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.
Showing posts with label Autobiographical. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Autobiographical. Show all posts
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Random rant
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.
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.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
The Week In Review
A lot of things have been happening this week.
First, I got my eyes tested and found out I needed bifocals. Just got me a pair. I'm officially old now.
Just as I was lamenting this sad piece of news and trying to figure out how to mourn it (the answer is "with scotch"), the missus reported a bad shoulder. She had been complaining of pain for a few days now. This morning, she awoke practically unable to move her right arm.
I know what you're thinking. One less arm to hit me with. So did I. But I couldn't bear to see her in tears.
I rushed her to the orthopedic surgeon and an X-ray and sonography later, he told me it was tendinitis, nothing to worry about. Just rest the arm and pop these pills. She'll be fine in no time.
Which means wife is currently lording it in the Shenoy Manor and orders me around like I was her serf or something, which, I realized, I am.
Michael Jackson's death has made him very popular in my house. My kids and their mother can listen to no other. The younger one's even learning the moonwalk, which I shall try to post a video of.
Infact, I've got a little football video of his which I think I'll post. This is under my watch, we were supposed to be studying Science for the Unit Test. I was explaning to him the chapter on Bio-diversity.
But I digress. I was talking about Michael Jackson.
My mother said "He's that man who sings childrens songs doesn't he?"
"Childrens songs?" I didn't seem to recall any.
"He keeps saying My Baby, My Baby. I heard him just now"
"Mom, the baby in that song is not his child. It's his girlfriend"
"His girlfriend is a baby? No wonder he had those child molestation cases against him"
It's no use arguing with mom. Especially where it concerns popular culture.
First, I got my eyes tested and found out I needed bifocals. Just got me a pair. I'm officially old now.
Just as I was lamenting this sad piece of news and trying to figure out how to mourn it (the answer is "with scotch"), the missus reported a bad shoulder. She had been complaining of pain for a few days now. This morning, she awoke practically unable to move her right arm.
I know what you're thinking. One less arm to hit me with. So did I. But I couldn't bear to see her in tears.
I rushed her to the orthopedic surgeon and an X-ray and sonography later, he told me it was tendinitis, nothing to worry about. Just rest the arm and pop these pills. She'll be fine in no time.
Which means wife is currently lording it in the Shenoy Manor and orders me around like I was her serf or something, which, I realized, I am.
Michael Jackson's death has made him very popular in my house. My kids and their mother can listen to no other. The younger one's even learning the moonwalk, which I shall try to post a video of.
Infact, I've got a little football video of his which I think I'll post. This is under my watch, we were supposed to be studying Science for the Unit Test. I was explaning to him the chapter on Bio-diversity.
But I digress. I was talking about Michael Jackson.
My mother said "He's that man who sings childrens songs doesn't he?"
"Childrens songs?" I didn't seem to recall any.
"He keeps saying My Baby, My Baby. I heard him just now"
"Mom, the baby in that song is not his child. It's his girlfriend"
"His girlfriend is a baby? No wonder he had those child molestation cases against him"
It's no use arguing with mom. Especially where it concerns popular culture.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
More Dear Diary stuff
This is really addictive, this 'dear diary' stuff. I mean, if you want to write about current affairs or economic implications or whatever you need to be in touch with what is happening in the world.
"And brains".
Thank you, Sheela.
Ok, here goes. After watching the movie "Hangover", which incidentally we watched with (preen) Konkona Sen and Ranveer Shorey (who incidentally has a pot belly. Cool! My brother!) we watched "Ice Age 3" , in 3d, with the kids and my mom. Thoroughly enjoyed it!
Actually they (my family, not Konkona and Ranveer) had set out to watch "New York", which I refused to view unless physically threatened with fire-arms. I carried a book and decided to sit in the food court reading. Perhaps a foot note is in order here - I do not watch Yash Raj Films movies because of the Punjab ke kheta that tend to spring out of nowhere without warning, usually to a song involving Rabba and Shahrukh Khan which is known to lead to large scale suicide by non-regenerating brain cells used for important thought processes such as selecting an appropriate alcoholic beverage. I'm not made of brain cells you know. The one's I have I want to last the full 100 years or whatever.
"There's no Shahrukh Khan in this movie" said the missus
But I didn't trust her. You can never trust women when it comes to SHahrukh Khan. To any human with a Y chromosome in his body, it is self evident that SRK is a loser, ugly-pug, detestable fraud who thinks a fake stammer is histrionics. But you can't say that to a woman. She will claw your face and you will be lucky to possess the same number of nuts you were born with after she is done with you.
Luckily for me, "New York" turned out to be full, which is how we landed up for a kiddy movie which made more sense than all the YashRaj movies till date.
In other news, I just read that Google is launching a new OS. This is a straight threat to Microsoft, say the analysts. Yeah sure. People have been giving away, for free, Linux OSes better in all respects than Bill's little offerings, immune to viruses and hackers, and Linux - all flavours put together - still has less than 1% of the share. People want to pay money to Bill. I don't know why - probably his body - but they do. It is one of the facts of nature, like gravity or the insistence of the Chinese that every piece of land on earth was once an integral part of their country and they want it back.
And it is official. The movie "Kambakht Ishq" is the worst movie in the world. One of my favorite bloggers once told me that he wanted to make, for World Record purposes, the worst movie in the world and he had decided to name it "Chandni Chowk to Drona". Well his job just got harder. Beating "Kambakht Ishq" is likely to be impossible "even for me" as Akshay Kumar himself admitted.
"And brains".
Thank you, Sheela.
Ok, here goes. After watching the movie "Hangover", which incidentally we watched with (preen) Konkona Sen and Ranveer Shorey (who incidentally has a pot belly. Cool! My brother!) we watched "Ice Age 3" , in 3d, with the kids and my mom. Thoroughly enjoyed it!
Actually they (my family, not Konkona and Ranveer) had set out to watch "New York", which I refused to view unless physically threatened with fire-arms. I carried a book and decided to sit in the food court reading. Perhaps a foot note is in order here - I do not watch Yash Raj Films movies because of the Punjab ke kheta that tend to spring out of nowhere without warning, usually to a song involving Rabba and Shahrukh Khan which is known to lead to large scale suicide by non-regenerating brain cells used for important thought processes such as selecting an appropriate alcoholic beverage. I'm not made of brain cells you know. The one's I have I want to last the full 100 years or whatever.
"There's no Shahrukh Khan in this movie" said the missus
But I didn't trust her. You can never trust women when it comes to SHahrukh Khan. To any human with a Y chromosome in his body, it is self evident that SRK is a loser, ugly-pug, detestable fraud who thinks a fake stammer is histrionics. But you can't say that to a woman. She will claw your face and you will be lucky to possess the same number of nuts you were born with after she is done with you.
Luckily for me, "New York" turned out to be full, which is how we landed up for a kiddy movie which made more sense than all the YashRaj movies till date.
In other news, I just read that Google is launching a new OS. This is a straight threat to Microsoft, say the analysts. Yeah sure. People have been giving away, for free, Linux OSes better in all respects than Bill's little offerings, immune to viruses and hackers, and Linux - all flavours put together - still has less than 1% of the share. People want to pay money to Bill. I don't know why - probably his body - but they do. It is one of the facts of nature, like gravity or the insistence of the Chinese that every piece of land on earth was once an integral part of their country and they want it back.
And it is official. The movie "Kambakht Ishq" is the worst movie in the world. One of my favorite bloggers once told me that he wanted to make, for World Record purposes, the worst movie in the world and he had decided to name it "Chandni Chowk to Drona". Well his job just got harder. Beating "Kambakht Ishq" is likely to be impossible "even for me" as Akshay Kumar himself admitted.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Dear Diary stuff
"It's a bit low", the missus said when I told her I was going to write a sort of online diary in my blog.
"Low? Why?"
" Well you're not exactly important are you? You are not even interesting"
"Thanks".
"I mean, to random people on the street. Why don't you write something instructive and informative?"
"What about?" I asked.
"About something you know well. Something that would interest the general public. Something they can benefit from."
I racked my brains.
"Like a drinking guide?"
She rolled her eyes.
"Alright, smarty pants, go write that diary. But don't be surprised if you see your readership dwindle to single digits."
Ha! She doesn't know it is in single digits already. Anyway, here goes.
Narendra Shenoy presents - A fascinating account of his daily life.
"Have you seen Hangover?" my sister asked me.
Seen hangovers? Me? Has the captain of the Titanic seen icebergs? Has Genghis Khan seen horses? Has W.J.Clinton of Little Rock, Arkansas, seen interns? Of course I have. But I said all this in my mind, because my sister, my kid sister, the one whose pigtails I used to pull and dolls I used to break, is a full fledged dentist, licensed to put sharp, whirring equipment in my mouth. I give her LOTS of respect.
So I told her that I had not only seen them, I had experienced them too. Though not with the regularity I would have liked, but that is because of the missus who refuses to believe that alcohol is a medicine.
"Not that hangover, you twit, the movie", she said.
(There was a little side dialog happening between my sister and my wife, if you're interested in my personal life. I forget the exact words, but it went something like this
Sis: (To Missus): Is he ALWAYS like this?
Missus: YOU should know. He is YOUR brother.
Sis: I know. Useless to hush it up now. You know, you should fix this.
Missus: YOU fix it. You are the one he's really afraid of.
Sis: Hmm. Send him over on Wednesday afternoon for a dental check up.
Chilling, if you know what I mean.)
And so, the missus and I saw the movie called "Hangover" last night. It's brilliant! One of the funniest movies I've ever seen. Don't miss it.
"Low? Why?"
" Well you're not exactly important are you? You are not even interesting"
"Thanks".
"I mean, to random people on the street. Why don't you write something instructive and informative?"
"What about?" I asked.
"About something you know well. Something that would interest the general public. Something they can benefit from."
I racked my brains.
"Like a drinking guide?"
She rolled her eyes.
"Alright, smarty pants, go write that diary. But don't be surprised if you see your readership dwindle to single digits."
Ha! She doesn't know it is in single digits already. Anyway, here goes.
Narendra Shenoy presents - A fascinating account of his daily life.
"Have you seen Hangover?" my sister asked me.
Seen hangovers? Me? Has the captain of the Titanic seen icebergs? Has Genghis Khan seen horses? Has W.J.Clinton of Little Rock, Arkansas, seen interns? Of course I have. But I said all this in my mind, because my sister, my kid sister, the one whose pigtails I used to pull and dolls I used to break, is a full fledged dentist, licensed to put sharp, whirring equipment in my mouth. I give her LOTS of respect.
