Autobiography of an ordinary man

My views on the Lokpal bill and the UID project

2011-12-22T14:49:00.002+05:30

Something tells me I really shouldn't be writing posts like this one - what is about to follow is my 'critique' of the Lokpal movement - because I am a moron, untutored in the niceties of governance and administration, but I'm quite jobless at the moment and it's either write this post or die of boredom. Plus, rightly or wrongly, I feel strongly about this.

I'll make my point in a slightly roundabout way, with an anecdote.

Many years ago, I had a customer, for whom I made press tools, who was a supplier of sheet metal components to an appliances manufacturer.

This manufacturer had product lines which included televisions, refrigerators, washing machines and air-conditioners.

My customer, a small one-man-show, used to supply components to both the washing machine plant and the air conditioner plant.

One day, he was raided by the Preventive Department of the Central Excise Collectorate who accused him of mis-labeling air-conditioner parts as washing-machine parts.

He protested. He showed them purchase orders from the customer, showing part numbers, produced drawings corresponding to those part numbers which clearly mentioned the model of the washing machine the parts were going into, and even correspondence about them.

The Preventive Department - scary looking gents they were - menacingly told him to save his breath.

"This does not mean anything, these drawings and purchase orders" their superintendent told him. "It's probably fabricated in order to evade duty"

After an hour or two - I was there, for moral support - the officials, who were sitting at my customer's table while all of us were standing around, terrified, summoned him into the cabin.

I went along, because this chap was white as a sheet and I was worried he might collapse.

The superintendent grimly told us that the duty rate differential was 70 percent and going by the production figures, and assuming this had been going on since the factory started, he would raise a duty demand of ten lakh rupees, with a like amount as penalty, and interest thereon.

"Thirty, thirty five lakhs it could be. You'll have to pay half the demand and then fight the case" he said.

My customer went limp and even more white. I propped him up, wondering whether to ask the chaps for a seat. They showed no inclination.

Then the inspector, the superintendent's subordinate, put a friendly arm around my customer and took us both outside the room.

"Look, the sahib is not a bad person. I'll talk to him. We'll discuss and come to a reasonable understanding"

The cookie crumbled, for me at least, though my customer still looked like a dying duck.

We finally settled at a very reasonable payment of one lakh rupees, with a monthly honorarium of five thousand rupees, to prevent the preventive department from replaying this scene.

I remember my customer weeping bitterly after this episode. Huge racking sobs. "What wrong have I done?" and "Why me?" were the major themes of his anguish.

And the very next year, a chap named Manmohan Singh - I think it's the same guy who's PM now, though I wouldn't swear on it - as finance minister, rationalized duty rates for excise. Many things, including washing machine parts and airconditioner parts, ended up having same or nearly the same rates of duty.

He also made rules preventing random raids by preventive departments unless there was probable cause, backed up by some preliminary investigation and a sanction from a senior officer.

And my customer stopped paying his honorarium to the excise department.

This, in my humble opinion, is what needs to be done to curb corruption. Simplification of administrative procedure, transparency and accountability. The Lokpal bill is just going to put another layer of vultures on top of the existing ones. The existing ones feed on the corpse of the nation. The Lokpal will feed on what it can snatch from the existing vultures.

One of the things that could possibly have gone a long way towards curbing corruption, the UID Bill, has been quietly killed, unnoticed by the fierce watchdog that is Team Anna.

The UID bill was clever. It merely sought to record biometric data of individuals. That was it. Just record the biometric data, tag the individual, and make the data available nationwide.

The great P Chidambaram, among others, realized that this data could someday attach itself to bank accounts, propery records, financial transactions and overseas travel.

Suddenly, there would be no place to hide when an investigation happened. At the press of a key, everything would come gushing out. Your accounts, your lockers, your lands, your flats, your shareholdings in companies, everything.

They were horrified. And they dug out a whole bunch of very technical reasons why the project had to be abandoned. (here's an article about those reasons http://articles.economictimes.indiatimes.com/2011-12-16/news/30525319_1_aadhaar-uid-scheme-data-protection )

The arguments are essentially that UID will violate privacy, that the project is not technically feasible, that it is not financially feasible and that it wasn't approved by the Parliament.

Violate privacy? Well, all they've recorded is my name and address along with my photograph, fingerprint and retina scan.

Technically unfeasible? It seems that in a large population like ours, there are likely to be people who have the same biometrics. Pshaw!

Financially unfeasible? Costs some 1500 cr, it seems. Chicken feed compared to the 6,00,000 crores or whatever we're cheerfully planning to bust up over the food security bill, no? Or the 1,00,000 cr oil deficit.

No, the harder I think about it the more it seems likely that the powers that be have figured out that the UID is going to make their lives tough and have very neatly pushed it out of their way for several years atleast.

My apologies once again for inflicting all this half-baked reasoning on you, especially if you happen to disagree with it. One of those days when I'm feeling very morose.

The making of the Kolaveri song (The Kolaveri Gumbal version)

2011-11-20T11:45:00.001+05:30

You must have heard the Kolaveri song. Here it is, if you haven't. It's in Tamil. I don't speak it, but it isn't hard to understand what the song is about. The song has gone viral. I liked it almost instantly.

If I were a music critic, I would have launched into a long explanation about how the freshness of the concept and honesty of the lyrics were juxtaposed with the simplicity of the sound track and so on but I'm not. Anyway, I think it is the butler-english-ness of the lyrics that got me. Totally loved it!

And, I found out on twitter, so did most of my friends.

"Great minds think alike", I told the missus.

"Hmm" said the missus, unconvinced.

She has a generally low opinion of whatever I like, initially atleast. While I concede that my choice in clothes is perhaps not the finest in the land (there was some funny business recently about a 'wine colored' jacket I had been sold by a slick salesman which, in the opinion of the missus, is a shade of crimson that even the great Govinda must have refused to wear, which is why, she says, it was on the market in the first place, but I digress) or that my culinary preferences tend to be skewed towards the un-classsy but I rather pride myself on musical ability.

I ignored her lack of enthusiasm in my usual dignified way and repaired towards the home of Mohan and Girija, where we, along with Ramaa, Mahesh and Rahul, were planning to have a dignified discussion about the nuances of melody in Indian music.

Except that we didn't.

As we reclined on the sofa with our wine (most of us) or fresh water (Ramaa), as the case might be, the topic of discussion was the kolaveri song linked to above. Rahul and Mohan had put together a Carnaticised version (this) of the thing, but the lack of time ("we had about 5 minutes to spare, da" Rahul explained) had prevented them from according to the project the dignity it merited. They were sad.

"The euro is melting. We can take that. Evil forces are threatening to steal Pakistan's nukes and use them against civilians. We can suffer that. But to leave the Carnaticisation of this great song unfinished! Posterity will not forgive us" Mohan articulated.

We agreed solemnly. Our little company of thinkers was enriched by the induction of a new member M, formerly of Madras but now of Mumbai.

"Something has to be done!" said Mahesh, and we all sank in thought. All of us, that is, except Rahul and M who realized that they used to live on the same street in Madras and knew virtually everyone else who lived there, except each other, and spent a few minutes marveling at what a small world it was.

But soon, they too were deep in contemplation.

Something had to be done.

Something.

That something turned out to be the Raga Shubha Pantuvarali which is pretty much like the Hindustani raga Todi. Mohan sang a small piece in it and, emboldened by the fact that I was the only one there who knew any hindustani music, I weighed in with some Miyan Ki Todi.

Rahul and Ramaa pitched in and soon, the skeleton of the melody was established. M, who too is a trained Carnatic musician, pointed out improvements. Rahul played the thing out on the violin. Mohan and Ramaa were busy arranging the talam. Mahesh was planning out the rap part of the song.

And I? I was busy agreeing with everybody. I'm a world class agreer, with decades of practice at agreeing with everyone and everything.

My old uncle had advised me, when I got married, that just as a good cricketer gets in line with the delivery and keeps a straight backlift the moment the ball leaves the bowler's hand, so should a married man agree the moment the argument leaves the wife's lips. It's a matter of technique. With his, the cricketer is able to keep his wicket intact. And with his, the husband his peace. And what am I rambling about here? Sorry. I'll get on with the story.

As I was saying, I agreed with everyone, providing them with the critical reassurance that artists need to create something special and soon, this masterpiece, was born. (My voice can be heard in the fourth 'kolaveri' of the first verse. The one which sounds like Bhimsen Joshi's)

When we replayed the thing, we knew we had created something special.

"Hmm" I said, contemplatively, and the rest of the company echoed "Hmm" in agreement.

"What is the procedure to apply for a Grammy?" asked Mahesh, echoing the thought in everyone's mind

I realised, with a twinge of nostalgia that in the old days, if Grammies were under Indian Government management, we would easily have won one by the simple expedient of locating a friend who knew the Director General of the Department of Grammies, getting him to create a separate category for "Kolaveri songs" and prevailing on him to award the grammy to us but in this day and age, things are not as simple.

But I'm preparing my speech, just in case.

A very p j

2011-11-01T22:22:00.000+05:30

The setting rays of the sun caressed the Gulmohars outside our living room on their way into it, bouncing off the carnations in the vase, off the chinese candle stand, off the Laughing Buddha which, the missus never tired of reminding me, had once been mistaken for a likeness of me by my elderly aunt, and off the tall glass full of chilled beer that had manifested itself taking advantage of the missus' absence, she having gone to the spa for a beauty treatment.

The boys were supposed to study for their upcoming exams.

"Make sure they don't watch TV and all" the missus had instructed me before she left.

The lads, of course, switched on the thing the moment they heard her drive off.

"Boys, you are going to get me into serious trouble"

"Chill, Annie! She's got an appointment for a manicure, a pedicure and a hair wash. Two hours, pukka"

"No. no, last time she came back in 45 minutes"

"Chill, Annie. Anyway, she wasn't serious"

"What do you mean, not serious? Not serious about what?"

"Not serious about this "Don't let them watch TV" business. She has a different tone when she's serious. A bit like a 600 cc motorcycle"

"I don't think so. 600 cc motorcycle forsooth! Please switch it off and go into your room"

"Chill, Annie"

"For the last time" I told them, in an icy manner I reserve for sarcasm, "I will have you know that I am not equipped with a compressor and cooling coils. Chill, it seems!"

Wasted, of course. The boys were riveted onto the screen. Some species of cricket was going on. An old classic match. There was some Hindi commentary rolling along.

Very wordy, Hindi commentary, for some reason, atleast back then. They liked to describe every single thing that happened on the screen. "Now he's picked the ball. Now he's transferred it to his other hand. Now he is rubbing it on the back of his trouser." Dude!

Anyway, coming back to the res, the younger guy piped up

"Annie, what's Salaami Ballebaaz?"

"Er, opening batsmen I think. boys, would you consider switching the TV off ?"

"Annie, look at it this way. If Amma walks in now, she will see us watching the TV and yell at us. You know what that means, no?"

"What?"

"She won't notice you've poured yourself a beer"

Checkmate.

"Annie, why is that guy not hooking the bouncers?"

The boys were watching Sourav Ganguly and his legendary shyness towards fast, short pitched balls directed at the coconut.

"He's a bit afraid of short pitched balls, old Sourav is! But a splendid player of the fuller deliveries. His cover drives are the stuff of legend!"

"Haha! He'd be the right brand ambassador for Venky's!"

"Venky's?"

"He's an opening batsman, right?"

"Er, yes.."

"And a fraidy cat"

"I guess so, yes.."

"There you are. Chicken Salaami"

I groaned but before I could clout the lad a richly deserved one, the door opened and the missus entered. She got a call from the spa while she was on her way there, apparently, to the effect that the appointment was cancelled because of the non availability of the manicure guy.

There was what they call a pregnant pause.

"What's all this?"

We rightly recognized this to be a rhetorical question.

A little monologue was delivered on the subject of irresponsible children who have no sense of responsibility and on even more irresponsible fathers who have absolutely no idea what parenting is all about.

But the boys were right about one thing.

She never noticed the beer.

A musical evening

2011-10-16T17:28:00.002+05:30

(The people in this post:
Mohan Krishnamoorthy who blogs here and tweets here
Girija, his wife, who tweets here
Ramaa Ramesh who blogs here, tweets here and soundclouds here
Mahesh Sethuraman who blogs here and tweets here
S. Rahul who tweets here )

"I'll be there!", Mohan texted me. "Can I get a friend along?"

"Oh of course!" I was delighted.

Ah. I see that look of puzzlement on your face. "Naren is a great chap but a complete disaster at narrating anything at all" you're saying to yourself. "Give him a horse and he wastes no time appending the cart before it".

I can visualize you biting your lower lip and edging that cursor to the little 'x' button on the corner of your browser tab. But tarry a while, dear reader. I have a not incoherent tale to tell.

I had passes to a classical music concert and as usually happens, when I have 'n' passes for a classical music concert, 'n-1' of those passes were spare.

"Why do you bother getting so many of them?" the missus snapped, irate, when I whined about this to her

"I was hoping you'd come. And that we'd drag someone along"

"You know I can't. Gau has his exams day after and the moment I step out, he's going to watch TV"

She was right, as usual. The lad has to be trussed up and sat upon if he is to study at all. And this is a crucial year for him.

I also suspect the missus is not too keen on what she refers to as the "aa-aaa-aaa stuff" when talking to her friends, though she gamely tries to keep it from me. At several concerts to which I have taken her, the singing ones at least, she usually falls asleep in the first twenty minutes with her head gently placed on my shoulder. This makes a touchingly endearing picture but it's probably not the best encouragement for the performers. The kind of stuff that leads most of them to drink.

"What shall I do then?" I continued in the time honoured tradition of asking her for solutions to all my vexatious problems.

"Go alone, what's the trouble?"

"People will think I'm weird".

I'm not a sensitive social butterfly but I do know that people who wander alone to cinemas and concerts are looked down upon by the brightest because of the inevitable conclusion that they are so undesirable that they can't find anyone to come along with them even for third party entertainment.

"Between you and me, sweetness, I don't think that's a state secret"

"Thanks"

"Oh, don't worry, dear, you'll find someone"

I was pottering around on twitter around then and saw some excellent discussions featuring Mohan K and some others about classical music. I made bold to ask him if he'd like to come along.

And when he replied in the affirmative, only the fact that I was no longer sixteen and supple held me back from executing triple somersaults.

The concert was very nice. The singers sang beautifully. Acoustics was wonderful. And company was excellent. Mohan, his wife Girija and Mahesh Sethuraman, whom I knew for a goodish while, were all appreciative.

Mohan, in particular, turned out to be encyclopedic in his knowledge of Indian music. A trained Carnatic vocalist, he genuinely liked Hindustani as well and we ended up having a great deal of enjoyable chitchat on the whole subject. I shared what I knew of the hindustani tradition while he regaled me with trivia about Carnatic. And then, in response to something I was telling him about jod-ragas, those joint melodies so popular in hindustani, he told me something amazing.

"You know about Sruti bheda and graha bheda, don't you?"

They keep these things from me.

"No. What's that?"

He said something on the lines of "Graha-Bheda is the singing where the inter-note intervals are fixed and a different note is chosen as the tonic. The scale shifts but the melody uses the same notes as the earlier scale and thus generates a new raga in that new scale"

Regular readers of these chronicles will know that Naren, though sterling of character and a shoulder to rely upon in emotional upheavals, is not the strongest mind around. The old bean began to spin.

Mohan explained further but the sound of my brain cells popping one by one under the strain of processing that must have been audible.

'Alright, drop in to my house next week. I'll demonstrate what I mean by that" he said, kind as he was.

And I duly rolled up at the appointed hour. The traffic was extra dense and the auto drivers more skittish than usual but instead of the usual unflattering maternal adjective that I normally reserve for those of that tribe who cross my path, I was cheerful and positively Gandhian.

Mohan had invited Ramaa Ramesh, a fellow Wodehouse fan and, I didn't know this till then, a trained Carnatic vocalist, and S. Rahul, another young Carnatic vocalist with the most infectious smile and a terrific sense of humor. I was meeting Rahul for the first time. Mahesh Sethuraman was there too.

Girija rustled up some lovely samosas. This is a forbidden food in our house owing to certain problems with my trigylceride numbers, so I quickly seized the opportunity to gobble up a couple of them.

Mohan, who had heard me hum a few tunes in the car the day we went to the concert, asked me to sing something.

'Sing Durga" he said, referring to a raga we were discussing on twitter a few days ago.

I've never had much reticence in me since my childhood. Where other children had to be given toffees to sing a song, I was frequently given toffees to stop singing. So before the assemblage could change their mind, I let off one numbers Durga.

It was recieved politely, speaking highly of the audience's ability to take aural assault without flinching visibly.

And then Rahul, who had brought his sruti box along, on the request of Mohan (I was touched. This was so that I could relate to the Graha Bheda demonstration), sang to demonstrate this extremely demanding musical feat. It's difficult for me to put it into words, and it would be far too boring for you, but I was astounded. The base raga is sung first, and then, another note, say the nishad, is fixed as the shadja, with the shruti playing the original shadja. The notes of the base raga are now sung with the nishad as the shadja, generating a new raga in the new, nishad based scale. The singer then returns seamlessly to the base raga.

Right. Take that aspirin. You have earned it. But seek out Mohan, or someone equally competent and kind enough to take time out to explain it to you, and you will be similarly impressed.

Ramaa sang after much begging and requesting from all of us. I've known her for a long time and heard her on her soundcloud but her singing is several orders of magnitude more awesome in person.

Rahul continued with several illustrations of things in Carnatic music that I had never heard before. Little things about the rhythmic patterns and how the accompaniment works. Ramaa and he jammed beautifully, joined now and then by Mohan, who I realized sang superbly even though he wasn't a professional singer. And he knows some truly amazing people in the music industry. He told us many anecdotes that I will cherish for a lifetime.

Girija had rustled up some delicious food and unsupervised that I was, I vacuumed as much of it as I could contain. And our resilient little company was back again to discussion. Among other things, Mahesh and Rahul had delightful little jugalbandis of Goundamani's dialogues where one would start and the other would finish.

At around 2 am, the missus began to get worried. I had promised her that I would return by 11.00 pm. She knows that 11pm is code for 1 am but by 2, she was convinced that I was either lying in a ditch somewhere or cooling my heels in the slammer.

I reassured her that I was leaving any moment now. At 3, I received a sternly worded text message promising dire consequences if I did not haul ass instantly. Recognizing this as serious, I reluctantly dragged myself home.

Her demeanour was ominously cold, but this morning, a large flying cockroach entered our room and sent her helpless and screaming, into my arms. Bravely employing a bathroom slipper, I slew the beast.

I am basking in glory at the moment of writing.

On Public Debates and Questions Asked Therein

2011-09-29T00:16:00.000+05:30

I attended a jolly little debate recently on Environment V/s Development and while I generally give these things the miss, on the sensible grounds that I have little or nothing to contribute, I couldn't jog out of this one on account of the big cheese being an old college pal of mine.

I tooled up at the appointed hour and occupied, on the prompting of the big cheese, one of those seats with RESERVED written on them in large letters. It is immensely satisfying, the occupation of seats with RESERVED written on them, but of course YOU wouldn't know that because YOU've never been asked to occupy seats with RESERVED written on them, now, have you? If you will pardon the expression, Ha Ha!

Anyway, the debate was well conducted. The speakers were really eminent people and spoke much that made sense. I'm of course one of those feeble minded blokes who tends to agree with virtually anything is said to him, as you probably know already, but even I could tell that strong arguments were being made strongly.

The debate paused after each side made their arguments and the general public was invited to ask questions. Now I don't really attend too many of these things as I said earlier but I felt more that ever that we must have the worst question askers in the world.

The first doofus from the general public stood up and was handed a wireless mike. There was a bit of "Hello Mike testing one two three" (which, whenever I get the opportunity, I change to "Mike's testes, one two three". This, in my opinion, is the second most satisfying thing about these do's, the first being of course, occupying seats with RESERVED written on them) after which the doofus hemmed and hawed and told us his name. Yeah. We were dying to know. Now go ahead and say your thing, you nematode. And then he told us a long piece about how distinguished he was and how he agreed with many things that were said today, and how he was unlike most other people who wouldn't know a thing about what was being said and.... he would have gone on had the moderator not butted in and asked him to get to the point. Where upon he asked his question which was something to the effect that India was a better place now that 50 years ago.

Yeah, said the moderator, so what's your question?

That only

What?

That.

Then it flashed upon the moderator that the chap had possibly been having a drop or two on the sly and mumbled "I think we can take that question as answered by the questioner himself. Who's next?"

That, for me, was the highlight of the evening.

On Raans

2011-09-08T12:41:00.000+05:30

Last night we went to a little eatery called Persian Durbar, in Bandra West. There were four of us and the mission was to eat a preparation called Three in one Raan, which essentially is roasted leg of lamb.

We ate and ate. And ate. And couldn't finish it, there was that much. I loved the delicate smoked flavor and the no-nonsense presentation. After a post prandial phirni, I reclined on the settee and reminsced.

I've wanted to eat Raan for a long time but never managed to get the three other like minded people needed to finish one portion of it. Till yesterday that is.

I've eaten a similar thing before. In Spain, of all places. And curiously, as part of an airline meal.

We flew from Madrid to Barcelona and they served us a little Paella rice with a small piece of roasted leg of lamb.

It was delicately flavoured and quite unlike anything European. I wondered if it was the Moorish influence. Arabic, perhaps. Or Numidian.

The stewardess, upon being asked what it was called, delivered five thousand Spanish words on the subject, the gist of which, since I don't speak that lovely language beyond saying Gracias (which is pronounced Grathias for some reason), escaped me.

I went around Barcelona looking for something similar but never found it. Not surprising, I guess, since my enquiries comprised of the English words "Leg", "Lamb", "Roasted" and a lot of nimble mime movements. Several of the waiters to whom I presented this performance looked at me anxiously. The missus, who was accompanying me, kept imploring me in Konkani not to make an ass of myself. With sadness, I abandoned my quest.

And it would have stayed abandoned had it not been for the fact that on the flight back, we were served the same thing again! This time, I went around the city of Madrid in search but alas in vain. If that city roasted its lamb legs, they kept it from outsiders.

The missus observed that conventional wisdom had it that the Raan in Spain stayed mainly on the plane, but I felt I would have found it had I only known Spanish better.

My teachers day anecdote

2011-09-06T16:45:00.003+05:30

Teachers day just came and went and like everything else these days, was celebrated on twitter. Some reminisced about the good teachers, others about the bad. I couldn't help remembering our old Drawing Master.

We had many good teachers who did a fairly decent job of educating the bunch of us. There were a few who were spectacularly bad of course, but they were largely ignored. Some were fairly funny. But Popat is one chap I will always remember.

Popat wasn't his name, of course. His name was Sule or Patil or something - escaped my memory for the nonce - but we used to call him Popat for reasons long forgotten. Popat means 'parrot' in Marathi, but it also slang for the, er, pee director or baby maker as the lads are wont to describe it.

Popat used to teach us drawing and was actually a very good artist. He was also very committed, come to think of it.

Drawing class in the pre-Popat era involved drawing very formalized representations of 'scenery'. This used to consist of three mountains, one sun peeping out from between mountains 1 and 2, a river emanating from between mountains 2 and 3, a house consisiting of 1 door, 2 windows and a sloping roof. The real freedom came in the foreground where people could draw as many boys as girls as they liked, though most of us stuck to one each, carefully drawn to resemble alien beings.

Popat was an artist, however. He hated these three-mountain sceneries with a passion. He would ask us to draw anything we liked.

"Draw something you have seen. Draw your desk", he would tell us. "Or draw your pencil box."

But the bunch of us, brought up on years of three-mountains-one-sun-one-river, couldn't understand any of what Popat told us. We continued to draw three-mountains, to Popat's despair

"What is your favorite animal", he asked a boy, randomly. Prahalad his name was, I remember. Aka Palli.

"Donkey" said Palli, to the great amusement of the class. Back then, certain words were the pinnacle of humor. You only had to say "donkey" or "monkey" or even "mad" to send an entire audience into paroxysms of laughter. Palli had cracked one such immortal joke.

"Alright, then, draw a donkey" said Popat, unfazed.

Palli dug around in his bag looking for his English textbook because we had a story in it about a man and his son taking a donkey to the market, and it had several illustrations. Palli's plan, sound chap that he was, was to copy the animal from one of those illustrations.

"What are you doing?" asked Popat

"Sir, looking for a picture of a donkey, sir" said Palli who, while perhaps a tad low on deductive skills, had the sterling character and honesty of Abe Lincoln.

"No, no, no looking at picture bicture. Look at my face and draw a donkey" said Popat.

I laughed out loudly. Even back then, I had a particularly irritating laugh. On that day, it had the opprobrious quality of poking fun at a teacher. To make matters worse for me, I was the only boy in class who laughed. This was unusual because I was usually slow on the uptake (TFC - short for "tube with fucked up choke" - was an occasional nickname) but that afternoon I had chosen to be the Mister Quick

Popat froze.

Realising what he had just said, he pulled me out of the desk in an instant and whipped my butt with a cane that was standard issue to teachers back then.

This didn't bother me all that much because one, we were used to this kind of stuff and two, that being a day I hadn't done reams of homework, I had, in anticipation of an attack to the gluteal region, strategically inserted one of our wash-basin turkish towel napkins into my undies, which took the sting away. I was more worried about the note he wrote my parents, a note saying that I was a very bad boy, though he left out the real reason for this assessment.

I hesitantly gave the note to my father, a busy doctor who, though never given to flashes of temper, could get a little irritated if shown too much foolishness. Dad was having his breakfast.

"What's this?" he asked, with a frown?

"Our drawing sir is angry with me because I laughed at him"

'Why did you laugh at him?"

"He said 'Look at my face and draw a donkey'"

To my relief, his face broke into a smile.

"Hmm. Don't do this again"

He signed the note and that was that. Popat, luckily for me, got promoted as supervisor of the primary section or something, and went out of my academic life for ever. And we happily continued to draw the three-mountain scenes, steadily improving over the years.

The Problems with being an alleged humorist

2011-09-02T23:47:00.001+05:30

I wrote this post, hit the publish button, read thru it, got existential doubts, deleted the thing, which by then had made it to the reader of @sandeip who told me, on twitter, that it wasn't all that bad, and that I had written worse. This persuaded me to republish it except that like the ass that I am, I didn't have a copy. This was provided by @sandeip, culled from his reader, and HE is the guy you have to blame for having the following inflicted upon you.

The missus calls me an alleged humorist, for a variety of reasons.

Her primary one is that, in her opinion, I am never funny. Not intentionally, anyway. She rarely if ever finds any hilarity in my kind of humor. Especially the word-play kind.

"Hmm. So Dr. Spooner was suspicious of his wife's hair-dresser because he parted her hair."

"Er, yes"

"Meaning Dr. Spooner thought he had hearted her pair."

"Er, yes."

"Dr. Spooner being the one who said things like 'he went up the hill pantless and breathing' when he meant to say 'he went up the hill breathless and panting'?

I nodded.

"Droll."

'Droll' is missus speak for 'haakthoo', as you might have gathered.

Not that she's Bob Hope or anything herself. I caught her gossiping with one of her friends about another friend who had recently purchased a vineyard which she (the other friend) endlessly crowed about. As it happened, the vineyard seemed to be having a run of bad luck with the crop.

"She had a unsatisfactory yeild, I hear" said the friend.

"You must have heard it on the grape whine" said the missus and the two tittered along for a good ten minutes. I pointed out the sadness of that joke with a long, dejected stare at the two but they didn't seem to notice it.

The kids are equally bad. In addition to trying me out as a sounding board for all their silly jokes, they also tell me some of the grossest, most embarassing jokes ever told by 14 and 17 year olds to their greying father. It doesn't help that I am usually slow on the uptake.

The silly ones are bad enough. Splattered across these blog posts are several prime examples but new ones keep coming all the time.

"Annie, why did the chicken jump from the back of one buffalo to the other?"

This when I'm going through a lengthy mail from a customer reprimanding me for tardy delivery in fairly juicy language. But my kids are not easily shooed away.

"Ok, why?"

"To get on the other's hide."

Not to be outdone, the younger one piped up.

"Annie, why did the chicken go from one nagging woman to another?"

This seemed a bit unusual. I was intrigued.

"Why?"

"To get to the other chide."

"Guys, please. I'm trying to get some work done here."

"Annie, what is a panty raid?"

"What!"

"There it is. In your inbox. The subject of the mail from Victoria's Secret. Join us in a Panty Raid."

So it was. It's a long story, but has an entirely honourable explanation. But when you are caught flatfooted like that it can be awkward.

"Annie, why does Victoria's Secret send you mail?"

"Will you boys leave me alone?" I shouted in exasperation

"Annie", said the lad in a sad voice, "you know your problem? No sense of humour".

Short notes - The Missus on Coffee

2011-08-22T15:43:00.000+05:30

Coffee is something the missus is extremely particular about. She's from Mysore, and in Mysore, coffee is drunk strong.

When I, wuss from Bombay, first had Mysore coffee, I had to close my eyes and hold my hands over them to prevent my eyeballs from popping out. Third parties advised that nothing of the sort would occur but it was a long time before I removed my hands off them.

The third parties were right. Nothing happened. But the main party, the party of the second part, hereinbefore and hereinafter referred to as 'the missus' was, with singular lack of tact, laughing her booty off.

What fascinates me and will eternally continue to do so is the way every Mysorean, when ordering coffee at a restaurant, tells the waiter "Solpa Strong Madiri" ("Make sure it's strong, dude") regardless of how strong the restaurant normally makes it.

Bombay restaurants, on the other hand, have no concept of strong. Indeed, they have little concept of 'coffee' for that matter.

I don't know if I've told you my favorite Udipi restaurant coffee anecdote. Forgive me if I have.

I went through a black coffee phase when I was convinced that if you wanted to show how classy you were, you had to have black coffee without sugar. This wasn't a problem at the Cafe Coffee Days and the Baristas but it mildly boomeranged at Udipi Vihar Restaurant, Goregaon West where I once asked if I could have a black coffee.

"Can you give me black coffee?" I asked the chap.

"Yes yes".

Bombay is the bastion of capitalism and this is a fine example. The first response of a Bombay business is "Yes" to whatever the customer asks for. I have known shops to tell me they have whatever I asked for, its in the go-down and someone's getting it and actually the shop assistant would have run across the road to another shop and purchased the damn thing. Saying 'no' to a customer is unthinkable.

He came back a couple of minutes later, evidently sent with a flea in his ear, by the chef.

"How do you want it made?" he asked me.

"Just like you make your regular coffee, just don't add milk or sugar" I replied.

"Theek hai" and buzzed off inside only to return again and ask in a sheepish sort of way

"The cook wants to know if you want coffee powder in it"

The missus, who was with me, had a hearty laugh and later observed that no Mysore waiter would, even on the pain of injury, ask a thing like that.

"It's blasphemy, dear. "Do you want coffee in it", it seems. In the old days, people would be flayed for such things. Only in Bombay can this happen"

The missus actually had good reason to feel animosity towards Bombay coffee.

Here she is, on Bombay coffee and why it infuriates her:

"When we were married and the mandatory uncle-aunty visiting was happening, word had gotten around that I drank only kaapi. Naren and his entire clan are resolute tea-drinkers. And the worst kind of tea drinkers, I might add. You guessed right. Masala chai drinkers. Anyway, as I was saying, the clan would faithfully attempt to make coffee, but their technique was severely flawed. You know how we make coffee down south, don't you? A good half a cup of strong decoction, a spoon or two of sugar and a little milk, just enough to get the decoction to a buffalo-after-bath brown colour.

Well, in Bombay, the procedure is to boil a quart of milk liberally sweetened with sugar and, I shudder to say this, cardamom. If Mysoreans were Japanese Samurai, which they arent, mercifully, they would have committed seppuku in droves upon being told about the practice of adding cardamom to coffee.

