I don't normally write about, or even mention the word "sex" in my blog. I mean, why talk about something you don't understand too well? But today, I break that self imposed rule. This blog, today, will descend from its high Gandhian ideals to Hugh Hefner class. We will mention the 'S' word! So excuse me while I shed a silent tear. My only excuse it that I found it funny and had to report it.
"What is it, you silly old buffer? Cut to the chase!" I hear you asking, with a "Senile bum!" as an aside to your alter ego. Patience, patience, you shall hear all.
Well, last night we went out to dinner with a couple of friends from old college days. One of these I meet frequently - he stays ten minutes away and we share a deep interest in the fermentation process. The other guy, I'll call him AM, is here on vacation. He works for General Motors. I suppose he will have to continue doing that till he can find a specific motor to work for. Not my concern.
What he was telling me about was how his American boss is a funny guy. He, AM, was asking him, the American boss, about his day, and how he schedules it. And the guy gave him the low down with a dead pan face. Wake up at 6.00 am, office by 7.30 and so on and finally says
"I usually sleep by 11.30".
And his wife adds, with an equally dead pan face, "Unless we're having sex, in which case he sleeps by 11.35"
"Right", still looking like they're attending a religious ceremony.
He, AM, tells me that those were the 10 most difficult minutes in his life, because he had to keep a straight face. Gave him a hernia, that effort.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Thursday, July 17, 2008
It's Exam Time at Chez Shenoy!
Ah, what chaos! Mother and son are yelling away at each other. Mother is trying to reason with son that writing is essential. How is the teacher going to figure out how smart you are? Why can't you write things neatly? Tell me, what are Apogee and Perigee? (Son nearly gets a grievous injury because of smart aleck answer "They are sons of Gandhiji"). And so on.
Son is a thinking man. He evades as long as possible but when things start looking threatening (mother is moving a motion to ban going downstairs and playing football), decides that it is better to lose a battle than the war. Ok, Ok, I'll write, he says. What should I write now?
A formal invitation.
He writes one
Son is a thinking man. He evades as long as possible but when things start looking threatening (mother is moving a motion to ban going downstairs and playing football), decides that it is better to lose a battle than the war. Ok, Ok, I'll write, he says. What should I write now?
A formal invitation.
He writes one
The Management and Staff of Blah Blah School
cordially invite you to
the investiture ceremony of Blah Blah as School Prefect
Mr. Albert Einstein,
CEO of Chandrakant Textiles Pvt. Ltd.
has kindly agreed to preside over the function.
Time 3:00 pm Date 26 January 1925
cordially invite you to
the investiture ceremony of Blah Blah as School Prefect
Mr. Albert Einstein,
CEO of Chandrakant Textiles Pvt. Ltd.
has kindly agreed to preside over the function.
Time 3:00 pm Date 26 January 1925
Mother shows it to me. I trip over the "Chandrakant Textiles"! Where in the world did you get that name? And why do they need Einstein to be their CEO? I ask him, but he is too busy arguing a technical point with Mother that he doesn't have to practice the diagrams because they're not going to be asked in the exam.
All this is younger son, of course. He is in seventh grade. Elder son, in the ninth, is the picture of sincerity and has nose firmly inside book. This year I haven't even had to factorize anything for him. He did ask me something about prepositions but my evident ignorance about the subject led him to conduct his search for knowledge elsewhere. A textbook, to be precise.
Now Mother enters our bedroom. The kids have finally gone to sleep. She has the look of a General who is fighting against guerrillas. Harrassed. Weeps a little, then laughs when she remembers the apogee thing. Then weeps a little again, because she remembers the apogee thing. I do more or less the same thing that the UN does when things start going wrong in some country. Pat that country's leader on the head and make sympathetic clucking noises.
Somehow, that little sign of commiseration doesn't seem to be working.
All this is younger son, of course. He is in seventh grade. Elder son, in the ninth, is the picture of sincerity and has nose firmly inside book. This year I haven't even had to factorize anything for him. He did ask me something about prepositions but my evident ignorance about the subject led him to conduct his search for knowledge elsewhere. A textbook, to be precise.
Now Mother enters our bedroom. The kids have finally gone to sleep. She has the look of a General who is fighting against guerrillas. Harrassed. Weeps a little, then laughs when she remembers the apogee thing. Then weeps a little again, because she remembers the apogee thing. I do more or less the same thing that the UN does when things start going wrong in some country. Pat that country's leader on the head and make sympathetic clucking noises.
Somehow, that little sign of commiseration doesn't seem to be working.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Ask the Management Guru - I
Q. Recently, in a meeting, an MBA from a premier B-School said something that sounded like "a reference point for commonality of paradigm shifts in six sigma and core competency, and the five pees of management". What does this mean? - (From "Confused", Mumbai)
A. Dear "Confused".
You are evidently not an MBA. Don't you know your five pees of management?
- The first pee, at management trainee level, is the "I'm scared witless" pee
- The second, at the assistant sales manager level, is the "I've been in the conference room for four hours and the a.c. is getting to me" pee.