So I told her that I had not only seen them, I had experienced them too. Though not with the regularity I would have liked, but that is because of the missus who refuses to believe that alcohol is a medicine.
"Not that hangover, you twit, the movie", she said.
(There was a little side dialog happening between my sister and my wife, if you're interested in my personal life. I forget the exact words, but it went something like this
Sis: (To Missus): Is he ALWAYS like this?
Missus: YOU should know. He is YOUR brother.
Sis: I know. Useless to hush it up now. You know, you should fix this.
Missus: YOU fix it. You are the one he's really afraid of.
Sis: Hmm. Send him over on Wednesday afternoon for a dental check up.
Chilling, if you know what I mean.)
And so, the missus and I saw the movie called "Hangover" last night. It's brilliant! One of the funniest movies I've ever seen. Don't miss it.
Friday, July 3, 2009
What I have been up to lately
I've been having those blog blues everyone seemed to be writing about sometime back. You know, didn't write because I couldn't think of anything interesting to say.
"Doesn't seem to stop you from talking", observed the missus, "not having anything interesting to say, I mean".
The missus confuses insult for wit, but I am dignity personified.
"Many people enjoy my writing, I will have you know", I told her in my most majestic manner, drawing myself up to my full height, which being half an inch less than the elder son, robs me of my alpha male status.
Any way, all this is by way of introduction to what I wanted to write about, which is that I'm back to school. Well sort of. I joined a course in Robotics.
When I announced my intention to join up, the missus raised a shapely eyebrow.
"Why?" I asked her combatively "you think I'm too old for the classroom?"
"Naren, this course is for final year engineering students looking to add some value to their CVs, not geriatric wannabe technology geeks."
She seemed to have read the prospectus.
"Well, I'm joining up anyway", I told her, chest out, stomach in, like my gym instructor keeps telling me.
And off I went, with the requisite amount of finance in my hands. The young lady in charge curtly asked me for my qualifications and asked me if I could see programming.
"I beg your pardon?"
"See programming", she reiterated.
"See Programming? I'm afraid I don't understand.. Ah C programming!" I'm pretty quick on the uptake. The lady was referring to the ability to write instructions for computers in a language called, for reasons best known to the highest echelons of geekness, 'C'.
I confessed that I was not an expert.
"It is very very important." she asserted, sternly, adding "If you don't know C programming, we will set you on fire" or something along those lines.
I decided something had to be done about this, and walked into a computer training institute near my house. An earnest young woman made me fill out a form and accepted my fees.
"We will start day after tomorrow, she told me.
When I reached home, I got a call from her.
"Sir, there are a couple of things you left out in the form. Could you come by and complete it?"
"If I tell you over the phone, could you fill it out yourself?" I asked her
"I suppose so", she replied. "Ok, what's your father's name?"
"V. V. Shenoy"
"And what is your date of birth?"
"21st april 1965"
Pause
"I mean YOUR date of birth, sir, not your father's"
Now it is my turn to pause.
"Miss, that IS my date of birth."
"Oh."
Well that was that as far as the computer training institute was concerned but the robotics course had its charming moments too.
We did the usual first session hellomynameis stuff followed by branch and year of passing out. I passed my engineering in 1986. All the other students are born after this date. And the teacher calls me "Sir". Most of the class thought I was on deputation from the State Government to assess the quality of students and teachers, and spent the first two sessions behaving as if I was an Aztec god looking for some decent human sacrifices..............
"Doesn't seem to stop you from talking", observed the missus, "not having anything interesting to say, I mean".
The missus confuses insult for wit, but I am dignity personified.
"Many people enjoy my writing, I will have you know", I told her in my most majestic manner, drawing myself up to my full height, which being half an inch less than the elder son, robs me of my alpha male status.
Any way, all this is by way of introduction to what I wanted to write about, which is that I'm back to school. Well sort of. I joined a course in Robotics.
When I announced my intention to join up, the missus raised a shapely eyebrow.
"Why?" I asked her combatively "you think I'm too old for the classroom?"
"Naren, this course is for final year engineering students looking to add some value to their CVs, not geriatric wannabe technology geeks."
She seemed to have read the prospectus.
"Well, I'm joining up anyway", I told her, chest out, stomach in, like my gym instructor keeps telling me.
And off I went, with the requisite amount of finance in my hands. The young lady in charge curtly asked me for my qualifications and asked me if I could see programming.
"I beg your pardon?"
"See programming", she reiterated.
"See Programming? I'm afraid I don't understand.. Ah C programming!" I'm pretty quick on the uptake. The lady was referring to the ability to write instructions for computers in a language called, for reasons best known to the highest echelons of geekness, 'C'.
I confessed that I was not an expert.
"It is very very important." she asserted, sternly, adding "If you don't know C programming, we will set you on fire" or something along those lines.
I decided something had to be done about this, and walked into a computer training institute near my house. An earnest young woman made me fill out a form and accepted my fees.
"We will start day after tomorrow, she told me.
When I reached home, I got a call from her.
"Sir, there are a couple of things you left out in the form. Could you come by and complete it?"
"If I tell you over the phone, could you fill it out yourself?" I asked her
"I suppose so", she replied. "Ok, what's your father's name?"
"V. V. Shenoy"
"And what is your date of birth?"
"21st april 1965"
Pause
"I mean YOUR date of birth, sir, not your father's"
Now it is my turn to pause.
"Miss, that IS my date of birth."
"Oh."
Well that was that as far as the computer training institute was concerned but the robotics course had its charming moments too.
We did the usual first session hellomynameis stuff followed by branch and year of passing out. I passed my engineering in 1986. All the other students are born after this date. And the teacher calls me "Sir". Most of the class thought I was on deputation from the State Government to assess the quality of students and teachers, and spent the first two sessions behaving as if I was an Aztec god looking for some decent human sacrifices..............
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Who told them, I wonder
Extremely bad taste, of course, to call me a Wild Ass Visitor and order me out, but who tipped them off, I wonder
Friday, June 5, 2009
This is your ... errr...captain
I'm writing this from Dubai airport. Took a flight here on the splendid Emirates airlines. For roughly the price of an ipod, I got pampered by the stewardess (intrguingly named 'Dragana'), got to watch two and a half movies on a tilting lcd screen, and developed double vision thanks to the copious Dewars Whisky plied by the said Dragana. But the thing that prompted me to write this post is the way pilots talk to us passengers when the plane is - how shall I put it - irrevocably in the air. Here's what he said ....."Good evening. This is your captain speaking from the flight deck. We are flying to..(pause)...err...(longer pause, sound of papers being shuffled)...Dubai on (long pause) Emirates(implied question mark) at ..errrr.....35000 feet... " and so on. My question is, what the f**k is the pilot smoking if he has to struggle to remember the port of call? But Dragana swings by again with that million dollar smile - and what a dazzler that is, 97% teeth and 3% miscellaneous facial features - accompanied, this time, by some kind of Irish whiskey and I revert to the double vision problem.
If you've guessed that I am worried about the state of international air travel, you wouldn't be far off the mark. But if you're speculating that I might have had more of the said whiskey in the said airport, you would be fairly accurate.
Ciao, and be in touch.
If you've guessed that I am worried about the state of international air travel, you wouldn't be far off the mark. But if you're speculating that I might have had more of the said whiskey in the said airport, you would be fairly accurate.
Ciao, and be in touch.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Frozen in Mumbai
I'm a great believer in intuition and personal insight. My intuition and personal insight is that the temperature in Mumbai is -27 degrees. I know, I know, the thermometer says 9.6 Celsius but I think it is a great imperialist plot to lull the Indian public into a false sense of security. Even as we speak, CIA agents are shooting large beams of infra red radiation to melt the snow. According to my neighbor Mr. Shah, the world is tilting rapidly and very soon, the north pole will be where Srinagar is now and Mumbai will have the climate of Oslo. Mr. Shah knows everything. He knows when the market will go up, when it will go down, how much money the Finance Minister is eating, who will be the next Miss Universe, how many feet the sea levels will rise when the ice caps melt, when this will happen, which buildings in Versova, Mumbai will be submerged, how much the Nano will actually cost when it is launched, the share holding pattern of the Reliance group. Everything, except the fact that Wendy, their Pomeranian, is making out with a brown mongrel on the street outside. I don't want to tell him that, he'll probably have a heart attack. I don't want him to go just now. He's going to tell me his theory of how Jesus Christ and Buddha are the same person. It is based on the fact that Mary Magdalene, Christ's disciple was a prostitute and Amrapali of Magadha, the Buddha's disciple, was a prostitute too, and that Magdalene means from Magadha and hence Christ and Buddha are the same person, which means that Christ was buried in Kashmir.
As you will doubtless agree, this winter has frozen some brains too.
As you will doubtless agree, this winter has frozen some brains too.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Cellphones - their part in my hair loss
Every once in a while I get the feeling that I am really not part of this world. You know, like you've just come out of the Kalahari desert, lost and disoriented. Except that bushmen can find their way around by the stars. I can't find may way around in the mall, because I find the signage confusing. Nothing is written in words, just internationally accepted symbols. I frequently land up at the baggage counter for a pee. Anyway, thats a different story. What I was getting around to saying is that every once in a while I get the feeling that I'm lost and cellphones are guaranteed to make me feel that way.
My basic attitude towards buying cellphones is to get away with buying the cheapest one possible. I would much rather spend my money on fine alcoholic beverages, you see, than buy expensive cellphones so that the people who make them can buy fine alcoholic beverages. So when my finely honed instincts drag me towards the crap-phone counter, Sheela and the boys feel I'm being a cheapskate. "Dad", one of the boys said, "even the guy who washes the car has a better phone". There was much truth in that statement. The guy who washes our car is quite a happening dude.
I really can't understand, for the life of me, why a "better" cell phone is better. Consider the one that they persuaded me to buy. Its from the Sony Walkman series whose selling point is that you can listen to music on your phone. When it was thrust into my hands and its features explained, I did something I don't usually do - I thought. "Guys," I said, "this is a silly idea. On the rare occasions that I listen to music, I like to do it in the peaceful surrounds of my living room, preferably in the company of a chilled bottle, not when I'm having a heated conversation about missed deadlines." The lads corrected me on this point. "Dad, this is really cool. Trust me", said Gautham, who's been watching too many American movies.
He did not speak a lie. It seems that the entire teenage population of the world thinks that this concept is cool. Sony is raking it in till its arms hurt and one or two of the dour faced Japanese elders at Sony corp are rumored to have actually smiled. If I was a Japanese elder at Sony corp, I would have been exchanging high fives in my underwear with other Japanese elders. Now of course all phones are a music special and allow you, should you fancy it, to listen to Eminem holding forth on Puke when you should be paying attention to the stern looking lady from HR.