And the worst of it is, they don't add physically add coffee to the milk when they make coffee. I'm serious. The Bombay guys' idea of adding coffee to milk is to put some coffee powder on a saucer and use a mirror to direct its reflection into the milk. After a couple of minutes of this, the milk acquires sufficient coffee flavour for the Bombay guys. Five minutes, if they want to make it really strong."

Thank you Sheela. Your views are greatly appreciated.

The Anna Hazare situation

2011-08-18T18:49:00.000+05:30

Ordinarily, political imbroglios (sorry, but I've always wanted to use that word since I was so high and read it in a Readers Digest Word Power column. I don't really know what it means but it sounds kind of right and you probably dont know it either so we should be alright there) don't upset the harmony of our little home. I refer of course to the Great Lokpal Bill Drama, currently being aired on all channels except, bless their hearts, FTV.

We rarely have political discussions at home. The missus is more a bollywood person. And the boys are into cars and an obnoxious series on TV called MTV Roadies, which, as far as i can see, comprises solely of people abusing other people. But this Anna Hazare business is in our face so much of the time, it is impossible to ignore it.

The missus and I have views on the opposite ends of the spectrum. The missus is strongly for the Lokpal Bill Anna Hazare Version which, as far as I can see, involves spotting the corrupt, asking a select committee if they agree that the spotted person is indeed corrupt and, if they say he (or she) is, horsewhip him (or her).

Here's a sample scenario:

Investigating Officer: "Chairman, sir, respected members of the Lokpal and my dear friends, I have here a senior officer of the government who is corrupt"

Lokpal Chairman: "You don't say! Are you sure?"

Investigating Officer: "I am. You can bet your non corrupt ass on it"

Lokpal Chairman: "And has he made lots of money?"

Investigating Officer: "Crores, I tell you, crores!"

Lokpal Chairman: "Say, Investigating Officer, has he salted it away in Swiss Bank accounts, do you think?"

Investigating Officer: "Once again, you can bet your non corrupt ass on it, because you won the last bet!"

The Bloke under Investigation: "I say, here, please, listen to me, it's nothing like that. Just a bunch of fabricated lies.."

Lokpal Chairman: "Silence! You are corrupt! You do NOT have the permission to speak or say anything in your defence. So, Investigating Officer, what do you say we do with this low-life?"

And so on.

I've oversimplified it of course, but the entire thing will firmly be in the Haroon Al Rashid territory. You know the chap. The caliph who was wise and summarily executed the wicked. I may be thinking of a couple of other chaps of course, in which case, please forgive me, but what I meant was that there doesn't seem to be much by way of legal process. What if the said select committe, god forbid, isn't as wise as Haroon al Rashid at all times?

As it turned out, the missus was incensed this afternoon, possibly for a different reason. Actually, I think the reason she was incensed might be the fact that I had, unbeknownst to her, a couple of beers at lunch (we had a visitor at work, what to do) and then drove home. I am strictly not allowed to drive if I've had a drink.

"Answer the following question in one word only" she said to me

It did not augur well.

"Yes?"

"Did you have beer at lunch?"

How do women find these things out?

"Answer me. Yes or no?"

"Er, yes"

"Are you out of your mind?"

This one was easier.

"Er, no"

"You drove. You know what a big no-no that is"

"It was just one pint" I protested meekly.

"They've arrested Anna Hazare"

This was unusual.

"He was drunk driving?"

"No, you idiot. Don't you watch news or get any information on your silly twitter feed? The government has arrested him because he wants to fast unto death. That's attempt to commit suicide. Punishable offense"

"Wow. The stuff must have hit the fan. What are they going to do now? The protesters, I mean?"

"They're planning to have a protest march."

"Where?"

"All over the place. There's one planned here, near Inorbit Mall"

"Protest march! What next?"

"I know Annie" piped up the youngster "they will have a protest April"

"Go to your room, Gautham. You have geometry tomorrow!" bellowed the missus and turning to me, added "it's all your fault. You encourage them to crack these pjs and that's all they do all the time. It's driving me nuts"

Anyway, the country's still seems to be holding itself together, despite the best efforts of the chaps in the government whom the missus refers to as "what the Reverend Spooner would call shining wits".

I really wonder what is going to happen. Perhaps a whiskey would help me clarify my thoughts.....

In which we go to a fashion show

2011-08-07T12:14:00.001+05:30

It's been a dull week in Bombay. We did go for a fashion show, a jewellery based thing, but it wasn't much fun. I felt about as at-home there as a nudist at an HJS convention.

I had tried my level best to wriggle out of it. "Jewellery shows are only for silly vain women" I told her, and then quickly added a "mostly, that is. Not you of course", when I realized what I had just said.

The missus was in an uncommonly good mood. Normally I would have got a real dagger-look for something like that but she just smiled indulgently.

"Silly vain women, it seems. That is so Coltrane! Typical of you. Anyway, wear your finest, my prince. Many pretty ladies will be watching you"

"Coltrane?"

"Saxist"

"Oh". Sometimes, carrying on conversations with her require nimbler minds than mine.

I put on the gentleman disguise and turned out rather dapper and spotless, by my standards, but the missus is a nit picker.

"You might consider zipping your fly. Remember Konrad Lorenz?"

{The said Lorenz, if you don't know the story (and a graphic one it is. If you're sqeamish, skippez s'il vous plait, as they say in French) was a biologist who studied birds. He used to feed a wild raven, for research purposes, with strips of meat which he would carry in his pocket. One day, after a biology department lunch with lots of beer, he decided to relieve himself against a wall in the garden. The raven saw this with eagle eyes (as Bobilli might have put it) and decided it was a strip of meat it wanted. The upshot of this was that Herr Konrad practiced celibacy for a long time}

"I forgot, re. You're looking stunning, by the way". A little oil never hurt anyone.

We trundled in at around 6 pm and I was pleasantly surprised to find a functioning bar dishing out the essentials.

"Don't even think about it" said the missus. "I haven't brought my drivers licence. You're going to have to drive back"

I sadly picked a fresh lime soda. "Haha" said the missus "you look like Socrates drinking the hemlock".

I ignored the barb and occupied my seat. The lights dimmed and the usual speeches were heard. A flowery one about the sponsors. An equally flowery one about the designer.

The spot lights came on and some extremely tall and thin women walked down the ramp to the accompaniment of music which sounded like two radio stations playing simultaneously, one being temple music and the other a trance track.

Their slendernesses marched up and down, pausing every now and then to pout at random people in the audience. Very nice of course, but with the sustained dramatic interest of a kabuki performance.

The missus of course enjoyed herself immensely.

The week that was

2011-07-31T17:31:00.001+05:30

(Disclaimer - highly random post follows)

"Sigh", I sighed.

I find myself sighing a lot these days. Life, for some unfathomable reason, seems to have become so complicated. I am forever forgetting something or the other. Our watchman, who revels in being the harbinger of bad news, (had I been a medieval Mughal emperor he would long have been beheaded) had just called through to tell me I had a flat tyre. And I just realised I had given my spare tyre for fixing and forgotten to collect it.

"Sigh" I sighed again.

The missus, who was sitting on the sofa and reading her paper, chuckled.

"I am glad that you are able to derive mirth from my despondent demeanour" I said to her in my sourest voice, meaning it to sting.

"No, my sweet, I just remembered something the boys said"

"Why, what did they come up with now?" I asked her. I realized too late that I didnt want to know

"The younger one calls you Sigh Baba."

"Sai Baba?"

"No, Sigh Baba. Because you keep sighing all the time. Haha! Isn't that droll?"

It was the saddest joke I had heard from a source specializing in sad jokes but I kept mum. I had just remembered I had a certain confession to make and I needed lots, LOTS of good humour at this moment. I would have sighed again but I resisted the urge.

The problem was that I had answered our home phone on that fateful day. I normally don't, because the callers are usually random aunts who can speak for hours and ask uncomfortable personal questions when you least expect them to, and who want to speak to the missus anyway, but she was busy doing something in the kitchen and the phone kept ringing despite my best efforts to stare at it and make it stop.

"Pick up the phone, for gods sake!" she yelled from inside and I found myself talking to an uncle by marriage who told me a very complicated story about why he was in Bombay and embedded a "we're coming to your place on Friday" somewhere in it.

The missus normally debriefs me when I do something critical like answering the phone but that day there was a temperature related chemical composition change in the carbohydrate structure of the rice she was cooking and it took me many stressful minutes to pacify her. Finally, we decided to tell the boys we were having Smoked Rice Burmese Style for dinner, which, and this is why I adore children and their unquestioning innocence, they accepted without a murmur.

The upshot of all this was, as you guessed, I forgot to tell her that her uncle and his entire family were coming for dinner on Friday, which in a jolly little coincidence happened to be tonight.

"We have a few guests coming over for dinner....I forgot to tell you"

"WHAT! When?" asked the missus

"Tonight"

"TONIGHT! And you're sighing instead of telling me! Are you out of your mind? What are we going to serve them? Oats?"

"I don't see why not, if that is what I have to eat" I didn't say that of course. I just sort of stared at my toes.

"Who?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Who is coming?"

I told her. She appeared visibly relieved, said uncle being one of her jollier ones and the moment passed.

I further improved my standing by helping out in the kitchen. The missus makes a nice pudding which involves emptying one tin of Milkmaid condensed milk into two glasses of milk. I did this crucial step without so much as pilfering a spoonful of the condensed milk,excepting a little bit, to ensure the Milkmaid hadn't gone bad - and stirred it so competently that the pudding turned out delicious.

"I've heard you write a humour blog" said the uncle. Tell us a joke"

"Yes, yes, tell a joke" said the aunt.

Well, the uncle is an avid golfer so I told them the one about the lady golfer who complained to the greens committee that there were too many bees on the course and she had just been stung by one.

"Where were you stung, madam" asked the secretary of the greens committee

"Between the first and the second hole" answered the lady whereupn the secretary said "Ah! A difficult place to treat".

It fell flat. The uncle just sort of harrumphed and the aunt looked intently at the chair.

Well, that's that. My week that was. Hope y'all had a better.

Life

2011-07-19T08:02:00.000+05:30

I wrote this meaning to post it on google plus, it being private and all, and ironically, it kept disappearing from google plus. After what-the-effing exasperatedly for a while, I decided to have my revenge by posting it on the blog after all. Here goes

I'm quite enamored with this Google Plus thing. I had more or less stopped blogging because, well, I write autobiographical stuff and you cant really write autobiographical stuff without, well, being autobiographical.

What I mean is, I'm terrified of accidentally revealing stuff to the missus, or to her spies, stuff that we, the boys and I, take great pains to keep under wraps for all kinds of deep strategic reasons.

For instance, this evening, the lads told me a joke.

"Annie, Annie, you want to hear a joke?" one of them asked

"No thanks", I replied. I have learned it is better not to listen to these guys' jokes.

"Ok Annie, here it is", he continued, as if I hadn't said a word.

"I said I didn't want to hear it. I'm busy."

"Annie, why is a wonder-bra called a wonder-bra?"

"What!"

"Why is a wonder bra called a wonder bra?"

"Ok I heard it the first time. My 'What!' was an expression of incredulity that two Indian teenagers could actually contemplate telling jokes about wonder bras to their father. Its against Indian Culture."

"Annie, should it be 'Wonder bras' or 'Wonders bra' ?"

I stared at him incredulously some more.

"You know, you were explaining the other day how it should be Brothers in Law and not Brother in laws."

'Er, Wonder bras is correct", I replied, hoping that that would be that.

"Annie, so answer the question"

"I just did"

"No, the earlier one."

'What earlier one?"

"Annie, it is 'Which earlier one', not 'What earlier one'. Why are wonder bras called wonder bras?"

I gave up.

"Ok, you tell me"

"Because when she takes them off, you wonder where the tits went"

I stared at the lad.

"Where did you learn words like that?"

"Wonder bra? Heard it on TV I think. Don't remember"

"No, the other word"

'Which other word"

"Tits" I whispered.

And the missus of course chose that exact moment to enter the room. A bit like those farcical plays. Except that this is real life and I am likely to get my ears seared with some sharp rebukes.

" What this about tits?" she asked, using the sharp voice that is the harbinger of sharper things.

I gulped. A sort of darkness was beginning to envelop me. But the younger son came to rescue.

"Annie was telling us about the white-naped tit and why its population is declining rapidly. It used to be endemic to India"

"Er, exactly. Ok boys, time to learn some mathematics. Where is the calculus text?"

And the moment passed. A moment best treasured in silence, as you would doubtless agree.

And yet, I have this crazy urge to tell someone. Which is why I like Google+ because hopefully no one will tell the missus.

My prescription for better security for the people - Worse security for the leaders

2011-07-14T21:59:00.000+05:30

This is mostly a rant provoked by yesterday's dastardly bomb explosions in Mumbai and the general reactions that followed them.

In general, I thought the response by the citizenry was touching. People from all walks of life extended helping hands without a second thought. Typical Mumbai.

But the news networks made a pig's breakfast out the thing. They tried their level best to make it look like an enormous terror attack, and could hardly conceal their disappointment when it turned out it wasn't. Which, as Greatbong pointed out in his excellent post, is exactly what terrorists want. They would love to see their handiwork as something which has put life completely out of whack for Mumbaiites.

But a point like that is too subtle to cross the bone-brain barrier of the TV anchors and they went hammer at tongs at it. Somewhere along the way, someone seems to have figured out that no one was watching anymore.

So for the last 24 hours or so, the TV networks have been trying to mobilize anger. All day I've been watching TV off and on, only to find some citizen bubbling over with rage.

One guy I just saw, which prompted me to write this post, went on about how horrible the politicians were and how weak the system was, and how late ambulances arrived and about fifty other grievances which it occurred to me is exactly what the politicians want to hear. All true, of course, but completely non specific grievances. The more the merrier, you can almost hear them saying to each other. So everyone lets off their spleen against some nameless politicians, the anchors yell a bit more and within a day or two, things are back to normal.

But it just occurred to me, and I may be wrong here because I'm a doofus who is usually wrong about things, that the way to hit them, the politicians that is, would be to kick them in the nuts.

Not literally of course. To the best of my knowledge, elected representatives do not come equipped with testicles. I mean figuratively, in the sense that we should do something that would hurt them badly.

So what does Narendra Shenoy suggest? What? Eh? What? What?

Well, here's my idea. Not much of an idea but based on my fervent wish when stuck behind some idiot in the traffic who stops his car on a narrow road to buy a paan or cigarette unmindful about all the cars bunched up behind him and honking. And why is he unmindful of the honking? Glad you asked. That's because the honking is random. You know what I wish we could do? Go ..one...two..three..BRAAAAAAP everyone honks at the same time. You can bet your panty knickers he will jump out of his Govinda suit, giving you some well deserved mirth and possibly reforming his character.

But we don't do anything like that. We honk a few times, wait till the moron has finished, and shuffle along cursing silently.

This is exactly what the citizenry is doing at the moment of going to press. Making random honking sounds but waiting patiently to shuffle along behind the powers that be.

So, what is Narendra Shenoy's solution, you ask again. Well, it is this. I say take away THEIR security. Why should they get super efficient protection when you and I can be bumped off by any moron with access to some explosive and a cellphone?

With the exception of a few guys - the PM perhaps, the Home Minister, CMs of the states, but certainly not the animal husbandry minister or the minister for civil aviation, EVERYONE's security should be completely withdrawn.

I'm not heartless of course. We should give them a good-luck talisman. Perhaps a nazar suraksha kavach. And I'd definitely support the payment by the state of premium for a 1 crore pure risk LIC policy in favour of the elected representative's dependents.

And the thing is, and this is my grand theory, THEN we will see a dramatic improvement in the general security. Suddenly, police will start finding terrorists BEFORE terror attacks happen. Because if they don't their bosses are probably frontline targets.

Well, that's it. My big brain wave. Not much, I know, but I do believe that if all the angry citizens on TV ask for only one thing, the immediate removal of security for all but three elected representatives, things might just change. But like the honking story, it has to be done at the same time by everyone if it has to work. No nonsense about "we should have more checkpoints" or "we should have better intelligence networks". All those will come automatically. Just ask for complete withdrawal of all security for all but 3 elected representatives in each state, and 3 at the center. What's it going to cost you anyway?

Down Memory Lane

2011-07-01T20:37:00.001+05:30

Today, dear reader, I invite you to take a walk with me Down Memory Lane.

It must have occured to you, since you are the brighter sort of person, that 'Down Memory Lane' might be code for 'long boring yarn about the past from chap unable to find anything interesting in his current life'.

You would be right. Nothing of any interest has been happening to me these past weeks. The boys, now in their 10th and 12th, are glued to their books most of the time. They go to coaching classes too, which suck out whatever little free time they have left and the missus and I are usually to be found in the living room, holding hands or arguing about what to have for breakfast, or both.

And we take walks Down Memory Lane.

Life was fun when the kids were little. Their innocence. Their pranks. Their fights.

"Remember the time you guys went on a tiger safari?" asked the missus.

How could I forget it! We had gone to the Mudumalai forests near Mysore, where some species of forest lodge had been hired. It had a truly gifted cook, one Mani, who made the best 'kozhambu' (as I believe it is called) I have ever had and I would have been content to spend the weekend sampling his ouevre. But the powers that be, namely the missus, decided that we must go into the forest.

I was a bit reluctant because just the night before, I had gone with a few of her cousins into the forest. This was at 4 am and the idea was to see a tiger. The chaps who took us reasoned that tigers, subscribing to the old maxim that early risers get worms, good health and wisdom, would be about in droves and we would naturally get to see them doing whatever they do at 4 am.

All that happened was that I got bitten in many places by many different insects and for about 10 minutes, when I couldn't see anyone around in the pitch darkness, experienced sheer terror. Thankfully, the tigers were conspicuous by their absence.

But the missus wouldnt hear of not going. "You have to take the boys and get them to experience the thrill of wilderness"

'YOU have to take the boys? Why, aren't you coming?"

'Turned out that she liked the kozhambu too. "No, I'm worried about my spondylitis" The missus has a convenient spondylitis for occasions such as these.

Anyway, we hired a jeep and took a bumpy drive into the forest. All that we got to see for many a mile were deer, which are like the autorickshaws of the forest. They are found everywhere and run away the moment you approach them. The boys got bored and about 15 minutes into our safari, were fast asleep on my shoulder. Suddenly, the driver braked hard and excitedly pointed to a clump of shrubs. For a fleeting moment, I saw a leopard which, like most intelligent people do upon percieving that they are about to be inflicted with the company of Shri Narendra Shenoy, lit out of the place instanter. I woke up the boys "Look boys, leopard!" I hissed.

There was a bit of what-where-whoing on the part of the lads and by the time they could get their bearings, the critter had vanished into the woods. The boys went right back to sleep.

We saw a couple of peacocks, one of which was doing it's dance, and a HUGE bison, but the lads were not interested.

An hour or so later, we returned to our lodge. Mani had organized some river fish and was grilling them on an open fire. I forgot about my aches and rushed into the middle of the action. Missus had convinced Mani to roast some sweet potatoes and masalafied tomatoes, which were excellent.

We sat around a fire and got the kids to sing and dance. I was regaling the grown-ups with tales of my safari.

"We saw a leopard"

'Get out! What luck! Leopards are really hard to find. Are you sure it was a leopard and not some deer?"

"Of course we saw a leopard. Here, ask Gautham. Gautham, did we or did we not spot a leopard this evening?"

"No, Annie"

'What! Oh of course, he was sleeping. He wouldn't know"

'What about Vyaas?"

'Oh, he was sleeping too"

I could see the growing scepticism in their faces.

"Hmm", said the missus, "nice story."

"No really, we did see a leopard. Gau, you did see it's tail, didn't you?"

"Yes,amma, we did"

"Then why did you say you didn't?"

"I didn't say I didn't"

"You did"

"Didn't"

I felt the temples throbbing.

The older one piped up. "Annie, you asked us if we spotted the leopard"

"So?"

"We didnt spot it. It was spotted from before"

Aaarghh.

"Hahaha" said the missus."Run along, boys, time to sleep"

The missus smiled at this point in the reminiscing. And I decided I would pick up the old laptop and bang out a post.

Holmes and the Medical Case

2011-06-23T16:17:00.000+05:30

It was an unusually fine day in London. The sun, after playing truant for weeks, beamed upon the Thames, on the boroughs and on 221 Baker Street, where Dr. Watson stood at the window with pursed lips.

"My dear Watson, what preoccupies you this fine morning?" asked Holmes

"A medical problem, Holmes, and one particularly vexing. If only you were a doctor! I could use all the help I can get"

"You can try me, Watson. Sometimes, even the most professional conundrums can be solved by the relentless application of reason. Tell me the facts, if you will"

"Oh, alright. I might as well try it on you. You are familiar with His Grace, the Duke of Kent?"

"Don't tell me those rude limericks are true!"
"Eh? What's that?"

"You know the one. His ..er.. thing was exceedingly bent and when he went for a ride he had to double up inside, and instead of coming, he went"

"Oh my goodness! That IS rude indeed! Oh no, it is this terrible wasting sickness that His Grace seems to have contracted. The nibs have been treating him for consumption but that doesn't seem to be it"

"Hmm" said Holmes, his chin resting in his palm "hmm...."

"I say, Watson, doesn't His grace have a very oleaginous complexion?"

"Why yes, Holmes, but what does that have to do with...."

"The nibs are wrong, Watson. Completely wrong. It is not consumption that afflicts His Grace, but a digestive parasitic infestation"

Watson gathered his hat and coat and rushed to the hospital. Years of being with Holmes had taught him that Holmes was never wrong.

It was tea time and Holmes was having a biscuit with a cup of Darjeeling.

"I say, Holmes, that was a splendid piece of diagnosis! The Duke turned out to have tape worm and is responding excellently to treatment. How in the world did you hit upon that? Even the best Harley street specialists were flummoxed"

"Observation, Watson, and some deduction. I had heard that His Grace had an extremely oleaginous complexion"

"You did say something about that earlier. how in the world is that connected?"

"haven't you heard, my good fellow? The Oily Bird always gets the worm"

"That was truly brilliant, Holmes" said Watson, "I doff my hat to you"

"Oh, it's alimentary, my dear Watson" said that admirable genius

Annie Buys Vegetables - Story writing attempt #1

2011-06-21T12:32:00.000+05:30

Annie was trying his level best to hide from the missus but suburban homes tend not to have priest’s holes. The lift was broken and the missus had made up her mind to have vegetables bought right away. Annie hated walking up the stairs.

"Why don't you tell Amma you hate walking up the stairs?" older son had counselled him on an earlier occassion but there were wheels within wheels. Annie was currently avoiding going to the gym on the grounds that he prefered to walk up the stairs instead, and was sneakily using the lift. And now that the lift was kaput, he couldn't very well do that. The missus of course, was delightedly seizing every opportunity to put some wholesome exercise Annie's way, and a form of exercise Annie loved anyway.

Sigh, thought Annie, not for the first time, Life is So Complicated!

He was finally cornered in the living room, behind the TV cabinet.

“What are you doing behind the TV cabinet?” asked the missus

“Er, checking the cable connection”

“Hmph. I want you to go down and get some veggies”

“Haha!” younger son laughed

“What are you finding so funny?” the missus scowled at younger son, and catching Annie smirking, turned on him

“And what are YOU laughing at? Pair of hyenas you are”

“No, no, nothing” Annie replied, and blushed.

“Why are you blushing? What is making you laugh? Something I said, no? Tell me now”

“N..No, no, it’s nothing, really, this chimp was making faces at you” Annie stuttered

“No, Amma, Annie was laughing because you said veggies”

“Why? What’s wrong with veggies”

“Nothing, nothing at all. These kids! They’ll laugh at anything.”

“No, Amma, you said veggies but Annie heard ‘wedgies’, which means ... Annie will tell you”.

Younger son scampered off.

There was a pause.

“Yes?” asked the missus. “Talk, Wedgie man”

“Er.. what vegetables did you want to buy?”

“Are you going to tell me or not?”

“Later, later. I have to go out to the pharmacy too, before it shuts. I’m out of my cholesterol medicine”

“Very well. You don’t want to tell me. I’ll find out on the internet. Meanwhile, get 1 kg onions, 1 kg potatoes, half a kg bhindi and half a kg chowli, if they’re fresh. And tomatoes. And cucumber”

There was no way Annie was going to remember all this but it was imperative to run, lest the wedgie episode start again.

On his way down, he met younger son. “What are you doing here? I thought amma told you to study”

“Can I come along to help you get wedgies?” asked the scamp, and ran away before Annie could clout him one.

“Onions, tomatoes, potatoes, bhindi, chowli, onions tomatoes potatoes, bhindi, chowli, onions...” Annie muttered on under his breath, a bit like a kabaddi player. Old Mr Hussain from the neighbouring building, who was behind him, mentally made a note that Annie seemed to be mental. Mr. Hussain thought everyone was mental, excepting himself, ofcourse. He also left his fly perennially unzipped.

Older son had once told Annie that Mr. Hussain's name was Yahya Khan. Annie believed it, naturally, and addressed him one day as Yahya Khan.

"Good morning Mr. Yahya Khan, how are you?" Annie had asked him, to which Mr. Hussein had glowered ferociously. Only later did Annie find out that it was Mr. Hussain's habit of peppering his conversations with Ya, Ya, that earned him that sobriquet.

'You could have told me atleast" Annie had complained, to which older son had merely told him to chill.

Both of Annie's sons kept telling him to chill.

"What do they think I am? A refrigerator?" Annie had complained to the missus

"Haha, you can be so witty sometimes" laughed the missus, in her silvery way.

But we're getting behind the story. Where were we? Ah yes, Annie went muttering the shopping list under his breath, lest he forget it, and ended up buying brinjals instead of chowli and forgot the tomatoes altogether.

"Well?" enquired the missus

Suddenly, the shopping list re-appeared before Annie's mind's eye.

"Er, oops. " Annie apologised.

"We have one and a half KILOS of brinjal in the fridge because you bought it thrice already and the boys are refusing to eat it. Why do you keep buying brinjals, Annie?" the missus asked.

And paused a while in uffish thought, as Lewis Carol would have said.

"Is there a Freudian explanation for your compulsive buying of brinjals, Annie?"

"I forgot my cholesterol medicine!" said Annie, cleverly changing the topic

"There should be a strip in your travel kit" said the missus. "And, by the way. I found out what a wedgie is"

Oops, thought Annie again.

"Though why you couldn't tell me earlier is beyond me. We're married, you know. To each other. You can be so silly and squeamish"

I will never understand women, thought Annie.

"By the way," said the missus, "you've been a good boy and you're going to get something tonight. A surprise!"

Annie loved the sitaphal icecream.

On how many people can be stuffed into an Ambassador car and other scientific findings

2011-06-17T16:41:00.000+05:30

The academic year has just begun. In our home, this is silly season. The missus is the most chilled out this time of the year and shows it by giving me exclusive charge of the boys. I am supposed to look into their studies, whether they are doing their homework and slyly monitor what websites they visit on the computer.

I am a complete disaster at all the above. If our house were China, the missus would be Hu Jintao and I would be, I don't know, perhaps Jackie Chan's sidekick, the one who keeps falling and making funny faces. And my sons rightly accord me the treatment.

We officially study in the evening, between 8 and 9 pm. I try and bring up topics in maths or physics (the missus feels these are the ones I'm least ignorant in) while the boys take the opportunity to try their experimental comedy on me.

Sometimes it's kind of funny, as on the other day, the younger one observed that time was ripe to have a dedicated channel for the fasts unto death that keep happening on a daily basis these days, and suggested that it be called Starve World.

I facepalmed at first and then laughed. Both the lads looked keenly at me. 'Are you feeling alright, Annie?' asked the older one, who is ever apprehensive that I will go around the bend one of these days.

"Oh, yes, yes" I said, composing myself "now, coming to integration by parts.."

"Annie" the younger one interjected

"What?"

"My biology teacher pronounces 'egg' as 'agg'"

"So? English is not our grandfather's language. It is ok to have accents". I feel strongly about this, having faced a little ridicule in my time over pronouncing 'automatic' as 'attomatic'.

"Annie, what does agnostic mean?" asked the younger one

"Er.. someone who doesn't believe in the existence of God.. I think"

"No, that's 'atheist'. Agnostic means someone doesn't believe God's existence is knowable"

"That's impressive" i said, and I was impressed. The lads show little or no inclination towards reading anything and it's a mystery to me how they accumulate a vocabulary at all.

"It was there in a program on TV"

That explained it.

"Annie, Agnostic would be a good brand name for a teflon coated omelet pan, no?"

"What? Why?" I frequently find my head spinning in these exchanges

"Agg no stick. Get it?" and with a raucous "ha ha ha" easily avoided the book I chucked at him and said something about people who couldn't take the yolk, but I didn't quite catch it.

"Have you finished your Marathi homework?" I asked the younger one.

"Doing it, dude, chill" he said.

I have long given up pointing out that this is an entirely inappropriate tone to use with one's father.

"Right. Now, coming to integration by parts.."

"Annie, you know, it is possible to fit an infinite number of passengers into an Ambassador car", the elder one said

"Are YOU feeling alright?" I asked him.

"What I mean is, you know the proof for there being no largest natural number?"

"Yes.. let 'n' be an arbitarily large natural number. Adding 1 to it makes the resulting number larger, and hence there are infinitely many natural numbers, something like that?"

"Yes, yes!" he said, beaming at me like a benevolent professor smiling upon his favorite student

"So what about it?"

"In the same way, no matter how many people you stuff into an Ambassador car, there is always someone who can stuff one more, no? So it follows that an infinite number of people can be stuffed into and Ambassador car"

I gave up trying to bring up the topic of integration by parts. And abandoned any thoughts of teaching physics either. It seemed to be one of those days. I'd probably get something like "Navier-Stokes equations. Others don't" tossed at me.

So this is how things are at the moment. They will change soon, when the missus takes charge, but till then, I will be guiding their academic progress with my customary competence

On the speedy flight of time and other non-specific things

2011-05-01T10:26:00.002+05:30

Good heavens! How time flies! It's been more than a month since I inflicted one of my posts on the unsuspecting public. Between you and me, that's a bit of luck for the aforementioned unsuspecting public, but into each life some rain must fall so here goes.

I think I'm going to be rambling. In fact, I think I'm rambling already, an old trick (one which the missus finds intensely irritating) I resort to when I don't have anything to say.

"Which is most of the time"

Thank you Sheela.

As I was saying, by dint of hard work and concentration, I've managed to curb the tendency to drift in thought, and drift aloud at that, but every now and then the old ghosts catch up.

For instance, the other day we drove down to Carter Road, Bandra. It's a fashionable part of Bombay now with the miniest skirts and most heavily mascaraed eyes in town but time was when it used to be desolate and slightly eerie at night. The missus and I were discussing this. And I remembered a curious thing from my youth. Cars parked on Carter Road, would mysteriously start swaying latish into the p.m. Mentioned this to the missus who gave me the look.

"They weren't swaying, silly. There must have been a couple inside buzz..zzz..buzz"

"What?" I couldn't quite make out what she was saying

"Buzz..buzz" she repeated, in a voice many decibels below my threshold.

My look of befuddlement seemed to rile her

"Oh, I give up" she said and stomped off angrily. I had to buy her a little string thing with a couple of pearls at the end to hang on her cellphone before she'd talk to me.

"Really, Naren," she said, even after this, "you purposely play the fool to irritate me."

I ask you.

So. Things Have Been Happening. We've been building a house, the missus and I, and I've been squarely getting it with both barrels over my alleged lack of aesthetic sense in all matters related to the beauty of the aforementioned house.

I could write reams about it but it would be so whiny you'd probably think it was literary and avoid my blog like the plague (not that it would be all that bad a decision on your part, objectively speaking, but one does not willfully chase one's audience away from one's blogs) so I'll spare you the details. Suffice it to say that the process took twice as long and cost twice as much primarily because it had to look nice. Things like what color granite to choose and whether the curtains should have American pleats.