- The third, at profit-center head level, is the "I've had five beers at this business lunch and all five want to come out now" pee
- The fourth, five years from retirement, is the "This diabetes is making me go to the loo every fifteen minutes" pee
- And finally, for those who make it to the very top of the pole, the fifth pee is "Wow! That's my bonus?" pee.
A. Dear "Jargonically Challenged".
No one knows for sure. Most of the gurus believe that the paradigm is a creature which looks like a horse but has a horn in the center of its forehead.
Q. But isn't that a unicorn?
A. What are you, a naive believer in fairy tales? Everyone knows the unicorn is mythical. Paradigms keep shifting and often solve problems in this fashion.
Q. Do you believe that the Ambani brothers were responsible for the recent stock market crash?(From "Stoke Mar Cate Ache Spurt", Rajkot)
A. Dear Stoke
No, that was God. The Ambani brothers were responsible for the stock market rise.
Please send in your questions pertaining to anything troubling you in the vast and wondrous world of management and economics. Our Guru will be happy to clarify the situation.
Monday, July 14, 2008
In which I am dragged kicking and screaming to a movie...
I had read OK's post on the movie Jaane Tu... and decided that I had to give it a miss. But I reckoned without the native cunning of the missus, who, on her day, can make General Rommel look like Mr. Bean.
Step 1 : She buys tickets.
Step 2 : She tells me she has bought 2 tickets
Step 3 : I tell her to go with my sister, because she is DYING to see the movie and has no one to go with
Step 4 : My well thought out strategy collapses because missus, displaying devilish cunning, asks sister if she really wants to go
Step 5 : Sis says no. She has seen it already. How did she like it? Well..... the songs were nice
Step 6 : I discover that FIVE tickets have been purchased. The boys and my mom are coming too:
Step 7 : I tell missus that I don't really want to come, because of this negative review I read.
Step 8 : Missus expresses her opinions on a wide range of topics of a somewhat personal nature, of which I am only allowed to report that it melted most of my earwax.
Step 9: I watch the movie.
Right, then. That's the story so far. And how did I like the movie, do you ask? Well, I thoroughly enjoyed it. I can't for the life of me fathom why OK did not like it. Perhaps windows into prior life etc. My heart bleeds for him. But the movie was superb. Why? Well, let me count the ways
1. The story was written BEFORE the shooting started
2. Ditto the dialogue
3. No one named Kapoor, Chopra, Johar, Ghai or Roshan was even remotely involved in the making of the movie.
4. No one becomes hysterical in the movie.
5. There is no tearful prayer in song form to Krishna
6. No one overacts.
7. No one has a chest like the Himalayas lying on their side
Really enjoyed it, despite having to face a smug "I told you so" expression from the missus for the rest of the week.
Jokes apart, I found the movie fresh and charmingly ordinary. And very classy too. The only eyesore was that old ham, Paresh Rawal, who overacts just a little bit. Tragically, my countrymen love his brand of humor. Well, when they finally make me president, the first ordinance I will promulgate will be the statutory ban on all films in which Paresh Rawal makes an appearance.
In other news, I am on a soup and salad diet. My respect for Mahatma Gandhi has gone up many notches. He ran an entire freedom struggle on an empty stomach. I can barely run a coherent thought process.
Step 1 : She buys tickets.
Step 2 : She tells me she has bought 2 tickets
Step 3 : I tell her to go with my sister, because she is DYING to see the movie and has no one to go with
Step 4 : My well thought out strategy collapses because missus, displaying devilish cunning, asks sister if she really wants to go
Step 5 : Sis says no. She has seen it already. How did she like it? Well..... the songs were nice
Step 6 : I discover that FIVE tickets have been purchased. The boys and my mom are coming too:
Step 7 : I tell missus that I don't really want to come, because of this negative review I read.
Step 8 : Missus expresses her opinions on a wide range of topics of a somewhat personal nature, of which I am only allowed to report that it melted most of my earwax.
Step 9: I watch the movie.
Right, then. That's the story so far. And how did I like the movie, do you ask? Well, I thoroughly enjoyed it. I can't for the life of me fathom why OK did not like it. Perhaps windows into prior life etc. My heart bleeds for him. But the movie was superb. Why? Well, let me count the ways
1. The story was written BEFORE the shooting started
2. Ditto the dialogue
3. No one named Kapoor, Chopra, Johar, Ghai or Roshan was even remotely involved in the making of the movie.
4. No one becomes hysterical in the movie.
5. There is no tearful prayer in song form to Krishna
6. No one overacts.
7. No one has a chest like the Himalayas lying on their side
Really enjoyed it, despite having to face a smug "I told you so" expression from the missus for the rest of the week.
Jokes apart, I found the movie fresh and charmingly ordinary. And very classy too. The only eyesore was that old ham, Paresh Rawal, who overacts just a little bit. Tragically, my countrymen love his brand of humor. Well, when they finally make me president, the first ordinance I will promulgate will be the statutory ban on all films in which Paresh Rawal makes an appearance.
