More on the knee

As i was saying in my previous post, I have been diagnosed with osteo-arthritis. The good doctor prescribed me some tablets and a "Bio-protein pure collagen blah blah" drink which sounded so phony that I had to open the pamphlet and read. The first line was "Osteo-arthritis is a disease that affects the elderly". I ask you. A man in his prime. Eyed by many, including Mrs. Bacchan the younger (I'm not joking. I saw her at a party once and she looked at me. Over the heads of 70 other people, she looked at ME! The raw desire in her eyes was unmistakable, but since I am spoken for, I responded not). I am NOT elderly. You know who's elderly, A. K. Hangal, that's elderly. And L. K. Advani.

Ok,  enough ranting. Actually, the missus has been very sweet. She keeps fussing over me and asks me every fifteen minutes if my knee is hurting. It is not, actually, but I grimace slightly every time I stand up, conveying the impression that I'm being extremely courageous and manly, concealing my pain like that. I know. I'm a rat.

The kids have been really nice too. Vyaas, the elder one asked me if I would ever be able to walk again, while Gautham offered to buy me a walking stick from his pocket money, provided he has any left over after buying the Eminem Relapse CD.

Well, that's about it from me. The missus is very serious about not letting me drink a single drop of alcohol which term, unless repugnant to the context thereof, shall be deemed to mean beer, wine, whiskey, vodka, gin, brandy, rum (black and white), the triple distilled horse urine they call bourbon, tequila and beverages containing all or part of the ingredients aforementioned.

Cheers

Depression!

 I've been having a nagging pain in my knee.

Like all typical guys, I was in complete denial. Guys will refuse to go to the doctor till they physically drop dead, because deep down inside, all guys know that doctors are dying to put their hands up your ass lookng for something called a prostate, which I'm sure these guys have made up for precisely this purpose.

But I'm not your regular normal guy. I'm a guy married to Sheela Shenoy. It's a bit hard to say no when SHE'S telling you to go to the doctor.

"And don't be silly, Naren. He's an orthopedic surgeon. He doesn't want to put things up your backside." , she added. After 17 years of marriage, the wife is still unable to say the word "ass", bless her heart!

Well, I went in the end. One, because SHeela said so. And two, because the knee was really hurting, especially when I climbed up stairs.

My orthopedic surgeon is a serious kind of bloke. No reassuring smiles or backslapping. He told me to take an X-ray. "This has all the signs of osteoarthritis" he told me. And today, when I went back to him with the X-rays he took a look at them, the knees and the x-ray images.

After a moment or two spent in uffish thought, he gave me the look college principals give parents when it is their painful duty to inform them that their son is doing weed.

"You definitely have osteo arthritis".

"Are you sure?"

"Here. Look at this gap"

Looked fine to me.

"It's less than normal. Plus there are these bony protuberances"

Well, he looked confident enough. I took his word for it.

"What do I need to do? Like precautions and so on"

You're not going to believe this. He asked me to reduce my weight. REDUCE MY WEIGHT! I'm practically skin and bones right now.

"And a couple of seriously Chennai Film Industry Thighs", the missus added, sardonically. "And an Andhra superstar potbelly."

"And no booze till you're 70." added the doctor.

"Till I'm 70 years old!" I was aghast. "You can't be serious, doctor".

Something in my look must have appealed to the well concealed human in him.

"Not 70 YEARS, my dear chap. 70 KILOS". And he smiled for the first time since I've known him.

Well, that was a relief. So mission 70 kgs begins from today.

Test post

Whenever I take any firm, decisive action about something, I generally find myself with my ass in a sling, to use a technical term.

Not when I got married, of course. That turned out fabulously, though I haven't won a single debate since, but that's beside the point.

What I was saying is that all this is just yada yada yada to test out if I've managed to get the Disqus comment engine out of this blog.

Probably not, because I'm pretty much a moron in these things.

I wasn't born that way.  O no, sirree! I had to work hard at it. SOmewhere along the way, I joined up an MBA course, which helped immensely, but it was mostly just hard work.

Why would I want to become a moron, you might ask.

You moron.

Don't you know that only morons succeed in life? Look at the world around you.

Though it must be said that it is not a sufficient condition, just a necessary one.

Meaning that you have to be a moron in order to succeed, but being a moron is no guarantee of success.

If you got that, you're going to have to work harder.