"I'm quite non-aligned in these matters" I told the missus when asked the question "though I doubt they do Soviet pleats anymore", merely as levity, to lighten the mood but it seemed to anger her. She continued the discussion with the curtain maker, leaving me out of it entirely. I got her assesment later, and it was not good.

"Naren, keep these silly jokes to yourself if you don't want to be stamped on your instep".

"And I happen to be wearing heels" she added, ominously.

So I've mostly been in charge of the operational aspects of the enterprise. You know, giving address to tempo driver, getting labour to unload goods, that kind of thing.

And even there, I haven't been very effective. For instance, I appointed an extremely Hegelian or Kantian bloke as a fabricator for my window grills. A decent chap who would develop all kinds of existential doubts and give up his zest for life every two or three days. I sympathised with him of course but the missus demanded that I yell at him and make him deliver the grills in time for the puja.

"These people don't understand ANYTHING unless it is yelled at them" she told me. "Go and shout till his ceiling falls down"

But every time I cleared my throat and prepared to deliver a stentorian outburst calculated to make him tremble in his shoes, he'd come up with an account of an incurable illness being suffered by some member of his family. This would derail my act completely and I would shuffle off from what should have been a decisive and painful meeting with a little pat of sympathy on his shoulder and a little more money by way of advance.

I made the mistake of telling this the first time to the missus and she promptly ticked me off for being a doofus and a gullible buffoon.

"You're being taken for a ride" she said. I doubted it, though I had the good sense to keep quiet, but when the chap tooled around to the site later in the week, the missus reprimanded him sharply. Sure enough, the grills landed up the next morning. The missus has been smirking in a superior way ever since whenever the topic of effectiveness is brought up.

All in all, it has taken its toll of me. I'm a mere shadow of my former self, which itself was a shadow of its former self to begin with so you can imagine what a wreck I've become. I'm trying to rebuild myself with alcoholic beverages when the missus is not looking. It's taking time.

Just a chronicle of things happening to me at this time. Same old.

2011-03-20T09:15:00.001+05:30

It feels strange to be writing a post after all this while. The Shenoy household has been going through several crises these last few months.

First it was the "You're always on the computer" crisis. The missus arrived at the conclusion that you, dear reader, were stealing her dear husband away with enticements of badinage. I pointed out the obvious flaw in her argument.

"Sweet, be reasonable" I told her. "Nothing would induce the dear reader" (still you) "to touch me with a barge pole, considering that he or she is a discerning person, leave alone steal me away".

"Shut up Naren". The missus belongs to the rare breed of people who can tell their spouses to shut up as part of the same argument in which they (the rare breed of people) are complaining that they (the spouses) are not talking enough to them (the rare breed of people).

The upshot of the whole thing was that I was not allowed to use the computer, except as a paperweight, in the time that I was at home.

I can take the rough with the smooth. We are philosophers, we Shenoys are. Putting on the brave front, soldiering on in the face of adversity.

I started using the computer in the loo.

This lasted about two days and we had another one of those painful interviews.

"Do you want a divorce?" asked the missus.

Considering that, with the possible exception of my mother and my maternal aunts, everyone agrees that I am a plugugly best not seen first thing in the morning, my chances of ensnaring another, even a tenth as charming as the missus are pretty close to zero, I replied in the negative.

"Very well then, my little teddy bear. Stay away from the internet"

And so it has been. I do snatch a few moments of internet in the time that she is not watching (as is the case now) but they are always moments of trepidation.

The second crisis is "The Boys Growing Up" crisis. My little boys, the apples of my eye, are now 16 and 14 respectively and have acquired much sass and attitude. They give BackChat. And even worse, they make Jokes.

The backchat itself is quite entertaining as long as I'm allowed to watch from the sidelines. It's the Jokes that puts me on the spot every now and then.

Apparently she caught one of the lads chuckling to himself and put him under the lights. He told her that the joke was something his brother had told him. Here is the joke in its entirety.

He: Let's have magical sex

She: It sounds wonderful. How do you mean

He: We have sex and you disappear in the morning

I have to admit that I laughed. What else was I supposed to do?

"You boys are all the same. Tasteless jokes. That is not a good thing for teenage boys to talk about. I want you to give them a dressing down"

And so I look forward listlessly to the prospect of ticking off the boys for the aforementioned transgression, knowing deep in my heart that they're laughing at me. And to make matters worse, they're not even afraid of me. They've never been.

You know why I like Airtel Customer Service? I'll tell you why. I can't yell at my customers. They'll stop giving me business. I can't yell at my suppliers. They'll stop giving me material. I can't yell at my employees. They'll just find someplace else to work. I can't yell at the missus. I don't know what will happen but I can't. And the boys? They just laugh when I try to yell at them. So I call up Airtel Customer Service whenever I have a problem with service and they listen to everything. They apologize for everything too.

"I'm getting very poor signal quality"

"We're extremely sorry sir. Let me look into it"

"I have IMPORTANT calls to make and your signal quality is VERY poor"

"We're extremely sorry sir. We'll look into it"

And so on, for the next five minutes or so. I keep letting off about signal quality and they keep apologizing. Extremely therapeutic.

There it is then. My deepest confession on da internetz yet. And between you and me, there are days when I complain about the signal quality when there is nothing wrong with it.

Isn't that depressing?

On me, my personality or the lack thereof and other weighty matters

2010-12-26T12:32:00.000+05:30

Dear Reader

I hope you are upto reading a long, rambling, introspective and mostly pointless post because today, I have decided to look into my personality and write about it. And if you choose this moment to shuffle off to someone else's blog, I shall say to myself "Drat! Lost another reader. But sterling sense of judgment, I must say! He or she will definitely be Someone in the years to come, if he or she isn't already". But I digress. Coming back to the res, I told the missus of my intention.

'Don't be silly, Naren' was the missus' reaction.

'Silly? What's silly about this?'

'No offense, sweetheart, you are adorable and I love you, but you don't exactly have a personality'

And so it is. I've never had a personality as long as I can remember. I've always envied the strong, purposeful types, the people who could open an oyster at twenty paces with their gaze, to paraphrase PGWodehouse, the people who could get work done in government offices without shelling out a rupee, the people whose wives would be in a tizzy because they would be returning home any moment and needed a freshly brewed mug of coffee at the exact temperature, not too hot, not too cold, notwithstanding the fact that they, the wives, had just returned from work themselves, the kind.. oh, you get the idea.

And, as the missus seems to imply, people lacking personality shouldn't be writing autobiographies. They should be writing, I don't know, draft leave and license agreements or the vice-president's speech to a delegation of junior tourism development officials or whatever. Definitely not autobiographies.

How did I get this way, I often wonder. Was I born without a personality or was it snatched away from me? I've had one or two teachers fully capable of that, snatching away someones personality, I mean. My schooling wasn't so much schooling as a long series of various forms of corporal punishment. But no, it can't be that either because several of my classmates have evolved into personalities that would make the Hulk look like William Wordsworth.

No, the more I think of it the more it becomes apparent to me that I am one of those rare beings born without a mind of my own. For instance, whenever I hear an argument, I am instantly convinced of its correctness, till of course I hear the opposite side, whereupon I become instantly convinced of that argument's correctness. This makes me extremely likeable, at least temporarily, but tends to get me into an embarassing spot when both the opposite parties are present and debating.

Which is a frequent occurrence in the debates between missus and younger son. The elder son is a self-actualized soul (like myself) who usually avoids vulgar debate by the simple stratagem of agreeing with his mother.

The younger one usually argues the point, and with vigour. He lobbies with me for, say, keeping an airgun and pellets, 'for self-defence' he says. I agree. These are violent times we live in, he has just pointed out, and it is always a good idea to plug prospective robbers with a well aimed pellet.

Just as all this business is concluded, the lad is de-pelleted by the missus who adds, for good measure 'Do you have any sense, Naren? Those things are so dangerous! Don't you remember your cardiothoracic surgeon friend who told us about that pellet which lodged in that little girl's pericardium, and it was touch and go, saving her?'.

The missus remembers these things. All I can recollect is that the cardio whatever chap was sneakily eating french fries when HIS wife was not looking and surreptitiously spiking his virgin mojito with my vodka shots.

The upshot of all this is that I have to suffer the "you traitor" looks from the younger son for the rest of the afternoon.

I suppose you will now agree that people like me shouldn't be allowed to write their autobiographies. "What have I learned from this?" you must be asking yourself in exasperation, ruing the fifteen or so minutes you've spent reading this drivel. Well, you can console yourself with the fact that you now know that cardiowhatchamacallit chaps are as human as the rest of us, which you certainly wouldn't have known, if you hadn't read all of the above.

Cheers then, and have a good weekend

Book review - "How the Banana goes to Heaven"

2010-12-04T09:45:00.000+05:30

Today I shall be writing a book review. It is my first book review ever. I don't think I am qualified to do it. Not because I haven't read all that many books (I haven't) or that I don't have all that many brains (I don't) but because I am too emotional about the subject matter of the said book. Right, you guessed it. It's a book about food.

A little about my own history here. I breezed through some 40 years of my life without thinking much about comestibles, other than when I was hungry. I ate when I felt like eating, as much as I wanted and pretty much anything on the table. And then, when I turned 40, I got hauled off for a lipid profile test, a blood test designed to put the fear of dying into irresponsible middleaged people. An obscene number was observed against the legend "tri-glycerides" in the report and I was immediately carted off to various doctors, cardiologists and other busybodies. They collectively told me - and worse, the missus - that if I didn't knock off the calories, I would probably be the cause of the LIC reporting lower profits because of having paid out my life insurance. They observed that this would not be an entirely bad thing, because in virtually everyone's opinion, the LIC has far too much money and a little de-moneyfying would be great for their character but they (the doctors, cardiologists and other busybodies) would rather it not be a sterling chap like me. And at this point I realize I've been rambling. Sorry. You still with me? Good.

It's funny how one values things only when they've been snatched away from one. Post the tri-glycerides episode, I was basically put on a ration of gruel and water and the only way I could get any kind of nutrition was to sneak off into the kitchen when the missus wasn't looking and cook something. So I learned not only to cook really fast but also to wash and clean the pots and pans equally fast, dry them out and put them back in their places before the missus noticed. And that, dear reader, is the sole qualification in my otherwise unqualified self for writing this review.

And now on to business. The book - I loved the title - "How the Banana goes to Heaven" - is written is a breezy, cheerful style. It is organized into chapters, each chapter dealing with one ingredient of vegetarian cooking.

For instance, there is one on ragi, aka millet, which is a terrific food for anyone interested in living a long life. There is one on ghee which says such good things about it (the missus has sentiments towards ghee which make Arab-Jew relations seem like teen romance in comparison) that I became emotional. I love ghee, you see, and the missus is as likely to give me any as the US would be to give the Taliban a consignment of enriched Uranium.

The author gives a delightful, trivia-filled background for the item in question, and a summary of nutrition information which covers what current scientific opinion about it is, and a recipe or two using the said ingredient.

What I liked about the book was the engaging style and the consistently cheerful tone throughout the book. Makes it highly readable. The author, Ratna Rajaiah, is a popular blogger and columnist for The New Indian Express. She writes very well indeed. After reading I am equipped with dozens, if not hundreds, of little facts about food that will save my life when accosted by random aunties at parties as I so often tend to be.

There aren't many recipes in the book, just one at the end of every chapter, but then, it's not a cookery book, it's a book about food. The recipes look pretty nice though, and are fairly unusual. Which makes it interesting enough for me. I haven't tried many out but the few that I did, I liked. One, a preparation called Roasted Rice Dumplings, turned out really good. These dumplings went very well with beer. Though, as the missus would observe, if she knew about this, what doesn't.

Highly recommended for people who like reading about food. Also, suitable for random reads, since the chapters are little independent compartments. You can basically open it to any page and take a stab at it. The book is well produced. Lovely photographs throughout. The printing is very good and overall I think it is a great buy for anyone even slightly interested in the marvelous subject of food

La vie chez Shenoy

2010-11-22T00:43:00.000+05:30

The above title, translated from the Punjabi or French, I can never tell the difference, means Life at the Shenoy home. The letters can be re-arranged to form the words "Hey! Zen Chaos, Live!" which is an accurate description of how things usually are at our place.

The boys' vacations come to an end today. Back to the grind from tomorrow. The elder one is cool about it but the younger one has been complaining about the shortness of vacations. The root cause of his angst is that the X-box, which has been his constant companion through the holidays, is going back into lock and key under orders of the missus.

He filed what he thought was the equivalent of a writ in the high court.

"Annie, please tell mom that all kids in my school are allowed to play X-box on weekends"

"Tell her yourself!"

"She won't listen"

"What makes you think she listens to me?"

He mulled this over.

"Annie, are all women like this?"

"Every single one I know, son", I told him, with a voice tinged with sadness.

"Why, Annie?" he continued. "Why can't they be more..." he appeared to be searching for the mot juste "...why can't they be more .. understanding?

"Son" I told him, changing the subject slightly, and drawing from recent events "man to man, I can only say that women are nothing but trouble".

The missus took this exact moment to enter. A bit like those farcical plays one sees on TV.

"What was that?" she asked. I gulped and tried unsuccessfuly to say something. Younger son came to the rescue.

"Mom, Annie was saying that 'We men, we are nothing but trouble'. Weren't you, Annie?"

I gave him a silent look which said "Well played, my son!" The cricketing equivalent would have been the flawless flowing cover-drive for four.

The missus was pre-occupied, important questions of what to wear for a visit to an aunt's house weighing heavily on her mind. She shuffled off without giving me the customary earful she gives when she catches me telling the kids all that 'worldly advice' stuff.

I thanked the lad for his presence of mind.

"Oh, it was nothing, Annie. By the way, are you going to buy me the new FIFA football game on X-box or will you just slip me the cash?"

I stared at him.

"Hahaha. Relax, Annie. I was just pulling your leg." And ran away downstairs to play football.

Life.

The missus reports

2010-11-15T20:08:00.000+05:30

It is not often that I take to putting my thoughts to paper, or blogs, to be precise, what with the speed with which life whooshes by for a suburban housewife but today I find myself strangely with a lot of time on my hands. And the golden opportunity of an open lap-top with the blog signed into. After I publish this, he dare not delete it.

The reason for having a lot of time on my hands is that the younger son is off to Udaipur with his grandparents. Suddenly, the house seems very silent. He is a noisy lad, my Gautham is, and a source of constant anxiety but he's also demonstrative of his affection and consideration, which makes one rather miss him. Vyaas, the elder one, is a quiet and mature boy, giving me little cause for worry. He studies on his own, watches TV only moderately (unlike Gautham who can watch TV for hours without a break) and generally obeys me unless there is strong cause to do otherwise. Needless to say, there never is.

The problem child here, of course, is the husband, who survives mostly because of a lacuna in the Indian legal system. It is a crime, apparently, for a wife to strike her husband upon the bean with a brick, regardless of provocation. Otherwise I would have done this ages ago and despite the said husband's skull being apparently fashioned out of solid wood, I would have, with this crude but effective technique, brought about some improvement. As things stand, I am reduced to using cold stares, knitted brows and pursed lips as an expression of ire, which is the matrimonial equivalent of using Madan Lal as your strike bowler with the new ball (I'm afraid I follow - or used to follow - cricket. I'm not very current these days but what cricket lacks in gripping entertainment it more than makes up by affording the struggling writer scope for simile).

He isn't very difficult to get along with, except when he decides to give reign to his alleged sense of humour which I find quite weird at times. For instance, this diwali I had expected a trinket of some sort - gold, preferably- as an expression of his love and affection. He got me a deodorant. I am not joking. A pink can with the legend "Pour Femme" emblazoned on it. I'm not a materialistic girl but MRP Rs.99/- is not really my thing. It showed in my expression, I'm sure of that, but that did not deter my champ. He was waiting for me to ask him what the hell this was.

I obliged. "What is this, would you mind telling me?" I asked him in the most sour voice I could manage.

He had prepared for this precise moment apparently.

"Dear, a deo, a female deo!" he sang, to the tune of "Doe, a deer, a female deer".

I counted to ten. The blood was still boiling. I counted another fifty. No change. I thought of jabbing him in the thigh with the potato peeler and had Big Boss 4 not started at that exact moment, with vociferations by the sweet Dolly Bindra at some hapless co-inhabitant of the dosshouse, violence would have erupted. As it was, he escaped with nary a scratch. He has promised to buy me bangle but we shall believe when we see.

Till then, adieu from

Sheela

Anguish

2010-09-22T17:05:00.002+05:30

I'm feeling unusually sad today. The reason? Quite simply, the absolute pig's breakfast that our politicians and bureacrats have made of the Commonwealth Games. Foot overbridges are collapsing. Stadium ceilings are crashing down. Athletes quarters are shoddy and uninhabitable. The list goes on.

"But sad? You? Surely not, Naren!", you ask me censoriously. "Haven't you lived here for the 45 years that you have existed? Doesn't it give you a kind of immunity to disclosure shock that people from other countries don't have. Like you go out with your ABCD cousin eating chaat and where he lies alternately writhing and pooping the next morning, you're tucking into vada pao?"

The answer to all your questions is a shamefaced "Yes". And yet, I AM feeling sad beyond expression. Why this should be so, can't say exactly. I think it's because the shame is now international.

Earlier, you see, we used do all this quietly before our adorably mute domestic audiences who would cheerfully shrug off 1200 crore fodder scams with a cheery "boys will be boys!" and would good naturedly vote in favour of giving them another go. But this time, it's Public. The World Knows! And the World is Laughing! Oh the shame! Even countries like Jersey and Guernsey are planning to pull out it seems. Jersey and Guernsey! Their entire population is less than my housing complex.

Of course India is not silent! No Sir! Everywhere, people are voicing their displeasure. Ranting against Kalmadi. Ridiculing Dixit. Demanding Manmohan Singh's resignation.

And completely missing the point. The reason all this has happened is not that these people are filled with greed and avarice. They are, but if it hadn't been them specifically, it would have been someone else. The point is that our glorious system of benevolent socialistic public service propriety or whatever it is that this country functions under, holds no one accountable. This is endemic to all public institurions large and small. There is no punishment for crime. No one can be sacked for dereliction of duty, for example. And no one has ever served a prison term for abuse of office.

I have no idea why this should be so. Take the case of the toilet paper scam. You know the one. Where toilet paper was bought for Rs. 4000 a roll when it should have cost Rs. 100. The matter 'is still being probed', as far as I know.

Why in freakin hell this should take so much time is beyond me. Here is what you or I would have done.

Step 1. Find out if the toilet rolls have really been bought for Rs. 4000/- each. Clue - See the invoice. You should see a figure which says Rs. 4000/- per roll, or if not, divide the total invoice amount in rupees by the total number of rolls in numbers and see if the answer is Rs. 4000. It is? Good now go to

Step 2. Find out the fair market price for the rolls. Go to the supermarket. Buy a roll. When checking out, see the amount printed on the bill. Does it say Rs. 100? Good. Keep the receipt.

Step 3. Ask the guy who approved the invoice why his ass should not be put into jail.

How complicated can this be? Why should it take a frikkin committee, who, after a month of dedicated scrutiny are still unable to answer in one of two ways
A) Yes, the rolls were purchased for Rs.4000/- per when they are freely available for Rs. 100/- per
B) No, the media is being dishonest. The rolls were bought for Rs. 100/- per and not for Rs. 4000/- per, and please put the said media person into prison

By the way, the news I heard what that the 'probe committe' is 'recommending' that 'Darbari be sacked'. Sacked? SACKED! This is not unlike asking General Dyer to write 100 times "I will not order firing on defenceless people again". The man should be given rigorous imprisonment unless he is able to prove he was acting on superiors' orders, in which case the superiors should be given rigourous imprisonment.

The moral, as far as I can see, is that unless someone is given real punishment, someone nuts are really nailed to the floor, nothing is ever going to change. And to my village idiot mind, it looks the right thing to do, doling out punishment I mean. Compromising the nations honour and all that. But then, that's probably because I'm not a highly trained and skilled bureaucrat.

The Week That Was

2010-09-20T17:27:00.000+05:30

One thing that never ceases to amaze me, as it must you, if you've been following this jolly little autobiography of mine, is how easily I manage to continue to exist despite so obviously being a total loser. I have no doubt there would be a decent market for tips on how to do this - "Be a total loser and continue to exist" is the title that comes to mind ("12 straight weeks on the NYTimes bestseller list") - but the thing is, I don't have a clue. It seems incredible that I should have so many super-tolerant people around me. My parents. My sisters. The missus. The boys. A whole lot of friends. And you, dear reader, who, sacrificing valuable opportunities of increasing your wealth by obscene amounts, are reading this page.

Good. Got that off my chest. And now to recount the last weeks happenings.

The stellar part of my life these days is the interaction with the boys while teaching them.

The elder one is the more silent and decorous of the two. I think he feels that his dad is a pumpkin brain, but in a gentlemanly manner that I think he inherits from me, he keeps that opinion to himself. Usually, anyway. And he politely laughs at my jokes such as they are.

I came up with one when I was teaching him complex numbers. "a+ib is a complex number" I told him. "And?" he replied politely, because he knew that already

"And b12+i is a b-complex number"

"Hahaha" he replied "I think I'll go through the section on Complex Planes on my own". So much for levity in the teaching process.

The younger one, on the other hand, is clearly in awe of me. The reason is that I teach him economics. This is a subject towards which, thanks to the absurdly dense textbook they have, he has developed a healthy hatred. And I don't blame him.

Entrusted with the task of writing a textbook for ninth-standard students learning about economics for the first time in their lives, the rhetorically gifted chaps in charge of writing the textbook have done the prose in a style heavy enough to be employed in auditors' reports of public limited companies. James Joyce would read like the Brothers Grimm in comparison.

"An economy is a rather loosely defined term for any broad classification of interrelated productive activities such as farming, manufacturing and supply of a variety of services that people are ready to buy from markets at a price", they tell the tots, expecting rousing cheers at the revelation.

The son was extremely grateful when I explained it in terms of farmer, blacksmith and goatherd.

"Wow Annie! You know everything!" was his reaction.

"He believes I am the cat's pajamas as far as economics is concerned." I told myself. Pleased as punch I was and I'm sure no one will grudge me that reaction.

But things have a way of turning, if you know what I mean. I had occasion, this week, to explain what capitalism, communism, socialism and other isms which constitute political theory, meant. The lad listened in rapt attention.

I was floating. Rarely do I hold anyone's attention like this. It feels good. I can understand why Deepak Chopra and similar chaps go about saying things like 'realizing that our true self is one of pure potentiality and aligning with the power that manifests everything in the universe'. He knows he's talking rot, but the public is listening! Intoxicated by this, he continues and in no time is telling people that 'God's love is beyond death' and that 'one must do what one does because doing is what one must do when one does what one must'.

Which is why I waxed lyrical about communism, dragging in Animal farm, and generally "kicked ass" as my sons are fond of saying.

The missus confronted me later in the evening.

"What rot have you feeding Gautham?" she demanded.

"What did I do now?"

"He's going on about becoming a communist" she said, scowling.

"What!"

"Yes. He's been telling me that communism is the only way and that he's all for it"

I meekly tried to defend myself.

"I was telling him how bad communism was and how it has failed around the world"

"Well, your rhetoric is evidently half-baked, Mr Ayn Rand. You need to polish your spiel" And with that unkind barb, she walked away.

Well, to cut a long story short, I engaged the lad in conversation later in the evening. It transpired that he hates his tuition classes and my statement that communism believed in a classless society had won him over to that ideology.

I hit my forehead with my palm, in a gesture popularly known on twitter as 'facepalm' or, among the more subtle, as 'manoj kumar' or simply 'manoj'.

Which, come to think of it, is how I spend most weekends.

An Arctic Tale - Reposted

2010-09-14T15:53:00.000+05:30

(When people run out of ideas, they usually join politics. Gone-casers like me go a step further. They re-post old blog entries. Apologies and all that)

The blizzard was fierce. Old Tuskegaw the Inuit hunkered down with his huskies in the little ice shelter he had rustled up. The tundra could be lethal. He knew that, and was taking no chances.

The dogs whimpered. Even for them, this blizzard was too much. Tuskegaw could sense that. He was grateful to the spirits for guarding them thus far, and prayed they would continue to do so.

For he had a mission to accomplish. A sled full of Geometry books, just imported from China where printing was the cheapest, to be transported to his tribespeople, living on the North Pole. Knowledge! Liberation from generations of battle with unforgiving Nature!

Tuskegaw looked heavenward and thanked the spirits once again for the rare honour bestowed upon him. It was not everyday that one got the opportunity to cart Asian geometry to polar coordinates.

She's got platitude!

2010-08-31T08:57:00.001+05:30

I'm usually a careful sort of bloke. You know, look both sides before crossing, don't volunteer for magician's tricks, give completely dishonest answers even on the most 'anonymous' surveys. So it is part of standard operating procedure to disappear when the arrival of random auntie visitors from the neighbourhood is announced. I've learned from harsh experience that to stay is to suffer for hours in a cosmix flux of recipes, platitudes, medical histories, astrological beliefs and a summary of the distasteful qualities of people not among those present.

Yesterday was a tragic slip-up. I was in the living room with my computer, sucking up the finest twitter wisdom (for example, @cgawker said "ESPN needs to hire more anchors without nostril hair", which has more pure truth in it than most religious texts) when an auntie landed up. By the time I realised something sinister was afoot, the bell had gone and the round had started.

I should actually skip all the pleasantries and cut to the chase because just listing down the pleasantries would run into a dozen blog pages. It goes something like this

"How's your dad?"

"My dad is fine"

"How's your mom?"

"My mom is fine"

"How's your brother?"

"My brother is fine"

And so on, going up to "your second cousin, the one who married the russian girl. How is he?".

I long for the day one of these aunties turns out to be a mathematician and says something like

"How is a?" for all a ϵ {R} where {R} is the set of all your living relatives.

That would be so cool! (to be continued)

Saturday, 21st August 2010

2010-08-22T10:59:00.000+05:30

I've just signed up for a site called ohlife.com which is a kind of online diary. Every day, it sends you a mail asking you how your day was and what you did, to which you sort of respond by pouring your heart out. I've done it for two days running now, and it looks like jolly good fun. It's private though. Understandable,because you could be writing anything, but in my case, the posts are dreadfully lacking in the saucier aspects. Age. Anyway, I thought I'd unleash the exhibitionist in me and put this on my blog. As long as I don't compromise anyone's privacy, should be fine, I thought. So here goes. Entry number one.

Had one of those tiffs with the missus. Subject being twitter, as usual.

"You're spending far too much time on twitter", she said, to which I responded with understandable outrage because compared to many on my timeline, I'm hardly on twitter at all. However this did not fit into her stalinist guidlines on conducting debates and much dudgeon occured. It was up to me to sign peace in the evening, following the tried and trusted technique of beginning with abject surrender. Life.

Went to Dahisar and handed over the staircase fabrication to poor impoverished Yatin. He is really a fine mind, Yatin is. Wish i could do something to harness it. He is also of a slightly ambiguous moral fibre, which makes unsupervised delegation a risky proposition.

Cooked Goa Sausages for dinner. Total WIN. Added a couple of potatoes and onions to my trusty non-stick pan, deskinned the sausages and added the meat, added a cupful of water and simmered the mess for about 10 minutes. Then, on an impulse, indulging in my core life philosophy that everything tastes better with cheese, I added a generous dollop of grated Gouda. The bread-wallah turned up around this time and I bought a dozen 'pao' from him.

Discovery - Pao goes beautifully with goa sausage curry.

Overcome by the beauty of the moment, I poured myself a fairly stiff Black Label with a little ice and water.

Discovery 2 -- Black Label goes beautifully with goa sausage curry.

Stayed away from the computer for the rest of the night. Gautham was whining away about being bored and being a whiskey down, I rashly suggested we should watch "Borat". Well, watch it he did. He laughed and laughed, if that's any consolation, but MY ears were mostly a bright red. What an outrageous movie to watch with your 13 year old son! I hope he doesn't
imbibe anything from it. Luckily, Sheela doesn't know anything about this or divorce would be imminent in the family.

Education and the Good Life -

2010-08-20T15:07:00.001+05:30

The missus came back from younger son's school open-house with a long face.
"Bad, huh?" I asked.

She didn't answer. Just sat down on the sofa and buried her face in her hands.

I understood. Her worst fears had come true. "He did well in the tests?" I asked.

She mutely nodded her head and proffered a sheet of paper which simply said "Algebra-40/40. Geometry - 40/40".

I realise that you, dear reader, might have developed a slight throbbing feeling around the temples upon reading such drivel. Feeling sad when your child score full marks, forsooth!

But bear with me. When you are au courant with the background, I am sure the light of enlightenment will dispel the darkness enveloping your consciousness. Hmm. Perhaps I shouldn't read so much Deepak Chopra. Anyway, here's the background.

Younger son is smart, quick on the uptake, and used to be the bee's knees academically speaking till he realized that he could get by without actually studying at all, based on his ability to "creatively answer" question papers.

Creative answering involves (according to younger son) rewriting the question in your own words, and making it 2x to 3x longer, which then easily passes off for the answer. This technique works admirably for subjects like the languages or history (he's been maxing them as much as they can be maxed) but tends to have disastrous results when applied to algebra or geometry. Younger son finds this unfortunate, but does not seem to feel that a change in methodology is merited.

Missus, on the other hand, has been despairing most vociferously. "You have spoiled him" is the major thrust of her arguments and "if you ever took even one hundredth of the interest in his studies as you take in twittering-gittering, he would stand first with his eyes closed". The missus, as you might have gathered, has a low opinion of Web 2.0.

I've been advocating motivation, mainly by promising various goodies, but the missus belongs to the management by punishment school of thought. She announces all kinds of penalties for milestones not achieved. Such as "No TV for a week". Or "No touching the computer". Or "No playing football". And so on.

Unfortunately for her, a lad of our younger son's resourcefullness finds this the equivalent of a slow full toss. Easily despatched to the boundary. "No net? No sweat" is his slogan, because he easily gets on to the internet when missus is watching one of her soaps. Even the "No more football" rule is easily bypassed by getting one of his mates to plead with missus to allow him to play "a most important match, auntie, please, pretty please" whereupon she has to agree or risk being labelled "dragon auntie" by the kids in the building.

This time, however, we were determined to drill some sense into his head. We locked up all the computers in the house. The key was carefully hidden in secret locations known only to the missus and the location changed daily. It resulted in operational problems for scatterbrains like me. I often forget to take my clothes into the bathroom when I go to bathe and this policy meant have to spend several anxious minutes waiting for the missus to rescue me from death by pneumonia. But the objective of denying him access to the internet was achieved. I was assigned the task of telling all his friends that he wouldn't be coming to play football for the whole week. And things would certainly change. Or so we thought.

He defiantly stuck to his policy of studiously avoiding all study and managed to get by on the strength of his "creative answering" in the languages and in history. Our only hope was that he would plug his algebra or geometry, or atleast score badly in them, giving us much needed leverage over the lad.

As you know, that was not to be. How he achieved this is a mystery to us. I voiced the optimistic opinion that he was a Ramanujan kind of math genius, to which the missus gave a hollow laugh and said that he had either managed to procure a copy of the test papers in advance or copied wholesale from someone.

And younger son? He seems very happy with the result, thank you very much, and has resolved to let his winning methods continue.

-Update: It turns out that the lad actually cracked both Algebra and Geometry and is quite gifted at math in general. I am astounded! He must get it from his mother.

General "Dear Diary" stuff

2010-08-09T14:11:00.000+05:30

Once again, I am confronted with mysterious physical phenomena, baffling even the finest scientific minds around. I refer to the Strange Case of the Variable Length Tape.