In other news, I am on a soup and salad diet. My respect for Mahatma Gandhi has gone up many notches. He ran an entire freedom struggle on an empty stomach. I can barely run a coherent thought process.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
A stray thought
Last evening we had a few friends over for dinner. Sheela had cooked some excellent prawn curry and stuffed pomfret (or paaplate, as it is known in zoological circles) and the food, for once, upstaged the booze.
We watched the India v/s Bangladesh cricket match. The Indian team was , surprise surprise, whaling the tar out of the Bangladesh team. Inter alia, a chap named Suresh Raina scored a century. Apparently overcome with emotion, he ran to the other guy in the middle, Yuvraj Singh, and jumped into his arms. Yuvraj Singh who, I am sure, is no stranger to such situations, though most of the jumping is doubtless done by members of the fairer sex, handled the situation well and disentangled himself with dignity and without committing himself.
My question is, what would it take for someone like me to want to jump into another man's arms? I can't think of a single thing. Very much doubt even a billion dollars could do it (though I am open to offers). Am I too cold and cynical? Is it normal for men to jump into other men's arms upon scoring centuries against Bangladesh?
Just stray thoughts. By the way, you must have noted that I have wrested control over this page from my dear wife by the deeply strategic method of whining and agreeing to go shopping with her for the next seventy three years without a murmur. Surely a small price to pay for my independence.
We watched the India v/s Bangladesh cricket match. The Indian team was , surprise surprise, whaling the tar out of the Bangladesh team. Inter alia, a chap named Suresh Raina scored a century. Apparently overcome with emotion, he ran to the other guy in the middle, Yuvraj Singh, and jumped into his arms. Yuvraj Singh who, I am sure, is no stranger to such situations, though most of the jumping is doubtless done by members of the fairer sex, handled the situation well and disentangled himself with dignity and without committing himself.
My question is, what would it take for someone like me to want to jump into another man's arms? I can't think of a single thing. Very much doubt even a billion dollars could do it (though I am open to offers). Am I too cold and cynical? Is it normal for men to jump into other men's arms upon scoring centuries against Bangladesh?
Just stray thoughts. By the way, you must have noted that I have wrested control over this page from my dear wife by the deeply strategic method of whining and agreeing to go shopping with her for the next seventy three years without a murmur. Surely a small price to pay for my independence.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Update on the happenings at Chez Shenoy
It's a still life water color
Of a now late afternoon
As the sun shines through the curtain lace
And shadows wash the room
And we're toiling in the kitchen
Cast in our ignorance
About stuff that can be ate
Not in cans but off a plate
Lost in Tarla's recipe books
And how this cheese to grate.
And he reads his Sanjeev kapoor
And I that Jaffrey dame
As he wipes his brow with grated cheese
And roasts his pinkie in the flame
I'm on the floor with laughter
This better than a Mr Bean
Funnier than a clown
A Chaplin, only brown
Lost in tarla's recipe books
And how this cheese to grate
How did you like that? Last weekend we made a risotto, that is, Naren did. I assisted, chopping the vegetables and laying out the ingredients, comprising primarily of butter and cheese. If the risotto is the US, butter and cheese are the African-American and the White Caucasian populations respectively. Onions are the Hispanic community and garlic would be the Asians. The high-in-fibre ingredients would be represented by, let me see, the Inuit population? I kept reminding Naren about his triglycerides number which, unlike the Dow-Jones, is going up-up-up. Don't nag me, he snarled back. Nag? Me? But I did not take issue because he had managed to roast his little finger in the gas flame just then, a circumstance that always brings out the beast in man. Let it blow over, I decided and bided my time. Nag, did you say buster? Let's see! That's all. Let's see!
Anyway, the risotto was eventually done. The rice, like the walls of the kitchen and the hair on my husband's head, was evenly covered with butter, cheese, onions, mushrooms, tomatoes, garlic, pepper and several finely chopped unidentified vegetables. It tasted wonderful. Maybe I'll forgive him for calling me a nag, after all!
Of a now late afternoon
As the sun shines through the curtain lace
And shadows wash the room
And we're toiling in the kitchen
Cast in our ignorance
About stuff that can be ate
Not in cans but off a plate
Lost in Tarla's recipe books
And how this cheese to grate.
And he reads his Sanjeev kapoor
And I that Jaffrey dame
As he wipes his brow with grated cheese
And roasts his pinkie in the flame
I'm on the floor with laughter
This better than a Mr Bean
Funnier than a clown
A Chaplin, only brown
Lost in tarla's recipe books
And how this cheese to grate
How did you like that? Last weekend we made a risotto, that is, Naren did. I assisted, chopping the vegetables and laying out the ingredients, comprising primarily of butter and cheese. If the risotto is the US, butter and cheese are the African-American and the White Caucasian populations respectively. Onions are the Hispanic community and garlic would be the Asians. The high-in-fibre ingredients would be represented by, let me see, the Inuit population? I kept reminding Naren about his triglycerides number which, unlike the Dow-Jones, is going up-up-up. Don't nag me, he snarled back. Nag? Me? But I did not take issue because he had managed to roast his little finger in the gas flame just then, a circumstance that always brings out the beast in man. Let it blow over, I decided and bided my time. