mouth and wreak hell on the candidate and instead lie to the candidate in a sweet voice that the post has been filled up by another candidate “WHO ARRIVED ON TIME FOR THE INTERVIEW!!!!” :12:05 pm
Hear with sadistic pleasure her disappointed "oh": 12:06 pm
You run behind HR for more resumes to fill in the post: 12:07 pm... to for like forever!
A day in the life of a humble IT communications mule.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Monday, May 23, 2011
Personal marketing
I remember Ramanujam (first name with held because I am too young to die) my first mentor in Marketing. Back in the days when I was a pony tailed Summer Intern, a Marketing Manager called Ramanujam (Motto: There is nothing personal in Marketing) saw great potential in me in Marketing. In fact he saw great potential in Marketing in almost everybody!
Ramanujam a.k. Jam: Srinivas, you are wasting your time doing whatever you are doing. You should be in marketing.
Srinivas: But Saar…
Jam: No buts my man. Come and meet me at 2 ‘o’ clock and I will teach you the basics of Marketing.
Srinivas: But…
Jam: What but? Do you want to spend the rest of your days walking around aimlessly and cooling your heels in that room?
Srinivas: But I am the AC mechanic saar and that is A/C control room saaar.
Jam: Err... gotta go, meeting..bye.
Ramanujam was a man who thought on his feet like a good marketing man. It was Ramanujam who inspired me to write Selling Snow to an Eskimo. And it is from him I learned that if you have it in you, you can even sell software to your mother, like he did. Apparently Selling Software to his Amma was also a piece of cake.
Jam: Amma I have nice software for you!
Amma: Aiyyayo! What will I do with this kanna!
Jam: Amma, you can put it on your computer and use it!
Amma: But you know I don’t own a computer kanna!
Jam: That is no problem Amma. I will tell our dealers to sell you one! It will only cost Rs. 40,000 Amma!
Amma: And what will I do with a computer!!
Jam: You can send me mails Amma. And you can send mails to Annan in the US!!
Amma: But I do not know how to use a computer!
Jam: I will tell our training vendor to give training Amma. It will only cost you Rs 5000
Amma: Hmm if you say so. So how much will this software cost.
Jam: Only Rs. 13, 500 Amma!
Amma: Aiyyo too much! You do not have any discounts!
Jam: We do err... I mean we don’t!
Amma: Sigh! Okay!
Jam: I want some water Amma.
Amma: Go get it yourself hmmph.
Jam: Amma please Amma!
Amma: Okay..wait here, I will get the water!
Jam (quickly removing Rs 1500/- from her purse): This will round off the figure nicely!
Amma: What did you say?
Jam: Err nothing Amma.
Amma: You are such a nice son!! Muah!
Jam (wiping amma drool from his face): Ugh! I know Amma *evil glint*
The boss is very proud of him and has promised him a promotion if he doesn't try and sell software to the boss's amma. Jam has not made any promises.
As the old Ramanjuma saying goes: There is nothing personal in Marketing heh heh. Mind it!!
Ramanujam a.k. Jam: Srinivas, you are wasting your time doing whatever you are doing. You should be in marketing.
Srinivas: But Saar…
Jam: No buts my man. Come and meet me at 2 ‘o’ clock and I will teach you the basics of Marketing.
Srinivas: But…
Jam: What but? Do you want to spend the rest of your days walking around aimlessly and cooling your heels in that room?
Srinivas: But I am the AC mechanic saar and that is A/C control room saaar.
Jam: Err... gotta go, meeting..bye.
Ramanujam was a man who thought on his feet like a good marketing man. It was Ramanujam who inspired me to write Selling Snow to an Eskimo. And it is from him I learned that if you have it in you, you can even sell software to your mother, like he did. Apparently Selling Software to his Amma was also a piece of cake.
Jam: Amma I have nice software for you!
Amma: Aiyyayo! What will I do with this kanna!
Jam: Amma, you can put it on your computer and use it!
Amma: But you know I don’t own a computer kanna!
Jam: That is no problem Amma. I will tell our dealers to sell you one! It will only cost Rs. 40,000 Amma!
Amma: And what will I do with a computer!!
Jam: You can send me mails Amma. And you can send mails to Annan in the US!!
Amma: But I do not know how to use a computer!
Jam: I will tell our training vendor to give training Amma. It will only cost you Rs 5000
Amma: Hmm if you say so. So how much will this software cost.