But the real problem with cellphones is the service providers. I have my usual tiff with them once a month because they call up about a week before the payment is due and ask me if I have made the payment and if I have, to provide them with the cheque number, the name of my bank, my sixteen digit bank account number, my mother's maiden name, three distinguishing marks on my body and the name and gender of my childhood sweetheart. Really. And they usually get the timing down to within a minute of my having received a seriously pissed off call from one of my customers for having missed a deadline. I am really not in a mood to exchange light hearted banter with the lady about my commercial obligations with her cell phone company.The payment isn't even due, damn your soul, I yell at her. Even as I do it, I realize that its not her fault. She is just doing her job, trying to earn an honest living. Respect that, you ass, my conscience is saying to me. But even my conscience finds itself at a loss for words when we have one of those rate plan conversations. The phone rings. You pick it up. Nice lady coos to you and before you know it, she is explaining a tariff plan that apparently requires a PhD in abstract mathematics to understand. The main principles of a cellphone tariff plan are as follows
1. Like life, the universe and everything, it cannot be understood by mortals
2. It is better than your current tariff plan
3. You will end up paying more in the total but less per call.
The episode usually leaves me with a throbbing sensation in the temples. I retire to my den, curl up with a book and conduct some research into the therapeutic properties of chilled beer. Then the boys turn up with the latest news.
"Dad, the guy who washes the car has an i-phone."
My basic attitude towards buying cellphones is to get away with buying the cheapest one possible. I would much rather spend my money on fine alcoholic beverages, you see, than buy expensive cellphones so that the people who make them can buy fine alcoholic beverages. So when my finely honed instincts drag me towards the crap-phone counter, Sheela and the boys feel I'm being a cheapskate. "Dad", one of the boys said, "even the guy who washes the car has a better phone". There was much truth in that statement. The guy who washes our car is quite a happening dude.
I really can't understand, for the life of me, why a "better" cell phone is better. Consider the one that they persuaded me to buy. Its from the Sony Walkman series whose selling point is that you can listen to music on your phone. When it was thrust into my hands and its features explained, I did something I don't usually do - I thought. "Guys," I said, "this is a silly idea. On the rare occasions that I listen to music, I like to do it in the peaceful surrounds of my living room, preferably in the company of a chilled bottle, not when I'm having a heated conversation about missed deadlines." The lads corrected me on this point. "Dad, this is really cool. Trust me", said Gautham, who's been watching too many American movies.
He did not speak a lie. It seems that the entire teenage population of the world thinks that this concept is cool. Sony is raking it in till its arms hurt and one or two of the dour faced Japanese elders at Sony corp are rumored to have actually smiled. If I was a Japanese elder at Sony corp, I would have been exchanging high fives in my underwear with other Japanese elders. Now of course all phones are a music special and allow you, should you fancy it, to listen to Eminem holding forth on Puke when you should be paying attention to the stern looking lady from HR.
But the real problem with cellphones is the service providers. I have my usual tiff with them once a month because they call up about a week before the payment is due and ask me if I have made the payment and if I have, to provide them with the cheque number, the name of my bank, my sixteen digit bank account number, my mother's maiden name, three distinguishing marks on my body and the name and gender of my childhood sweetheart. Really. And they usually get the timing down to within a minute of my having received a seriously pissed off call from one of my customers for having missed a deadline. I am really not in a mood to exchange light hearted banter with the lady about my commercial obligations with her cell phone company.The payment isn't even due, damn your soul, I yell at her. Even as I do it, I realize that its not her fault. She is just doing her job, trying to earn an honest living. Respect that, you ass, my conscience is saying to me. But even my conscience finds itself at a loss for words when we have one of those rate plan conversations. The phone rings. You pick it up. Nice lady coos to you and before you know it, she is explaining a tariff plan that apparently requires a PhD in abstract mathematics to understand. The main principles of a cellphone tariff plan are as follows
1. Like life, the universe and everything, it cannot be understood by mortals
2. It is better than your current tariff plan
3. You will end up paying more in the total but less per call.
The episode usually leaves me with a throbbing sensation in the temples. I retire to my den, curl up with a book and conduct some research into the therapeutic properties of chilled beer. Then the boys turn up with the latest news.
"Dad, the guy who washes the car has an i-phone."
Sunday, December 2, 2007
The stock market and I
“How do you make a small fortune on the stock market?" goes the old saying, "You have to start with a large fortune”
Stocks and stock markets are a sealed book to me. Some stocks go up. Some go down. Some, like the one’s I buy, go down so fast that you heave a sigh of relief when they reach zero. You see, they can’t go lower.
Still, there was a time when I was a big wheeler dealer on the stock market, way back in the late eighties and the early nineties. This was the Harshad Mehta Bull Market. The said Mehta was known as "the big bull" and was responsible for a heady time circa 1990. Every one regardless of age, sex and financial standing had become a gambler. Could one of my pronounced goofiness be far behind?
Back then, the stock market used to operate on the “outcry” system, where trades were verbal, noted down in little trade books and then settled at the end of the day. Not a computer in sight.
There would be a jobber who would give two way quotes for the stocks he was dealing in, adjusting prices according to demand and supply. For example, if there were too many buyers and too few sellers, he would keep upping the price till there was a match. Sometimes, if he upped the price too much, the buyers would go away, in which case he would have to lower the price.
This used to keep happening continuously and the whole thing had a buzz to it. Very audible. Only card-holding members of the stock exchange could go in and trade. We used to trade through a sub-broker who had a card. This guy was a good friend of ours and while he was a trifle prone to flinging food around when under the influence of alcohol, during trading hours he was the picture of composure.
And composure was sorely needed because when the markets were in turmoil, there could be a lot of shirt grabbing and vest pulling that would go on in the ring. He would regularly emerge from the trading floor with only a small percentage of his clothing intact, often to our great amusement. We once discovered, for example, that he had worn his wife’s underwear to work because he couldn’t find his own (he said), a fact that was revealed when he tragically lost his pant buttons in the process of purchasing shares of ACC.
The market those days operated on “tips”. The moves were made by the great Harshad Mehta and the rest of the herd tried to follow as nimbly and rapidly as possible. Everyone had a tip. Mine was “Radhakrishna Cement”. Someone, very possible the elevator boy in office, had told me about it and my information was to buy it as surreptitiously as possible so as not to tip off the jobber in the stock, because he would immediately up the prices and try to corner the stock himself.
The ruling price was 7 rupees a share. I formed a syndicate with three other friends and raised a corpus of the then incredibly large sum of 50,000 rupees. Five minutes before trading, we were at the exchange, striding purposefully to the entrance of the ring which was humming with activity. It took a minute to locate our broker friend and the need for discretion was explained to him. We told him to buy shares not more than 500 at a time. Play it cool, we told him, because this was BIG. He went in.
Hearts pounding, the four of us stood outside the ring. This was the pre-cell-phone-o-zoic era and there was nothing we would do but bite our nails. After about an hour, he came out for a smoke break. We rushed towards him. He told us that he was a little doubtful about the quality of the scrip. Apparently he went to the jobber for Radhakrishna Cement and asked for a quote. Selling seven rupees. Give me 500, he said. After about 15 minutes he went to him again and asked for a quote. Selling seven rupees. Give me 500, he said.
When he went for the third time, the jobber told him to take the whole damned company for seven rupees and stop hassling him. This should have told us something, but as the poet said, we were one and twenty and proud as peacocks. Do your job, we told him, and leave the thinking to us.
Well, we got our 50,000 worth of Radhakrishna shares and while I would not write it off as a dud investment, miracles happen, our little syndicate has often wished they had been printed on softer and more absorbent paper.
But we never fell out, the members of our syndicate, in spite of one dud investment after another. The fun of the whole thing kept our camaraderie up. Only after I was respectably married did my wife point out that I could do the whole thing faster by just burning up currency notes. And the little old helpmeet was right. What with one thing and another, the whole stockmarket experience began to lose its magnetism. Other than the occasional IPO or mutual fund, I ceased my endeavours to rock the economy.
Which is why the Ambani brothers are where they are.
Stocks and stock markets are a sealed book to me. Some stocks go up. Some go down. Some, like the one’s I buy, go down so fast that you heave a sigh of relief when they reach zero. You see, they can’t go lower.
Still, there was a time when I was a big wheeler dealer on the stock market, way back in the late eighties and the early nineties. This was the Harshad Mehta Bull Market. The said Mehta was known as "the big bull" and was responsible for a heady time circa 1990. Every one regardless of age, sex and financial standing had become a gambler. Could one of my pronounced goofiness be far behind?
Back then, the stock market used to operate on the “outcry” system, where trades were verbal, noted down in little trade books and then settled at the end of the day. Not a computer in sight.
There would be a jobber who would give two way quotes for the stocks he was dealing in, adjusting prices according to demand and supply. For example, if there were too many buyers and too few sellers, he would keep upping the price till there was a match. Sometimes, if he upped the price too much, the buyers would go away, in which case he would have to lower the price.
This used to keep happening continuously and the whole thing had a buzz to it. Very audible. Only card-holding members of the stock exchange could go in and trade. We used to trade through a sub-broker who had a card. This guy was a good friend of ours and while he was a trifle prone to flinging food around when under the influence of alcohol, during trading hours he was the picture of composure.
And composure was sorely needed because when the markets were in turmoil, there could be a lot of shirt grabbing and vest pulling that would go on in the ring. He would regularly emerge from the trading floor with only a small percentage of his clothing intact, often to our great amusement. We once discovered, for example, that he had worn his wife’s underwear to work because he couldn’t find his own (he said), a fact that was revealed when he tragically lost his pant buttons in the process of purchasing shares of ACC.
The market those days operated on “tips”. The moves were made by the great Harshad Mehta and the rest of the herd tried to follow as nimbly and rapidly as possible. Everyone had a tip. Mine was “Radhakrishna Cement”. Someone, very possible the elevator boy in office, had told me about it and my information was to buy it as surreptitiously as possible so as not to tip off the jobber in the stock, because he would immediately up the prices and try to corner the stock himself.
The ruling price was 7 rupees a share. I formed a syndicate with three other friends and raised a corpus of the then incredibly large sum of 50,000 rupees. Five minutes before trading, we were at the exchange, striding purposefully to the entrance of the ring which was humming with activity. It took a minute to locate our broker friend and the need for discretion was explained to him. We told him to buy shares not more than 500 at a time. Play it cool, we told him, because this was BIG. He went in.