At being a moron, I mean.

Groaners anonymous

Miles was upset. "You charged me 'arf a pound for me pint!"

"That's what we charge around here, me man", the landlord said, wiping the bar with his sleeve.

"But you didn't charge 'im a single penny"

"Didn't charge who?" asked the landlord

"Whom" interjected his educated wife.

"Eh?"

"Whom. 'Didn't charge whom' is how we say it, dear"

"That's exactly what I'm askin'. Whom came 'ere and didn't pay for 'is drinks?"

The landlord's wife rolled her eyes heavenward.

"The monk, dear. From the abbey. You know we never charge him for his beer"

"That's what I want to know" said Miles, indignantly. 'What's 'e done to get free beer while honest folk like me 'ave to pay through me nose?"

"Ah, 'im!" said the landlord. "Well, 'e's different."

"Different?"

"Yes, different. You see, e's a regular 'ere. "

"So am I!"

"Yes, but 'e's a frequent friar, Miles"

Words fail me

Photographed in Mysore. Made available by my alert b-in-law Dr. Mahesh Rao. Seriously, words fail me.

Vande Maataram -

Found it! Vande Maataram by Mogubai Kurdikar. The best version of this moving song, as far as I am concerned. This is a recording from 1947 so the audio quality is a bit grainy, but the genius of Mogubai is unmistakable.

The Einstein groaner (re-posted)

(An old groaner reposted for the purpose of checking a new system of comments called disqus)

The assiduous Swiss have been spring cleaning all their government offices, including the Patent Office in Berne, where a document has been found that might throw light on one of this century's most radical theories. According to this document, a page from the diary of one Mileva Maric, her husband Albert "Emceesquared" Einstein, suffered a nervous breakdown circa 1904. He was advised a rest cure and chose the tropical Portuguese dominion of Goa. Being straitened of means, he decided to stay in an inexpensive B&B run by one Mr. D'Souza. Now the D'Souza's had a big fight over property with the Sequiera's next door and one day, the Sequira brothers caught hold of Mr. D'Souza's son Ronnie and started whaling the tar out of him, as the technical term goes.

Albert, a known pacifist, was aghast. "Why protect him you do not?" he asked of Uncle D'Ssouza who was observing the proceeding with scant concern.

"What? What you sayin, men?" enquired Uncle D'Souza

"When two men him attack, why do him not you defend"? Albert clarified.

"Heh", Uncle D'Souza said, scornfully. "E's equal to 'em Sequira's". And indeed, Ronnie held his own against the Sequira brothers.

"What say did you?" expressed Albert, with amazement.

Uncle D'Souza repeated himself, adding "If you don' com' yer hair, men, you're bloody going to look like a bloody med bugger".

But Albert couldn't hear any of it. He was rushing to catch the next steamer to France and from there to Berne. He had this big theory about e's equal to 'em sequiera's. "But", he said to himself, "the spelling a bit I had change better"

The week in review (unfunny post)

Ok folks. Lost my muse somewhere. Can't think of anything funny to write, and yet feel like writing. Who better to inflict all this upon than my poor, unsuspecting readers? Here goes!


Things are pretty bad in Mumbai. I went to Alfa, the famous smuggled goods shop in Irla, to buy a cellphone battery and it was totally deserted. Now this place usually resembles a well packed tin of sardines. Today, it looked like a meeting of "Intellectuals of the Samajwadi Party". Population zero, I mean.

The reason of course is the swine flu panic. And this is the city which shrugs off bomb blasts and terrorist attacks. It's sad!

Schools and colleges are closed. The missus and I are at our wits end trying to find new ways of keeping the progeny amused and out-of-trouble. They keep fighting and hitting each other. If this happens when I am at home, I do what any responsible father would do. I slink off into another room. But if it happens when I'm not, I get a full report from Sheela who expects me to march into the kids' room and be treated like the Fuhrer. Ha! They take as much notice of me as a bunch of life-guards would of a ninety pound weakling.

Yesterday I went, with a couple of friends, to a Bhajan concert by Pandit Jasraj. This was at Shanmukhananda hall. I do get suckered into this kind of stuff every now and then, but seriously, I like Indian classical music. The way with which my fellow citizens receive Indian music saddens me. They go "yuck"! And then go on to listen to Eminem or Timberlake. I ask you! But it is no use. My own sons, my flesh and blood treat my choice of music with derision. For the record, the maestro was just OK - having an off day perhaps - but the chap who was accompanying him on the flute, a young lad named Shashank Subhramanyam was simply fantastic.