It started, like most things in my life, with a shopping expedition. We were shopping for my brother-in-law who had lost weight recently. My sister, whose husband the said brother in law is (just clarifying) said his waist was 33 inches.

"About your waist size, I think, Naren" my sister said.

Hereupon the missus, displaying her complete lack of tact and finesse, laughed loudly and said "HAHAHAHAHA! Thirty three! He's at least thirty eight!"

Thirty eight people in Shopper's stop turned around to look at me.

"But I wear size 34 jeans", I protested, feebly.

She immediately organized a measuring tape from one of the shop attendants and in the presence of many interested onlookers, measured my waist. "See. Thirty seven and a half" she called out at about 120 decibels. There it is. Impossible to explain, unless you factor in the possibility of the tape having shrunk 10.29411%. This is probably its linear coefficient of contraction.

The other possibility is funny business. The missus is a Gold Card holder or something of the said Shoppers Stop. She keeps flaunting it and getting free parking and what not. Surely, the staff are in cahoots with her and organized a falsification of tape measures. The missus of course laughed out at my allegations. Kalmadi could take her correspondence course in brazenness. The inconvenient fact remains that I still wear size 34 jeans.

Among other things, I've been taking active interest in the education of the boys. This is turning out to be great fun.

The immediate inspiration is a friend's son getting into IIT with a very high rank. Said friend is going around telling everyone that it was HIS coaching that enabled this feat, a claim I find suspicious because this said friend, at one time, could not spell "Wadala" (a suburb of Bombay). I had to tell him how to spell it.

I mentioned this to the missus.

"That's because he's not from Bombay, doofus' said the missus.

Oh alright, but I still reserve my judgment. Anyway, the upshot of this is that I've been commanded to help the boys with their studies.

The younger one is in Class IX. He (quite rightly, in my opinion,) resents my presence when he is with his books and has launched a Non Co-operation Movement of sorts.

Not that he isn't stymied by things. The other day, he reported that he couldn't understand Economics, a newly introduced subject for him.

I volunteered to explain it to him. He promptly declined the offer, saying that he knew all the anwers, because he had memorized them. Missus randomly asked him a few and indeed, the answers came out pat. His only grouse was that he wasn't able to understand a word of it. Ironically, the chapter was called "Understanding Economics". And the missus was perfectly satisfied with this because, as she says "no one understands economics anyway. Least of all YOU, my sweet". Which is true, but still!

The older guy is in ClassXI. He is rather more respectful towards me. But even this is proving a little difficult because his syllabus has things like "Gay-Lussac's Law". He promptly wonders if there is a "Straight-Lussac's Law" as well and we spend a good ten minutes smirking away, by which time I've already got something else to do or he wants go down and play.

Ah well, life.

Not Nought Nought Seven, surely!

2010-08-08T11:09:00.000+05:30

'M' was staring right through her interlocutor, as if he did not exist.

"I said" he repeated "Bond will have to be recalled. Or very soon, we will have to liquidate him"

"I heard you, Sir Nigel", M said to the Home Secretary "I just can't believe it, that's all."

"Can't believe Bond could commit an indiscretion of this nature?" Sir Nigel said, "Come, now, you're surely not so innocent as to believe that people can't be queer and not show it?"

"I know, Sir Nigel, but Bond! He was such a ladies man. Miss Moneypenny will attest to the fact."

Miss Moneypenny blushed "Truth to tell, he never did a thing! I was rather hoping.. er.. that he would. No wood, it would seem"

"Thank you Miss Moneypenny" said M, acerbically, and sent the poor lady scuttering behind her desk, red eared.

"And you, M, shall have to answer why Bond was not vetted when you knew that several of his cousins were ..um.. batting for the other team, so to speak. Michael Bond, first cousin. Robert Bond, uncle. John Bond, second cousin."

M was the picture of contrition. "I'm really sorry, Sir N. I ought to have known...'

'You are damn right you should have. Everyone knows that Bonds prefer gentlemen"

The King and the Tiger

2010-08-03T16:28:00.000+05:30

(I've been going through a terrible writer's block, as a result of which I've been turning out complete rot. "So what's new?" you must be saying to yourself, dear reader (silently, though, because you are too kind to discourage budding authors with criticism, however well meaning), but this time, it's Really Rotten. So I decided to attempt a little plagiarism with a story (I swear this is true) I heard from a random uncle at bedtime, many many summers ago. Said uncle is no longer among the living but any shortcomings of the tale are entirely to his account.)

Today, children, I will be telling you a fable. Once upon a time, there lived a just and wise king. A king who was loved and respected by his subjects. Not that this is germane to the fable but one has to build up atmosphere, no?

Right. The king had had a hard day hunting in the forest. He was on the trail of a fierce tiger. His team of drum-beaters and conch-blowers had cornered the beast for the king to kill but somehow, the tiger gave the entourage the slip. Darkness was falling. The king decided to go back to the palace.

At the palace, the king had a quick bath and a meal, washed down with a pitcher of chilled beer, and was asleep in no time, thanks to his strenuous hunt. And soon, he slipped into a dream.

He dreamt he was in the forest again. Chasing the tiger. Hot in pursuit, the brave king outran his entourage and soon, he realised he was in deep shrubbery, without any sign of the tiger. The silence was chilling. The wind would rustle the leaves once in a while. Suddenly, a bird or two would chirp out shrilly, startling the king. There was no sign of the tiger at all.

The king knew it was out there somewhere. He could almost sense it. Night was falling and the king suddenly felt that the hunter and the hunted had interchanged places. It was his turn to feel scared.

Suddenly, the king heard a rustling in the bushes behind him. A sixth sense told him this was not the breeze and he instinctively leaped towards a babul tree which stood before him. It was not a moment too soon, children, for indeed, it was the tiger and it had made a charge towards the spot the king was standing nary a minute ago. The king's instinct had saved him from certain death!

Safely atop the tree, the king looked down at the tiger. After a few tries at climbing the tree, which was too slender to bear its weight, the beast had settled down on its haunches, waiting for the king to come down, as it sensed he must, sooner or later.

The king to do nothing but wait, now, could he? He hoped fervently that his entourage would return and scare the beast away. But night had fallen and the forest was eerily silent. In the dim light of the moon, the king could see the glittering, watchful eyes of the tiger. The king was beginning to despair.

And to add to his problems, he needed to go to the bathroom very badly. Number one, if you know what I mean. Getting off the tree was out of the question so the king decided to do wee wee straight from the branch.

To the kings amazement, the tiger grabbed the stream of pee - yes, just like that - and started climbing up!

The king was startled and stopped peeing. The tiger fell on the ground with a resounding thud. The king decided to pee again.

Again the tiger grabbed the stream and started climbing. When it was almost at the branch, the king stopped peeing again and the tiger fell, this time with a louder thud.

Again the king started peeing and again the tiger started climbing and again the king stopped and again the tiger fell. This time the silly tiger did not get up. It had broken its neck.

The king was overjoyed and relieved. He decided to shin down the tree and ....

awoke to find his missus - the queen, that is - absolutely furious that he had peed all over his mattress.

The moral, dear children, is not to drink too much beer before going to sleep.

About Witty schools and other random stuff

2010-07-11T11:46:00.000+05:30

It is not often that I notice things when I'm driving. The chaotic Brownian motion type traffic in Mumbai rather discourages one from letting the mind drift. But when you see something like the name in the picture above - Witty International School - the old bean goes into float.

How witty would these kids have to be? What kind of nursery classes would they have? Can't resist imagining a scenario.

Teacher: Ok, test for today. Pay attention, children. Ramu, stop picking your nose and smearing snot on Dipu's shirt. Right. Here's the assignment. "Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water." Come up with something witty to finish the rhyme.

Ramu: "God knows what they did up there. They came back with a daughter"

Teacher: That is like seven centuries old. Come up with something original or I'll give you an 'F'.

Ramu: er... "Hope you're on the pill, said Jack to Jill, you're looking way, way, hotter"

Teacher: Gosh! Who told you all this! You're supposed to be a nursery student. Boys and girls, please, no innuendo, sex, vulgarity, obscenity. And the meter is all off anyway. Ok, one more try

Ramu: "They grabbed some land and settled down there. They're classified now as 'squatters'"

Teacher: Oh, I suppose that'll have to do. Original but ho-hum. You get a 'B'. Ok, Dipu, you next.

And so the class would wear on. I'm sure the parents would have their work cut out with a witty kid or two in the house. "have you had your bath?" mom would ask. "Why, whose bath should I have?" the child would retort.

All this was happening when I was driving younger son to school.

"Why are you giggling, Annie?" he asked, with concern, because one of his prime worries, one he shares with his mother and elder brother, is that one of these days, I will go around the bend. They don't get the subtlety of my thought processes, apparently.

I told him what I was thinking. How quaint it would be to have a school which taught just one thing - wittiness. And the Jack and Jill thing.

His brow furrowed, as I had suspected.

"Annie, that is so not witty"

'What's not witty"

"That squatters thing. First of all, water and squatters don't rhyme"

"Ok then YOU come up with something better" I told the upstart.

"How about 'Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water. Jill turned round and ran away But jack chased hard and caught her'"

"That's supposed to be witty?" I was indignant. People who reprimand other people for not being witty should be demonstrably wittier, no?

"Atleast it rhymes. I'll tell you something witty. See those guys on the scaffolding? There, on the building to your right"

He was pointing out to a building getting repainted.

"Vyaas was saying that those guys must be sinners, because they are re-painting".

I confess I didn't get it straight off the bat, but when I did, I had to concede that it WAS wittier than anything I had come up with. Anyway, Gautham had already considered the argument settled in his favor. He adjusted his music for the morn, a scream-fest from some metal band called Lamb of God or something, to jet-engine-decibel levels, discouraging further discussion.

I let it pass. I would have anyway, even without having some faceless punk American teenager with a grouse against society ranting obscenely through my music sustem. Because, for the last few days, I have been mother AND father to the lads, the missus having gone for a few days to Bangalore.

The strain is showing on them.

And on me.

I have to wake up at 6 in the morning and fix them breakfast, a chore I am not designed to do flawlessly. In the last four days, I have burned my finger thrice, broken two cups of sentimental value, made an omelette with zero salt one day, made an omelette with twice the normal salt the other and dropped the lad late to school every single time.

I'm missing the missus terribly. I keep telling her so over the phone. Stuff like "I miss your touch. Your cheerful smile. Your twinkling eyes." You know the drill. But the missus is worldly-wise and since gets the jolly status reports every day from the lads, I suspect she doesn't believe my earnestness. I can almost see her smirking, actually. She's coming back this evening and I'm betting she will be at her jolliest and wittiest. Many jokes will be cracked at my expense.

But I won't have to fix breakfast. As far as I'm concerned, that puts the thing firmly on the right side of the balance sheet.

My vacation - Part 4 - Onward towards Paris

2010-05-27T11:08:00.000+05:30

Paris!

To most people the name conjures up an image of a skinny pouty oversexed disinherited heiress but few know that it is also a city in France.

France, if you are a widely read person, you might know as a country in Europe but confusingly, it is also the name of a popular seafood hors d'oevre in Mysore (Chilly France, corrupted to Chilly Prawns in westernised Bangalore)

We landed in Paris (the city, not the heiress) from Uganda via the United Arab Emirates, which is a little story in itself, though not worth narrating. So here it is.

After Jinja, we tooled off to a charming safari lodge in western Uganda called the Paraa Safari Lodge.

Amidst all the three course meals, buffet breakfasts and high teas it was really hard to find time to go out into the wild and look at animals but we managed it. We saw deer, antelopes, giraffes, elephants, crocodiles, hippos and buffaloes. Splendid experience actually. The only beasts missing were the lions. Probably had an offsite or something. But we're nothing if not resilient. We went back to the lodge and tucked into some Poulet Roti Provencal or something. The chef turned out to be a Kenyan. We went and met him and only the strongest exertion of will prevented me from kneeling before him and kissing his hand.

It was here that I noticed the curious phenomenon of belt shrinkage. My belt seemed to have shrunk gradually and I was having to wear it a whole notch looser. It must have been a combination of the atmospheric conditions with the ambient temperature causing a slippage in molecular adjacency resulting in an anisotropic x-axis dimensional variation. I can think of no other explanation. The missus only rolled her eyes when I told her my theory but then she's not the kind who appreciates deep scientific analysis. "You've become fat, silly!" she said and went off into a gift shop right there in the middle of the savannah grassland.

Well, perhaps she's right. Or the molecular slippage thing has affected all my garments as well. But I've been hardly eating anything.

By now the jolly old volcanic ash cloud responsible for the cancellation of our Europe plans had drifted over the Atlantic and the airline companies were back in business making losses. We re-booked our tickets and decided to take a pitstop in the United Arab Emirates, staying with some old friends in a place called Ras Al Khaimah. "No silly, ras al khaimah does not mean 'juice of khaimah'" said the missus, in response to my observation.

The UAE is an impressive place. From the sky as one lands, it looks like one big stretch of enormous malls and buildings in the middle of the desert but when you land you find that it is actually comprised of smaller stretches of enormous malls and buildings. In my childhood, I had heard the joke that the national bird of Khalistan was tandoori chicken. Well then, the national bird of the UAE is the construction crane. They are all over the place. On the ground. Atop towering skyscrapers. In the middle of the desert. Everywhere. But they do have the most staggeringly huge shopping malls, which the missus seemed to consider the one redeeming feature of the UAE. They also have excellent restaurants featuring every conceivable kind of cuisine.

Our flight to Paris was uneventful and we landed in Charles De Gaulle airport. This is Paris' main airport, probably named after their famous president, Charles de Gaulle, as I surmised from my encyclopaedic knowledge of world affairs and my keen deduction skills.

Our luggage was late in arriving and we spent a funfilled hour with disinterested airport officials who spoke only in French.

My complete knowledge of French upto that time was Merci Beaucoup which means thank you very much but after about fifteen minutes of thanking everybody I realized I was no closer to getting my luggage.

Very soon the staff had me figured out for an obsessive compulsive thanker and would look the other way when I approached them. Just as I was beginning to despair, the conveyor started working and our luggage appeared quite miraculously. Flinging around a few more 'Merci Beaucoup's, we made our way to immigration, or passport control as they call it.

It was the quickest and the least intrusive passport control I've ever experienced. The chap across the counter was reluctant to make eye contact even. He quickly stamped my passport and flung it across the counter.

We were in Europe at last.

My vacation - Part 3 - Jinja

2010-04-29T22:42:00.000+05:30

Off to Jinja, the old capital of Uganda and the stronghold of people named Madhvani, who are the Ambanis of Uganda. The town is about two hours drive from Kampala.

Enroute, we passed by a suburb of Kampala named Ntinda. This is pronounced Natinda. Which rhymes with Bhatinda. Which awoke the Keats in me. I composed this little sonnet to a fictitious, touchingly incompetent culinary craftsman, and narrated it to the missus who, as is her wont when in any car ride greater than 5 minutes long, had gone off to sleep.

"There was a young lad from Bhatinda", I told her, nudging her awake gently, "who found a job as a cook in Ntinda. But when he roasted meat, even on the lowest heat, it would somehow get burned to a cinder".

She looked blankly at me. "What in the world are you gibbering about? What have Bhatinda and Ntinda got to do with each other?". I explained the poem to her. A young man, a migrant, leaving home and its hardships, coming to a strange town, landing a job as a cook and then struggling with his inability to roast meat etc.

The missus did not seem to get the poignancy. "Naren, kindly stop this tomfoolery before someone concludes you are non compos mentis. Now let me catch up on some sleep". The missus tends to use latin when seriously pissed. I continued to compose, silently now, my poetic masterpieces.

There was a young man from Bhatinda/ who married a lady named Linda/ whose hair was highly curled /because the part of the world /she was from was called Ntinda.

Nope. Not as good as the earler effort. Best not to tempt fate by narrating this one to the missus. She has never bitten me but that does not mean she can't. Or won't.

The landscape was beautiful. Just green, green and more green. Our driver Ronald was a dignified and knowledgeable commentator and kept giving me little tidbits of information such as the average rainfall in Uganda, the average temperature, the distance to Jinja, the flora and fauna to be found there, the early white explorer Speke, who afforded great poetic possiblities (The Early White Explorer Speke/ was ordinarily docile and meek/ except when he found/ no shrubbery around/ and he badly wanted to take a leak) but Ronald's constant, dignified commentary rather demanded attention.

Enroute we stopped at a forest called Mabira, which nearly caused civil war in this charming country thanks to one Jay Mehta, husband of Juhi Chawla. This is a long and potentially sensitive anecdote which I will narrate some other time, mainly because I don't know how much truth there is in it. Suffice it to say that if the anecdote is true, said Mehta is a greedy whatchamacallit.

Ok, missus making eyes at me. Will update post lights out.

My vacation - Part 2 - Kampala

2010-04-29T00:17:00.000+05:30

(As mentioned in the earlier post, this is a highly jazzed up account of a vacation I am having currently. The high point of the drama, such as it is, is that we were pushed off the flight to Europe and de-conveyed to Africa. Best left unread, of course, unless you are one of the few jobless ones. Like me. BTW, many apologies for not responding to earlier comments. this is because I have but a hairs breadth of internet time.)

Finding another destination of course was not as easy as it seemed. First, we didn't have time (or, in my case the patience) to line up outside some snotty embassy with a truck load of papers and the earnest “Please give me a visa, mister, I promise not to settle in your country or carry on trade or occupation for profit in any manner” expression so important to visa officers. And second, I had a feeling my credit cards were close to maxing themselves, putting de-luxe destinations out of bounds, for long vacations at any rate.

The missus' first choice was Thailand, but it seemed to be going through one of those phases where chaps start throwing bombs at other chaps who, instead of turning the other cheek as recommended by well known world figures, throw bombs right back, escalating the whole ruddy thing. All in all, not conducive to tourism.

My bright suggestion at this stage was Sikkim. Beautiful, unspoiled, easy to get to, economical. This was met with a glowering look. I upped it to Sri Lanka. Ok, so I wanted to minimise cost, but Sri Lanka is a great tourist place. (Its tallest mountain, I am told by my younger son, is Piduruthalagala. He had to study this for Geography which made him very unhappy with the tendency of the local populace to name their mountains in several dozen syllablic words instead of say Bob mountain or Tim mountain. I digress.) This suggestion too was tossed out the window.

“Let's go to Uganda. It has visa on arrival. And we can do some safaris.” suggested Neela, the missus' twin sister who , with her husband Mahesh, were traveling with us. I heaved a sigh of relief. It's a long story but we have a decent base there. House and all. This would be DEFINITELY low cost. Evidently, Mahesh was also thinking along similar lines as me, as I distinctly spotted him heaving sighs of relief of his own. Unanimously passed.

We marched off to the Emirates office on Vittal Mallya Road, Bangalore, and did the needful. (we were flying from Bangalore, because Neela and Mahesh live in Mysore and had done all the dirty work of booking tickets etc). Somewhere in the vicinity was a 'fish spa' which is a spa where you put your feet into a fish tank and the fish eat all the dead skin, toenail dirt etc. Your feet come out a lovely pink. What they omit to tell you is that the process is ticklish as hell. I was shoved into the place and assigned a ten minute session. Ten minutes, but it felt like an eternity. My giggling and writhing seemed to offer no end of mirth to the missus and her accomplices (viz sister and brother-in-law).

And the thing is the futility of it all. I mean, compared to, say, aquiline looks or a lean muscular body, pink feet offer little by way of sex appeal. I might be wrong but I really don't see buxom young lasses throwing themselves at you because you have pink feet. But the missus had decreed, so it had to happen.

I shoved my pink feet into my shoes and we hurried on to the airport. The flight was from Bangalore to Dubai, where we got a couple of hours of duty free shopping and thence onward to Entebbe (yes, the famous airport where the Israelis did their 90 minute thing) via Addis Ababa.

The flight was pretty uneventful. The missus spent the entire flight to Dubai sleeping on my shoulder, making me feel like the warm, affectionate caveman that I am. I listened to some music. There is this Bryan Adams' song, the words of which go something like this “Lets make love.. something something.... january to december” I don't know the words, but I have come to the conclusion that it is based on Raag Shuddha Nat. I've done a comparison, which I can make available at request (post it on youtube or something) if you promise to remember that it was done under the influence of alcohol and do not hold it against me if and when I am appointed to high office.

Well, Uganda is beautiful. We spent the evening in Kampala, Uganda's cheerful, laid-back and emerald green capital. I had picked up a bottle of Glenmorangie whiskey (which the missus insists on calling Glen Morarjee) of a decent vintage and I am happy to report that it goes beautifully with Kampala.

The following morning was our trip to a town called Jinja. To read about which you will have to wait a day or two while I sneak the laptop under the bedcovers, away from the sight of the missus, and write out my secret report. This one has been bad enough... I've almost been caught twice. (I pretended to be checking flight availability to Europe.)

Cheers, then. Back soon, hopefully.

My Vacation - Part 1 - Africa

2010-04-26T23:29:00.000+05:30

(Dear reader,
If you, like most people, like your information neatly packaged in structured, speed-readable communication, the long and short of what follows is that my wife and I set out on an European vacation that was rudely cut short because of the volcano trouble. We decided to redirect to countries broadminded enough to offer citizens of India visas on arrivals (since we didn't want to waste time queuing up outside snotty bureaucratic satraps with bank statements and IT returns). Thus, we landed up in.......Uganda

Also, apologies if I seem uncommunicative but the fact is that Uganda has the feeblest internet in the world. And the missus isn't too keen on me spending hours on the computer, cursing silently at the monitor or pulling my hair out or both, as is my wont when the internet refuses to respond.

So, that's that. The complete executive summary. You don't need to read on, unless you are one of those very few in the world who have nothing else to do)

Life has been whooshing past these past few days.

First it was the proposed get-away. Did I mention it? The missus and I were planning to visit Europe for a long relationship-rebuilding vacation. This has been necessitated by the missus' firm conviction that I love my computer more than I love her. Completely untrue of course. I don't take my computer to dinner or to a movie. Not always anyway. That argument of course did not cut much ice and said vacation was planned in great earnestness and detail. Which Venetian canal to cruise down in gondola with gondoleer singing which Italian love ballad and so on.

But I digress. The said proposed vacation necessitated many subtle strategic moves such as ensuring that my Airtel bills and Icici credit card dues were paid off. They are direct descendants of Gnghis Khan where it comes to tardy settlement of dues, the aforementioned Airtel and ICICI chaps. I have heard that they behead their defaulters and pile up the skulls in neat little heaps outside villages as a deterrent to other potential defaulters. I'm a sentimental kind of guy. I'm very attached to my head, unattractive as it may be to other people. So I pulled out the old cheque book and did the necessary writing. I just don't remember if I dropped it into the box. Guess I'll find out. If they come at me with machetes, it was nice knowing you folks.

Coming back to the res, the next on the list was helping the missus pack our suitcases. This is an enterprise fraught with danger because my darling helpmeet, the apple of my eye, the nuclear reactor of the little submarine of my life, my safe and secure elastic rubber cord in the Great Bungee Jump that is worldly existence, is apt to get a tad ballistic when I can't find my things when she asks for them.

“Get me that striped shirt”

“Er, which striped shirt?”

“The black one, the one I've been telling you about for the last ten minutes”

I found something which answered loosely to that description.

“What is this?”she asked, holding the shirt up like an exterminator holding up a recently exterminated pest. Never a good sign.

“Black striped shirt?” I answered hopefully.

“This color is called 'blue'. These little squares are called checks. Stripes are – Oh, you're hopeless, Naren” and in a marked manner, got up and picked the shirt herself. I swear it wasn't there a moment ago. The missus must be a prestidigitator or something.

She went back to the suitcase.

“Now, please pay attention. AND SHUT THAT COMPUTER.”

And so on. Finally she got the suitcases packed. She'd tucked in an enormous amount of stuff including my wedding suit aka my ticket collector disguise. “Just in case we go to the opera” she told me. I fervently hope we don't. No offense, but opera always sounds like people panicking in song. The missus doesn't care much for the music either, but she likes the spectacle.

“Have you called the cab?”

Thankfully, I had. Having thus saved my marriage by the merest skin of my teeth, we set forth for the Airport.

And to our dismay, were resolutely told by the Emirates people to take a walk. They didn't say that in so many words, of course. They are too well bred for that. But in the round about way so popular with the airline people, they told us that there was a volcano blasting away in Iceland which is why we couldn't fly to Rome, though Rome airport was open, because of back-log problems and they would be happy to refund us our money in due course or reschedule our flight as and when it pleased them.

First, dismay. Then anguish. Then anger (I chose the charged-with-sarcasm route, completely wasted on the rhinoceros hides that airline employees are equipped with). And then the missus, practical as ever, said “Where can I book tickets for some other destination?”....... (contd)

Reminiscenses on the Eve of the Eve of my anniversay

2010-04-15T08:19:00.000+05:30

In about 48 hours from now, the missus and I will have been married 18 years. Eighteen years! It seems just yesterday that we were sitting shyly in her uncle's house, discussing God, competitive strategy and favorite colors in an attempt to assess if we were compatible.

For those of you who were born in modern times, arranged marriages included a 10 minute "now boy and girl can talk" session, post the horoscope matching and family background verifying. Till that moment, the ship would be steered exclusively by maamis and maamas. It was only after they adjudged the thing securely in the bag that the prospective protagonists were allowed to have an unsupervised conversation.

We were ushered in to an inner living room. My heart was thudding like the proverbial bass drum. The missus perched some ten feet away on the sofa across the coffee table. Her eyes, I noticed for the first time, were a deep greenish-brown.

I smiled weakly. Completely wacky thoughts were running in my mind. What if I were to burp or something? It would sound so loud. Would she run away in disgust? Had I buttoned my shirt properly? What if she suddenly started singing?

She returned my smile with a shy one of her own. There was just the hint of a dimple on the lower left side of her mouth.

Silence.

I could sense that she expected me to say something but my mouth wouldn't open. I could see her smile wane a little. "I hope he's not a deaf-mute, not that I have a anything against deaf-mutes, just saying" she seemed to be thinking.

I decided to ask her what her hobbies were. Always a good ice-breaker. I opened my mouth to speak and to my complete mortification, heard myself asking "do you believe in God?"

"Yes. Don't you?" came the reply.

Between you and me, what with one thing and another, I've never been able to swallow the God bit. In my dreamy and romantic youth, I had often fantasized about meeting God and demanding, successfully, to be transformed into (at various times) a champion sportsman, a world-famous actor and an irresistible sex symbol but I never managed to achieve the level of gullibility which enables people to go so far as killing each other on the basis of completely unsubstantiated hypotheses.

"Yes, of course" I lied.

That seemed to be the right answer. She smiled again. I managed a grimace.

"What is your favorite color" she asked

To this day, I don't know the right answer to that question. If I'm pouring out a beer, it would be "Golden brown". If I was seated at the local Shetty hotel it would be the "dal tadka" yellow.

"Blue" I told her (or possibly green, don't really recall)

That seemed to please her. I was emboldened. My turn to ask her something. Hmmm. I wasn't clued in to Hindi movies too much, but I knew "favorite picture" or "favorite actor" would be a good bet.

"So, have you read Michael Porter's "Competitive Strategy"?" I found myself asking her.

She turned her eyes plaintively to the door, willing someone to come in and rescue her. And luckily her aunt walked in.

"So? Done?"

"Yes" we replied unanimously.

Little wonder then, that this marriage has lasted eighteen years, and shows all signs of lasting another fifty. Really solid foundations, as I am sure you will agree.

Flying and why I hate it

2010-04-04T11:50:00.001+05:30

As I type this on the flight, I cannot help wondering whether I am a Cynical Realist, a Pragmatist, a Practical Alarmist or a Regular Schizophrenic. It's not that I hear voices in my head or anything. I'm just alive to possibilities.

It's this ability of mine, this ability to see possibilities others cannot, that has proved so debilitating for my evident genius.

It derailed my chess career, for example. The problem is, I can see so far ahead that I am unable to continue after White's first move, when I am black. And when I am White, Black's response to my move will usually make me see irrefutable threats that my opponent might be oblivious to.

For instance consider my last ever chessgame. I was playing for my college team then, and my opponent was a sweaty, neurotic looking chap named Babu. The team wanted just a draw from me. I was sure I could manage it. After all, this Babu was a complete unknown anyway.

We set up the pieces. The arbiter checked our clocks and told us to start. And to my dismay, Babu played 1. e4.

You would doubtless recall Fischer V/s Petrosian, in which Fischer slowly strangled the former world champion, considered practically unbeatable until then, in a fashion that persuaded me there was no real defense. Well, Fischer had played 1.e4 in that game.

I thought hard for some 30 minutes and try as I might, I could see no way out. I could sense the expectant eyes of my captain and the other team-members upon me but my clinical mind told me there was no way out. I resigned.

The captain and the other team-members were unreasonably angry, I recall. Abusing me like that! “You frikking moron! How the frikking hell can you resign after the first frikking move?” I remember the captain screaming as he, for some reason, pulled out his hair. It hurt, believe me, especially when I realised that “frikking” is not an English word (I checked the Oxford dictionary). It is in some arcane tongue - I wouldn't be surprised if it turned out to be Basque or Inuit - and one can only speculate what ghastly meaning it has. When I asked him to apologise, he most rudely demanded I absent myself lest he be tempted to disembowel me. Boor! I had had enough. I resolved never to play chess again.

It is this rare ability which makes me fear flying so much. For instance, if you consider the universal desire of the soul to seek eternal truth, and the fact that airline pilots are, despite their funny way of talking, human beings,you cannot help being alarmed.

“Don't be silly, Naren” the missus says.

She is responding to my reasonable conjecture that if the pilot is a Sceptical Pragmatist, he would probably decide that there is no objective reason to suppose that any good will come out of taking off, and attempt to land the plane with a full tank of fuel. The tyres of course are not desinged to land with thiry tons of fuel weight. They will probably burst. The plane will careen out of control, tipping over and somersaulting like Olga Korbut (Nadia Comaneci, if you prefer) on cocaine.

And of course, we will be shredded into little pieces of DNA evidence in the crash report.

“Naren, the pilot is not a lunatic to cut throttle and land after going through all that trouble taking off. You heard him say “Close and arm all doors. Cross check and report”.

I chuckle at this.

“And why are you laughing now, my dear paranoid jellyfish?” she asks.

“Cross Check” I reply. “Further evidence of the pilot being non-compos mentis”

“Huh?” she goes, in her typical impatient tone. I have to explain EVERYTHING to some people!

“See, here's the pilot, building up speed, flying this eighty ton contraption at speeds approaching that of sound and all that he instructs his staff to do is ensure that the negotiable instrument is not left open payable to bearer.”

She takes a moment to digest this.

“Cross check means 'Verify again'. It does not mean put 'A/c Payee Only' on the corner of a cheque. That cheque is cheque. This check is check. Oh, darn it. You've got me gibbering now. If it scares you so much, just shut your eyes and pray, ok?”

I have logically established, quite conclusively if I may say so myslef, that God does not exist and hence prayer is useless, but I sense that this is not a good time to tell her. I hold her hand tightly and brace myself.

By some incredible stroke of luck, we land in one piece. I am still breathing.

Trouble in the Spiritual World

2010-04-01T11:44:00.003+05:30

I wrote this, then deleted it, then some really sweet people said hey, post it all the same, we could use some laughs, though I muchly suspect the laughing will be more at the fact that I am displaying senility than any joke that might have inadvertently crept in. But what the hell...

I dont usually have existential doubts, but my good friend Sri Sri Fullananda and I were contemplating difficult cosmic questions recently over a spiritual bottle of Soma. Like me, Fullananda is also a deep thinker. That made two deep thinkers at that table.

We've done this kind of thing before, you know, this contemplation stuff. We like nothing better than a good delving into the cosmic. But that evening, I have to say this, even the usually satisfying topic of Oneness with the Supreme left us cold.