Jam: Only Rs. 13, 500 Amma!
Amma: Aiyyo too much! You do not have any discounts!
Jam: We do err... I mean we don’t!
Amma: Sigh! Okay!
Jam: I want some water Amma.
Amma: Go get it yourself hmmph.
Jam: Amma please Amma!
Amma: Okay..wait here, I will get the water!
Jam (quickly removing Rs 1500/- from her purse): This will round off the figure nicely!
Amma: What did you say?
Jam: Err nothing Amma.
Amma: You are such a nice son!! Muah!
Jam (wiping amma drool from his face): Ugh! I know Amma *evil glint*
The boss is very proud of him and has promised him a promotion if he doesn't try and sell software to the boss's amma. Jam has not made any promises.
As the old Ramanjuma saying goes: There is nothing personal in Marketing heh heh. Mind it!!
Monday, May 02, 2011
Disclaimer
At long last I have my very own disclaimer... for my blog. This is something I have writing and re writing for the past couple of years. It was so difficult to characterize my blog. I finally gave up when I realized that it had no character. Now ‘why would you need a Disclaimer Silverine’ you might ask! The answer is simple. I don’t wanna go to jail. I heard they don’t have Internet connection in there :(
So friends, enemies and fellow bloggers here is my Blog Disclaimer. Please to be reading Disclaimer before reading my blog.
Terms of Use and Disclaimer for http://poomanam.blogspot.com
This blog is the brainless aimless jottings of a juvenile delinquent suffering from juvenile Alzheimers. So puhlease don’t expect any sense here. This blogger tends to shoot off her mouth and keyboard and has an opinion on everything and everything whether people are willing to listen or not. I am not going to be liable if you take my rants seriously and or believe it to be true though I will be highly flattered if you do. I myself am often shocked at what I write and shake my head in disapproval at myself at times. But then I recover just as quickly from such negative thoughts and regain the belief that I am the best.
I take no legal responsibility for my opinions as this is a free country and the constitution does not state that my personal opinion should be whetted by a tribunal or sitting judge of the Supreme Court. I will however desist from tarnishing anyone’s name as it is not nice and more importantly it will land me in jail…where there is no internet connection.
I am not going to be liable for any loss, damage or inconvenience caused as a result of reading my blog. So please do not read this blog while ironing clothes, cooking, riding a vehicle and or under the influence of alcohol. It is advised for your safety to read this blog when you are clinically proven to be brain dead.
The links that I provide in my blog, and in the sidebar are for my reference only. Click at your own risk. I will not be responsible for any loss, damage or inconvenience caused by clicking the links provided here. In case of any loss, damage or inconvenience caused by clicking the links, do let me know the details. I need a good laugh now and then.
I do not endorse the content of any site linked to my blog. They are linked here because I am too lazy to book mark them though I find them eminently readable.
I am not responsible for the comments at my blog. All comments belong to their respective owners ( he he) and you may go and confer the bouquets or throw the brickbats at their blogs. If you are doing the latter please don’t tell them that you landed at their blog from mine. You can say that you ummm...err.. landed at their blog while blog hopping!
p.s. my amma says she takes no responsibility for what I write here too. Ditto with my dogs who will get whacking after I publish this post, for their lack of gratitude.
p.p.s. This copyright notice has been plagiarized err... inspired from here. Please don’t sue me MC! :-S
COPYRIGHT © 'SILVERINE'
So friends, enemies and fellow bloggers here is my Blog Disclaimer. Please to be reading Disclaimer before reading my blog.
Terms of Use and Disclaimer for http://poomanam.blogspot.com
This blog is the brainless aimless jottings of a juvenile delinquent suffering from juvenile Alzheimers. So puhlease don’t expect any sense here. This blogger tends to shoot off her mouth and keyboard and has an opinion on everything and everything whether people are willing to listen or not. I am not going to be liable if you take my rants seriously and or believe it to be true though I will be highly flattered if you do. I myself am often shocked at what I write and shake my head in disapproval at myself at times. But then I recover just as quickly from such negative thoughts and regain the belief that I am the best.
I take no legal responsibility for my opinions as this is a free country and the constitution does not state that my personal opinion should be whetted by a tribunal or sitting judge of the Supreme Court. I will however desist from tarnishing anyone’s name as it is not nice and more importantly it will land me in jail…where there is no internet connection.
I am not going to be liable for any loss, damage or inconvenience caused as a result of reading my blog. So please do not read this blog while ironing clothes, cooking, riding a vehicle and or under the influence of alcohol. It is advised for your safety to read this blog when you are clinically proven to be brain dead.
The links that I provide in my blog, and in the sidebar are for my reference only. Click at your own risk. I will not be responsible for any loss, damage or inconvenience caused by clicking the links provided here. In case of any loss, damage or inconvenience caused by clicking the links, do let me know the details. I need a good laugh now and then.
I do not endorse the content of any site linked to my blog. They are linked here because I am too lazy to book mark them though I find them eminently readable.
I am not responsible for the comments at my blog. All comments belong to their respective owners ( he he) and you may go and confer the bouquets or throw the brickbats at their blogs. If you are doing the latter please don’t tell them that you landed at their blog from mine. You can say that you ummm...err.. landed at their blog while blog hopping!
p.s. my amma says she takes no responsibility for what I write here too. Ditto with my dogs who will get whacking after I publish this post, for their lack of gratitude.
p.p.s. This copyright notice has been plagiarized err... inspired from here. Please don’t sue me MC! :-S
COPYRIGHT © 'SILVERINE'
Monday, April 25, 2011
Insider betting
I and Mr. Kanjoos* were the only people in the new building. We were here for a meeting. I looked at Mr. Kanjoos and said demurely. "I need to ask you something."
Kanjoos looked up at me and exclaimed with a smile, "Go ahead! Shoot!"
I fluttered my eyelashes and said, "I need some change."
"Sure! How much?" asked Kanjoos with a broad patronizing smile.
"I am building a house and any contribution will help."
Kanjoos gasped and started wheezing while his face turned ashen. He clutched his heart and looked like he would keel over.
“Hehe I am kidding!" I giggled. "I need 5 bucks to pay the coffee fellow. I don’t have any change."
Kanjoos struggled to gain composure but the impact of the first statement was still creating shock waves and negated the waves of relief that was trying to wash over him. His face was now a dirty white with red blotches and he looked like he was going to have as exultant heart attack. He tried his best to smile but it came out as a lop sided snarl.
"About that five bucks…" I asked with fake hesitancy. He swiftly removed a five rupee coin from his pocket and thrust it into my hands. His last record for parting with money was two minutes. The person who achieved that feat was SS, who convinced Kanjoos that a free PF withdrawal form now costs two bucks.
Today he bettered his record by 30 seconds. The person who achieved that feat was yours *cough* brilliantly truly.
That would make me 100 bucks richer from the betting syndicate in the office who were so sure I would lose that the stakes were loaded in favor of Kanjoos.
Next week the stakes have been raised higher. Foxy has declared that he will get money out of Kanjoos in one minute. We are eagerly looking forward to the challenge. Brisk betting is happening as I type this post dear people!
Will Kanjoos better his record next week? Or will Foxy bite the dust? No one knows.
So I am putting my money on both, tee hee.
Wish me luck peoples!
*miser
Kanjoos looked up at me and exclaimed with a smile, "Go ahead! Shoot!"
I fluttered my eyelashes and said, "I need some change."
"Sure! How much?" asked Kanjoos with a broad patronizing smile.
"I am building a house and any contribution will help."
Kanjoos gasped and started wheezing while his face turned ashen. He clutched his heart and looked like he would keel over.
“Hehe I am kidding!" I giggled. "I need 5 bucks to pay the coffee fellow. I don’t have any change."
Kanjoos struggled to gain composure but the impact of the first statement was still creating shock waves and negated the waves of relief that was trying to wash over him. His face was now a dirty white with red blotches and he looked like he was going to have as exultant heart attack. He tried his best to smile but it came out as a lop sided snarl.
"About that five bucks…" I asked with fake hesitancy. He swiftly removed a five rupee coin from his pocket and thrust it into my hands. His last record for parting with money was two minutes. The person who achieved that feat was SS, who convinced Kanjoos that a free PF withdrawal form now costs two bucks.
Today he bettered his record by 30 seconds. The person who achieved that feat was yours *cough* brilliantly truly.
That would make me 100 bucks richer from the betting syndicate in the office who were so sure I would lose that the stakes were loaded in favor of Kanjoos.
Next week the stakes have been raised higher. Foxy has declared that he will get money out of Kanjoos in one minute. We are eagerly looking forward to the challenge. Brisk betting is happening as I type this post dear people!
Will Kanjoos better his record next week? Or will Foxy bite the dust? No one knows.
So I am putting my money on both, tee hee.
Wish me luck peoples!
*miser
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Airheads
Driving to work or riding an auto is made a little less boring and or terrifying (in that order) by the umpteen FM Radio Stations that entertain you on the way with bad, really bad and sometimes really horrible songs requested by listeners. Left to themselves, the RJ’s do a good job of playing a good mix of music both Hindi and English. However, more entertaining than these songs are listeners who come on air to convey appreciation or generally chat up with the RJ or answer some weird contest question like, “Who do you think is more faithful in love? Guys or gals?” (I am dead serious here folks).
One such listener came on air today and he was very emphatic about his appreciation for this particular station!
Listener: Hello Radio XYZ! I love your station!!
RJ: Thank you!!
Listener: You people have kept my sanity since I came to Bangalore four months ago!
RJ: Wow! And how did we err… do that?
Listener: I have to get up every morning and you know what?
RJ: What!
Listener: Go to work!!
RJ: Ahem…
Listener: And you know what!
RJ: Err... what?
Listener: I have to get into a cab and see the moronic faces of my colleagues!
RJ: *cough*
Listener: And then I have to go into the office and actually …!
RJ: Work?
Listener: Exactly! It is the songs you play that keep me sane!
RJ: Umm...errr...
Listener: I am tuned into your station the whole day! I even wear my headphones during meetings!!
RJ: And what does your boss have to say about this?
Listener: Why don’t you ask him! He is right here!
RJ: Well…I don’t think that is….
Boss: Hello!
RJ: Yes sir!
Boss: #$@% you *%$! son of a @#$%@ %$&@ and your @#%#$ and your @#$#% and your ancestors and their #$@%...
RJ: *gulp* Thank you for listening. Have a nice day *SLAM!!!*
And then he played a really nice song for a very long time.
One such listener came on air today and he was very emphatic about his appreciation for this particular station!
Listener: Hello Radio XYZ! I love your station!!
RJ: Thank you!!
Listener: You people have kept my sanity since I came to Bangalore four months ago!
RJ: Wow! And how did we err… do that?
Listener: I have to get up every morning and you know what?
RJ: What!
Listener: Go to work!!
RJ: Ahem…
Listener: And you know what!
RJ: Err... what?
Listener: I have to get into a cab and see the moronic faces of my colleagues!
RJ: *cough*
Listener: And then I have to go into the office and actually …!
RJ: Work?
Listener: Exactly! It is the songs you play that keep me sane!
RJ: Umm...errr...
Listener: I am tuned into your station the whole day! I even wear my headphones during meetings!!
RJ: And what does your boss have to say about this?
Listener: Why don’t you ask him! He is right here!
RJ: Well…I don’t think that is….
Boss: Hello!
RJ: Yes sir!
Boss: #$@% you *%$! son of a @#$%@ %$&@ and your @#%#$ and your @#$#% and your ancestors and their #$@%...
RJ: *gulp* Thank you for listening. Have a nice day *SLAM!!!*
And then he played a really nice song for a very long time.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Dead and alive treated alike
Sign outside a tent selling native medicines on Bannarghatta Road:
PULSE CHECKING Rs 20/-
Next time you want to check if you are dead or alive, you know where to go.
And if he pronounces you dead then...
Howzzat!!
p.s. he has medicines for a 'sexless' life too. Just take a dose and see your sexless life becoming a "sexess" err I mean success.
Music - Check your pulse and see if you're alive
PULSE CHECKING Rs 20/-
Next time you want to check if you are dead or alive, you know where to go.
And if he pronounces you dead then...
- You can buy your own coffin!
- And dig your own grave!!
- And if you are a Hindu, then you can go shopping for wood for your funeral pyre.
- And get a good bargain too!!
- Besides the unenviable opportunity to decide whether you should bury/cremate yourself or pay the 20 rupees and go back home.
Howzzat!!
p.s. he has medicines for a 'sexless' life too. Just take a dose and see your sexless life becoming a "sexess" err I mean success.
Music - Check your pulse and see if you're alive
Monday, March 21, 2011
Holi haim?
We knew it was Holi in Bangalore, when we spotted multicolored “beings” walking or driving past our house in a bike. In the 90’s when I was a lil kid, I would screech when I saw these beings, bringing people out of their houses. Then we would all stare at these ‘beings’ shamelessly. After the ‘being’ had gone, the clueless southies would gather around discussing this strange phenomenon. Then Iyer uncle would tell everyone about the year 1956 when he was in Delhi and people would groan at the prospect of another yarn from Iyer Uncle and scuttle back home. Every year this phenomenon would take place, i.e. me screeching, people rushing out to see the “being” and Iyer uncle never finishing his story because of the ominous beginning “Back in 1956 when I was in Delhi….”
Uncle never got to tell his story and the neighborhood never understood what “Holi” was till uncle was lying on his deathbed. When people came to know that uncle was on his deathbed, they visited him in droves to pray for him and give the family courage. And on his deathbed uncle delivered the story of “Holi” which I gathered was a terrifying time when blood thirsty North Indians were suddenly seized by the evil spirit and started acting ‘funny’... like throwing colors and what not. Uncle could not give an exact description as he and his wife were too busy cowering in the closet after closing the bedroom door and the main door.
So from Iyer uncle we finally learned that Holi was some kind of North Indian festival or tradition. Soon after delivering the Holi narrative Iyer uncle was pronounced fit as a fiddle by the doctor. We were so happy for him that we decided that the next time he cried ‘wolf” we will wait till he had died before visiting him.
Every Holi I waited for the colored beings to walk or drive past our house. They looked fascinating. We now knew it was Holi when we spotted these multicolored beings in the open or saw a lone patch of bright colors on the street. Then my brother was invited to his Rajasthani friend’s house for his first Holi celebration. When he got back home, we finally had out own multicolored “being”. The rest of the family looked on warily, fascinated at what looked like my brother's evil twin. My dad took a photograph of him too. He was so proud. Then he and my mom spent the next week scrubbing the colors off their son while he howled and screamed in pain. That was the last time my brother played Holi. Little did he or his southie parents know that Holi colors fade slowly and that scrubbing was not necessary?
Finally we had our very own North Indian neighbor and for their first Holi celebration in the south they called the whole neighborhood. It was a colorful affair with lot of color throwing and furious fathers running behind indistinguishable “beings” who were throwing colors on their daughters and lots of other fun activities.
South Indian dad (SID): What are you doing near my daater?
North Indian Boy (NIB): I am going to put some color on Rajeshwari uncle.
SID: Woky, Wokay, but no hanky panky wokay?
NIB: Of course not uncle.
SID (barking): No touchiiiiinnnnngggg I said!!!!
NIB: Err how do I put the color then!
SID: Like this... (and he takes the colored powder and puts one tiny pottu on his daughter’s forehead)
NIB: !!!!!!
Let’s just say the celebrations went on very well. I ate lot of sweets as I was too young to be bothered with requests for putting pottu (bindi). But by the end of the day, the North Indian boys had become expert in making nice round evenly colored pottus. And that is how the stick-on bindi business started I am told and went on to become a multimillion dollar industry… by frustrated North Indian males settled in South India.
Uncle never got to tell his story and the neighborhood never understood what “Holi” was till uncle was lying on his deathbed. When people came to know that uncle was on his deathbed, they visited him in droves to pray for him and give the family courage. And on his deathbed uncle delivered the story of “Holi” which I gathered was a terrifying time when blood thirsty North Indians were suddenly seized by the evil spirit and started acting ‘funny’... like throwing colors and what not. Uncle could not give an exact description as he and his wife were too busy cowering in the closet after closing the bedroom door and the main door.
So from Iyer uncle we finally learned that Holi was some kind of North Indian festival or tradition. Soon after delivering the Holi narrative Iyer uncle was pronounced fit as a fiddle by the doctor. We were so happy for him that we decided that the next time he cried ‘wolf” we will wait till he had died before visiting him.
Every Holi I waited for the colored beings to walk or drive past our house. They looked fascinating. We now knew it was Holi when we spotted these multicolored beings in the open or saw a lone patch of bright colors on the street. Then my brother was invited to his Rajasthani friend’s house for his first Holi celebration. When he got back home, we finally had out own multicolored “being”. The rest of the family looked on warily, fascinated at what looked like my brother's evil twin. My dad took a photograph of him too. He was so proud. Then he and my mom spent the next week scrubbing the colors off their son while he howled and screamed in pain. That was the last time my brother played Holi. Little did he or his southie parents know that Holi colors fade slowly and that scrubbing was not necessary?