What else? Lets see.. Oh yes, here's a picture of me pretending to be Boddy Darling, handbag and all. The scene is outside the changing room at a garment shop in one of the many malls around our house which survive on the largesse of the missus.



And here's something which has been seriously bothering me. It's Vande Maataram sung in a different way. I heard it many years ago -don't even remember when - but everyone at home insists that they've never heard anything like this. Can anyone out there recall if they've heard this, and if they have, who sang it? (don't listen to this video if you have a weak heart. It is me, singing the tune from memory)

No more groaners

No more groaners. I have received threats, and I'm taking them seriously.

Don't laugh. The Americans take the North Koreans seriously. And THEIR threat is a missile called Nodong. It is enshrined in their National Anthem (Take us Seriously. We have No Dong).

No the time has come when men must be men and behave like grown ups.

Even if they have No Dong.

And wise people must write their books of sayings.

Mao wrote one.

Barak wrote one.

Fidel's written one too.

Bill wants to write one but Hilary keeps burning the manuscript. Rumor has it that it is full of gems like

"There are only two sure signs that a woman is coming on to you
1. She's smiling
2. She's not smiling"

"One does not become President overnight. It took me years to learn the gropes"

"I love, admire and respect Hilary. She is a beacon. Radiant, illuminating, warm. Indeed in that respect, except for the fact that the latter can be screwed, she is like a light bulb to me."

Little known cases of Sigmund Freud

Sigmund Freud has never been a stranger to controversy. People have challenged his radical theories hotly, bordering sometimes on the hysterical. But none can deny his calm composure, analytical ability and accurate diagnoses. Here is one which has recently come to light, hidden possibly because of the legendary celebrities involved, and particularly important because it is the first instance of his diagnosing a Complex which later became universally famous.

The case involved the main characters of the "Puss In Boots" fairy tale which, as you doubtless know, is based on real characters and events.

To summarize, a young man, the son of an impoverished miller, was left a cat as his sole legacy by his father. However, the cat turned out to be a member of the 'felis loquacious' species, capable of speech.

As the story goes, the cat turned out to be exceptionally clever. It advised the young miller first to jump into a river, then to pretend to be the Marquis of Carabas, and finally to pose as a lord and marry a princess.

It was this princess, by marriage now the Marquise of Carabas, who had come to Dr. Freud with her problem.

As was his practice, Sigmund asked her to lie down on a couch and sat behind her. The Marquise was a bit puzzled, and her puzzlement increased when Sigmund began questioning her.

"Do you have penis envy?" asked Sigmund

"Well, my best friend Marie married an American financier who owns property in many towns there including one called Phoenix, but no, I don't envy her. Pity her, actually. He's a crashing bore, name of Trump. No, I'd say no Phoenix envy.

"Your Ladyship misunderstands. I meant envy of the male organ, a common problem with members of the fairer sex"

"Oh, that! Oh, no, no!" said the Marquise, as realization dawned. I" have come to ask not about me but my husband. HE is the problem"

"Ah. Well, tell me all, your Ladyship"

"Where do I begin? I suppose you know my story, and that of my husband's rise to fame and fortune"

"The Puss in Boots legend! Who has not heard it, your Ladyship. It is true then?"

"Oh yes, every word"

"The Cat, she speaks?"

"Oui, monsieur, very fluently. And the problem is, my husband hangs upon her every word"

"Mais oui, I suppose it is but to be expected, given that the Cat is the architect of his success"

"But EVERYTHING? He asks her for advice if he has to go to the BATHROOM!"

"Even in - er - matters of the private nature? Between yourself and his lordship I mean?"

"Yes, damn it! Every little kiss has to be asked to the cat. It's driving me nuts! Do something, Dr. Freud! You will be justly rewarded"

Sigmund paused in thought. He had been studying a number of cases, and drawing his own conclusions, but he had never made his thoughts known to anyone. But now..... perhaps NOW was the time......

"Your Ladyship" Sigmund said "This is the very cutting edge of psychoanalytical research, but I think I am completely certain of the diagnosis"

"What is it?" asked the Marquess, breathless in anticipation

"It's called the Heed a Puss Complex"