Hearts pounding, the four of us stood outside the ring. This was the pre-cell-phone-o-zoic era and there was nothing we would do but bite our nails. After about an hour, he came out for a smoke break. We rushed towards him. He told us that he was a little doubtful about the quality of the scrip. Apparently he went to the jobber for Radhakrishna Cement and asked for a quote. Selling seven rupees. Give me 500, he said. After about 15 minutes he went to him again and asked for a quote. Selling seven rupees. Give me 500, he said.
When he went for the third time, the jobber told him to take the whole damned company for seven rupees and stop hassling him. This should have told us something, but as the poet said, we were one and twenty and proud as peacocks. Do your job, we told him, and leave the thinking to us.
Well, we got our 50,000 worth of Radhakrishna shares and while I would not write it off as a dud investment, miracles happen, our little syndicate has often wished they had been printed on softer and more absorbent paper.
But we never fell out, the members of our syndicate, in spite of one dud investment after another. The fun of the whole thing kept our camaraderie up. Only after I was respectably married did my wife point out that I could do the whole thing faster by just burning up currency notes. And the little old helpmeet was right. What with one thing and another, the whole stockmarket experience began to lose its magnetism. Other than the occasional IPO or mutual fund, I ceased my endeavours to rock the economy.
Which is why the Ambani brothers are where they are.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
I'm going the Dostoevsky way
In my quest to become a serious and mature writer, I have decided to stop the frivolous stuff and write metaphorically and purposefully. Rather like the great Russian masters who could hold you spellbound with 400 pages of exciting descriptive prose of a moujik killing himself and some of his family, though not necessarily in that order. My writing probably won’t be that dramatic – indeed, swatting mosquitoes is about the only violence that you will see – but prepare yourself for poignancy and get a bunch of Kleenex.
I have started going to the gym again, after a hiatus of 2 months. It was as inevitable as the night follows the day, given my medical condition whereby 97 percent of the calories consumed by me are added to my waistline.
Doctors and other practical jokers have racked their brains and come up with a most suspicious quack remedy called exercise.
I’m quite certain that it does not work. For many years, the medical fraternity told everyone that ulcers were caused by stress till an intrepid scientist battled skepticism and ridicule to prove that ulcers are caused by H. Pylori which is probably responsible for my waistline as well. I mean, think about it. If you have a practical joker like H. Pylori who can think of no better way of passing time than giving people ulcers, is it going to pause for thought when the opportunity of increasing people’s waistlines presents itself? I think not.
But this is not what I wanted to write about. Pylori, H or otherwise, have our attention and respect but at the moment, our gluteus maximus is hurting bad. This is the direct result of performing a maneuver called Lunges which involves carrying a heavy load on our shoulder and stepping forward, then bending the knee, rising again and returning to starting position. This is supposed to tone up the gluteus maximus, a blameless muscle which spends its life being sat on and occasionally kicked by foes and superiors at work. For all these years, my g.m. suffered in silence, never acting up and taking its trials and tribulations in good spirit. But these lunges have broken its reserve and it has been complaining in the strongest possible terms.
My gym instructor was not satisfied with the pogrom against glutes, as he calls the gluteus maximus. He further required me to carry out a maneuver called squats, which resulted in the quadriceps joining the glutes in protest. Soon, my hamstrings and calves joined in and at the moment of going to press, I am walking in what is known as the “Marathon Horse Rider” style (impolitely also known, for mysterious reasons, as the coconut balls style).
Currently I am surviving. With difficulty, granted, but surviving nevertheless. But I do not vouch for tomorrow. The wife is dragging me to Spinning Class. Well, it was nice knowing you folks. As Dave Barry would say, The Aching Glutes would make a great name for a rock band.
I have started going to the gym again, after a hiatus of 2 months. It was as inevitable as the night follows the day, given my medical condition whereby 97 percent of the calories consumed by me are added to my waistline.
Doctors and other practical jokers have racked their brains and come up with a most suspicious quack remedy called exercise.
I’m quite certain that it does not work. For many years, the medical fraternity told everyone that ulcers were caused by stress till an intrepid scientist battled skepticism and ridicule to prove that ulcers are caused by H. Pylori which is probably responsible for my waistline as well. I mean, think about it. If you have a practical joker like H. Pylori who can think of no better way of passing time than giving people ulcers, is it going to pause for thought when the opportunity of increasing people’s waistlines presents itself? I think not.
But this is not what I wanted to write about. Pylori, H or otherwise, have our attention and respect but at the moment, our gluteus maximus is hurting bad. This is the direct result of performing a maneuver called Lunges which involves carrying a heavy load on our shoulder and stepping forward, then bending the knee, rising again and returning to starting position. This is supposed to tone up the gluteus maximus, a blameless muscle which spends its life being sat on and occasionally kicked by foes and superiors at work. For all these years, my g.m. suffered in silence, never acting up and taking its trials and tribulations in good spirit. But these lunges have broken its reserve and it has been complaining in the strongest possible terms.
My gym instructor was not satisfied with the pogrom against glutes, as he calls the gluteus maximus. He further required me to carry out a maneuver called squats, which resulted in the quadriceps joining the glutes in protest. Soon, my hamstrings and calves joined in and at the moment of going to press, I am walking in what is known as the “Marathon Horse Rider” style (impolitely also known, for mysterious reasons, as the coconut balls style).
Currently I am surviving. With difficulty, granted, but surviving nevertheless. But I do not vouch for tomorrow. The wife is dragging me to Spinning Class. Well, it was nice knowing you folks. As Dave Barry would say, The Aching Glutes would make a great name for a rock band.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Back to normal
They came back a few days ago, my lads did, and the homestead is back to its usual decibel levels. In our little home, we do not take something as said unless it is spoken loud enough to melt earwax. The honorable exception is Sheela who finds it impossible to speak louder than a butterfly's sneeze. But her rank (commander-in-chief) ensures that she gets complete attention and she gets by.
The lads were feeling a bit blue when they got back, primarily because it was back to the grind, but they soon shrugged it off and went outside to play. When they came back inside, Gautham asked me if I knew how to catch a squirrel. I replied in the negative. "Climb up a tree and pretend to be a nut". Vyaas considered this carefully and added "in your case, you don't need to pretend" and ran away before I could clout him one. Kids!
We went the other day to see the great "Om Shanti Om", a movie starring SRK. It is supposed to be a smash hit and a great movie, but in my considered opinion, it has even less of a credible story than "Justice Chaudhary" my all time greatest movie ever, where the Chief Justice of India stands on his mahogany desk (the Supreme Court is in session of course) and sings a song. (It would be great to have judgments in verse
The accused is guilty/Of crimes most foul/We're filled with outrage/Please wait while we howl/We can't give him life/We're afraid, that's law/But if someone in prison/Should break his jaw/We won't be trying him/We won't be crying, yeah yeah yeah/)
As I was saying, they forgot to put in a story. They had one all along, of course, a very good story, but Farah Khan, the director, forgot to bring it to the shooting and it was too late to go back and get it. So they made one up, from bits of 70s movies and put in a few gags and hoped no one would notice. And no one has. There are the few oddballs (like your present correspondent) who expect, most unreasonably, that Hindi movies should have a plot. Some of us were heckling in the movie theater, but we got only angry stares from the vast majority. The plot, roughly is like this. A small time extra falls in love in a star. She falls in love with him. They're both killed by the baddie. The small timer is reborn. He becomes a big star. And fixes the baddie. And I'm the King of Denmark. I've read more sophisticated stories in Twinkle. The grand number in the movie is a song which goes on for about 17 hours, in which almost all the current actors and actresses in Bollywood perform. This is about as exciting as road construction. In short, don't see it unless you have a detachable brain and have a good place to check it in at the movie hall.
Mumbai is cooling down (climate wise) though the stock market is still as frothy as "chaaya" or tea in Kerala. I still get a lot of stock advice, including from, but not limited to, the chap who sells eggs and bread on the corner who urges me to buy "Larsen". I think he has a one-on-one with their CEO.
The lads were feeling a bit blue when they got back, primarily because it was back to the grind, but they soon shrugged it off and went outside to play. When they came back inside, Gautham asked me if I knew how to catch a squirrel. I replied in the negative. "Climb up a tree and pretend to be a nut". Vyaas considered this carefully and added "in your case, you don't need to pretend" and ran away before I could clout him one. Kids!
We went the other day to see the great "Om Shanti Om", a movie starring SRK. It is supposed to be a smash hit and a great movie, but in my considered opinion, it has even less of a credible story than "Justice Chaudhary" my all time greatest movie ever, where the Chief Justice of India stands on his mahogany desk (the Supreme Court is in session of course) and sings a song. (It would be great to have judgments in verse
The accused is guilty/Of crimes most foul/We're filled with outrage/Please wait while we howl/We can't give him life/We're afraid, that's law/But if someone in prison/Should break his jaw/We won't be trying him/We won't be crying, yeah yeah yeah/)
As I was saying, they forgot to put in a story. They had one all along, of course, a very good story, but Farah Khan, the director, forgot to bring it to the shooting and it was too late to go back and get it. So they made one up, from bits of 70s movies and put in a few gags and hoped no one would notice. And no one has. There are the few oddballs (like your present correspondent) who expect, most unreasonably, that Hindi movies should have a plot. Some of us were heckling in the movie theater, but we got only angry stares from the vast majority. The plot, roughly is like this. A small time extra falls in love in a star. She falls in love with him. They're both killed by the baddie. The small timer is reborn. He becomes a big star. And fixes the baddie. And I'm the King of Denmark. I've read more sophisticated stories in Twinkle. The grand number in the movie is a song which goes on for about 17 hours, in which almost all the current actors and actresses in Bollywood perform. This is about as exciting as road construction. In short, don't see it unless you have a detachable brain and have a good place to check it in at the movie hall.
Mumbai is cooling down (climate wise) though the stock market is still as frothy as "chaaya" or tea in Kerala. I still get a lot of stock advice, including from, but not limited to, the chap who sells eggs and bread on the corner who urges me to buy "Larsen". I think he has a one-on-one with their CEO.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Still missing 'em - II
This happened last early last year.
This is our own episode of ER.
Six pm:- I'm in office, in a meeting
Six five:- Sheela calls. "Please go to the school IMMEDIATELY" and hangs up
Six eight:- It takes me all of three minutes to figure out that disobeying that order carries a decapitation sentence.
Six ten:- I'm at the school. En route, I have rung up Sheela and determined that the cause of the panic is that Gautham has dislocated his knee.
Six Eleven: - I call up my cousin Sandeep who is a surgeon and ask him what to do. He expresses great astonishment at the diagnosis - apparently its virtually impossible to dislocate a knee. He asks me to get a couple of x-rays and meet the orthopedic surgeon.
Six fifteen:- I'm finally with my son. Seven teachers are clustered around him, convinced that an ambulance would be in order. The injured party is lying on a couch and reveling in the attention. Some of the teachers are holding his hand. One of them is fanning him with a textbook. Gautham has the martyr look. My suspicion is that there's nothing wrong with him.
Six sixteen:- Sheela arrives and confirms my diagnosis.
Six eighteen:- We're in the car. I'm driving and Sheela's checking Gautham out, who is doing his level best to look in pain.
Six nineteen:- He confesses.
We haul him off and get the required x-rays, nevertheless. He has already gathered from our tone and demeanor that his injury is not being perceived as life threatening, but he has a last try with the orthopedic surgeon, who also has a good laugh. A grim profession like his welcomes comedians, he tells me. We get back home. Resigned to the fact that his fifteen seconds of fame is over, Gautham is busy playing with Vyaas.
Nine thirty:- My dad, who is a doctor, gets back from his clinic. Gautham suddenly develops a limp and is walking around with a walking stick. Sheela and I are rolling on the floor with laughter. That's because he's limping on the other foot.
And the day wears on.
This is our own episode of ER.
Six pm:- I'm in office, in a meeting
Six five:- Sheela calls. "Please go to the school IMMEDIATELY" and hangs up
Six eight:- It takes me all of three minutes to figure out that disobeying that order carries a decapitation sentence.
Six ten:- I'm at the school. En route, I have rung up Sheela and determined that the cause of the panic is that Gautham has dislocated his knee.
Six Eleven: - I call up my cousin Sandeep who is a surgeon and ask him what to do. He expresses great astonishment at the diagnosis - apparently its virtually impossible to dislocate a knee. He asks me to get a couple of x-rays and meet the orthopedic surgeon.
Six fifteen:- I'm finally with my son. Seven teachers are clustered around him, convinced that an ambulance would be in order. The injured party is lying on a couch and reveling in the attention. Some of the teachers are holding his hand. One of them is fanning him with a textbook. Gautham has the martyr look. My suspicion is that there's nothing wrong with him.
Six sixteen:- Sheela arrives and confirms my diagnosis.
Six eighteen:- We're in the car. I'm driving and Sheela's checking Gautham out, who is doing his level best to look in pain.
Six nineteen:- He confesses.
We haul him off and get the required x-rays, nevertheless. He has already gathered from our tone and demeanor that his injury is not being perceived as life threatening, but he has a last try with the orthopedic surgeon, who also has a good laugh. A grim profession like his welcomes comedians, he tells me. We get back home. Resigned to the fact that his fifteen seconds of fame is over, Gautham is busy playing with Vyaas.
Nine thirty:- My dad, who is a doctor, gets back from his clinic. Gautham suddenly develops a limp and is walking around with a walking stick. Sheela and I are rolling on the floor with laughter. That's because he's limping on the other foot.
And the day wears on.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Still missing 'em
My kids are not due from their vacation for another 4 days. I'm missing them terribly, especially the noise that keeps reverberating all around the house, them playing football, Sheela yelling at them to study, my mom asking them if they've prayed. Our house usually resembles a suburban railway station at rush hour. These days its a bit like Parliament debating a motion to increase MP's pay. Not a peep. Rummaging around in my computer, I found this piece I had written a year or so ago. I love my blog. It never raises its eyebrows and says what is this muck you've written. It unquestioningly hosts it.
Kids can be so difficult to answer. Especially when they are eleven and nine respectively. We saw this movie "Salaam Namaste" The plot broadly is a man and a woman have a great live-in relationship and then she gets pregnant. The man doesn't want the child, the woman cant bear to lose it. Lot of soul searching and then the happy ending. It was laid back, cool and funny, we had heard, and took the kids along. They laughed at all the jokes and thoroughly enjoyed the movie. We had dinner at a restaurant and came home. Great evening out. And then the questions started.
Kids can be so difficult to answer. Especially when they are eleven and nine respectively. We saw this movie "Salaam Namaste" The plot broadly is a man and a woman have a great live-in relationship and then she gets pregnant. The man doesn't want the child, the woman cant bear to lose it. Lot of soul searching and then the happy ending. It was laid back, cool and funny, we had heard, and took the kids along. They laughed at all the jokes and thoroughly enjoyed the movie. We had dinner at a restaurant and came home. Great evening out. And then the questions started.
Gautham is the major inquisitor. Vyaas is a little close to puberty and is fast acquiring the teenage penchant for maintaining long periods of silence when parents are around. Gautham, however, has an analytical mind and answers to his questions usually beget more questions. The first one was what they call a fast in-swinging yorker.
"How did they get a baby if they're not married?"
"If grown ups sleep together, they get babies". Sheela.
"Dad and you sleep together. How come you dont get babies?"
Sheela is stumped. I'm trying hard to keep a straight face. Then she finds a reply.( I didn't marry her for nothing.)
"People get babies only if they sleep without clothes on." I'm suffering from a great fit of coughing.
"How does that happen? Do they have to remove ALL their clothes?"
This is getting too close for comfort so Sheela decides to go on the offensive. She is a bit of a disciplinarian so the kids are afraid of her. Much more than me, whom they consider a sort of fifth rate world power fit enough to speak only in the UN assembly.
"If you boys would see more of National Geographic and less of Cartoon Network, you wouldn't have to ask these questions. Whenever I see the TV, its always switched on to Cartoon Network. I'm going to call the cable guy and disconnect it once and for all. "
A tense silence indicated that the threat had found its mark and everyone was quiet for a couple of days on this topic at least.
A couple of days later, Sheela stepped into the living room. As it happened, the TV was switched on and the channel was Cartoon Network. Gautham quickly changed it to National geographic.
Sheela sat down to read the paper. Gautham found his voice " See that bunch of monkeys, Amma?" There was a program about chimpanzees on National Geographic. Sheela said "Yes?"
Sheela sat down to read the paper. Gautham found his voice " See that bunch of monkeys, Amma?" There was a program about chimpanzees on National Geographic. Sheela said "Yes?"
" I've been watching them for days. They still haven't had any kids."
Distinct sounds of a father asphyxiating himself.
And so it goes on. Mercifully the questions are never directed at me because I'm known to be a person of insubstantial intellect. Whatever my childrens' faults may be, no one can say they are not great judges of people.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
We have a haircut
Today I accompanied Sheela to a hairdresser's in our local mall. The kids are away on vacation, you see, and we're trying to figure out what to do with all this "space" we've got all of a sudden.
Well, the hairdresser's is a trendy place called "Something Illegible Unisex Salon". I am unable to understand the Something Illegible of course - the font looks like WingDings- but I've figured out why they call it a Unisex Salon. All the hairdressers male and female look like they belong to the same sex, which is an entirely different sex from the rest of us.
We entered in and were greeted by The Nice Lady With The Smile. She told us to take a seat while she looked up the appointment diary. She gave us a Smile and told us that we could have an appointment right away. Considering that there were a grand total of zero customers in the shop, this came as no surprise, but these things are part of etiquette.
Presently a bright young person of uncertain gender appeared and delivered a Smile. "Hi! I'm John", said the Smile. "How are we this morning?" I felt a little hot under the collar because all this Smiling was being directed at me and John was pouting a good deal, to boot. I hadn't the courage to turn and look at Sheela but I was sure she was laughing at me silently, collecting ammunition for her idle amusement, the next time she was bored.
I somehow managed to stutter that the patient was this here lady. The Pout turned the requisite degrees and directed itself at Sheela. Unlike me, Sheela has no problems facing Pouts. They chattered away about step cuts and shampoos and which hair color is better and soon I realized that I was a bit like the bride's mother at the honeymoon. Unwanted, if you know what I mean.
I was grateful, of course. I have participated in these sessions since childhood, when I had to escort my sisters to the local hairdresser's. My general attitude in these situations is to agree and keep agreeing with everything and with everybody.
"I think we'll cut it short, like this". Hair dresser.
"What do you think, Naren?" My sister.
"Perfect, perfect". Me, with my reassuring smile.
And after we got home, my sisters would weep bitterly, my mother would join in and all of them would then turn and start frying me. You said it looks nice. Couldn't you see. You should have told me. You were just ogling at that girl in the pink t-shirt. Which pink t-shirt, I would say, feigning ignorance. The tight pink t-shirt. O, you're completely useless. O how will I go to college looking like this and so on.
But somehow, I would get away with it. My relations with my sisters were like Musharraf's with the US. The US keeps telling Musharraf don't do this, don't do that and so on. Musharraf says yes and then goes ahead and does precisely that. The US gets very upset with him and tells him not to do it again. (He's just declared emergency in Pakistan and the White House told him they would consider cutting off aid. And these are the guys who invaded Saddam because President Bush thought it would be a good Christmas present for daddy. Aaarghhh!)
My sisters were like that. I would get away with not turning off the taps, burning the milk because I was watching TV, backing the car into the gate, and they would always support me in front of my parents. Privately I would be told sternly that I must not do this again.
Musharraf will always have the support of the US, because, I think, the US is his sister. He could blow up the White House and the US Government would tell him not to do it again or we will stop the aid. But they won't actually stop the aid because they are Musharraf's sister, so there!
Coming back to the story, I took the opportunity to make myself scarce for the next hour or so, lest I be subpoenaed. I went walk about in the mall, which houses a rather nice food court on the second floor. Here I pottered around and did my bit to kick start the economy by increasing the national spending on food and food products.
About an hour later, I returned to the Salon and found that ma'am was ready and waiting for me. It took her 15 seconds to figure out what I had been up to and I had to listen to a small but acerbic monologue on how foolish it is to stuff oneself when one is not going to the gym and one hasn't had one's cholesterol checked in the last year. Then I told her that the haircut was terrific and that she looked like Rani Mukherjee and she blushed a bit and dropped a few degrees in temperature.
Flattery, dear children, flattery. It will get you everywhere.
Well, the hairdresser's is a trendy place called "Something Illegible Unisex Salon". I am unable to understand the Something Illegible of course - the font looks like WingDings- but I've figured out why they call it a Unisex Salon. All the hairdressers male and female look like they belong to the same sex, which is an entirely different sex from the rest of us.
We entered in and were greeted by The Nice Lady With The Smile. She told us to take a seat while she looked up the appointment diary. She gave us a Smile and told us that we could have an appointment right away. Considering that there were a grand total of zero customers in the shop, this came as no surprise, but these things are part of etiquette.
Presently a bright young person of uncertain gender appeared and delivered a Smile. "Hi! I'm John", said the Smile. "How are we this morning?" I felt a little hot under the collar because all this Smiling was being directed at me and John was pouting a good deal, to boot. I hadn't the courage to turn and look at Sheela but I was sure she was laughing at me silently, collecting ammunition for her idle amusement, the next time she was bored.
I somehow managed to stutter that the patient was this here lady. The Pout turned the requisite degrees and directed itself at Sheela. Unlike me, Sheela has no problems facing Pouts. They chattered away about step cuts and shampoos and which hair color is better and soon I realized that I was a bit like the bride's mother at the honeymoon. Unwanted, if you know what I mean.
I was grateful, of course. I have participated in these sessions since childhood, when I had to escort my sisters to the local hairdresser's. My general attitude in these situations is to agree and keep agreeing with everything and with everybody.
"I think we'll cut it short, like this". Hair dresser.
"What do you think, Naren?" My sister.
"Perfect, perfect". Me, with my reassuring smile.
And after we got home, my sisters would weep bitterly, my mother would join in and all of them would then turn and start frying me. You said it looks nice. Couldn't you see. You should have told me. You were just ogling at that girl in the pink t-shirt. Which pink t-shirt, I would say, feigning ignorance. The tight pink t-shirt. O, you're completely useless. O how will I go to college looking like this and so on.
But somehow, I would get away with it. My relations with my sisters were like Musharraf's with the US. The US keeps telling Musharraf don't do this, don't do that and so on. Musharraf says yes and then goes ahead and does precisely that. The US gets very upset with him and tells him not to do it again. (He's just declared emergency in Pakistan and the White House told him they would consider cutting off aid. And these are the guys who invaded Saddam because President Bush thought it would be a good Christmas present for daddy. Aaarghhh!)
My sisters were like that. I would get away with not turning off the taps, burning the milk because I was watching TV, backing the car into the gate, and they would always support me in front of my parents. Privately I would be told sternly that I must not do this again.
Musharraf will always have the support of the US, because, I think, the US is his sister. He could blow up the White House and the US Government would tell him not to do it again or we will stop the aid. But they won't actually stop the aid because they are Musharraf's sister, so there!
Coming back to the story, I took the opportunity to make myself scarce for the next hour or so, lest I be subpoenaed. I went walk about in the mall, which houses a rather nice food court on the second floor. Here I pottered around and did my bit to kick start the economy by increasing the national spending on food and food products.
About an hour later, I returned to the Salon and found that ma'am was ready and waiting for me. It took her 15 seconds to figure out what I had been up to and I had to listen to a small but acerbic monologue on how foolish it is to stuff oneself when one is not going to the gym and one hasn't had one's cholesterol checked in the last year. Then I told her that the haircut was terrific and that she looked like Rani Mukherjee and she blushed a bit and dropped a few degrees in temperature.
Flattery, dear children, flattery. It will get you everywhere.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Deep thoughts
My kids are off to Mysore tomorrow on their own. All of 13 years and 10 years of age respectively. They're growing up, I know, but they're still such babies! Who will take care of them on the flight? Not that anyone needs to, nowadays. My kids are smarter than I was at that age (indeed, they are of the opinion that they are smarter than I am NOW) but they are disarmingly innocent in certain matters. They were lobbying me to buy a plasma TV, which I felt was too expensive (it costs about 100,000 rupees) and anyway, television is so stupid. And we already have a big fat TV. Why do we need a big thin TV? But they wanted it. When I used the economic argument, Vyaas brushed it aside telling me that money was no problem because his granny had given him Rs. 500 and I could use it to buy the TV.
And they are still little boys, for all their man talk. The other night we saw a Hindi movie named Bhool Bhullaiya. The plot is a bit sinister but there is a lot of comic relief in the movie and consequently rated "U/A", a bit like PG in the US, I guess. A good movie, by the way, especially considering that it comes from Priyadarshan who has made some of the more disgusting movies of recent times, for example an abomination called "Garam Masala". As I was saying, the plot is a little scary though not really creepy. But at night, both of them climbed into our bed, on the grounds that there were mosquitoes in their room. Both steadfastly refused to accept that they were even the slightest bit scared. Typical guy behaviour.
Some of the things they like do distress me, of course. The chief among them is gangsta rap. We do almost all our listening to music in the car because at home they're either studying, playing football or watching TV. Or reading the newspaper (I'm not kidding. Both these guys read the dailies with great interest, especially the sports pages and the comics, more typical guy behaviour). So if we go for a long drive (in Mumbai, thanks to our traffic situation, any drive is a long drive), the lads begin the Great Battle for the Car Stereo Remote. The U.N. (in the form of their mom) intervenes from time to time, threatening to impose sanctions which involve chucking the remote out of the window and assuming totalitarian control over the stereo. Peace is then signed and the only music they both like is rap.
I don't know if you've heard much of what Dr. Dre or Snoop Dog have to say but it is almost entirely comprised of the f and allied words. Sheela, god bless her soul, is completely unfamiliar with this kind of stuff, especially when intoned by African Americans, otherwise the lads would certainly be missing a few teeth. As it is, the three men in the family understand the lyrics perfectly, two of them delighting in the discomfiture of the third. Consider my predicament. No father can accept such language in front of kids who, contrary to their own view, are mere toddlers. But if I put the topic under discussion, the crown princes will surely get their butts whipped and their father the king will receive a substantial earful. So I have to deliver a lot of circular threats and artful bribes and get them to switch to something less offensive. Gautham calls Dr. Dre "the American Shakespeare". He'll say things like "Dad, can we listen to the American Shakespeare?" to which Sheela raises an eyebrow and inquires as to who this might be. Luckily, she has not pursued this line of inquiry too far till now. There are some things a woman can never understand.
And these half men-half children will be traveling in a plane unrestrained by the wisdom of their parents. I fear for the stewardesses. On the other hand, serves them right for raising their eyebrows and telling me to fasten my seatbelt.
And they are still little boys, for all their man talk. The other night we saw a Hindi movie named Bhool Bhullaiya. The plot is a bit sinister but there is a lot of comic relief in the movie and consequently rated "U/A", a bit like PG in the US, I guess. A good movie, by the way, especially considering that it comes from Priyadarshan who has made some of the more disgusting movies of recent times, for example an abomination called "Garam Masala". As I was saying, the plot is a little scary though not really creepy. But at night, both of them climbed into our bed, on the grounds that there were mosquitoes in their room. Both steadfastly refused to accept that they were even the slightest bit scared. Typical guy behaviour.
Some of the things they like do distress me, of course. The chief among them is gangsta rap. We do almost all our listening to music in the car because at home they're either studying, playing football or watching TV. Or reading the newspaper (I'm not kidding. Both these guys read the dailies with great interest, especially the sports pages and the comics, more typical guy behaviour). So if we go for a long drive (in Mumbai, thanks to our traffic situation, any drive is a long drive), the lads begin the Great Battle for the Car Stereo Remote. The U.N. (in the form of their mom) intervenes from time to time, threatening to impose sanctions which involve chucking the remote out of the window and assuming totalitarian control over the stereo. Peace is then signed and the only music they both like is rap.
I don't know if you've heard much of what Dr. Dre or Snoop Dog have to say but it is almost entirely comprised of the f and allied words. Sheela, god bless her soul, is completely unfamiliar with this kind of stuff, especially when intoned by African Americans, otherwise the lads would certainly be missing a few teeth. As it is, the three men in the family understand the lyrics perfectly, two of them delighting in the discomfiture of the third. Consider my predicament. No father can accept such language in front of kids who, contrary to their own view, are mere toddlers. But if I put the topic under discussion, the crown princes will surely get their butts whipped and their father the king will receive a substantial earful. So I have to deliver a lot of circular threats and artful bribes and get them to switch to something less offensive. Gautham calls Dr. Dre "the American Shakespeare". He'll say things like "Dad, can we listen to the American Shakespeare?" to which Sheela raises an eyebrow and inquires as to who this might be. Luckily, she has not pursued this line of inquiry too far till now. There are some things a woman can never understand.
And these half men-half children will be traveling in a plane unrestrained by the wisdom of their parents. I fear for the stewardesses. On the other hand, serves them right for raising their eyebrows and telling me to fasten my seatbelt.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
A cultural weekend in Mumbai
I often explain to Sheela that if I'm spending hours in front of the computer that is because I am carefully compiling the story of my life in the form of e-mails and blog posts. I think she has figured out by now that while it is not exactly a lie, it is substantially the opposite of the truth.
Most of my time seems to be spent reading extremely important e-mails from African gentlemen on miraculous bequeaths of millions of dollars which can be all mine if I could only fund the expenses required for their release. And of course, mail from concerned people offering pharmaceutical products of a very personal nature.
Let me therefore assuage my conscience by writing about the weekend just gone by. The Times of India sponsored a Sufi music program at the Bandra Fort in Mumbai. Yes, 'where the hell is that?' is what I thought too, when Shrinath told me to lug my musical ass to the venue. It's at Band Stand, next to the Taj Lands End Hotel. Opposite Sea Rock, for old timers. My mom wanted to come along too. She has recently taken a liking to Sufi Qawwalis after hearing Abida Parveen on World Space Radio.(The said Parveen is built on the lines of a battleship but sings most mellifluously and hypnotically. She was not performing, though). Sheela and the kids decided they would have more fun at Akhil's house.
As usual, I landed up late, thanks to the beautiful evening traffic which was moving at a speed that made glaciers look fast paced. True to form, everyone was honking, some to express their dissatisfaction and some just because they had a horn. I thought of writing a ballad to the brave honkaneros of Mumbai. ("Oh! Young Popatlal is come out of the west, Through all of Andheri his horn was the loudest" that sort of thing). Thanks to my mom's pacifist views and strong objections to anything in the nature of interpersonal conflict, I was more honked against than honking.
I thus reached the venue in a ruffled state of mind. If I was President of the United States and the generals had asked me for permission to obliterate Moscow, I believe I would have given in right away. Angry, or as they say in scientific terminology, seriously pissed.
Luckily for me, Shrinath had his chauffeur on standby and I was spared the ordeal of hunting for a parking spot. Shrinath of course looked fresh as a daisy owing to living almost next door. The three of us, Shrinath, mom and I entered the concert to find, alas, that all the best seats were taken and there was standing room only in the nose-bleed section, high up on the hill.
By the time we settled down on a rough concrete wall, the singer who was performing had finished and the stage was taken over by two Wadali brothers. These guys are Hindus from Punjab, but are considered doyens of the Sufi tradition. They sang of Allah and Eid being the season of love and things like that, with such feeling and sincerity that all of us were spellbound.
I thought it spoke tremendously for the spirit of Indianness that binds our often silly but entirely lovable people across religious divides. The ordinary people on the street, that is. There are of course the psychos and the bigots and the downright corrupt but by and large, we are a nation of one billion docile (except in bed - look at those population numbers) people.
After the concert, we repaired to Akhil's house for a sumptuous dinner of pasta in some really yummy cream sauce and I ate away as if I was a pig who had just been released from a starvation diet. Which I pretty much am, actually. In a desperate bid to get rid of my pot belly I have given up rice entirely and cut back on food in general. The pot belly is showing signs of going away but so is my mind. Every now and then I lose it completely and indulge in binge eating which gets the pot belly right back in to championship contention.n Alas!
On the morrow was part II of the concert. This time I went alone as mom had some social visiting to do. Sheela and the kids were busy with mid-term exams. I slunk off as soon as possible, lest I be drafted for teacher duty. This happens from time to time when Sheela suffers a nervous breakdown and the baton is handed over to yours truly. As is well known, I command as much authority as a Buddhist monk in Myanmar, resulting in the kids thumbing their noses at me and playing cricket. Sheela returns after her unwinding or whatever and holds her head in despair. Then she throws me out of the room and gets to work. And I'm back on the computer, catching up on the latest from the African gentlemen.
Oops, digressed. As I was saying, part II of the concert was patriotic songs by Shubha Mudgal. This is one fine singer, let me tell you, the finest I've heard in a long time. Her voice is sort of contralto and her singing is extremely vivacious. She had dug out poems from India's independence struggle and set them to music. Very moving.
Shrinath and I were a bit speechless. After all that patriotism, getting sloshed didn't quite seem right. We decided to stroll down to a nearby eatery (being the lazy devils that we are, we did the strolling in Shrinath's car) and decided to tank up on some carbohydrates. This time, I am happy to report, instead of eating like a greedy pig, I ate like a polite and well brought up pig. We parted after a few satisfied burps and decided to get on with the business of life, Shrinath with his banking, I with my African gentlemen.
Most of my time seems to be spent reading extremely important e-mails from African gentlemen on miraculous bequeaths of millions of dollars which can be all mine if I could only fund the expenses required for their release. And of course, mail from concerned people offering pharmaceutical products of a very personal nature.
Let me therefore assuage my conscience by writing about the weekend just gone by. The Times of India sponsored a Sufi music program at the Bandra Fort in Mumbai. Yes, 'where the hell is that?' is what I thought too, when Shrinath told me to lug my musical ass to the venue. It's at Band Stand, next to the Taj Lands End Hotel. Opposite Sea Rock, for old timers. My mom wanted to come along too. She has recently taken a liking to Sufi Qawwalis after hearing Abida Parveen on World Space Radio.(The said Parveen is built on the lines of a battleship but sings most mellifluously and hypnotically. She was not performing, though). Sheela and the kids decided they would have more fun at Akhil's house.
As usual, I landed up late, thanks to the beautiful evening traffic which was moving at a speed that made glaciers look fast paced. True to form, everyone was honking, some to express their dissatisfaction and some just because they had a horn. I thought of writing a ballad to the brave honkaneros of Mumbai. ("Oh! Young Popatlal is come out of the west, Through all of Andheri his horn was the loudest" that sort of thing). Thanks to my mom's pacifist views and strong objections to anything in the nature of interpersonal conflict, I was more honked against than honking.
I thus reached the venue in a ruffled state of mind. If I was President of the United States and the generals had asked me for permission to obliterate Moscow, I believe I would have given in right away. Angry, or as they say in scientific terminology, seriously pissed.
Luckily for me, Shrinath had his chauffeur on standby and I was spared the ordeal of hunting for a parking spot. Shrinath of course looked fresh as a daisy owing to living almost next door. The three of us, Shrinath, mom and I entered the concert to find, alas, that all the best seats were taken and there was standing room only in the nose-bleed section, high up on the hill.
By the time we settled down on a rough concrete wall, the singer who was performing had finished and the stage was taken over by two Wadali brothers. These guys are Hindus from Punjab, but are considered doyens of the Sufi tradition. They sang of Allah and Eid being the season of love and things like that, with such feeling and sincerity that all of us were spellbound.
I thought it spoke tremendously for the spirit of Indianness that binds our often silly but entirely lovable people across religious divides. The ordinary people on the street, that is. There are of course the psychos and the bigots and the downright corrupt but by and large, we are a nation of one billion docile (except in bed - look at those population numbers) people.
After the concert, we repaired to Akhil's house for a sumptuous dinner of pasta in some really yummy cream sauce and I ate away as if I was a pig who had just been released from a starvation diet. Which I pretty much am, actually. In a desperate bid to get rid of my pot belly I have given up rice entirely and cut back on food in general. The pot belly is showing signs of going away but so is my mind. Every now and then I lose it completely and indulge in binge eating which gets the pot belly right back in to championship contention.n Alas!
On the morrow was part II of the concert. This time I went alone as mom had some social visiting to do. Sheela and the kids were busy with mid-term exams. I slunk off as soon as possible, lest I be drafted for teacher duty. This happens from time to time when Sheela suffers a nervous breakdown and the baton is handed over to yours truly. As is well known, I command as much authority as a Buddhist monk in Myanmar, resulting in the kids thumbing their noses at me and playing cricket. Sheela returns after her unwinding or whatever and holds her head in despair. Then she throws me out of the room and gets to work. And I'm back on the computer, catching up on the latest from the African gentlemen.
Oops, digressed. As I was saying, part II of the concert was patriotic songs by Shubha Mudgal. This is one fine singer, let me tell you, the finest I've heard in a long time. Her voice is sort of contralto and her singing is extremely vivacious. She had dug out poems from India's independence struggle and set them to music. Very moving.
Shrinath and I were a bit speechless. After all that patriotism, getting sloshed didn't quite seem right. We decided to stroll down to a nearby eatery (being the lazy devils that we are, we did the strolling in Shrinath's car) and decided to tank up on some carbohydrates. This time, I am happy to report, instead of eating like a greedy pig, I ate like a polite and well brought up pig. We parted after a few satisfied burps and decided to get on with the business of life, Shrinath with his banking, I with my African gentlemen.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
An account of my Shirdi trip
I guess I'm not much of a philosopher, deficient as I am in the requisite thinking equipment. The only important philosophical question that has occurred to me is
When you use the flush in a plane and the stuff disappears with a "whooosh" where does it really go?
According to Shakespeare, who seems to have studied the subject deeply, It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. Who am I to argue with the Bard? I have been intensely suspicious of light drizzles ever since I read The Merchant of Venice.
But of late, I have been vexed with questions of an existential nature. "Who am I?" is a thought that often bothers me, though Sheela feels that it is not entirely a coincidence that these thoughts occur after consuming a few beers. So when the opportunity of taking a pilgrimage to Shirdi presented itself, I tarried not.
We took the first pit stop at Pune where we stayed with Sheela's sister-in-law's sister's family who have 2 kids aged 4 and 2 respectively. Joining us there were Sheela's brother Sundeep and his family comprising of one harried wife and three kids aged 5, 3 and 1 respectively. My kids, 13 and 10, looked like senior citizens. All these children were extremely adorable, except for the charming tendency children have of yelling, crying and throwing up without warning, sometimes simultaneously. The guys followed the time honored male response to juvenile crises - Go yell some place else - and thoughtfully sipped on Kingfisher draught. This brought forth thoughtful observations from the respective spouses as to what might happen to people who don't get off their fat butts and tend to their progeny. I had a large grin on my face throughout the proceedings since I had had the foresight to have my kids twelve years ago.
We drove to Shirdi very early in the morning - 4 a.m. in fact - the idea being that the kids would spend the entire journey fast asleep. This turned out to be perfect. The tots indeed slept the sleep of the innocent. Somehow I never got these bright ideas when my kids were growing up. Sheela and I would travel around in our Maruti van those days with all our limbs involved in driving, steering, restraining children from jumping out the window and in my case, occasionally heaping abuse on errant autorickshaw drivers. Compared to our travails this was serenity it self.
Sundeep was driving and I had the luxury of admiring the creeping crimson of day break. Presently, we came across a truck overturned, doubtless due to the driver having been observing the creeping crimson of daybreak. The truck was carrying a consignment of beer and there was a throng of happy looking villagers looking forward to a serious party at six in the morning, foraging amongst the cartons. The driver and his assistant were sitting on a culvert looking shaken but unhurt. All this had naturally caused a traffic jam - passing truck drivers had parked their vehicles and jumped into the fray. We were lucky to wriggle out of this one. The accident had just happened and word had gotten out. I could see villagers streaming in from every direction. It would have been fun to see all these people sloshed out of their minds at daybreak but we had a mission to accomplish.
Presently, we reached Sai Baba Temple at Shirdi and joined the queue. It was quite long and took us almost 2 hours to get to the main sanctum. But the crowds were extremely decorous and well behaved. Most of them were singing Bhajans. There were the usual devotees in a hurry, trying to get in through side entrances. One old man and his wife were simply jumping the line at every opportunity. No one seemed to mind, though.
Sai Baba is a mystic saint of whose origins little is known. He lived at the turn of the century and preached religious harmony. And lived in abject poverty in life, something which always wins my respect when I see it in people who have the adulation of the public. Mahatma Gandhi was another example. Have you heard of any of his sons, grandchildren, cousins, uncles, brothers-in-law, any one at all cashing in on his name? Contrast that with the present day bunch of money grubbing parasites masquerading as leaders.
Any way, I found Shirdi charming because of its simple, if garish, devotion. It is a bit tatty but thats because most of Sai Baba's devotees are poor people, but no less sincere for that. The other thing is the number of hotels here and their names. Almost all the hotels are named using the formula "HOTEL" + "SAI" + "$STRING$" where "$STRING$" is any alphanumeric string from "PALACE" to "AMRIT" to "KRIPA"
We headed on to a nearby town named Shingnapur which is famous for a Shani Temple. Shani is a demigod whose major trip in life, if astrologers are to be believed, is to attach himself to you and torment you till you pay your astrologer some money and get him to tell you what mantras to chant and when. We performed a prophylactic puja which involve pouring oil on the large stone that represents him. All throughout the wily residents of the place were trying their level best to rip us off. We put up a futile resistance till we realized that liberty was to be had by flinging small amounts of cash at all and sundry.
The drive all through was beautiful. This is good farming country, mostly sugarcane and grapes. The countryside was verdant. I guess the farmers are quite rich. The roads were quite alright by the exacting standards of Maharashtra where a density of 3.7 potholes per square meter qualifies as a superdeluxe express highway. We reached Pune in the evening, a bit weary but raring to get back home where some exciting homework awaited the boys. They tried everything in their powers to get their stay extended by a day. I was lending support from the outside, as they say in politics, but the motion could not be carried through because of determined opposition from the ruling junta, namely General Sheela Shenoy. So we trundled off to Mumbai, weary but chilled. And that constitutes my incoherence for today. Those of you who made sense of it, god bless.
When you use the flush in a plane and the stuff disappears with a "whooosh" where does it really go?
According to Shakespeare, who seems to have studied the subject deeply, It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. Who am I to argue with the Bard? I have been intensely suspicious of light drizzles ever since I read The Merchant of Venice.
But of late, I have been vexed with questions of an existential nature. "Who am I?" is a thought that often bothers me, though Sheela feels that it is not entirely a coincidence that these thoughts occur after consuming a few beers. So when the opportunity of taking a pilgrimage to Shirdi presented itself, I tarried not.
We took the first pit stop at Pune where we stayed with Sheela's sister-in-law's sister's family who have 2 kids aged 4 and 2 respectively. Joining us there were Sheela's brother Sundeep and his family comprising of one harried wife and three kids aged 5, 3 and 1 respectively. My kids, 13 and 10, looked like senior citizens. All these children were extremely adorable, except for the charming tendency children have of yelling, crying and throwing up without warning, sometimes simultaneously. The guys followed the time honored male response to juvenile crises - Go yell some place else - and thoughtfully sipped on Kingfisher draught. This brought forth thoughtful observations from the respective spouses as to what might happen to people who don't get off their fat butts and tend to their progeny. I had a large grin on my face throughout the proceedings since I had had the foresight to have my kids twelve years ago.
We drove to Shirdi very early in the morning - 4 a.m. in fact - the idea being that the kids would spend the entire journey fast asleep. This turned out to be perfect. The tots indeed slept the sleep of the innocent. Somehow I never got these bright ideas when my kids were growing up. Sheela and I would travel around in our Maruti van those days with all our limbs involved in driving, steering, restraining children from jumping out the window and in my case, occasionally heaping abuse on errant autorickshaw drivers. Compared to our travails this was serenity it self.
Sundeep was driving and I had the luxury of admiring the creeping crimson of day break. Presently, we came across a truck overturned, doubtless due to the driver having been observing the creeping crimson of daybreak. The truck was carrying a consignment of beer and there was a throng of happy looking villagers looking forward to a serious party at six in the morning, foraging amongst the cartons. The driver and his assistant were sitting on a culvert looking shaken but unhurt. All this had naturally caused a traffic jam - passing truck drivers had parked their vehicles and jumped into the fray. We were lucky to wriggle out of this one. The accident had just happened and word had gotten out. I could see villagers streaming in from every direction. It would have been fun to see all these people sloshed out of their minds at daybreak but we had a mission to accomplish.
Presently, we reached Sai Baba Temple at Shirdi and joined the queue. It was quite long and took us almost 2 hours to get to the main sanctum. But the crowds were extremely decorous and well behaved. Most of them were singing Bhajans. There were the usual devotees in a hurry, trying to get in through side entrances. One old man and his wife were simply jumping the line at every opportunity. No one seemed to mind, though.
Sai Baba is a mystic saint of whose origins little is known. He lived at the turn of the century and preached religious harmony. And lived in abject poverty in life, something which always wins my respect when I see it in people who have the adulation of the public. Mahatma Gandhi was another example. Have you heard of any of his sons, grandchildren, cousins, uncles, brothers-in-law, any one at all cashing in on his name? Contrast that with the present day bunch of money grubbing parasites masquerading as leaders.
Any way, I found Shirdi charming because of its simple, if garish, devotion. It is a bit tatty but thats because most of Sai Baba's devotees are poor people, but no less sincere for that. The other thing is the number of hotels here and their names. Almost all the hotels are named using the formula "HOTEL" + "SAI" + "$STRING$" where "$STRING$" is any alphanumeric string from "PALACE" to "AMRIT" to "KRIPA"
We headed on to a nearby town named Shingnapur which is famous for a Shani Temple. Shani is a demigod whose major trip in life, if astrologers are to be believed, is to attach himself to you and torment you till you pay your astrologer some money and get him to tell you what mantras to chant and when. We performed a prophylactic puja which involve pouring oil on the large stone that represents him. All throughout the wily residents of the place were trying their level best to rip us off. We put up a futile resistance till we realized that liberty was to be had by flinging small amounts of cash at all and sundry.
The drive all through was beautiful. This is good farming country, mostly sugarcane and grapes. The countryside was verdant. I guess the farmers are quite rich. The roads were quite alright by the exacting standards of Maharashtra where a density of 3.7 potholes per square meter qualifies as a superdeluxe express highway. We reached Pune in the evening, a bit weary but raring to get back home where some exciting homework awaited the boys. They tried everything in their powers to get their stay extended by a day. I was lending support from the outside, as they say in politics, but the motion could not be carried through because of determined opposition from the ruling junta, namely General Sheela Shenoy. So we trundled off to Mumbai, weary but chilled. And that constitutes my incoherence for today. Those of you who made sense of it, god bless.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Not about Reverse Transcriptase
I am accused of writing only about my family and the old better half has threatened to rearrange my facial features if I don't find something else to write about, or find something nice to write about her.
Well, I guess I do tend to dwell on that topic but that's only because I'm such a peanut-brain. I hardly know anything about anything else. I mean, can you imagine me writing about, say, the role of reverse transcriptase in virus reproduction?
I just looked up Wikipedia on this, which is lucky because otherwise what you would have got on virus reproduction would be a blow-by-blow account of how the boy virus takes the girl virus out to a movie, how they fall in love, how papa virus sends a lot of goon viruses to fix the boy virus, how the boy virus bashes up all of them, how the girl virus and the boy virus get married, how they get a lot of baby viruses and which is why Pamela's got herpes simplex.
So I decided to see how many words I could type without referring to the activities of the loved ones. I know, this begs the question, why write at all, but its either that or watch television.
Now television is something I deeply dread. There is always lurking in every channel a character played with hysterical intensity by a fat young lady who portrays a 60 year old. Her name is Smriti Irani. She has two facial expressions - gritting her teeth and crying. Usually, she does both. Free dental insurance is written into her contract so that she doesn't withhold herself from really launching into the role.
Which is why I think writing is better. For me at least, if not you, my dear hapless reader. I know why you're reading this. Not because you like it. It is because of a morbid curiosity that is genetically programmed into humans. It is why we peep into open septic tanks or order the bright green colored gravy in Shetty restaurants. Can't resist it.
I still haven't said anything specific, have I? Well, I am an MBA by training and I can continue for ever in this vein. You should attend some corporate meetings, just for laughs. They can go on stating and re-stating the obvious in ever increasing circularity and specialize in what is known as creative inaction.
So here's my topic for today, corporate etiquette. Fill out this questionnaire and evaluate your Corporate Etiquette Quotient (CEQ)
1. You are sitting next to your CEO in an important meeting. He farts audibly. You
If you've answered all a's, proceed straight to the employment exchange. You couldn't hold a job at a morgue - the corpses would reject you.
If you've answered all b's you're a sure candidate for hypertension, supressing all those emotions. But you'll get you're gold retirement watch, you will, provided you don't die of an infarct.
If you've answered all c's, Welcome to the Corporate World! In CEQ terms, you're Einstein, baby! Would you like your million dollar bonus in Indian currency or should we quietly deposit it in a Swiss Bank account?
Well, I guess I do tend to dwell on that topic but that's only because I'm such a peanut-brain. I hardly know anything about anything else. I mean, can you imagine me writing about, say, the role of reverse transcriptase in virus reproduction?
I just looked up Wikipedia on this, which is lucky because otherwise what you would have got on virus reproduction would be a blow-by-blow account of how the boy virus takes the girl virus out to a movie, how they fall in love, how papa virus sends a lot of goon viruses to fix the boy virus, how the boy virus bashes up all of them, how the girl virus and the boy virus get married, how they get a lot of baby viruses and which is why Pamela's got herpes simplex.
So I decided to see how many words I could type without referring to the activities of the loved ones. I know, this begs the question, why write at all, but its either that or watch television.
Now television is something I deeply dread. There is always lurking in every channel a character played with hysterical intensity by a fat young lady who portrays a 60 year old. Her name is Smriti Irani. She has two facial expressions - gritting her teeth and crying. Usually, she does both. Free dental insurance is written into her contract so that she doesn't withhold herself from really launching into the role.
Which is why I think writing is better. For me at least, if not you, my dear hapless reader. I know why you're reading this. Not because you like it. It is because of a morbid curiosity that is genetically programmed into humans. It is why we peep into open septic tanks or order the bright green colored gravy in Shetty restaurants. Can't resist it.
I still haven't said anything specific, have I? Well, I am an MBA by training and I can continue for ever in this vein. You should attend some corporate meetings, just for laughs. They can go on stating and re-stating the obvious in ever increasing circularity and specialize in what is known as creative inaction.
So here's my topic for today, corporate etiquette. Fill out this questionnaire and evaluate your Corporate Etiquette Quotient (CEQ)
1. You are sitting next to your CEO in an important meeting. He farts audibly. You
- a. Laugh loudly, pointing at him
- b. Pretend nothing happened
- c. Behave as if it was you who farted and apologize aloud.
- a. Pretend to sniff the CEO's mouth and ask loudly if he's drunk.
- b. Sit tight and say nothing
- c. Tear up your papers quietly and applaud the CEO's idea vociferously
- a. Attempt to stab the CEO with the staple opener
- b. Sit tight and say nothing, while surreptitiously wiping away a tear
- c. Shake the CEO's hand and compliment him on being such an excellent judge of people.
If you've answered all a's, proceed straight to the employment exchange. You couldn't hold a job at a morgue - the corpses would reject you.
If you've answered all b's you're a sure candidate for hypertension, supressing all those emotions. But you'll get you're gold retirement watch, you will, provided you don't die of an infarct.
If you've answered all c's, Welcome to the Corporate World! In CEQ terms, you're Einstein, baby! Would you like your million dollar bonus in Indian currency or should we quietly deposit it in a Swiss Bank account?
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