Soemthing seemed to be troubling Fullananda. I could see that he sipped his Soma listlessly.

"Not happening", said Sri Sri. The Sri Sri, for all his Sri Sri-ness employs the argot of the scatterbrain youth, a fact that I don't really approve of, but with Sri Sris, you have to bear with this sort of thing.

"Not happening? This Soma?" I enquired

"No, the Soma is great. Jolly miraculous, come to think of it, that the essence of spirituality should be so well captured by the Scots, of all people! Evidence that He pervades all humanity. No, I was referring to all this 'Oneness with the Supreme' business"

I was puzzled.

"What kind of defeatist talk is this, old chap?" I asked him, with the merest hint of alarm in my voice, for I knew him to be of the finest mettle when it came to mystical philosophy. The bearer of two Sris. One of the best speakers on heavy metaphysics. His discourse on 'The Lifting Of The Gossamer Veil of Consciousness To Get A Glimpse Of All Encompassing Reality' still makes my hair stand on end. (No, I can't tell you how it all came out in the end. Listen to it yourself!) "Oneness with the Supreme not happening? You're speaking through your hat, my dear fellow". Some might have thought my tone a tad sharp but you'd have to agree that it was deserved.

"You know, old chap," he said, gazing absently into the soma, "you and I are of a mien different from the rest. We Know All. But I fear things are not all hunky dory with our brethren"

"You mean our fellow philosophers?" I asked

"Yes. And in particular, I mean the practising Swamis. The Babas. The Sris. Even the Sri Sris. "

"What about them?"

"Well, the way they stumble about in the real world, unsuspecting and innocent"

The penny dropped. "You mean old Nithyananda being caught on camera?" Tragic. One of one of our best chaps. Just happened to be practising some oneness with a female disciple at an inconvenient moment. You won't believe how they hounded the poor man.

"There's nothing wrong with getting a bit of oneness going with one's female devotees, if the said devotees aren't against such oneness" he continued "the supraconsciousness being what it is and all, but the real world takes such a dim view of all this. That poor fellow is going to be pilloried now. And worse, it is the thin end of the wedge"

"I know what you mean. All of us will be suspect. Whenever they see us going into trances with female devotees in attendance, they will say we are yielding to base carnal desires. "

Fullananda giggled. "Actually, I kind of like those base carnal desires", he said, as if to himself, but quickly recovered. "No!" he said "No! We must lie low. We must go into seclusion. Alone. Without female devotees."

"Without female devotees?" I was puzzled. "How will we acheive communion with the inner being of the supreme self?"

"Oh do not worry about such things," said Fullananda. "Have faith in the eternal. Our Hand will be guided."

"And by the by", I askedFullananda, "what is your view on doctors?"

"Doctors? Sound chaps! Very sound."

"But don't they rubbish our faith-healing methods?"

"Some might, he said, "but deep inside they're on our side."

"How is that?" I asked, mystified.

"Well many doctors have told me that they desire nothing more than the demise of non-believers."

This was news to me. "Really? I've never heard anyone of my acquaintance say so"

"Oh come, come, old salt. Dont you know the battle cry of good doctors?"

"What?"

"Its 'Die, Agnostics!'"

No, I didn't have the heart to tell him.

In which I receive a little lecture on Dravid's batting

2010-03-23T11:07:00.002+05:30

Many moons ago I happened to chance upon a very funny blog by Deepak Gopalakrishnan aka @chuck_gopal and remarked, as a comment to one of his posts, that I had once been on the receiving end of a sharp lecture on the cricketing skills of R. Dravid. Chuck asked me to write a post about it, elaborating the incident.

The fly in the ointment of course is that it isn't much of a story. I have a hazy idea that in modern literature people can - and do - write entire chapters on people sitting by the sea, and describing individual waves rolling on to the shore but I doubt something like that would sustain dramatic interest. My auto driver story, I strongly suspect, is going to turn out like that. So if you find it terrible, please visit Andheri West where said chuck_gopal stays, and throw stones at his window.

The story: Once upon a time, I was taking an auto from Malad to Bandra, if I recall correctly, which is a big ticket purchase in Mumbai auto circles, and I was rightly getting a lot of respect from the auto guy.

We opened the conversation with light topics. On the dubious parentage of traffic policemen, we were both of unanimous opinion. The auto driver had just been reprimanded by a traffic policeman for wriggling into an open space when the cop was signalling him to stop. I wasn't feeling too good about traffic policemen as a tribe myself, having been soaked just the other day for many rupees for speaking on a cellphone while driving.

Continuing the feast of reason and flow of soul, the auto driver expressed a fairly leftist opinion of recent governmment policies which I did not share but could sympathise with. Again, he speculated on the parentage of some of our elected representatives, suggesting based on morphology, that one of the forebears was from the species canis familiaris.

The conversation turned to cricket. The auto driver, who seemed to be a self taught expert on genealogy, now discerned among the selectors' ancestry, sus scrofa domesticus. He berated several members of the cricket team as well.

I'm not much of a connoisseur of cricket but I remembered watching a match some days ago where Rahul Dravid was causing consternation among the cognoscenti for steadfastly refusing to cause wear and tear to the ball while batting. I decided to voice that opinion and suddenly, the auto came to a halt.

The auto driver parked it to a side and I could see from his expression that his assesment of me as a thinker was on par with Equus asinus asinus.

"You must be out your mind", he told me, with disturbing candour. "Dravid", he said, "is the most technically correct batsman in the side".

Getting out of the auto, he demonstrated to me how Dravid kept his head down while driving off the front foot and how balanced and measured his follow through was. Following this up with a demonstration of how Dravid played the pull shot, he told me with undisguised contempt "samajhta nahin to bolneka nahi", translating into Hindi for my benefit Boethius' quote "Si tacuisses, philosophus mansisses".

The man was big hearted, however. Putting aside his contempt for me and people of my ilk, he ferried me to my destination. I was sadder but wiser. Never again would I have the temerity to criticize Rahul Dravid.

It might have been soul searing, but I do believe the experience has left me a better man.

Emperor Fredick's tale and please don't tell missus I've started composing groaners again

2010-02-28T11:18:00.000+05:30

Emperor Frederick II of Prussia was a wise and great king. There are many instances of his greatness. For example, he is the originator of the "p is silent" thing you see in words like pneumonia, ptarmigan and pterodactyl, which he started so that people would think that in addition to being Emperor of Prussia, he was also Emperor of Russia, because p is silent.

Today, my dear students of history, we are going to talk about a little known instance of the Emperor's far-sightedness.

As a dutiful hegemonist, Emperor Frederick realised that in the vast and complex business of empire building it was crucial to have a credible management information system based on sound financial accounting. Since all these terms hadn't been invented yet, he called it "totting up the bills".

In a spread-out and high-maintenance empire like Prussia, there were bound to be many bills and the Emperor knew that the man who would be in charge of this crucial function would have to be singularly devoted to his task.

The person whom he finally chose was a high born count who spoke little, never raised his eyes and continuously totalled numbers. He would be present in a corner of the Emperor's court quiely totting up bills from every corner of the realm.

And as an example of the high esteem in which the Emperor held him, consider the following incident.

Once, on the Emperor's birthday, when everyone was supposed to turn up with bouquets, there were many courtiers who were either too cheap to buy decent flowers, or who had simply forgotten to make the trip to the florist. Usually this would get at most a snide remark from the throne about how there is no real adulation these days but that morning, the Emperor was in a bad mood.

When the court was in session and everyone who had brought bouquets had presented them, the emperor spoke.

"All those who have not brought us a floral tribute on this momentous occasion shall be given ten of the best on the old spot"

And the chief of police, who rather enjoyed this kind of thing, rounded up the guilty and started administering justice as evidenced by some high pitched screaming.

The emperor was watching the proceedings with grim satisfaction when a soft voice piped up near his ear. It was the Count of Accounts.

'Your majesty" he said, with downcast eyes "I too am guilty".

The emperor was touched. Looking at him with compassionate eyes, he said
"In your case, dear chap, there shall be no punishment"

"May one ask why, your majesty?" asked the Chief of Police

"It is alright in his case, Chief. It's the count that tots"

The Chief of Police could not help feeling awed at the emperor's wisdom and bowed deeply.

Trying to be funny can be injurious to health.

2010-02-26T14:29:00.001+05:30

The boys were sitting on the bed, watching TV.

They watch the most ridiculous shows by the way, and in a dazed manner which gives no indication of whether they are enjoying anything, or indeed recieving anything at all.

I forget what it was they were watching just then - Rahul ka Swayamvar would be my guess - but their demeanour was not unlike that of UN delegates when the general assembly is in session. Spaced out, if you know what I mean.

"Guys", I said enthusiastically, "know what? I just realised that your mom is from Northeast India!"

I continued beaming brightly, waiting for one of them to ask me "Northeast? Northeast India? Why?". No such luck.

"She's from Mysore, Annie. That's in Karnataka. Which is a state in southern India" said the elder one after a while, in a bored manner.

"I know that! I know that!" I continued beaming. "You know why I said your mom is from Northeast India?"

The silence continued for a few moments. The younger one spoke up.

"Ok, Annie. Why?"

"Because she's from Nagaland!"

A look of puzzlement greeted me.

"Nagaland! Nagger-land! Get it?"

Silence plus grave look.

"What? I asked. I was getting a little frustrated now.

"Annie", the elder one spoke gently, "the Northeastern countryperson is standing behind you"

Oh.

"Hehheh"

Stony silence

"Just a joke that occured to me"

"Boys, would you mind going to your rooms for a moment? Annie and I have something to discuss"

The boys disappeared.

"Since when have I been nagging you?"

"Er, it was... I mean I was just.."

"Continue. I'm listening"

"I'm sorry, dash it. I just thought of Nagaland and Nagger land and made up a joke"

"Very nice. And for that I am going to let you spend the weekend without touching a drop of alcohol. I'm sure that is alright with you? Or would you like to extend the holiday a bit longer?"

I slunk away quietly but the dryness of the weekend stares me in the eye. It will take a small miracle, I tell you.

Which is why I hesitate to tell you the tale of Emperor Frederic of Prussia. If Nagaland can de-booze me for the weekend, Prussia could potentially do me in for a month. (But I will tell the story of Emperor Frederic, if you promise not to breathe a word to the missus. Ok, gotta run now. Catch you all tomorrow)

The BCCI chronicles

2010-02-23T12:00:00.000+05:30

A hush settled over the draped board-room of the BCCI. Darth Modi put his fingertips together and rested his chin on his thumbs. His cigarette lay smouldering in the ashtray, but Darth Modi paid scant attention to it. His Brain Was Working.

There were a dozen or so board members whose job it was to think alongside Darth Modi but not one of them had the temerity to do so. The penalty for independent thought was instant expulsion. Being ejected into the medialess void they called the world. Oblivion. Emasculation. No, they sat and watched attentively. For signs. From Darth Modi.

The board had been deliberating all morning on the new game that had just been presented before it. Darth Modi had often expressed the need to augment the finances of th BCCI. No one knew why this was necessary, but it was one of those questions one just did not ask. If Darth Modi said they needed more finances, they needed more finances.

The game designers had done a pretty decent presentation, the board members privately thought. Nothing boring, like Brian Lara Cricket or anything. Infact, this game was not even computer based.

The game set comprised of a smart white plastic board, with stumps, plastic fielders and a small plastic bat. The bat was special - made from a hi-tech, non-stick material. The rest of the stuff was regular plastic.

The game was a two-player contest, played as follows: The players would toss, and elect to bat or field. The fielding side player would dig his nose produce a booger, which he would roll into a little ball and toss at the batting side player. The objective of the batting side player was to hit the booger ball with the special non-stick bat, as far as possible. Depending on where the booger ball landed (there were markings on the field board), runs would accrue to the batting side player. And if the booger stuck to the stumps or one of the 'fielders', the batting side player would be 'out'.

There was a rush of excitement when the presentation was over. Board members discussed it among themselves. Even Darth Modi seemed pleased, judging from the emails he was sending to himself from one of his blackberries to the other. One of the board members asked the developers what would happen if the fielding side player failed to produce decent sized boogers. The developers seemed to have envisaged this possibility and pointed out to the provision under the rules where boogers could be borrowed from the batting side player, provided they were returned when it was the batting side player's turn to field. A healthy discussion, if you know what we mean.

And then the hush that we had mentioned at the start of this story settled upon them. Darth Modi was thinking.

"It's an interesting game", said Darth Modi.

"Interesting". "Very interesting". "Most interesting". went the murmurs around the board room.

"Well thought out and envisaged" he added.

"Well thought out" said one board member to his neighbour. "Yes", nodded the neighbour "And envisaged". "Envisaged", agreed a third.

"But", said Darth Modi.

"But?" asked one of the developers, in a crushed sort of voice

"Yes, But! But the BCCI cannot promote it"

"Why?" cried the game developers plaintively, in unison. The hearts of the board members were rended.

"The BCCI cannot promote it. It's snot cricket."

The business of the day was over. The board members dispersed, shaken by the thought of how close they had come to declaring their approval. In the distance, the developers could be heard screaming as bouncers dragged them up the stairs to fling them from the roof.

But Darth Modi was not perturbed. He had just got a brilliant idea, which he would lift from a journalist.

He would auction off the IPL trophy.

The tweet-up and other things

2010-02-21T15:36:00.000+05:30

Yesterday I met up with Krish Ashok and Anand Ramachandran, legends both, and managed to spill my beer on the bag of the former. Hmm. Not great story telling skills there, Mr. Shenoy. Start, as Maria Von Trapp says, from the very beginning.

Ok, here goes.

The missus has been a bit cross with me these last few days, owing to my marked reluctance to give 110 percent in the gym. You see, we see the problem differently. She feels that I can, by dint of hard exercise, burn my flab to look slim. I think a more elegant and practical solution to the problem is to wear looser clothes. Which point of view she refuses to see, of course.

Anyway, I won't bother you with the intellectual cut and thrust of this debate. Just suffice to say that had the opportunity presented itself of disappearing for most of the afternoon for a spot of beer and cheese filled entrees, I would have jumped at it. When that opportunity included a tete-a-tete with the funniest bloggers on the planet, I did the triple reverse somersault that the occassion demanded, and rushed full speed to TGIF, Andheri

First things first. I know Anand well, having met him on several occassions before. Surprisingly, he doesn't try to run away - I guess he realises that all resistance is useless - but I hadn't met Ashok. I remembered this from one of his posts

and thought he'd be seven feet tall or something, which he is not. He is roughly my height, which varies between 5'8" and 6' depending on who's asking.

And he does not look in the slightest bit like Sonu Nigam. I reported this sad fact on twitter and @onejubb told to consult an eye doctor. All that the eye doctor could see was "ctpalo" which is the last line on his eye-chart, which meant that he did not add anything of value to the debate, which stands as follows:

Ayes: "Sonu Nigam and Krish Ashok are #sameguy"
Nays: "Nay"
Eye Doctor: "ctpalo"

Rambling again. Sorry. Where was I? Ah yes, Anand had brought his son Dhruv along. A discerning seven year old, the moment he realised who the company was, Dhruv promptly demanded the purchase of an Asterix comic and got it.

We spent the couple of hours discussing affairs of great pith and moment and imbibing a stray drop or two. Soon, Ashok had to do a cinderella and rush to the airport, which he got to just as the pilot was putting first gear and raising accelerator. Going by his track record, this sort of thing seems to be standard for Ashok. I think he must have evolved the ability to standing-jump into the plane from the tarmac by now.

I latched on to Anand and Dhruv like a limpet, and invited myself to their home. Over a cup of tea, we discussed a bit of gaming - a field in which Anand is THE authority - and reading. One thing led to another and I managed to get him to lend me his Douglas Adams collection. I've read "The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy" before, but was clueless about his "trilogy of five books" which I am reading now. What a guy, Douglas Adams!

Anyway, I had to rush back home because of a wedding I had to attend. When I got home, it took the missus 0.25 seconds to smell the beer. She gave me a little lecture on what people think of people who attend people's weddings with alcohol on their breath, made me gargle with something seriously powerful, issued me some fancy looking clothes to wear, and told me to keep my mouth shut and smile when people looked at me. Which of course is second nature to me.

Ah well, all in all a good day's work.

My struggles with self-expression

2010-02-13T10:06:00.000+05:30

I am determined to finish this post and publish it.

I've been starting and abandoning posts these last few days on the grounds that they sounded stupid and the frustration is growing. I feel like Ram Gopal Verma except that Ram Gopal Verma finishes his movies. Even if it means finishing off his audience. There I go again, writing complete rot.

Anyway, I said so to the missus (about my growing frustration with being unable to write any posts). She patted me on the head reassuringly and told me what the old Hebrew wise man told his king.

"The wise man told the king "Gam Zeh Yaavor"", the missus told me. "It means "This too shall pass"". What context this was said in I have no clue. Possibly the king was constipated and struggling with a particularly unyielding lump. But what the missus was telling me was that I mustn't worry, just keep typing whatever came into my head without thinking.

"If you can do that while speaking, what is the problem typing?"

"You mean, I'm funny when I speak?"

"Er, no, I meant your ability to speak without thinking"

This aforementioned ability is an old skill acquired at business school where I spent two miserable years saying absolute drivel to the accompaniment of a slide projector.

"But I want it to be funny. I want people to laugh!" I lamented.

"Sweetness", she said in her gentlest voice, "you are funniest when you're not trying"

I eh-what-what-ed.

"You remember the other day when we were dining at Akhil's place?" she asked. Said Akhil being one of my oldest friends.

"What abut it?"

"Well Akhil was telling this anecdote about someone telling him he looked like Shashi Kapoor. Which he does, by the way. And you said someone told you look like Richard Gere"

"So?"

"Don't you remember how much we laughed. Akhil nearly had tears in his eyes. Sweetness, light of my life, I have seen Richard Gere and I have seen you. There are many differences"

"That was derisive laughter, which furthermore stems from a deep envy because I do look like Richard Gere from certain angles. I want my posts to make people laugh because of the humour"

The missus shrugged in a manner suggesting helplessness. Lost, I turned on my laptop and here I am, like Tristram Shandy, writing about what I am doing, in the forlorn hope that something in it will turn out to be funny.

Part of the problem stems from my promise to the missus not to write groaners. This robs me of several thousand words a week but the missus tells me that if I do write them, I could face the following action

a) Being hit on the head with a blunt instrument
b) Extra 30 minutes cardio in the gym
c) Divorce
d) All of the above.

Consider for example, my interesting discovery about Tony Blair, former PM of Britain who for some reason always looks to me like an oily character. I'm probably wrong - I'm sure he's Abe Lincoln himself - but Tony has always looked like someone who would sell his wife.

And sure enough, it turned out that he had on one occassion, borrowed heavily from a shady financier, for funding his political ambitions. The said financier insisted on some kind of security for the advance and lacking anything significant in the nature of mortgageable assets, Tony suggested he leave his wife with the financier for the pendency of the loan, to which the financier agreed.

When his friends asked him how he had managed to raise so much cash, he replied that he was merely echoing the words of General Henry Munro who fought the French in 1778, laid seige to one of their Indian outposts and wrested control from them.

"What do you mean?" asked one of Tony's friends, who for the hundredth time wished Tony would use fewer words.

"I have Pawned Cherie"

But I desist from writing things like this firstly because it is just the kind of thing that will lead the missus to use option 'a' above and secondly because I've already done a Pondicherry joke and to make another one so soon would just be declaring to my discerning audience that I have the imagination of a vegetable.

Still, I've managed to publish this which technically means that I have overcome my writer's block. I hope I find my funny bone soon. Assuming I ever had one.

About B's, big and otherwise, and other thoughts

2010-02-01T15:27:00.002+05:30

Apologies are in order, I think, for being AWOL from the blog. The missus has been a bit of a "first-things-first" nazi, said phrase being one of the 7 habits of highly successful (or rather, saxcsful) people according to a dweeb named Stephen Covey who is the current blighter of my already blighted existence. I have been rearranging my

Computer table and the stuff thereon
Wardrobe
Documents
Musculature
Finances
Blood Alcohol levels

based on Shri Covey's misguided observations, leaving me little or no time to discharge important economic functions like blogging and tweeting. And here I take the opportunity to publicly inform Shri Covey that should he sashay into our building and stroll below my bedroom window, he should not be surprised to find heavy objects being dropped upon him from the sixteenth floor. I am not saying that I'm going to do it, Stephen, but don't send temptation my way.

Well, life has been going on as usual, the humdrum routine of the big city, livened by the occasional acrimonious discussion in the family. The most recent one was over Amitabh Bachchan, aka the Big B, and his son, who may not be, on the pain of injury, be referred to as "Son of the B" in our house.

I think it was sparked off by what I thought was the incessant infestation of the TV screen by both these worthies. Sometimes jointly, at other times severally, but always, goddamn always, there, and I said words to that effect.

You see, the missus finds the Big B handsome. I don't.

"You men, you are just pot-bellied lumps of jealousy" she observed.

"That's not fair. The B might have screen presence in a hammy, condescending kind of way but even his own parents wouldn't have claimed that he was beautiful"

The missus fell silent at this stage. I thought I had won her over with argument but actually she was fiddling with the toaster. I continued anyway.

"His father, the late Harivanshrai, is reported to have uttered the words "Ugly Putz! Ugly Putz! Ugly Putz!" upon seeing his newborn child before calming down and accepting reality. He subsequently pretended he was working on a poem, ingeniously titled "Agneepath! Agneepath! Agneepath!", but everyone knew the truth. Ask them in Bareili".

"I have never heard such drivel! Amitabh Bachchan is the most dignified, suave and handsome guy, on screen and off. Abhishek is number two. And you, prince of my dreams, are number 5 billion and seventy thousand"

Well, that was one argument settled anyway.

Ok, find of the week. This Mexican eatery at Oshiwara, near Andheri W, Mumbai. It is called Sammy Sossa and it stocks a wide range of international beer at roughly 200 rupees a pint. Not cheap, perhaps, but then, you got choice, don't you?

I was feeling rich that PM and had, in quick succession, a pint each of Asahi, Hoegaarden, Stella Artois, Leffe and a Belgian beer whose name I've forgotten. Chinmay or something. No wait, Chinmay is a swami's name. This was... no, it's gone.

If I may be permitted a digression - speaking of Chinmay reminded me -` the brood and I went to the Renaissance Hotel in Powai, Mumbai last week. We had to pass by the Chinmaya mission and the elder son, who is normally meek as a dormouse and would make the Dalai Lama sound like a WWE wrestler, piped up.

"Annie, what would you call Chinmaya if he put on weight?"

I gave up, as usual. When I'm driving, I find it best to keep the old bean uncluttered.

"What? You tell me"

Younger one chipped in.

"Simple, Annie. Overweight Chinmaya would be Double Chin Maya, no?"

Overcoming a strong urge to clout both of them on the side of the head, I kept my cool. And I never have the missus' support in these matters anyway. She finds these interludes amusing and interjects with that silvery laugh of hers, which merely fuels these two comedians.

Anyway, coming back to the res, I had all that beer in Chez Sammy Sossa with gay abandon, secure in my knowledge that the missus was present, with driving license in hand.

The missus, very sportingly, I must say, decided not to lecture me on the evils of beer- I think she has given up - and a jolly good time was had by all. The food, if the brood is to be trusted, was excellent, though I have no recollection of having eaten anything at all.

Thus did my week pass. Not overwhelmed with brotherly love for all humanity perhaps but several beers on the right side of the balance sheet.

Plagiarism rears its ugly head - Coconut Chutney latest victim

2010-01-22T18:12:00.004+05:30

A little background - A chap named Charukesh made this video and posted it on youtube. My problem with it - and the problem of hundreds of Lavanya Mohan's fans out there - is that the script is lifted word for word from this post. What to do now? Charukesh seems to have got the script from one Vichar Hari. Who denies having lifted it, (though not outright). I thought I would put it up to these guys nicely, hoping they have the decency to do the right thing. I've put it on my blog so that you would know about it. I'm also planning to mail these guys on their fb addresses if they don't do it in a day or two

Dear Charukesh and Vichar Hari

Please accept my apologies for the joyless tone of this post, but I am not happy today. Being joyless is a strange feeling for me. And the reason of my joylessness is the two of you.

Allow me to introduce myself. I am Narendra Shenoy, a smalltime blogger writing allegedly humorous posts for a small audience. I have been writing for a while now, long enough to appreciate how difficult it is to write something really funny, especially on a regular basis.

Which is why I greatly admire Lavanya Mohan. Otherwise known as Coconut Chutney. A fine humorist. Witty. And original. I and many of her other followers show our appreciation by writing comments on her blog and generally applauding her wit. I strongly suspect that this is the only reason why she blogs. And provides us with so many delightful posts.

Now I come to the reason for my unhappiness. You guys made a short movie based entirely, word for word, on one of her posts http://www.chutneycase.com/2008/11/deviance.html which also happens to be one of my favourites. AND YOU DID NOT CREDIT HER. You just pretended it was original. I hope you understand that you have perpetrated a crime. A theft.

This is her intellectual property. Her original wit. The cause for so many of us laughing hard. And, if you glance at in the comments to that post, you will realize that they are the fuel for her creativity. Just read those comments, guys. You will understand what I am saying.

What I think you should do, Charukesh, and I address you here because you've made a pretty decent film of it, is be a gentleman, unconditionally and unambiguously apologize, and give due credit to Lavanya Mohan.

In another country, you would have been sued. Made to eat crow by due process of law. It might be possible here too, I am no lawyer. All that we, her fans, are asking you is to do the right thing. Apologize. Acknowledge.

Set the score straight, Charukesh. You will have our respect.

A newer, more improved me

2010-01-21T11:00:00.001+05:30

Things have not been all hunky dory for yours truly since the missus' solo Bangalore and Mysore visit. She had a good look at how well others, namely her brother and her brother in law treat their wives, spend time with them, take them out to movies, do not drink much, and most of all do not spend HOURS AND HOURS ON THE COMPUTER!

I got all this on the way back from the airport. I knew better than to offer counter arguments. Our justice department functions like the famous "anadi" court in Bombay, sample proceedings of which are given below:

Judge (to small offender): The court fines you Rs. 200/-
Small offender : But your honour....
Judge: 500!
Small offender : Your honour, please listen to my side of.....
Judge: 1000! And silence, or I'll have you thrown in jail. Next case.

In the 30 minute ride back, I was summarily ordered to spend no more than 30 minutes a day on the computer. Unlike the small offender above, I was the picture of contrition, an attitude that seemed to soothe the missus' fury. The ticking off continued, however.

"Do you even know what music I like?" asked the missus. I hung my head in shame. "My brother in law got my sister an Ipod Nano and filled it with all her favorite music". What could I say? I kept mutely agreeing to everything she said (most of which was true, of course) and by the time we got home, I had agreed to a sort of domestic Treaty of Versailles.

But unlike Germany, which started flouting the treaty the moment the Allies had turned their backs, I was - am - determined to reform completely. Mr. Systematic, that's what I shall be known as from now on, except when I'm focussed, at which time I shall be known as Mr. Focussed

And hence I shall be posting at the same time every Thursday. Not the same post of course. Ha ha. Gotcha there. No, it will be a different post, but at the same time each Thursday. And it will be a socially relevant, informative and educational post, a post which will leave you a better human being, not someone who forgets to get their spouse an Ipod nano loaded with their (the spouse's) favorite music.

I have also been instructed not to write frivolous groaners. Actually I had a couple of juicy ones ready for publication.

"You know, my sweet, there's an interesting story about how Pondicherry got its name." I told her

"Pondicherry?" The missus was intrigued.

I took that as a sign to continue

"Around the time when the British were capturing places left and right," I said, "the British commander for the south of India suffered an excruciatingly painful suppuration in his posterior. So painful that he had actually contemplated suicide. His second-in-command dissuaded him from such drastic action and recommended the services of the local Vaidya, a man with absolutely incredible powers, he assured him.

The vaidya examined him and said that the only cure for this condition was a rare Himalayan cherry. An expedition was immediately sent, on the fastest horses and after an agonizing wait of 2 months, the posse returned, with just one cherry. "They are extremely rare, sir" explained the sergeant. This is the only one that we could find. The vaidya however assured the commander that one was more than enough, so powerful was its effect.

However, just as the vaidya was getting ready to grind it into a potion, an attack from one of the neighbouring rajahs reached the commander's mansion. They managed to beat it back, but in the ensuing melee, the vaidya was shot by an arrow in his chest. The commander was aghast. "Quick, save this man, somebody" he shouted. But the vaidya knew his time had come. "I am afraid it is all over" he told the commander. "My life is ebbing away. I can see Lord Yama arriving to take me"

"Oh God! My arse! Tell me, how do I use this fruit to cure myself?

"Sit...." gasped the vaidya, with great effort.

"What? Say that again" the commander said, anxiously

"Sit..... " the vaidya hissed, his voice down to a whisper now, "Just sit upon the cherry". And breathed his last.

The commander wasted no time in implementing the vaidya's instructions. Placing the cherry on his chair and dropping his pajamas..."

"I get the idea" the missus said impatiently, "Carry on"

Well, it worked like magic." I continued. "The relief was stupendous. So, in honour of the vaidya's last words, the place has been known as Pondicherry ever since."

The missus gave me the look. "Naren", she told me, "do you remember the time we had gone to Kodaikanal and you wanted to peep over the cliff"

"Yes?"

"And I held on to you, afraid that you might fall?"

"Of course I remember! That was so sweet! What about it?"

"I should have let go" she said. "And furthermore, Pondicherry belonged to the French"

Which is why I have decided against posting groaners. All my posts are going to be like this one, from now on. Enriching. Ennobling. Engineering. No, wait, I didn't mean engineering, haha. Slip of the tongue. I meant, Entertaining.

That's my promise to all six of my readers out there.

An entomological tale

2010-01-13T18:27:00.000+05:30

Richard the ant sat by the campfire, cleaning his pipe. His grandchildren were clustered around him, begging him for a story.

Old Richard was famous for his yarns. Some were sad, some happy. Some plausible and some really tall. But each one was interesting. The children loved him.

"Very well, my deal children", said old Richard, as he filled his pipe with shag tobacco.Let me tell you about Cousin Sammy, the ant who had made it in the modeling world.

"Children", said he, "you must have seen my cousin Sammy in many magazines and papers, he being a movie star and all, but you probably don't know he was an ordinary Alaskan Carpenter ant from right here in Nome. A fine representative of the Alaskan Carpenter Ant clan and the eldest son of my late mother's sister Bess."

"As ginormous a queen ant as ever built a hill." he added with a twinkle in his eye.

"Sammy was as lazy as he was handsome, though he made up for it by being smart." continued Grandpa Richard

"I'll rule the world one day, just you see" he would brag as we toiled in the tundra, stocking up for the winter.

"Bessie is spoiling him rotten!" my mother would hiss, but neither Sammy nor his family ever seemed worried about the future. "Oh, my sammy will be a great ant one day" aunt Bessie would say smugly.

And sure enough, the agents came scouring the countryside one day, looking for the handsomest and the best built Alaskan Carpenter Ant in the country and zeroed in on a few candidates.

Sammy was the best among them. After a little huddle, the agents made their offer. A very nice sum of money, half in advance, for a year's modeling contract.

It turned out that the sponsor was "Tide" detergent and they had arranged for their future model, Sammy in this case, to be on the cover of Time magazine!

We were overjoyed! It was an honor! And everyone was excited when the team of photographers from Time, the sales director of "Tide" and a bunch of important looking people landed up.

And Sammy? He was nowhere to be seen. We searched high and low but no Sammy. The Tide people were throwing tantrums. The Time photographer threatened to return to New Yorkl. We begged him to stay a day more and I went off into the woods, with an idea in mind.

I knew that Sammy had the hots for a young fire ant named Hilda and I kind of figured they might have shacked up for the weekend. But where would they be? I remembered that old rotten log we used to hide in and smoke weed. Sammy would be there if anywhere, I figured, and sure he was.

I barged in without knocking and caught them in a very compromising position. Sammy was furious but when he learned about my mission, his pallor changed from fiery red to ashen.

"Good Lord!" he cried. "I completely forgot! Dick, do something. We have to hurry."

I smiled at him. For suddenly, I had realized everything.

"Sammy, my brother", I told him calmly, "don't worry. Go back in and finish whatever Hilda and you had started. I'll wait here. And don't even think about the suits going away. They ain't going no place."

Sammy looked gratefully at me and vanished inside. He was back in no time, I noted smugly, and we set back for home.

When we reached, the colony was wearing a look of gloom. Aunt Bessies eyes were red from crying. My mom was consoling her. No one seemed to be glad to see Sammy.

"He's back, Ma!" I said. "I've found Sammy!"

"What's the use, Dick", said aunt Bessie. "Surely they must have gone back. Their deadline passed more than 2 days ago"

"They have not, I can assure you!" I said, in my most confident voice. "They'll do what they came to do!"

"How can you be so sure, Richard," mother asked

"You know the old saying, don't you?"

"What old saying?", asked Aunt Bessie, puzzled

"Time and Tide wait for Nome ants", I beamed!

And sure they did. Sammy still remembers and nary a week goes by without him calling me and asking about my health. Now wasnt that a nioce story?

But the children had long fallen asleep

2010-01-12T20:01:00.000+05:30

After posting those atrocious puns I got properly ticked off by a few regular readers. So introspection time.

I've always had a weakness for groaners but I have to admit that they're usually not ha-ha funny. Funny is something like this Wiodehouse gem "Lord Emsworth could conceive of no way in which his son Frederick could be of any use to a dog biscuit firm, except possibly as a taster."

And yet I find groaners to be a great source of amusement. A kink in my character, no doubt.

Probably stems from a troubled childhood. I was once punished for cutting my neighbour's hair in third grade craft class. And I did a great job too, byt the lad's mother took a dim view of the happenings - strange, because I distinctly remember doing it for free - and created no end of a ruckus, demanding that my parents be summoned and reprimanded.

My parents of course refused to turn up but my mother very sportingly offered to pay for shaving the guy bald. This further angered auntyji, for some reason, but by this time everyone from the principal down were heartily sick of all that scremaing and shouting and I was sentenced to write "I will not cut anyone's hair" one hundred times, cruelly cutting short what was surely a promising career in the hair-stylist industry. Just the other day Yves St, Laurent was lamenting the lack of good hair professionals in the industry.

Anyway, all that is neither here nor there. The missus is temporarily absent, having decamped to Mysore and Bangalore for a week. We are all missing her terribly of course, and here's a video to prove it. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WSnnu8Za6y8

They're having exams too. The older son has his Class X exams - the boards - coming up. Currently they're conducting "prelims" which is sort of net practice. He is ice cool and considers it beneath himself to show any sign of fear or panic, thank goodness.

The younger son also has some species of tests at school but he is even more cool. He has developed a fascination for a genre of music called death metal which involves, as far as I can see, screaming in different keys. The older son and I call it POWA music - acronym for Piles Operation Without Anaesthetic - which is what we are reminded of when we listen to those bright little compositions.

What else?.... Oh yes, on the weekend I went with some friends to this very trendy place called The Blue Frog. They had a DJ playing what is called electronica music. I was sipping a beer called Hoegaarden which looked a lot like sugarcane juice. It tasted very nice though. Very different. And after 5 or 6 of them, very communicative. I started spotting lyrics in the electronica music. Very strange lyrics I must say. For instance, one number went "I am a lingayat". I swear that's what the voice kept saying over and over again. I was ticked off by my friends for being sloshed, but I am sticking to my story. The next number was "idlis don't bite" but by this time, I was gently ushered into the car and driven home.

The missus is back tomorrow. She keeps calling - "to check-up on the kids", she says - but she wants the low down on all that I'm up to. She misses me, which makes me feel kind of nice.

And I miss her too.

The song of Hairy Princess

2010-01-12T11:11:00.000+05:30

Ok, one last shot at reclaiming my status as a bad-ass punster - a rep that has been severly damaged - nay, decimated - by Raghuvanshr, Chutneycase, KrishAshok and Notytony , who have been making more atrocious puns than previously thought possible under the Universal Cosmological Theory of the Life Universe and Everything. If this doesn't work, you can find me in the Himalayas

O hear my song, a tale of old
Some cowardly men, some brave and bold
A tale of yore my father told
Okay okay I'll move on

It concerns Princess Rapunzel
A lass whose name surely rings a bell
Her life was verily a living hell
Hmm. Maybe not THAT bad

As you have heard, she had lots of hair
Not just on the head, but every where
She hadn't even an inch to spare
I'm sure you get the idea

In fact one groped to find the word
Fur-tive? No! That's sly, you nerd
Hair-assed? That's where it's most covered
No, wait, I think it's "hirsute"

Well Prince Charming through the clouds did float
Crossed the ramparts and jumped over the moat
He wove her hair into a gossamer coat
A gorgeous, flowing, Wedding Dress

"I love you,beautiful. Will you be mine
I have a hair fetish, so we'll get along fine
Plus I can weave it back should it untwine"
The princess prompt accepted

And that's how the prince won joy from sorrow
Because wisdom from the ancients he did borrow
He'd been always told "Hair today, gown tomorrow"
Yes, they lived happily ever after

In the Straits of Malacca

2010-01-09T18:19:00.001+05:30

I know I promised I wouldn't write any more groaners but I've become addicted. One last one then, before I join rehab. Please find forgiveness in your hearts and pour me a whisky when we meet, rather than plugging me in the eye as I richly deserve, for I am more to be pitied than censured. The missus is away in Mysore, by the way, which is why I'm all weak and whiny. Like the crow in the story that follows....

I probably won't live long enough to tell my tale in England. This cursed place will get me sooner or later, of that I am sure.

A sorry fate for Captain James Smith of Her Majesty's Royal Navy. And ironically, a fate that has befallen me in the guise of an honour.

It all started with those blasted buccaneers and their troubling of British ships. The Vice Admiral sent me with a schooner and two dozen fine chaps to deal with the pirates. We routed them in no time. The poor devils did not know what hit them. They had no canons, no gun powder, no pistols, and were weak with malaria. By the end of the month, they had acknowledged the supremacy of the Company and I set up government, as the Vice admiral had ordered me.

After that, there has been no official order from London. The trade ships come and go but there is never any word from the Admiralty. I am stuck here. The men are making merry. They have taken up with the local women and the ways of the natives, but I need hardly say that such behaviour would scant befit a Captain of Her Majesty's Navy. Oh, for a week back home!

I have permitted myself the luxury of one vice here. The locals keep crows and have crow fights every week. A great deal of importance is given to winning, and I am afraid I am hooked on to the sport. I raided a crows nest and raised a healthy looking specimen on a diet of meat and offal. The bird grew to an impressive size and since entering into competition over the last month, wiped the floor with all contenders.

Today was the final battle. My bird was to join battle with the Sultan's raven, a legendary fighter, but distinctly smaller than mine. I confidently predicted a rout for the Sultan's bird and put a substantial sum on my crow to win hands down.

Purkiss, my second in command, had warned me that while my crow was larger and stronger, it had little experience of wild fights and relied merely on brute strength. I ticked him off for being a "pussy" which is how, I am told, George Washington and his brigands refer to cowards back in America.

As is customary in important matches, the fight was held in a closed barn. The battle started in earnest but once the Sultan's bird got its eye in, there was no stopping it. My bird continued for a couple of minutes but soon, the bites started proving too painful and to my complete mortification, started running away from the fight, actively pursued by his tormentor. I shut my eyes in disgrace and prayed for an early disembowelment. The delighted cackling of the Sultan and his troupe burned my ears!

Soon the party rushed out of the barn, babbling excitedly. Apparently my bird had escaped. Oh the disgrace!

Purkiss coughed gently. "I'm afraid sir, our candidate found some windows with holes in them and squeezed through".

I could contain my sorrow no longer. "Windows! Damn all windows! They all have gaping holes in them! Damn! My crow's soft!"

Back in my digs, Purkiss poured me a stiff whiskey and water, but I can feel the chills coming. The dreaded Malaria. I hope my relief comes soon.

The distiller's tale

2010-01-07T22:50:00.000+05:30

I know this one is downright pathetic and you want to kill me but please don't since I have a wife and two kids, none of whom are dependant on me, and anyway, I solemnly swear that I won't write any more groaners.

What do you do when you lose a priceless diamond? You get ticked off soundly for shoving it into a bottle of gin in the first place, further ticked off for not having the foresight to mark that bottle distinctively in any way, and finally threatened with disinheritance if you don't find it by the end of the week.

This is what happened to Jack. Heir to one of London's oldest gin distelleries, and it's most unremarkable one, Jack tried everything in his power to raise sales. He knew the product was excellent. His great-grandfather had concocted it with many exotic materials. Juniper berries. Aniseed. Orris root. Even, legend had it, virgin's tears, before London's supply of virgins dried up. But sales just wouldn't budge.

Jack got the bright idea of inserting a diamond into a bottle of his gin from the cereal companies.

He decided to slip in a diamond into one of the bottles and advertise the fact. Everyone would buy a bottle, Jack reasoned, and his distillery would be the talk of the town. Yes, Jack was not very intellectually gifted.

His father was most categorical about the disinheritance. "That bloody diamond cost more than our entire stock of gin. And finding it means breaking every single bottle. Jack, it's all my fault. I ought to have strangled you at birth"

Mother was more understanding. And, more importantly, she was practical.

"We must think, dear" she said to Jack, since Father had walked off in a huff. "And since neither of us have the requisite apparatus, we must engage someone to do it for us".

"A detective?" asked Jack, tentatively

"Oh, I think not!" said mother. "They're a mercenary lot. They'd pocket the diamond on the sly and we would end up with a whole lot of broken bottles of perfectly good gin. No, we need someone else. Someone with capacity for logical thought".

"A chess player?" Jack piped up hopefully.

"Ummm......I have a better idea". Mother's eyes were twinkling now. "Find the female Go champion. She will find our bottle"

"Go?" asked Jack

"It's a Japanese game requiring great logical and strategic skills"

"But why 'Go' of all things, and why the female champion?" asked Jack, still puzzled.

"Just do it, dear. Now! We have very little time!"

I'll spare you the details and tell you straight away that Jack, though a man of dim wit, was second to none when it came to action. He caught the next plane to Tokyo, located the female Go champion before the day was out, engaged her for a modest fee, flew her into London the next, and the morning after that, sat beaming across the breakfast table with mother.

"Mum, you are simply amazing!" Jack said. "And you saved my life! How in the world did you know it would happen this way? She just asked me for my production records, my time schedules, my storage sequence and deduced which bottle the diamond was in. First time right!"

"It's the basics, Jack. Always the basics. She was the female Go champion. A Go girl. And you do remember what they all say, don't you? A Go girl's the fastest in searching gin"

The Old man and the Nets

2010-01-06T18:47:00.000+05:30

The salt spray of the ocean was invigorating but the old man could feel nothing. His gaze was distant, as if in deep thought.

"What are you thinking about, granpa?" asked the boy.

"Oh nothing, son. Just where am I going to find a woman who wears suspenders?"

"Suspenders? Well, there's Miss Smith down town. She likes to dress up all man-like. They say she's a Lisboan or something. What's that mean, Granpa?"

"Lisboan? Maybe she's from Portugal. But that doesn't matter, son. I need you to do me a favor"

"Anything for you, granpa" said the boy, sincerely. For did he not owe his entire life to the old man? Was it not his duty to unquestioningly do his bidding?

"Alright, then. I need you to go to Miss Smith's house and steal her suspenders. Just one pair"

That sounded simple enough. The boy had grown up in a hard school where nimble fingers and enterprise were the often the only way out of a hungry night. He wasn't a thief really, but a man has got to live.

"But why do you need that, granpa?" he asked. For he knew that the old man never did anything without a reason.

"Oh, it's kind of complicated, but I'll tell you", he said.

Lighting up his pipe, the old man sat down on the bench and started speaking in that soft voice of his.

"You know how smart the fish are around here. They smell our gear and run away."

"Yes, yes!" interrupted the boy, excitedly. "I've seen you washing everything with detergent"

"You're clever and observant, little one!" chuckled the old man, pleased. "And you would no doubt have noticed what brand of detergent I use"

"Surf! You always buy Surf!"

"Yes, my lad. Surf is the only one which gets the strong smell of dead fish out of them. The others don't realize all this, which is why they catch so little"

"But what's with the suspender bands? And why do I need to steal Miss Smith's" asked the boy.

"Persistent old rascal, aren't you?" said the old man, smiling indulgently. "Son, it's an outside chance but one that will, if it succeeds, deliver us from our poverty"

The boy was smart. He understood all of that at one go.

"And?" asked the boy

The old man spoke again.

"Well, I've heard it said that a broad's bands will help us Surf the nets much better".

Just a little something to break this blasted writer's block

2009-12-27T09:02:00.002+05:30

Sunday morning. The missus has gone to the garden downstairs for a walk. I didn't go because I've got a cold. Nothing that a cetzin can't fix, but at 7 am the sneezes sound really loud. Loud enough to get me a reprieve.

Morning walks are very depressing for two reasons. One is the enthusiasm of virtually everyone there except you (in my case I secrely hope for a volcanic explosion or something) and the second is the fact that nearly everyone, despite evidently walking hard every day of their lives, is seriously fat.

So we have an exercise routine (walking in garden with great concentration so that you don't step into doggy do) which seems to have precious little in terms of desired effect (evidence - large number of seriously fat-assed people walking in garden). "Why bother?" is the question on my lips. Unasked, of course, because when the missus is around, one does not ask such questions

We saw Avatar on Friday, the missus, the kids and I. In 3d, too. Everyone agreed it was a superbly made film. The technology was simply awesome. The story was a brilliant metaphor about the senseless destruction of traditional habitats in the name of progress. A little heavy-handedly put across, perhaps, but then when you have important messages like this, you don't want to be too subtle.

I had a fundamental question myself. This pertains to the people inside the boxes, the guys who run the avatars with their mind control. What if they fart inside the box? But somethng told me it was not a good question to ask. Not philosophical enough. So I didn't ask it. Just listened to the missus and the boys discuss how awesome the movie was.

My older son gave the movie the ultimate compliment.

"Annie" he said, when I asked him if he had liked the movie, "It was awesome! The best movie I've ever seen!"

Then, reflecting on what he had said, added "It was better than 'Singh is King' ".

Now, when I press the "Publish" button and James Cameron reads it a few seconds later, a scream of joy will reverberate through the streets of Beverly Hills.

The younger son was equally agreed. "It was awesome!". He further expressed the hope that if they ever made it into a musical, they would have the good sense to call it "Avatar Sing"

The Delhi trip, and how I survived it -

2009-12-13T17:21:00.001+05:30

Hi everybody. This is Sheela Shenoy reporting from 37000 feet above sea level. My husband, the light of my life, the beacon of my existence, the polestar of my universe, the one and only Naren is flopped on the seat next to mine, giving his well known impression of an intermittently functioning motorboat, to my amusement and to the chagrin of the stout chap across the aisle who looks like an unusually cantankerous solicitor or accountant. Naren's snoring seems to be disturbing his perusal of some species of business newspaper. Ah well, into each life some rain must fall.

We are on our way back from Delhi where we had been to attend the wedding of a very dear friend's niece. The groom too was known to us very well. It was an event we were rather looking forward too, and it didn't disappoint.

The bride was someone both of us have known since she was a child. She has- and has always had- one of the most dazzling smiles I've ever seen and is extremely smart without being nerdy.

Unlike my husband. He is, or can be on occasions, extremely geeky, without being in the least bit smart. This can be irritatingly impractical. He spent a half hour once at an airport explaining to a completely disinterested kid why the sum of the first n natural numbers is n into n plus one over two and all the while we were being paged for boarding, earning us dark stares from our co-passengers and the crew. And if the kid grows up into a dysfunctional adult with an irrational fear of bespectacled people, you know who's responsible.

Speaking about geekiness, I am reminded of our courtship days -we had the old fashioned arranged marriage- when I was extremely was anxious to know what kind of a dweeb I was marrying. My sister advised me to find out from conversations. Since I was in Mysore and Naren in Bombay, the only way this could happen was over the phone.

Those conversations did not go well, let me tell you. The first time we spoke over the phone, after the hellos and the how-are-your-parentses, he explained to me why the square root of two is an irrational number. My first post-engagement phone conv and I get this!

The second time he told me what he thought about the planned economy - not much, apparently and I should care! - and the call after that was a detailed outline of Michael Porter's theory of Competition. When I tell you I went into this marriage in a state of despair, I'm sure you know exactly how I feel.

If Naren were ever captured by an Amazonian tribe and prepared for roasting on a spit, his escape plan would be to engage the headman in conversation and prove to him that the square root of two could not be expressed as a ratio of two integers. His reasoning being that the headman, upon seeing the proof, would immediately fall to his knees and the entire tribe would worship him as the god who did things to numbers. Which is why it is dangerous to marry engineers. But I'll leave that for another post.

Coming back to the topic at hand, viz. Delhi, I must confess I had a superb time. The weather was nice and chilled, if a little smoggy. A lot like Mysore in the winter, which made me nostalgic. To combat the blues that usually accompany nostalgia, I decided to squeeze in a session of retail therapy in which I managed to find some lovely footwear and shawls.

Naren is always cribbing about my alleged footwear obsession but he is easily silenced with a look. This time too, it was no different. One basilisk stare and he was following me like a lamb. And just to show him that I'm not obsessed with footwear, I bought myself a shawl, a stole, two kurtis and two salwar suit materials. So there. But to his credit, he carried all the bags faithfully and without complaint. It might be that he loves me. Then again, it might be that I let him have beer with his lunch. The latter, I guess.

And now here's the pilot mumbling something over the speaker. Flying over Baroda, 35,000 feet and other unsupported observations. I've always thought a pilot's job stressful, flying a whacking great can through the air at 800 km per hour, wondering all the while if that little monkey of a ground engineer has tightened all the bolts.

Of course, supeerficially, pilots have a great time because there is virtually no way of verifying if any of what they say is actually true. Statements like "We are flying at 35,000 feet" are the safest because no one is carrying a measuring tape, and even if they are, definitely not that big. Some pilots get carried away and tell you that the temperature outside is -40 degrees knowing fully well that you can't open the window and check for yourself.

But all of this does not make up for the stress of being an airline pilot. Take landings, for instance. I can well imagine the scene in the cockpit when the plane lands. Especially the way the pilot applies the brakes when the plane touches down.

You know how it is. The plane touches down, bounces a couple of times and then -and here I'm relying on my skills of logical deduction- the pilot presses the brake pedal really hard, probably with both feet, his hands clutching the armrests of his seat, or the steering wheel, if a plane has one, his knuckles white with the strain, the co-pilot hunched over with his head between his knees,sobbing out a prayer, hoping against hope that the bloody thing will come to a halt. And when it finally does come to a halt, the pilot, with shivering hands, probably pulls out his tucked-in shirt, trying to cover the fact that he has peed in his pants. I'm not saying that is what happens, but I'm willing to bet this is almost exactly it, scene for scene. This is what is going to happen today as well. I hope they manage to make it stop.

Ah, they're announcing our landing. In Mumbai, this usually means an half hour of circling, but hopefully today we'll be luckier.

The Spice Jet stewardesses have the most amazing singsong way of reading out the flight announcements and the safety drill. I haven't heard anything quite like this, including the "eternal god" prayer my sons are forced to say everyday in school. I am especially impressed by the announcements in Hindi, which sound exactly like Queen Elizabth the Second would, if she were given a crash course in Hindi speaking. I wonder what prevents them from speaking like normal people.

Bye for now, folks. I think the pilot will be going into his brake routine anytime now. I could use the laughs

Cheers and bye for now

My first massage and other things

2009-12-10T21:55:00.001+05:30

Haha! Got your attention with the title, didn't I? No, serious, I had a massage yesterday. The first time ever in my uninteresting little life, if you don't count the ones the barber gives you after your haircut, which is to a real massage what Fardeen Khan is to Lawrence Olivier, as I will demonstrate in this post.

Well, it happened this way.The missus was on her way to a spa for one of her beauty treatments which, I keep telling her, are completely superfluous for someone of her poise and elegance. Women are all alike, however. I'm sure Cleopatra did her eyebrows every week and Helen of Troy gave Paris hell over the state of her upper lip.

Anyway, I happened to be jobless at the given moment and she dragged me along for chauffeuring purposes. I dutifully obeyed, of course, chauffeuring being one of my two natural talents (the other being my aptitude for meticulous and exhaustive research on distillery and brewery products). I was also smug in the knowledge that I had tucked away in the recesses of the car my laptop, and a newly acquired USB modem which allowed me internet access from virtually everywhere.

This time, however, the missus, with sharp change in policy (she usually lets me shuffle off to a book shop or a coffee place and potter around) dragged me into the spa with her. I should have suspected the worst but like a doofus, I gambolled alongside, the picture of innocence, even when we reached an imposing desk and an even more imposing woman. Not for long, though. The missus' opening words made my blood freeze.

"Hi. What treatment would you suggest for his face?", asked the missus, pointing to Exhibit A, viz. my mug.

The amazon appeared to consider this question seriously, though I'm sure she would have said something like "In my opinion, a thick veil would be best" had she been a completely honest person like Abraham Lincoln. Fortunately, she was not.

"How about a rejuvenating herbal facial?" she asked

"Will it be good for the bags under his eyes?" asked the missus

"Oh, of course!" lied the amazon, and then proceeded to deliver a fake scientific sermon on the goodness of honey and cucumber, the free radicals therein, and god knows what else - oyster sauce and tiramisu entered into the equation at one point - that went into the facepack she was going to put on my dial.

My opinion was not sought, of course, and anyway, there was no point in arguing with someone who had biceps like that. "I would also recommend a rejuvenating herbal massage", she added. She evidently considered me to be something one would find in a morgue, so keen was she on having me rejuvenated.

And so I was handed over to a mild looking middle aged man, which i confess was a relief because for a wild moment, I thought the amazon would be doing the needful.

The masseur put me face down on what looked like an operating table and proceeded to rub some nice smelling oil on my back. He spent the next five minutes on trying to see if he could twist any of my limbs off, but luckily, he wasn't successful. After that, however, he decided on a policy of non-violence and gently rubbed my back in a most soothing fashion. Somewhere along the way, I must have fallen asleep, because I could feel someone shaking me by the shoulder and mumbling something about facials.

Thus ended my first massage. It is a superb feeling, very relaxing and soporific, and I strongly recommend it to anyone who has the time, the inclination and a thousand spare rupees he is not planning to spend on Apple products.

The facial, which followed, involved a great deal of fuss of which I could understand nothing, because the chap had firmly placed two large pieces of cucumber on my eyes. Soothing, perhaps, but definitely opaque. He was making funny faces at me for all I knew. I could deduce, from circumstantial evidence, that he was putting stuff on my face, rubbing it a bit, then wiping it off before trying it anew. After an hour of this, he proudly showed me a mirror, which very honestly told me that I still looked the same jerk I looked before he did the fancy moves.

Somehow, I felt relieved.

The Royal Mysore Walks

2009-12-08T01:08:00.000+05:30

I've had a strange fascination for Mysore. The missus is from there and in the seventeen (!) years that we have been married my fascination (for Mysore and the missus) has only grown.

"The mystique of a regal past" is what I tell people when they ask me what it is that fascinates me about Mysore.

"Nonsense", the missus will promptly add, if she's around. "He goes around the place eating like there's no tomorrow."

"But he's so knowledgeable about Mysore" my sister gallantly defended me.

"Hmpfh!" hmpfhed the missus. "Other than the food joints, what he knows about Mysore can be easily written in block letters on the back of a bus ticket. And", she added, with another hmpfh, "with space left for what he feels about its history".

Strong words! And words that stung. Any man of sensibility would be wounded if it were insinuated that he was a boor. And even though I'm not a man of sensibility, I was wounded. This had to be remedied! I had to show the missus that I could think of things other than food.

And in the process of showing the world, and the missus that I was a man with as much depth in my character as in my alimentary canal, I found myself bleary eyed at 6.30 am of a Thursday morning outside the Town Hall of Mysore. My head throbbed a bit from the GlenKinchie on ice - must have been the ice - that my charming brother in law Mahesh had lavished on me the previous evening.

But I'm getting all muddled up as usual, in my story telling. Old failing. If I had to write someone's biography I would probably start with the funeral.

So, it happened this way.

I had been in touch with Vinay, a young engineer and former software geek, over twitter. He seemed very knowledgeable about Mysore and a quick look at his bio revealed that he ran a company called The Royal Mysore Walks.n Walking tours, I surmised, for I am very quick on the uptake, and sought to verify my deduction when I landed up in Mysore.

Chatting over coffee, I liked him instantly. "Not much of a company, sir" he laughed "just a startup" but his enthusiasm was unmistakable.

It turned out that he'd take groups of people on walking tours of Mysore, during which he would present a view of Mysore's past through little bits of trivia, accounts of history and, as I found out, many interesting tales with buildings and monuments as props for those tales.

Sounded interesting. I had only the morning to spare since the rest of the day was tied up with uncle-and-aunty visiting stuff, but Vinay said the morning is usually best, because it's not too crowded and the weather is extremely pleasant.

With my customary insightful thinking, I spotted the flaw in the plan. "Wait!" I said, "It involves waking up at 6 am"

No one seemed to be listening however, and Mahesh hoiked me out of bed at the appointed hour and frog-marched me to the Town Hall, Mysore. We met VInay there, fresh as a daisy and soon, the bracing morning air and Vinay's cheery demeanour made me feel a lot better. We started off with a little story about the Diwans of Mysore, which was round one to Vinay because I had always thought the Diwans of Mysore were things you could lie down on. (They are not. They are rulers and no, not the kind you draw straight lines with)

As the walk unfolded, I got more and more into the thing and soon, I forgot I was supposed to have a hangover.
Vinay's presentation skills exceeded all expectations. I'm not going to go list out all the trivia here - you should take the walk yourself- but the walk was probably the most delightful two hours I have spent in a long time, including intimate tete-a-tetes with rare single malt whiskey.

Vinay's style was very interactive and he has a gentle sense of humor that makes the whole thing very enjoyable. He's a trivia buff - "Which is why I thought about this walk in the first place", he had told me - and he had quite a collection of anecdotes and amusing facts

For instance, in addition to being the hometown of one of the most beautiful, elegant, charming, witty and extremely slim women in the world such as you know who, it was the first in Asia to generate electricity. It was also one of the largest buyer of Rolls Royce cars and has one of the largest Maharajas, volumetrically speaking (though they say he's dieting)

Do go for this walk if you happen to be in Mysore. At Rs. 495/- head, I think it's a steal. I've been recommending it to everyone I meet. And Vinay is such a great guy to know!

Vinay's window to the world -www.royalmysorewalks.com

Phone 91-9632044188

Vote for me. Wait, don't!

2009-11-27T09:33:00.001+05:30

Things are heating up. Voting for the indibloggies award - this blog has been nominated for the Most Humorous Indiblog award - has opened and I thought I must go out there and beg for votes. Offer free drinking water, perhaps, and raise the minimuim support price for sugarcane. And then, thinking it over, I realized that everyone will be saying the same thing. After all, how much water can you drink?

So I decided to adopt a novel strategy - the non-direct approach. I thought I would tell everybody not to vote for my blog, the logic being that the voter would think "my god, what a frank and honest candidate! Disarming. Let's vote for him!", resulting in a thumping victory and the right to be paraded around town on an elephant with a garland and a large vermilion mark on my forehead.

And then I remembered that this approach hadn't worked in my early years when, as a young lad full of hormones and hope, I joined the girlfriend stakes. All my competitors, dressed in bell-bottom trousers and Amitabh hair, wooed with all their might while I gently pretended not to be interested in anyone of them. My general strategy was to sit around on campus pretendintg to read Sartre and Bertrand Russell and this strategy basically got me approximately 0.0 enquiries per annum. And finally when I realized it had bombed, I couldn't very well go the bell-bottom trouser way because everyone would know what a fraud I was. Thus I was stuck mateless till the missus sashayed along and did her life's quota of kind deeds by the single act of marrying me.

Now my dilemma is this. Do I be direct and beg you to vote for me, promising free 500ml arrack and half fried chicken or do I get subtle and ask you to vote for someone else, hoping that you will follow all the logic above and vote for me?

So please, vote for me!.

No, wait! Don't

No, no, I mean vote for me

No, don't .......

VOTE HERE

NO,DON'T

China - Part II

2009-11-25T09:12:00.000+05:30

This is going to be a not-very-China-especially-considering-its-title post because like an ass I've let too much time elapse between the trip and my writing it and my famous Shenoy memory has more or less wriggled out of the "burden of remembrance", as I remember reading somewhere.

Why am I writing this post, then, one might ask in a fit of petulance. Well, that's because I said I would in 'China-Part I' making it a fait accompli, which is a phrase I've been using practically since childhood.

I remember reading it somewhere and for a substantial part of my life I believed that 'fait accompli' was French for 'if luck is on your side'. In my MBA student days, I would waste no opportunity to include it in one of my assignments, and my teachers were often browbeaten into submission by sentences like "the ROI of the project is likely to be 17.3%, fait accompli".

The concerned teacher, knowing that, like 'paradigm', 'vis-a-vis' and the General Theory of Relativity, only three humans know the meaning of 'fait accompli', would dish out an 'A', apprehensive that I might be at his throat otherwise.

It was many years later that I was suitably pulled up, by the missus of all people. "Naren!" she exclaimed "What on earth do you mean "India will win, fait accompli". I told her I used 'fait accompli' in the sense of "Inshah Allah", whereupon she laughed for five minutes, then despaired for another five because she had evidently married a complete moron, and then told me the bitter truth. Fait accompli does not mean "God-willing". Fait accompli means fait accompli.

I hope this clarifies the situation for you, fait accompli.

Moving on to China, we spent most of our time in a furniture mall, describing the humongousness of which is beyond the abilities of a Bombay-wallah brought up on 2BHK. I am reasonably certain that they conducted hang-gliding lessons in that mall on Sundays and national holidays. I don't speak much Chinese (their thank you is "she she yeah" to which, and here I think they pulled my leg, the reply is "Beyonce". So you go "she she yeah" and the Chinese person says "Beyonce". Honest). As I was saying, I wasn't able to enrol for the hang-gliding lessons, but I am reasonably sure they are conducted there.

The place sells every concievable kind of furniture. I didn't even know there were that many kinds. There is classical, neo-classical, colonial, modern, contemporary, futuristic and Zaphod Beeblebrox (for want of a better name. I think they call it 'designer').

The missus had a field day and began shopping on a point-and-shoot basis. Like all good human drama, I will leave my agony to the readers imagination and tell her only that after three days of lunchless shopathons, I felt like a lost traveler in the Gobi Desert seeing mirages of beds and mattresses only to find they were furniture shops.

Eventually, we got back to Guangzhou city (the aforementioned furniture place was another burg called Shunde, a couple of hours drive out of Guangzhou, where we had shifted base camp when the shopping was happening).

In Guangzhou we, surprise, surprise, shopped again. This time for the famous fake stuff.

To tell you the truth, I couldn't bring myself to believe that the stuff was really fake, so well is it crafted. I thought of the guys selling them as fine, altruistic gentlemen, upholding the true spirit of socialism, insistent on everyone, including obvious losers like me, wearing a priceless Rolex on his or her wrist.

The missus refused to let me even look at them. "I've been told they are hopeless" she told me, and added ominously "and I do not wear fakes", which I knew well because I had, in the early days of our marriage bought her a fake Omega watch which got me a big wet kiss and continued to yield much love and affection till some spoilsport friend of hers told her it was fake. I got it nice and proper at that time.

Coming back to the res we found that almost everything is Guangzhou is fake. Every manufactured thing, that is. But there is a lot of lovely food and tea available and we spent the rest of the day pottering about the place, eating quaint meals at quaint places, perhaps sometimes comprising of quaint animal species but we never got to find out because we mercifully spoke no Chinese beyond Beyonce.

I loved the people. The ordinary people. They are genuinely polite and have the innate humility that only a couple of generations of brutal totalitarian rule can bring. There is prosperity in China, true, but that is only for the few million early birds who lucked out in Deng's time and started something. The rest of the country is comprised of confirmed slaves for all time. A revolution waiting to happen, if you ask me. And I hope it does, in our life time at least. Those people deserve better.

The Indiebloggies

2009-11-23T21:00:00.000+05:30

You could've knocked me down with a feather when I saw this

I have been nominated for Best Humourous IndiBlog. I don't know how much of an honour that is in absolute terms but I am rubbing shoulders with

which are four blogs I follow with a microscope, and being on the same list as them is honour enough for me. Each one of them is a gem.

I don't know how the voting works but I'm going to vote for all of them, creating multiple ids if required (following in the illustrious footsteps of great leaders all over our country, especially UP and Bihar).

Doing Jalsa and Showing Jilpa (by Krish Ashok) is about the most intelligent blog around, in addition to being truly funny. His posts are like Rahman's music - they get better every time you read them.

Son of Bosey (Anand Ramachandran) is my personal favorite - the best satire I've read anywhere, not just online. It satirizes without ridiculing, which is such a difficult thing to do. And it is guaranteed to make you laugh till your sides ache.

Bengaluru Banter is particularly funny for me because its author, Biker dude, is a superb observer and mimic and imitates the Bangalore argot very well. I travel often to Bangalore and I hear all that Bangalore speak often enough to laugh really hard. He is also a sensitive writer. Some of his posts are literary gems. Sadly, he doesn't post very frequently.

Coconut Chutney is one of the wittiest young ladies on the net. She has just the right balance of wit and irreverence to make you laugh. She is really gifted with words.

It's a tough choice, but it has to be one of these four. Krish Ashok or Anand Ramachandran for my money, but it could easily be Bengalooru Banter or Coconut Chutney. There are other blogs on the list at Indibloggies but I haven't been really following them. Didn't look anywhere close to these four at first glance.

I realize I'm not exactly plugging my own blog but the fact is that merely sharing the stage with these guys has made my day. My posts are cute but I tend to (consciously, I confess) imitate Wodehouse which doesn't do much for originality. And my themes are pretty jaded too - the missus oppressing me, aided and abetted by the kids - and here, the reason is that my thinking machinery is very rudimentary and I am terrified it will pack up entirely if I make outrageous demands of it, such as originality.

So I hope you go ahead and vote wisely. Remember, if none of the candidates are handing out free booze, vote for the best one.

CHeers

China - Part I

2009-11-06T18:27:00.001+05:30

This is a true and factual account of my China trip. Longish and rambling, as true and factual accounts usually are, but written with sensitivity and feeling. Right.

I don't know how the thing started. It might have been my patriotic impulse to sort out the Arunachal Pradesh imbroglio, which is the first time I've used this word in real life, so pardon me while do a little war dance. Or it might have been that I wanted to buy some furniture for our new house.

Anyway, I found myself face to face with Hu Jintao, the Supreme leader of the Council of Supreme Leaders of the Peoples and workers party or something, aka, The Man Who Kicks All Ass in China.

Hu wasn't much of a lad for conversation. A taciturn and grim bloke. And to me, he looked like someone with gas trouble. And he kept saying that everything was an integral part of China.

“Arunachal Pradesh?”

“Integral Part of China.”

“What about Tibet?”

“You gotta be kidding me” Hu's been spending too much time with American policy makers “Tibet is definitely an integral part of China”.

I tried to change my tack. Perhaps the soft power of Bollywood would soften him up. I once escaped a traffic ticket by asking the cop if he was related to Rajesh Khanna. He wasn't, but he was flattered that discerning cutters of lanes and jumpers of signals thought so.

“Are you related to Preity Jintao” I asked, just to break ice. He eh-eh-ed and consulted with advisors, all of whom presented the standard inscrutable Chinese appearance of mild puzzlement.

“She's a Bollywood actress,” I added, by way of clarification. “She might be from a collateral branch of your family”

“Ah, Bollywood! Integral part of China”

Now it was my turn to be puzzled. “Since when?”

“You made a movie called 'Chandni Chowk to China', did you not”. “No! No! No!” I screamed. “I did not make that movie!”

“Wake up, Naren”, I heard the missus saying, with a well aimed finger jabbing me in the ribs. “We'll be landing in Hong Kong now. And you look a complete mess.”

As far as the missus is concerned I am always looking a mess but this time even by my extremely considerate standards, I thought I resembled something dragged out of a trash can by a cat with very catholic tastes.

“Must have been all that work pressure from yesterday”, I told her, “I was really exhausted.”

“Nonsense. You had far too much wine. Come on now, fill up these immigration forms,” she said. And as usual, the filling out of all kinds of forms being in my job description since the day I was married, I plodded through the things and wondered for the zillionth time who in his right mind would read anything written in it. In fact, this is exactly what I think when I write something on my blog.

And in addition they had one of those disarmingly innocent health declaration forms which in effect says, when you take away the heretofores and whereases, “No boss, I am not having any bird or swine flu”

Bureaucrats all over the world are the same. We used to have a Premier Padmini back in the days when I was a dashing young lad, carefree and debonair, to which I had an air-conditioner fitted. My father used to call it the perfect metaphor for bureaucracy. It would generate lots of air. It would create plenty of activity like louvres swinging and lights glowing on. It would use up a lot of resources. The only thing it wouldn't do was cool the car. But I digress.

We shuffled into line before the immigration officer who gave me a long and unblinking stare which made be feel I was an international spy, and then, thinking it over, decided I didn't look smart enough to cause any real damage. He gave me my passport and glared a “beat it, creep” look at me. The missus of course never has these problems. They smile at her, she smiles back, plenty of thank yous and you're welcomes. There is no justice in this world, I tell you. If between the two of us there was one who could stage a coup d'etat and takeover a country, that would be the missus. I couldn't take over an unmanned lighthouse. Yet they treat her like she was Queen Victoria while I get the reception reserved for people suffering from halitosis.

That little ceremony over, we shuffled into a bus which would take us into China, to Guangzhou, and I witnessed for the first time an immigration check where the immigration officer doesn't bother to even look at you. All done in five minutes. I was extremely impressed with Chinese efficiency and their faith in Old Confucius' maxim that the country which executes illegal aliens doesn't have many.

The Missus and I, celebrating my acceptance by the Immigration chaps

Our hotel turned out to a very lavish place, considering what we were paying for it, with a bevy of extremely well coiffured Chinese ladies welcoming us. One of them, rather sportingly I thought, asked me how my knee was. I've been troubled by a touch of arthritis over the last few months and had blogged about it. Perhaps this charming lady had read it.

“ Oh, it's much better now, thank you very much, though it still hurts a bit if I climb stairs too fast”, I told her.

She looked helplessly from me to the missus, who promptly hissed “Silly! 'Ni Hao' is 'Welcome' in Chinese” and gave my bewildered interlocutor a conciliatory smile.

I soon learned that in China, English has the same staus that Hindi has in Chennai. Everyone agrees that it is an important language but no one gives a rat's ass about learning or speaking it. And who is to say they're not right. Chinese is a particularly dicey language, though. It has a lot to do with intonation, which means that you can say the same sentence in two different sing-songs and mean two completely different things. Like you might want to compliment the hostess on her nice house and end up telling her that there are astronauts urinating in her back yard. I had heard a story, probably apocryphal, about a bloke who wanted to know where the restrooms were and accidentally ended up marrying a Chinese girl.
I decided to stick to English.

A funny thing among most English speakers is that we believe people who don't understand English can magically understand it if we speak it in broken syllables with gesticulation. It doesn't work. I had a situation, right on day 1, where, typical of me, I had forgotten to charge my phone and it was on it's last legs, a bit like the flickering lamp next to the dying grandfather in Hindi movies. About to go out at any moment. So I asked my hosts with active sign language, brandishing my phone, for a charger.

“Charrrr gerrr” “Chaaaaar Gerrrr” I asked. At first they looked at me with a completely stoned silence, like they had just smoked this awesome weed and I was somebody's father who had just barged into the room.

Silence.

“Charrrr gerrr” “Chaaaaar Gerrrr” I asked again, this time with hand and leg gestures.

Something seemed to be stirring. Suddenly one of them exclaimed “Oh oh oh oh okay okay okay okay” in joyous comprehension and rushed out, beckoning me to follow. We went down two flights and landed up opposite a washing machine. I'm not making this up.

Stay tuned for part II folks.

Diwali at chez Shenoy

2009-10-21T17:33:00.000+05:30

Well, finally Diwali came and went. I spent it sleeping in bed. For a change, this was not because of a hangover. I had this really virulent attack of gastroenteritis, an ailment in which the alimentary canal makes many humorous sound effects and generally leaves the afflictee with the athletic ability of respected shri vajpayee. By the evening, I was walking around like a Tai' chi master.

My dad (who is a doctor) is away in america, but when I rang him up for help, he took all of fifteen seconds to diagnose it over the phone.

"Touch of gastro, nothing to worry about" he told me, and prescribed a medicine which worked like magic. Almost the next day, I was turning cartwheels and accepting invitations to parties.

The afternoon one went fairly ok. I had a couple of vodka and limes without dulling the intellect even a little bit. If I had been in that line of work, I would probably have discovered a fundamental particle or two.

The evening session was a little more drastic. We were invited to my sister's house and her husband uncorked some rather classy rum with a fancy name. I had no more than two drinks, to the best of my knowledge, but I managed to get plastered to a level I haven't been since I discovered that I had passed my engineering finals.

Few things, dear unmarried reader, bring out the demon in the old helpmeet more than the spectacle of a plastered husband. It is a no-no on the scale of forgetting to pick up the kids from school or getting her a bar-tool set for her birthday. The missus was very not-amused and I am very strictly on the dry side of the barometer till further notice.

So, happy Diwali everyone. I hope you have a great year, filled with joy and prosperity, love and friendship, warmth and understanding, and of course, some decent scotch.

Diwali and its part in my downfall -Part II

2009-10-13T12:59:00.001+05:30

(Just in case you missed the earlier post, I was speaking about the dismissive manner in which the missus spoke of single malt whiskeys. And the assault on my valuable collection of books on philosophy)

As you can well imagine, no thinking man can stand slurs to malt whiskies. After racking my brains for a suitable repartee and finding none, I decided to maintain a dignified silence.

"OK," she said, by way of compromise, "I'll let you keep six of these books. They can go into the loft on top of the loo."

As a consequence of this radical rearrangement of philosophical thought in our home, our raddiwallah is now the proud possessor of 'Aristotle's Ethics', 'Plato's Republic', a jolly old book named 'The Great Political Theories' and 'Existential Thought - A Primer'.

I sat there numbed. I had never read any of those books, to tell you the truth, but it was nice to know they were around. I mean, if you wake up in a sweat in the middle of the night realising you had forgotten a great political theory or two, 'The Great Political Theories' will no longer be around to illuminate you. I mumbled words to this effect.

The missus moved in for the kill.

"Cheer up, Naren.Look at the bright side of this. You are eligible to stand for Parliament now."

"Huh? Hows that?" I asked, leading up to the sucker punch.

"You've just sold your Ethics to the rag-and-bone man!"

"Ha Ha. Very funny. You know, Aristotle was the greatest thinker of the ancient world"

"Aristotle was a moron who believed men had more teeth than women"

"They don't?"

"Shut up and identify five t-shirts that are going out."

And so the day continued. By evening, my cupboard resembled Old Mother Hubbard's.

"It is bare!" I exclaimed in dismay.

But she wasn't really listening. With a cheery "Bare is in, baby", and proceeding to hum "The Bare Necessities" from the Jungle Book, she went on to her own wardrobe, which I bitterly noted she did not de-populate. Women!

"How come your wardrobe doesn't get the treatment?" I wanted to ask her but she shooed me out of the room and continued the proceedings in camera.

The next day we spent all morning and half the afternoon shopping for gifts. Trays, candles, chocolates, that kind of thing.

Why this inconsequential act has to command so much pomp and circumstance is beyond me. It is not as if you gift someone a set of wine glasses and he or she says "Oh my god! Just what I needed! I resolve to love you twice as much as I used to!".

He or she just pries off the little "With Best Compliments From" label and puts one of his or her own to gift to someone else.(This has been proved true with respect to casseroles. There are only three casseroles in the world, all of which get repacked and re-gifted. Apparently this has been going on since 1902.)

We of course invest the simple act of buying presents with the care and attention of the Pentagon purchasing military hardware. Hmm. Perhaps that's not such a great simile. What I was striving to emphasize was that the six hours or so that we spent in the mall buying stuff that no one wanted could have been reduced to fifteen minutes if it had been left to me.

"I couldn't trust you to buy a flyswatter, Naren", the missus retorted, when I voiced my aforementioned views. "You got your best friend a pressure cooker last year"

"What's wrong with a pressure cooker?" The truth was that we were giving pressure cookers to the workers in my factory and I happened to have a few left over.

"Nothing, except that it is not a chic thing to give. Can you imagine say Shobha De giving Vijay Mallya a pressure cooker?". I had an answer to that. I am not Shobha De and he is by no means Vijay Mallya. But I kept the trap shut, which is the best response when the argument is drifting into uncharted territory.

(The Missus is howling for me to take her voting. Part III coming soon)

Diwali and its part in my downfall -Part I

2009-10-11T18:50:00.000+05:30

Diwali is a magical time of the year at the Shenoy homestead. This is the time when the missus suddenly discovers that the house is in a mess and has to be cleaned out.

What is magical about it is that I don't die. Every year, there comes a point in the proceedings where I am conviced that it is all over and she is going to stab me with a sharp instrument. And every year, that moment passes without her actually doing it.

Of course, as my elder son pointed out, this could merely mean that the probability of this happening is increasing. They're learning the basics of probability in school, you see, and for some reason he is fascinated by it. I mean, come on. Probability used to be THE most boring subject when we were younger. There was a time when I had to learn the Income tax Act and even THAT was more interesting than probability. But I digress. Coming back to the res (it IS res, isn't it, Jeeves?), the Great Cleaning of the Shenoy Cupboards had begun.

It started off innocuously as usual. The children's cupdboards are still under the direct overlordship of her highness, so she knows exactly what is there in them. More importantly, she has the complete rights of high middle and low justice, and the kids can only whine in a muted fashion when they behold their favorite outfit going out to meet its maker on the grounds of looking like a gunny sack.

Kids are resilient, however, and with a philosophical shrug they went back to playing computer games surreptitiously, under the pretence of collecting project information.

"Guys, please study. If your mom catches you playing games on my laptop, I've had it", I implored.

"Relax, annie, she's doing cupboards. You know what that means! Whole day, easy!" said younger son.

"Hah! Half the evening too, if she finds that Archie comics collection of yours" said elder son, with a snort.

I stumbled out in a lost fashion. The thing to do when these kind of clandestine activities are happening is to put as much distance between yourself and the crime scene as possible.

Well, the kids' cupboards got done in a day. There was a bit of head shaking and mumbled can-you-believe-the-state-of-this's but no serious melodrama and you would have been convinced that a workshop on meditation was being conducted on the premises. And no, the rascals didn't get caught playing computer games.

The heavy stuff started the next day, when she got to my cupboard. You see, I lke to think myself as a sort of a polymath- a man of a multifarious personality. A bit like Leonardo Da Vinci. Though I must confess that when I attempted to paint Mona Lisa, it came out like a South Park character and made the wife and kids nearly choke (that's an interesting anecdote I must tell you one of these days).

Not that it detracts from my talents. The way I see it, if Da Vinci was an 'n' sided personality, mine would be a '(n-1)' sided one, that's all.

Digressing again. What I was getting at is that, being a multifaceted chap and all, I end up collecting a good deal of 'stuff' that is potentially valuable, though at the present moment the exchange value would be 2 rat droppings. The missus has this ruthless "live for the present" streak in her and wants to throw the whole bunch out.

"What is this", she asked me, holding up an old PC motherboard.

"It's a motherboard", I said

"I know that". She learned Computer Science in college, I kid you not, though she hates the subject with all her heart, which is another story I have to tell. Relax, I won't tell it today.

Where's the CPU and the Memory?"

"Er, there's no CPU and memory"

"Throw it out then. What's the use of keeping ..." and petered out into a diatribe on pack rats.

I tried to explain that I was planning to use an old CPU from another computer and try to get it running on linux but I could tell it was no use. The lady had taken a personal dislike to it. No amount of reasoning could convince her that I would ever get around to using it. She was right, of course, but it was the principle of the thing.

She gathered her attention to a pile of books on philosophy that has been her steady target for years now.

"Naren, you have NEVER read a single one of these. Please PLEASE at least NOW throw them out."

"Sweetheart, in the intellectual circles that I roam about, Satre and Kafka are essential reading"

"Nonsense. None of you bunch have ever read anything further than the labels on those ridiculously named single malt whiskeys. Laphroaig! Sounds like French for 'frog'.

"Excusez moi, garcon," she said, in a falsetto "esker vouz avez La Froig?" and I bet your keister he'll come back with something that had been a tadpole a few weeks earlier".

The missus can be quite sarcastic when she feels like it.

(gotta go now. taking the brood out to dinner. stay tuned though. Part II follows)

My world celebritiness

2009-10-06T20:09:00.001+05:30

My dear friends,

It gives me great pleasure to welcome you all to this function specially organized for the purpose of honoring me on the occasion of my elevation to the position of 'world celebrity'.

A deeply thought comment, dripping with wisdom, on the advisabililty of spending Rs. 6000 on an order of butter chicken has been quoted in the Mint here and now in the Independent here

To put this into pespective, here are my words, along with famous quotes from competing writers

Shakespeare: To be, or not to be: that is the question.

John Keats: A thing of beauty is a joy forever: its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness.

Narendra Shenoy : But is it worth 6,000 rupees? The answer, dear reader, is a resounding yes. Provided, of course, that it is somebody else's 6,000 rupees.

Eminem: You make me sick.

As you can see, I am right up there with the best. I am expecting to hear from Paris Hilton any moment now. Of course, my response will be measured, fitting of my stature as a world celebrity

"Mr Shenoy!" Ms. Hilton will gush "You are famous!"

"Oh, it's nothing, really" I will murmur in the muted response characteristic of the truly humble

"Nothing? Nothing? Your wise words have been quoted by world newspapers and you call that nothing? Oh, Mr. Shenoy, I am overcome by your unassuming ways. Please, make love to me right now."

And of course, I will decline respectfully, being a man of character.

The missus has taken a surprisingly dim view of these happenings.

"So someone copy pasted your wisecrack and you're a world celebrity? Give me a break!" she said.

I wisely refrained from telling her about the Paris Hilton thing. Women can never handle that kind of competition, even when it is hypothetical..

And anyway, even Shakespeare had to sufer this kind of stuff

'What kind of rot is this "Friends, Romans,Countrymen, lend me your ears" you've written here, Bill?' Anne Hathaway is reported to have said, 'Why can't you just say "Yo, listen up, y'all!" like the rest of us?'

Yeah, why not, Bill? Wives!

Ashutosh Gowariker and his part in my downfall

2009-09-25T23:26:00.000+05:30

We, the kids, missus and I that is, saw "What's your Rashee?" today. Just returned 15 minutes ago, in fact. I am therefore dutifully filing my serious critical evaluation of the movie for the benefit of keen students of cinema who are doubtless reading my erudite blog for illumination.

The story is about a gujju guy who comes from the US to India to get married, and has to choose from 12 girls, each from one zodiac sign. And since I'm too exhausted to type out the story, and since you can easily read it on the net, and since it's mostly long and complicated songs anyway, let's take it as read. OK? Thanks.

I enjoyed the movie, of course. I thought Priyanka Chopra acted marvelously. I also thought Harman Baweja acted marvelously. I told the missus that. She gave me the look.

"You ok, buddy?" she asked me.

"Sure. Why?"

"Harman Baweja couldn't act to save a dying grandmother. Harman Baweja makes Akshay Kumar look like Naseeruddin Shah. You can't be serious about his acting".

"Come, now. You're prejudiced. I thought he was just the right shade of innocence and savvy combined."

The missus rolled her eyes. For once, she had the heartfelt support of both the kids. The younger one usually takes my side but this time he was very upset.

"I would have stayed at home and studied the chapter on the United Nations" he said, referring to a funfilled chapter in his Civics textbook which tells you all that you ever wanted to know about UN resolutions and the veto power of the security council but were afraid to ask.

Missus gave me the "see? didn't I tell you?" look. And well she might, because I was really taken aback. This was a strong reaction. Gautham declaring that he'd study rather than do something is complete damnation of that something. His hatred for textbooks makes Israel Palestine relations look like Portuguese love sonnets in comparison.

"And the songs were too many and every bloody where" Vyaas, our resident music aficionado piped up. Further strong stuff.

But I pigheadedly continued to defend Ashutosh Gowariker. "He is a fine filmmaker", I told the brood.

"When he lost his hair, he must have lost his mind with it", Vyaas said.

"Hush" said the missus with a barely suppressed giggle. "Annie's losing hair too".

"Hahaha" said Vyaas, exhibiting none of the spirit that, to take a random example from Hindu mythology, Sravana exhibited towards his father.

"Annie, is hair singular or plural?" asked Gautham.

"Plural of course"

"Then Vyaas, you should say 'when he lost his hair, he lost his mind with THEM', shouldn't he, Annie"

"Er, I don't think, that is, it doesn't seem to sound right. Ask your mother", I said

"You're the blog writer. YOU tell me!" she retorted, hitting that full toss to the boundary

As often happens in family conversations in the Shenoy household, I was conscious of a swimming feeling in my head.

"We were talking about the movie, people" I tried to recapitulate.

"If you hadn't forced us to come, we would have been watching cartoon network now" said Gautam, ruefully.

"We hate you Annie!" They didn't say this aloud, but I could almost mind read.

Damn you Gowariker. All your fault.

Sunday morning blues

2009-09-21T15:33:00.001+05:30

Sunday mornings are usually very sedate in our house. Today is no different. I have woken up a full hour before the rest of the house, unlike the others who are sleeping in late. One reason for this is that I have a finely tuned body clock. The other reason is that if I do not get out of bed at 6, I'm going to have to poop in it, thanks to the afore mentioned body clock. The missus finds this very irritating, because I am forever slamming doors, stumbling over randomly scattered soccer balls and wandering around like a blind bat looking for my spectacles, without which, optically disadvantaged as I am, I would probably go in the broom closet. She mumbles some words of recrimination and goes back to sleep mid sentence. What the hell, it is a Sunday morning!

A few hours later, when the household is up and awake, and humming with action, I am accosted by my children. The elder one makes an observation about Eminem. Perhaps a word of explanation is in order here. The kids are inordinately fond of rap music and its practitioners. People like Eminem, Fifty Cent, a gentleman named- I kid you not- T-Pain, and many other worthies who wish to influence the world through their hair and tattoos, instead of mundane things like wisdom, courage and intellect. As I was saying, the elder one makes the observation that, should Eminem convert to Islam, he could call himself Muslim Shady. I go "huh?" at him in the way only a doofus father can. He explains that Eminem, for reasons best known to him, calls himself "Slim Shady". Muslim Shady was a play on Slim shady. "It was a joke, Annie!" he tells me, with a sad look in his eyes which clearly reveal his estimation of the hopelessness of the older generation.

Younger son is studying. I'm pottering about in the living room, trying to get the TV started with the remote. Missus watches in serene amusement for about 5 minutes and then points out that I am using the cordless phone. "Try using the remote. It works really well with the TV, though I don't know why that should be so". She revels in these kind of shots. I give her my coldest "Dignified Silence" look, completely wasted on her because her mom has called up from Mysore and they are exchanging very sotto voce remarks about something. This means
a. Someone is getting divorced
b. Someone is getting married
c. Someone is having a child
d. They are discussing the latest Chinese GDP numbers.

Ok, perhaps not 'd.'

Anyway, I digress. I was talking about the younger son. With his mom in a long conversation over the phone, he is like a political activist just released from prison. Brimming with things to say, if you know what I mean.

"Annie" he goes, "is reproduction a bad thing?"

Ulp.

"Ask your mother. She'll be happy to tell you." I try to slink away, but he's not having any of it.

"I'm asking YOU"

"I, er, no, not really. I mean, reproduction is, like, very necessary for life. But of course, we don't discuss it very openly er.. er.. "

"Why not?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Why don't we discuss it openly?"

"Well, I think... that is... I think your mother would be better placed to answer that."

"She's going to be on the phone for an hour, you know. That's grandma on the line."

"I know." Sigh. "Ok, why are you asking me this NOW?"

"Well it says here, in this textbook that I'm reading that 'reproduction in any form is expressly prohibited' "

Rascal.! He was stringing me along. I try to clout him one on the side of the head but he's like Muhammed Ali, dodging and weaving around while I get shorter of breath.

Kids!

The "Other Gastronomic Adventures" from the previous post

2009-09-18T00:40:00.004+05:30

Well, after that 6000 rupee butter chicken, Ajay asked me if I had ever sampled the wares at Muhammad Ali road and thereabouts, at Ramzan time.

What with all these world events happening, it so happened that I had not. I said so. Ajay immediately raised eyebrows and gave me the "what stone have you been living under, my friend" look. I squirmed under his critical gaze and implored him to remedy that defect in my otherwise blemishless character.

"Alright", he told me, "present yourself at Kala Ghoda at 6 pm tomorrow. I'll see what I can do."

Kala Ghoda, for those of you who are ignorant of Mumbai geography, is an important city landmark named after a black horse (kala ghoda) which does not exist.

I know this for a fact. I have searched high and low for it, often when I was perfectly sober, and found no evidence of horses of any color.

And the search was never easy, let me tell you. Can you imagine walking around in broad daylight, or worse, dark night light, trying to look nonchalant while actually seeking out a large black horse among automobiles, office goers and random municipal corporation teams digging up the road in the hope of finding buried treasure?

Which by the way is a confirmed fact, the fact that they're hunting for buried treasure, I mean, because another fine thinker (who blogs here) arrived at the same conclusion independently, as we both discovered recently while having a philosophical beer, proving that it MUSt be true. And what the devil am I rambling about here? Get back to the point. Right. Sorry folks.

The other important thing about Kala Ghoda is that it lies 35 traffic filled kilometers south of Malad West where yours truly resides. I decided to take the train. Now local train journeys are something I really look forward to, in Mumbai, for the simple reason that nowhere else in the world can you find so many people digging out little bits of snot, rolling them into balls of nanometric dimensions and sticking them under the seat or on the dangling handles overhead, with such dexterity and precision. It's hypnotic. I did not join them. I wanted to, really did, but when Yo Yo Ma plays the cello, you listen, however much your own fingers are twitching to play, if you get my drift.

By the way, if this post lacks the usual precise, compact, power-point-presentation-to-the-board-of-directors quality of my arguments, you can blame it on a rather jolly little beer called Tuborg which is so named because if have tu many of them, and you happen to be with Bjorn Borg, you are liable to see tu borgs. There. I've gone off the rails again! At this rate, I really doubt if I will ever get to the point where I tell you about what I ate at the Mohammed Ali joint.

So here goes, before I fall asleep.
1. Tandoori Chicken
2. Paya barahandi
3. Khichda
4. Firnee
5. Malpua with cream.

All of which were made from low calorie ingredients, of course, and had special cholestrol lowering vitamins added to them.

(It might have occured to the alert reader that I could have said this right at the beginning and saved myself the trouble of typing a few thousand words. Hmmm. True. But it's such fun to ramble on pointlessly. Also, my MBA training requires me to use a thousand random words for every little thought or else they will formally strip me of my degree)

The world's classiest butter chicken and other gastronomic adventures

2009-09-16T23:06:00.006+05:30

On Sunday, I had The World's Classiest Butter Chicken

This was courtesy my brother in law Ajay Sharma, who serendipitously discovered it on Facebook and was intrigued by its price. For the site says, in the most apologetic manner, that it costs Rs. 6000 per portion and very sorry but that's what it costs.

They don't offer much of an explanation other than that they use fine ingredients including Evian mineral water (which tastes terrible on its own, if you ask me) and Hunt's tomato paste (which I have never heard about).

There were a few who, very rightly, ranted on the Facebook page, that they must be out of their mind to price, at Rs. 6000, something like a butter chicken, excellent specimens of which are available for Rs. 200 or less a portion.

As if in anticipation of these kind of responses, the site actually suggests two places which serve excellent butter chicken (Moti Mahal and Mughal Mahal) where the stuff is way cheaper. It's just that OUR butter chicken is Rs. 6000 per portion, they say. They don't say "period" after that sentence but you can just sense it.

Ajay, of course, gastronome that he is, promptly became their fan on Facebook and wrote them an appreciative comment. And lo, they decided to gift him a sample of their Butter Chicken - one portion flown in from Hyderabad (where it is made, and where it is sold) for his exclusive enjoyment.

I rushed to sample the stuff as soon as I heard about it, partly because of the fact that I was getting it free and partly because I was very hungry, the missus having decided basically to starve me, over the last few weeks, with egg whites, celery, iceberg lettuce and other things currently banned under the Geneva convention.

At Ajay's house, I ran into the founders of Anaarkali themselves. A youngish couple, one Mr. I. B. Saxena and Ms. Padma Prasad, they had personally carried their culinary masterpiece with them. I was touched.

They were extremely reticent and seemed embarassed at all the gushing appreciation about their business spirit that Ajay and I were heaping on them. Eventually, we got them to talk a bit about themselves and found out that they cooked it themselves. Personally. No cooks, lackeys, assistant vice-presidents, nothing! Moreover, they're pretty successful businesspeople in everyday life, worth many doubloons and in no n eed for the moolah they must be earning from this venture, if indeed they earn any. Amazing!

Anyway I'll cut a long story short and say that the butter chicken was awesome. Superb. Excellent. Definitely the best butter chicken in the world!

Ok, I'm probably not the world's leading authority on butter chicken, my earlier experience of it having been the "Lalit" butter chicken of Goregaon West. Lalit, a fine restaurant in my opinion, interprets "butter chicken" as "butter 50%, chicken 50%". This makes it yummy but unidimensional.

Anarkali's version, on the other hand, is a lot more sophisticated. It has many nuances of flavour, with ingredients like saffron and olives finding their way into the plot.

Comparing "Anaarkali" to "Lalit" is not fair. It's a bit like comparing Laurence Olivier to Akshay Kumar. But like all bourgeois, I could not but ask myself the inevitable commercial question "Is it worth Rupees Six thousand"?

The answer, dear reader, is a resounding "yes"!

Provided, of course, that it is somebody else's Rupees Six Thousand.

No, I'm being mean there. I would pay 6000 for this butter chicken. It would have to be an occassion, though. The chairmanship of the Federal Reserve, perhaps. Or appointment to the casting department of some prominent bollywood production house.

Something befitting the Classiest Butter Chicken in the world.

(tune in tomorrow for the 'other gastronomic adventures' because i'm falling asleep)

Writer's block, yoga lessons etc.

2009-09-07T22:02:00.001+05:30

Really can't think of anything to write. What a bummer these writer's blocks are! Not that anyone's forcing me to write or anything. But as a card carrying MBA, it is shameful to be at a loss for words. (The missus points out here that I am not at a loss for words, my problem is that I am at a loss for ideas. She might be right there but it's nitpicking).

What to write? Ok, here's something. The other day, the missus thought it would be nice for me to learn yoga. Probably sick of hearing me whine about having to work out in the gym, she decided to set me up with a competent yoga instructor.

Well, I have nothing against this fine form of exercise, except of course for the tendency of the yoga instructor to try and make you hyperflexible.

I mean, I can see the utility of this. Let's say you have two full mugs of beer, one in each hand, and you want to scratch your ear. If you were good at yoga, you'd just use your toe, nonchalantly like, instead of having to find a table to keep one beer mug, scratch your ear with the free hand, and then pick the mug again. A most convenient talent. But the steps leading to the acquisition of this ability are punishing, to say the least.

After one session of this, I slunk back into the gym. Better to risk dropping the dumbbell on one's toe than chancing the painful possibility of accidentally biting your own nuts.

What else? Oh, we had a chilled out saturday. The younger son decided to prepare for a career in rock music, aided and abetted by yours truly, till his mom caught us and bawled us out. Caught on video. Cheers

Saturday special from narendra shenoy on Vimeo.

More on the knee

2009-08-31T23:34:00.001+05:30

As i was saying in my previous post, I have been diagnosed with osteo-arthritis. The good doctor prescribed me some tablets and a "Bio-protein pure collagen blah blah" drink which sounded so phony that I had to open the pamphlet and read. The first line was "Osteo-arthritis is a disease that affects the elderly". I ask you. A man in his prime. Eyed by many, including Mrs. Bacchan the younger (I'm not joking. I saw her at a party once and she looked at me. Over the heads of 70 other people, she looked at ME! The raw desire in her eyes was unmistakable, but since I am spoken for, I responded not). I am NOT elderly. You know who's elderly, A. K. Hangal, that's elderly. And L. K. Advani.

Ok, enough ranting. Actually, the missus has been very sweet. She keeps fussing over me and asks me every fifteen minutes if my knee is hurting. It is not, actually, but I grimace slightly every time I stand up, conveying the impression that I'm being extremely courageous and manly, concealing my pain like that. I know. I'm a rat.

The kids have been really nice too. Vyaas, the elder one asked me if I would ever be able to walk again, while Gautham offered to buy me a walking stick from his pocket money, provided he has any left over after buying the Eminem Relapse CD.

Well, that's about it from me. The missus is very serious about not letting me drink a single drop of alcohol which term, unless repugnant to the context thereof, shall be deemed to mean beer, wine, whiskey, vodka, gin, brandy, rum (black and white), the triple distilled horse urine they call bourbon, tequila and beverages containing all or part of the ingredients aforementioned.

Cheers

Depression!

2009-08-28T23:40:00.000+05:30

I've been having a nagging pain in my knee.

Like all typical guys, I was in complete denial. Guys will refuse to go to the doctor till they physically drop dead, because deep down inside, all guys know that doctors are dying to put their hands up your ass lookng for something called a prostate, which I'm sure these guys have made up for precisely this purpose.

But I'm not your regular normal guy. I'm a guy married to Sheela Shenoy. It's a bit hard to say no when SHE'S telling you to go to the doctor.

"And don't be silly, Naren. He's an orthopedic surgeon. He doesn't want to put things up your backside." , she added. After 17 years of marriage, the wife is still unable to say the word "ass", bless her heart!

Well, I went in the end. One, because SHeela said so. And two, because the knee was really hurting, especially when I climbed up stairs.

My orthopedic surgeon is a serious kind of bloke. No reassuring smiles or backslapping. He told me to take an X-ray. "This has all the signs of osteoarthritis" he told me. And today, when I went back to him with the X-rays he took a look at them, the knees and the x-ray images.

After a moment or two spent in uffish thought, he gave me the look college principals give parents when it is their painful duty to inform them that their son is doing weed.

"You definitely have osteo arthritis".

"Are you sure?"

"Here. Look at this gap"

Looked fine to me.

"It's less than normal. Plus there are these bony protuberances"

Well, he looked confident enough. I took his word for it.

"What do I need to do? Like precautions and so on"

You're not going to believe this. He asked me to reduce my weight. REDUCE MY WEIGHT! I'm practically skin and bones right now.

"And a couple of seriously Chennai Film Industry Thighs", the missus added, sardonically. "And an Andhra superstar potbelly."

"And no booze till you're 70." added the doctor.

"Till I'm 70 years old!" I was aghast. "You can't be serious, doctor".

Something in my look must have appealed to the well concealed human in him.

"Not 70 YEARS, my dear chap. 70 KILOS". And he smiled for the first time since I've known him.

Well, that was a relief. So mission 70 kgs begins from today.

Test post

2009-08-26T14:41:00.000+05:30

Whenever I take any firm, decisive action about something, I generally find myself with my ass in a sling, to use a technical term.

Not when I got married, of course. That turned out fabulously, though I haven't won a single debate since, but that's beside the point.

What I was saying is that all this is just yada yada yada to test out if I've managed to get the Disqus comment engine out of this blog.

Probably not, because I'm pretty much a moron in these things.

I wasn't born that way. O no, sirree! I had to work hard at it. SOmewhere along the way, I joined up an MBA course, which helped immensely, but it was mostly just hard work.

Why would I want to become a moron, you might ask.

You moron.

Don't you know that only morons succeed in life? Look at the world around you.

Though it must be said that it is not a sufficient condition, just a necessary one.

Meaning that you have to be a moron in order to succeed, but being a moron is no guarantee of success.

If you got that, you're going to have to work harder.

At being a moron, I mean.

Groaners anonymous

2009-08-24T10:33:00.003+05:30

Miles was upset. "You charged me 'arf a pound for me pint!"

"That's what we charge around here, me man", the landlord said, wiping the bar with his sleeve.

"But you didn't charge 'im a single penny"

"Didn't charge who?" asked the landlord

"Whom" interjected his educated wife.

"Eh?"

"Whom. 'Didn't charge whom' is how we say it, dear"

"That's exactly what I'm askin'. Whom came 'ere and didn't pay for 'is drinks?"

The landlord's wife rolled her eyes heavenward.

"The monk, dear. From the abbey. You know we never charge him for his beer"

"That's what I want to know" said Miles, indignantly. 'What's 'e done to get free beer while honest folk like me 'ave to pay through me nose?"

"Ah, 'im!" said the landlord. "Well, 'e's different."

"Different?"

"Yes, different. You see, e's a regular 'ere. "

"So am I!"

"Yes, but 'e's a frequent friar, Miles"

Words fail me

2009-08-19T22:06:00.004+05:30

Photographed in Mysore. Made available by my alert b-in-law Dr. Mahesh Rao. Seriously, words fail me.

Vande Maataram -

2009-08-15T11:05:00.005+05:30

Found it! Vande Maataram by Mogubai Kurdikar. The best version of this moving song, as far as I am concerned. This is a recording from 1947 so the audio quality is a bit grainy, but the genius of Mogubai is unmistakable.

The Einstein groaner (re-posted)

2009-08-14T22:17:00.001+05:30

(An old groaner reposted for the purpose of checking a new system of comments called disqus)

The assiduous Swiss have been spring cleaning all their government offices, including the Patent Office in Berne, where a document has been found that might throw light on one of this century's most radical theories. According to this document, a page from the diary of one Mileva Maric, her husband Albert "Emceesquared" Einstein, suffered a nervous breakdown circa 1904. He was advised a rest cure and chose the tropical Portuguese dominion of Goa. Being straitened of means, he decided to stay in an inexpensive B&B run by one Mr. D'Souza. Now the D'Souza's had a big fight over property with the Sequiera's next door and one day, the Sequira brothers caught hold of Mr. D'Souza's son Ronnie and started whaling the tar out of him, as the technical term goes.

Albert, a known pacifist, was aghast. "Why protect him you do not?" he asked of Uncle D'Ssouza who was observing the proceeding with scant concern.

"What? What you sayin, men?" enquired Uncle D'Souza

"When two men him attack, why do him not you defend"? Albert clarified.

"Heh", Uncle D'Souza said, scornfully. "E's equal to 'em Sequira's". And indeed, Ronnie held his own against the Sequira brothers.

"What say did you?" expressed Albert, with amazement.

Uncle D'Souza repeated himself, adding "If you don' com' yer hair, men, you're bloody going to look like a bloody med bugger".

But Albert couldn't hear any of it. He was rushing to catch the next steamer to France and from there to Berne. He had this big theory about e's equal to 'em sequiera's. "But", he said to himself, "the spelling a bit I had change better"

The week in review (unfunny post)

2009-08-13T20:08:00.005+05:30

Ok folks. Lost my muse somewhere. Can't think of anything funny to write, and yet feel like writing. Who better to inflict all this upon than my poor, unsuspecting readers? Here goes!

Things are pretty bad in Mumbai. I went to Alfa, the famous smuggled goods shop in Irla, to buy a cellphone battery and it was totally deserted. Now this place usually resembles a well packed tin of sardines. Today, it looked like a meeting of "Intellectuals of the Samajwadi Party". Population zero, I mean.

The reason of course is the swine flu panic. And this is the city which shrugs off bomb blasts and terrorist attacks. It's sad!

Schools and colleges are closed. The missus and I are at our wits end trying to find new ways of keeping the progeny amused and out-of-trouble. They keep fighting and hitting each other. If this happens when I am at home, I do what any responsible father would do. I slink off into another room. But if it happens when I'm not, I get a full report from Sheela who expects me to march into the kids' room and be treated like the Fuhrer. Ha! They take as much notice of me as a bunch of life-guards would of a ninety pound weakling.

Yesterday I went, with a couple of friends, to a Bhajan concert by Pandit Jasraj. This was at Shanmukhananda hall. I do get suckered into this kind of stuff every now and then, but seriously, I like Indian classical music. The way with which my fellow citizens receive Indian music saddens me. They go "yuck"! And then go on to listen to Eminem or Timberlake. I ask you! But it is no use. My own sons, my flesh and blood treat my choice of music with derision. For the record, the maestro was just OK - having an off day perhaps - but the chap who was accompanying him on the flute, a young lad named Shashank Subhramanyam was simply fantastic.

What else? Lets see.. Oh yes, here's a picture of me pretending to be Boddy Darling, handbag and all. The scene is outside the changing room at a garment shop in one of the many malls around our house which survive on the largesse of the missus.

And here's something which has been seriously bothering me. It's Vande Maataram sung in a different way. I heard it many years ago -don't even remember when - but everyone at home insists that they've never heard anything like this. Can anyone out there recall if they've heard this, and if they have, who sang it? (don't listen to this video if you have a weak heart. It is me, singing the tune from memory)

No more groaners

2009-08-11T22:59:00.003+05:30

No more groaners. I have received threats, and I'm taking them seriously.

Don't laugh. The Americans take the North Koreans seriously. And THEIR threat is a missile called Nodong. It is enshrined in their National Anthem (Take us Seriously. We have No Dong).

No the time has come when men must be men and behave like grown ups.

Even if they have No Dong.

And wise people must write their books of sayings.

Mao wrote one.

Barak wrote one.

Fidel's written one too.

Bill wants to write one but Hilary keeps burning the manuscript. Rumor has it that it is full of gems like

"There are only two sure signs that a woman is coming on to you
1. She's smiling
2. She's not smiling"

"One does not become President overnight. It took me years to learn the gropes"

"I love, admire and respect Hilary. She is a beacon. Radiant, illuminating, warm. Indeed in that respect, except for the fact that the latter can be screwed, she is like a light bulb to me."

Little known cases of Sigmund Freud

2009-08-09T22:44:00.003+05:30

Sigmund Freud has never been a stranger to controversy. People have challenged his radical theories hotly, bordering sometimes on the hysterical. But none can deny his calm composure, analytical ability and accurate diagnoses. Here is one which has recently come to light, hidden possibly because of the legendary celebrities involved, and particularly important because it is the first instance of his diagnosing a Complex which later became universally famous.

The case involved the main characters of the "Puss In Boots" fairy tale which, as you doubtless know, is based on real characters and events.

To summarize, a young man, the son of an impoverished miller, was left a cat as his sole legacy by his father. However, the cat turned out to be a member of the 'felis loquacious' species, capable of speech.

As the story goes, the cat turned out to be exceptionally clever. It advised the young miller first to jump into a river, then to pretend to be the Marquis of Carabas, and finally to pose as a lord and marry a princess.

It was this princess, by marriage now the Marquise of Carabas, who had come to Dr. Freud with her problem.

As was his practice, Sigmund asked her to lie down on a couch and sat behind her. The Marquise was a bit puzzled, and her puzzlement increased when Sigmund began questioning her.

"Do you have penis envy?" asked Sigmund

"Well, my best friend Marie married an American financier who owns property in many towns there including one called Phoenix, but no, I don't envy her. Pity her, actually. He's a crashing bore, name of Trump. No, I'd say no Phoenix envy.

"Your Ladyship misunderstands. I meant envy of the male organ, a common problem with members of the fairer sex"

"Oh, that! Oh, no, no!" said the Marquise, as realization dawned. I" have come to ask not about me but my husband. HE is the problem"

"Ah. Well, tell me all, your Ladyship"

"Where do I begin? I suppose you know my story, and that of my husband's rise to fame and fortune"

"The Puss in Boots legend! Who has not heard it, your Ladyship. It is true then?"

"Oh yes, every word"

"The Cat, she speaks?"

"Oui, monsieur, very fluently. And the problem is, my husband hangs upon her every word"

"Mais oui, I suppose it is but to be expected, given that the Cat is the architect of his success"

"But EVERYTHING? He asks her for advice if he has to go to the BATHROOM!"

"Even in - er - matters of the private nature? Between yourself and his lordship I mean?"

"Yes, damn it! Every little kiss has to be asked to the cat. It's driving me nuts! Do something, Dr. Freud! You will be justly rewarded"

Sigmund paused in thought. He had been studying a number of cases, and drawing his own conclusions, but he had never made his thoughts known to anyone. But now..... perhaps NOW was the time......

"Your Ladyship" Sigmund said "This is the very cutting edge of psychoanalytical research, but I think I am completely certain of the diagnosis"

"What is it?" asked the Marquess, breathless in anticipation

"It's called the Heed a Puss Complex"

A Little known Arthurian story

2009-08-07T08:54:00.004+05:30

King Arthur was pensive. Sitting on his throne, with his hand to his chin, the great king looked sad and lost. All was silent in the court. A patina of gloom seemed to have descended on Camelot.

Knights in shining armour looked at knights in matte finish material. Varlets looked at knaves. Maids looked at pages. (Most of whom were pages in charge of clearing out the cobwebs in the palace, otherwise known as web pages).

Only Queen Guinivere looked on proudly. From time to time King Arthur would look at her sadly and shift his gaze back to the floor.

Suddenly there was a puff of light and Merlin the Wizard appeared. The assemblage promptly bowed to the King's revered wizard and advisor.

A quick glance around the room told Merlin that all was not well. With a wave of his hand, he bid them to be gone.

"We wish to have a word with the King in private", he roared and the company dispersed hastily.

"What be it, Arthur? From whence hast this gloom descended, like the fog descendeth on the lake? Excuseth thou the Purple Prose, but we are wearing our Purple gown today" said the Wizard.

"She slept with Gawain last night", said Arthur, gesturing with a thumb towards Guinivere, who continued to stare defiantly.

"I have but purity in my heart, O reverent wizard Merlin" said the Queen.

Merlin gazed at her with his magical vision and turned to Arthur

"'Tis true, Arthur. She speaketh not a lie. Art thou sure thou hast seen what thou thinks though hast seen? That it is not a despicable illusion by Sir Mordred?"

"Ask thou that thyself", snapped King Arthur

"Hast thou, Queen Guinivere, done what Arthur sayeth?"

"I do not deny the event, O Wise Wizard, merely its impropriety"

It took the Wizard a few moments to work this out. Turning to Arthur, Merlin asked

"Hast thou sanctioned this, King Arthur? Art thou NUTS!"

"I swear I have not. She has been sleeping with them all. Last night it was Gawain. The night before it was Galahad. And the other morning I spied Lancelot tippy-toeing out with a smirk on his face. Yet she denies all wrongdoing, and continues unrepentant. We are at a loss"

Merlin smiled sadly. "Arthur, Arthur, thou art a dolt"

"Me? What did I do?"

"Think back, Arthur. Did thou not covenant Guinivere to unhesitatingly and guiltlessly obey thy commands?"

"Yes, but that was to help her overcome her reservations about killing, should any evil being attack her when I am away"

"And rightly so. But is it not beholden upon thee, then, to weigh thy words carefully and evaluate all their implications?"

"I suppose so, but what did I say?" Arthur cried in puzzlement.

"It is always the simplest explanation, mon ami" said Merlin. "What is the last thing thou tellest her before retiring?"

"Has thou kept the milk bottles outside the castle?"

"No, after that"

"Oh!" Said Arthur, for realization had dawned upon him. The wise Merlin had solved it, as usual.

"I tell her to have a good night" he said.

"Exactly", smiled Merlin

Update: I have received an interesting mail from one Prof. Hogsbottom, expert in Arthurian History. He says "Back then, pages in charge of cleaning cobwebs would have a free run of the premises and thus be privy to all kinds of secrets. As a precaution, therefore the pages in charge of the royal chambers would be locked up in special cellars (or crypts) so that they could not relay information accidentally overheard. They were called encrypted pages"

Little Known Facts about Medieval Russian History

2009-08-05T10:17:00.003+05:30

Feudalism, or manorialism, was a system of forced labor where lords enslaved laborers and forced them to work on their farms. The laborers were called serfs and they were not allowed to leave the land they were bonded to.

This practice was common all over Eastern Europe, and particularly severe in the Russian empire. Indeed, the excesses of this system formed the basis for the Communist Revolt.

But that is not our topic today. Today we are going to discuss details of day-to-day life in those times.

Recently discovered artefacts and accounts from the period suggest that serfs often tried to escape across the vast, unpeopled steppes of Asia Minor.

Initially, it appears, the lords did not bother, because they believed that the serfs would perish in the harsh conditions on the steppe.

Soon, however, it was obvious that the serfs were not only managing to survive, they were setting up villages of their own.

Alarmed, the lords started actively pursuing the serfs and capturing them, usually with a net, in the fashion of the Roman Retiarii.

The most interesting account appears in the diary of a lord, dating from that period.

Meticulously written, the diary describes the equipment required for the purpose.

"A net of strong twine, a spear, a lance, a fast horse, all these are required for capturing them.

And do not forget to wear a band tight around thy waist.

And make sure the band around thy waist is not too narrow

For it is only too well known that a broad band is required for netting the serfs."

The underbelly of the celebrity world

2009-08-03T21:40:00.002+05:30

"Did Stevie pay for the wine and cheese he ordered?" Mr Singh the grocer asked his partner, also Mr. Singh.

"Stevie who?"

"Stevie Wonder, old chap. "

"Oh, the guy who sings"

"I believe he does, yes. Quite famous, to go by what my cousin says. "

"Cousin? Which one?"

"My cousin. The one you met last month. His name is Mr. Singh, if you recollect"

"Oh that one. Mr. Singh's son. Well what about him?"

"Who? My cousin?"

"No, Stevie Wonder. Did he send in the payment? I am quite worried about these celebrities. Michael Jackson, he died quite penniless, I'm told. Mike Tyson is quite broke. And Stevie Wonder isn't doing too well, according to the grapevine"

"Oh, that's the connection!"

"Connection?"

"Yes. He called up the other night and sang something which I couldn't quite get the significance of. But now, I see all! I don't think we're going to get our money anytime soon"

"Why? What did he sing?"

"I just called to say I'll owe you"

"At least he's decent. The late Michael Jackson told me to beat it"

Designer Tees from the House of Donatella Shenoy

2009-08-01T17:39:00.006+05:30

Hi folks! Summer is here, which means we in the fashion industry are already thinking of fall 2021. The color is white, silly. And the look is casual. Here's a peep into what's trending.

Little known medical cases involving Bollywood personalities

2009-08-01T00:27:00.002+05:30

Aamir Khan

This talented actor is known for going to any extent for a shot. He immerses himself so much into the role that he ends up doing things quite dangerous to himself.

In one of his films, the scene involved the bad guy forcing him to eat stones. Aamir actually swallowed some, and though the shot turned out amazing, the next morning he was in agony. A couple of the stones he had recklessly swallowed seemed to have got stuck somewhere in his alimentary canal.

A doctor was called in immediately. An experienced man, he wasted no time in scans or X-rays

"Get me a sigmoidoscope", he barked at his assistant, who got one from the car.

As it was inserted up Aamir's dorsal end, the doctor assessed the situation as safe, and asked for Aamir to be given an enema. "That should do the trick", he said and like all doctors who have looked up a fellow human's backside, asked for tea.

"But sir", said his student, "The stones seem to be pretty far inside. Almost in the small intestine. How will an enema help? Shouldn't we operate?"

"My dear chap! Small intestine forsooth! The stones are right here in the rectum, waiting to be flushed out"

"But then, why does it seem.....?" The student was puzzled.

"Ah, you youngsters probably haven't heard of it, but we of the old school have learnt the old maxim by heart"

"Maxim?"

"You know, Objects in Aamir are closer than they appear"

Author's note: I realize I'm hitting new lows here but my excuse is that it is 1 am and I am unable to sleep, because of the North Korean Situation. Please forgive me.

An Arctic Tale

2009-07-31T00:24:00.003+05:30

The blizzard was fierce. Old Tuskegaw the Inuit hunkered down with his huskies in the little ice shelter he had rustled up. The tundra could be lethal. He knew that, and was taking no chances.

The dogs whimpered. Even for them, this blizzard was too much. Tuskegaw could sense that. He was grateful to the spirits for guarding them thus far, and prayed they would continue to do so.

For he had a mission to accomplish. A sled full of Geometry books, just imported from China where printing was the cheapest, to be transported to his tribespeople, living on the North Pole. Knowledge! Liberation from generations of battle with unforgiving Nature!

Tuskegaw looked heavenward and thanked the spirits once again for the rare honour bestowed upon him. It was not everyday that one got the opportunity to cart Asian geometry to Polar Coordinates.

Is it normal for middle aged men to go nuts?

2009-07-29T18:10:00.004+05:30

Hi, this is Sheela Shenoy here. I've had to take over the controls from Naren on account of his showing strong signs of having gone nuts.

Now, this is not in itself alarming. Goofiness comes to Naren naturally. A bit like golf to Tiger Woods, or Kung Fu to all 1.3 billion Chinese people. But this time, I wondered if it wasn't a bit over the usual form.

It began with the Mint newspaper. It carried an article (I've added a screen capture thing above, because I just figured out how it is done. Cool!) which said that the acreage under food was shrinking. I showed it to Naren, just as a sign of the times.

Me: Saw this article?

Naren: (Peering through the wrong part of his bifocals) Um... The print is a bit hazy

Me: Naren, the lower half. You are supposed to peer through the lower half when you want to read something. The upper half is for distances.

Naren: Oh yes, yes. When am I ever going to get used to this.... Oh, Acreage under Food Shrinks....

Me: (waiting for him to say something)

Naren: What in the world is a Food Shrink? And why would someone put acreage under them?

Me: Huh?

So you see, all is not well in our little homestead, brain cell wise.

Toodle-oo

From the desk of Mrs. S.

One of Poirot's little known cases

2009-07-28T21:34:00.003+05:30

(Discovered in the secret diaries of Dame Agatha)

The Affair of the Admiral's Rear

"Monsieur Poirot, the matter is serious", said Chief Inspector Japp, whispering into the phone.

"But of course, my dear Japp, it always is! Pray, proceed"

" We have tracked down the fiend to the Ritz Carlton but we have to treat the matter most discreetly." I heard Japp say, as I listened in on the extension. Poirot insists that I eavesdrop on official conversations, just in case he misses out something. Fat chance of THAT happening!

"Eh bien, but tell me, monsieur! There is nothing, NOTHING that escapes Hercule Poirot" my friend told him, without a trace of conceit.

"Alright, then, here's what we know. "The rapist is in one of two rooms. In one is the beautiful and charming Princess of Pomerania and in the other is the Chief of Her Majesty's Navy, Admiral Pinchingham".

"Ah! A touch of kleptomania, peut etre" said Poirot

"You misunderstand, Monsieur. Pinchingham is a name, not an affliction"

"Alors. You will forgive an old man his mistakes. Tell me, are they alone in their respective rooms?" asked Poirot

" The staff swears there is no one else in those rooms, but we can hear scuffling sounds in both."

"Mais oui, they play the game of love in their respective rooms, young and old alike, do they not?", remarked Poirot, with a hint of a smile.

Japp made a disgusted grunting sound, which we both interpreted as the affirmative.

"Why do you not barge in then, my friend? The Scotland Yard is not known for its delicacy in these matters" asked Poirot

"Oh no, Monsieur P. That wouldn't do at all. If we barge in and find them in a compromising position with a friend, instead of the rapist, there will be hell to pay. A diplomatic incident. The Foreign Office will have my head should I embarass the Princess, and the Ministry of Defense will flay me alive should I dare to be indiscreet with the Commander of the Fleet . No, we have to be absolutely sure. And there is no time, if the fiend is in there with one of them". The urgency in Japp's voice was unmistakable.

"The rapist is from Prague, did you say?"

"Yes. Yes, I believe. But what does that have....?"

"Then storm the poor Admiral's chamber and rescue him from a painful fate" said Poirot.

"Thanks a million, old chap", said Japp, at the flat later in the evening. "I don't know when I've been in a tighter spot. But how on earth did you know the rapist was rodgering poor Admiral Pinchingham? I had a strong feeling it would have been the Princess. She is supposed to be devilishly beautiful, you know"

"My dear Japp, but you do not use the little grey cells", said Poirot, his green eyes gleaming like a cat's. "The moment I heard the rapist was from Prague, I knew that he would be with the Admiral!"

"You said that before" I said "What does THAT have anything to do with it?"

"Ah, Hastings, mon ami, have you not heard the quaint little phrase?"

"Which quaint little phrase?" I asked

"You know, the one that the insufferable Americans use all the time"

Realisation dawned! "Oh, I see now!" exclaimed Japp. "The Czech is in the Male"

What to do, no time pass only

2009-07-27T22:50:00.004+05:30

The plot to assasinate Hitler

2009-07-26T19:52:00.004+05:30

A little known plot to kill Hitler has recently come to light.

General Wolfgang Hoffenstrotengrottenstrader of Hitler's Northern African command devised an ingenious method of doing what he felt was the only solution to the madness in Germany. His plan was to let loose wasps or bees to attack Hitler, the idea being that the poisonous stings would kill the fuhrer, he being a total wimp, and even if they failed, no one would know.

In the secret discussions leading up to the plot, the eminent biologist Ludwig van Borstencroftrendstrhratthenburg pointed out that bee stings might not be strong enough and proposed that European Hornets, vespa crabro, were the best choice because they were the most toxic and aggressive. However, Hoffenstrotengrottenstrader refused to heed his advice and the Fuhrer escaped with a few stings at unknown locations (Ms. Braun was heard to ask the Fuhrer if he had coconuts in his pockets or was he just happy to see her, but historians have refused to draw conclusions)

Anyway, children, the take home message here is that Hornets is the Best policy.

The week in review

2009-07-26T11:57:00.006+05:30

The week went pretty well. I had a near death experience. Yes, you guessed it. I nearly got dragged to a screening of "Kambakht Ishq".

The technique was stealth, as usual. The missus, who was Sun Tzu in an earlier life, manouevered us to the multiplex on the pretext of eating at the food court in Inorbit Mall (claim to fame - more people hanging around than at Churchgate Station on Monday morning). We 'accidentally' happened to find ourselves outside the box office where the missus suddenly got a brilliant idea

"Hey! How about watching 'Kambakht Ishq'?

My older son, Vyaas, who is such a yes man when it comes to the powers that be that he could walk into the Congress Party without question, immediately said 'yes'. He is also an Akshay Kumar fan. In fact, when we went to Goa earlier this year, he insisted on going to Anjuna beach (a crappier beach than which I have yet to see, and I have seen all the beaches in Bombay) because Akshay Kumar has a bungalow there.

But the younger son and I are made of sterner stuff. And luckily, there was a Harry Potter playing on another screen at almost the same time.

"Oh, look. Harry Potter!" I exclaimed, theatrically, whereupon younger son, promptly taking his cue said

"Wow! Annie, please can we watch Harry Potter?"

And thus, saved from a fate one would not wish upon one's enemies, Gautham and I toddled off to watch Harry Potter and the Half Blood prince.

Gautham was in his element.

"Half blood? What's the other half? Petrol?"

Petrol? Why Petrol? But his thought processes are difficult to fathom. And when I tried explaining that Half Blood usually means mixed parentage and blah blah, he had already vanished to the popcorn stall. Kids. You can give them a complete force-fed meal with the usual 'my stomach is bursting' protestations and twenty seconds later they will ask for popcorn.

The movie started the usual Harry Potter way, which is 'way over my head'. Gautham, who seemed to have heard the story from someone, kept telling me what was happening.

Somewhere halfway through the movie, I found him snoring gently, asleep on my shoulder. I watched on for a while and before I knew what was happening, I had crashed out myself.

I am thus unable to report if the movie had sustaining dramatic interest. When the lights came on at last, a kindly usher woke us up and we shuffled out of the movie theater satisfied which, as you all know, is the mark of good cinema.

The missus and Vyaas, on the other hand, were not so lucky. You could see from the wild, hunted look in their eyes that they had recently had their blood curdled.

"Nice movie?" I asked.

Silence. Perhaps they didn't hear that.

"Nice movie?" I repeated

"Can we go home please?" asked the missus, in a strained voice, indicating that the subject was closed for discussion.

And even now, several days after the viewing, we do no talk about it.

If Voldemort is the wizard whose name must not be spoken, Kambakht ishq is the movie about which None Shall Speak.

Have a great Sunday.

Random rant

2009-07-21T01:16:00.003+05:30

I'm generally a peaceful man. One who can leave things alone. When North Korea launched that missile, I did not say word. A hint of a smile and a wry "Kims will be kims" and my lips were sealed. So with the Uighur rebellion. Not a peep. But when the auto guy wriggled past me and stood ahead of my car at the signal, the Nelson Mandela in me gave up. The time for peaceful coexistence was over.

It was not just the injustice of this territorial infringement. When the light turned green, the auto driver in question just stared at it, trying to process the information.

"The light is green", his eyes told his brain.

"Wow! So it is! What now?" said the brain

"Search me", said the eyes. "I think green is the color of the season"

"No, no!" The brain was screaming "I know there is someting else...something much more significant....more urgent...something to do with the fact that all the cars behind me are honking their asses off..... Ah, I got it! Green means go!"

This, dear reader, is the thought process of the average Mumbai auto driver. And by the time his diligent neurons fire their message to the muscles that control the throttle of the auto, the light has turned to red and yours truly is reduced to a slobbering wreck at the wheel. For the auto guy has managed to slink away, escaping a well deserved kick on the backside.

Apart from that, the weekend was pretty good. I of course went without the customary fresh water and ice with a drop of Scottish agricultural produce that I usually have over the weekend, owing to missus' shoulder injury. I am holding, apart from my usual position as chief secretary of Madame's office, additional charge as comber of her hair (since she can't tie her own ponytail). One does not drink on duty when one is occupying such high office.

By the way, here's a good one from my ophthalmologist. I went to him to have my eyes tested and found out I need bifocals. I got a pair made from the guy down the street. He gave me the regular ones and told me I should get something called variable lens which does not show the tell tale line of the bifocals and communicate to the general public the important message "Hey look! I am young! I am not a bifocal wearing loser!". Now this is more expensive than the regular bifocal by a factor of 3, so I went back to the ophthalmologist for advice." What do you think,doctor? Do you think the variable lenses are worht the extra cash?"

He told me that they were both useless. He himself has one regular bifocal, one variable lens and one pair of glasses to look for these two.

Awright then, have fun.