Finally we had our very own North Indian neighbor and for their first Holi celebration in the south they called the whole neighborhood. It was a colorful affair with lot of color throwing and furious fathers running behind indistinguishable “beings” who were throwing colors on their daughters and lots of other fun activities.
South Indian dad (SID): What are you doing near my daater?
North Indian Boy (NIB): I am going to put some color on Rajeshwari uncle.
SID: Woky, Wokay, but no hanky panky wokay?
NIB: Of course not uncle.
SID (barking): No touchiiiiinnnnngggg I said!!!!
NIB: Err how do I put the color then!
SID: Like this... (and he takes the colored powder and puts one tiny pottu on his daughter’s forehead)
NIB: !!!!!!
Let’s just say the celebrations went on very well. I ate lot of sweets as I was too young to be bothered with requests for putting pottu (bindi). But by the end of the day, the North Indian boys had become expert in making nice round evenly colored pottus. And that is how the stick-on bindi business started I am told and went on to become a multimillion dollar industry… by frustrated North Indian males settled in South India.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Technology to the aft
Today I saw the very first Indian TV commercial for a Home Pregnancy Kit. The commercial is shot in a typical Saas Bahu serial setting. The bahu, who seems to be a village girl comes tripping down the steps in a heavily embroidered ghaghra choli holding a uric acid dripping test stick, and nods to everyone present with a suppressed smile. The nodding I presume was to indicate that 1) She was pregnant and was very happy about it. 2) She was not pregnant and is much relieved.
The ambiguity of that smile ensures that both married and unmarried girls are covered in the commercial. How ingenious!!
I can almost visualize the impact this kit will have on many Indian families.
Saas: Bahu!!!! What does the test say?
Bahu: *blush* You are going to be a grandmother maaji.
Saas: Does that test tell you if it is a boy or girl?
Bahu: *gulp* Nahin maaji!
Saas (slapping her): Kalmui. What is the point of this test then!
Bahu: *sob*
Cut to year 2030. India is now a scientific super power. The pregnancy test kit developed by Indian scientists is a highly developed contraption with multiple services added to it.
Saas: Bahu! Are you pregnant or not?
Bahu: Yes I am maaji *blush*
Saas: What is it? A boy or a girl?
Bahu: A girl maaji. But don’t worry maaji. The pregnancy test kit has care taken of it. It is programmed to detect and terminate female fetuses immediately!
Saas: I am so proud of your bahu! Best of luck with the next try. I shall be rooting for you.
Bahu: *blush* Thank you maaji.
Husband: *groan*
Come to think of it, such pregnancy detection kits might be just the ticket for a happy family life in many Indian homes. When it comes to using technology to further reinforce our prejudices, blind beliefs and superstitions, we Indians are tops! Jai ho!
The ambiguity of that smile ensures that both married and unmarried girls are covered in the commercial. How ingenious!!
I can almost visualize the impact this kit will have on many Indian families.
Saas: Bahu!!!! What does the test say?
Bahu: *blush* You are going to be a grandmother maaji.
Saas: Does that test tell you if it is a boy or girl?
Bahu: *gulp* Nahin maaji!
Saas (slapping her): Kalmui. What is the point of this test then!
Bahu: *sob*
Cut to year 2030. India is now a scientific super power. The pregnancy test kit developed by Indian scientists is a highly developed contraption with multiple services added to it.
Saas: Bahu! Are you pregnant or not?
Bahu: Yes I am maaji *blush*
Saas: What is it? A boy or a girl?
Bahu: A girl maaji. But don’t worry maaji. The pregnancy test kit has care taken of it. It is programmed to detect and terminate female fetuses immediately!
Saas: I am so proud of your bahu! Best of luck with the next try. I shall be rooting for you.
Bahu: *blush* Thank you maaji.
Husband: *groan*
Come to think of it, such pregnancy detection kits might be just the ticket for a happy family life in many Indian homes. When it comes to using technology to further reinforce our prejudices, blind beliefs and superstitions, we Indians are tops! Jai ho!
Monday, February 21, 2011
Banking on your woes
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.
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 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.
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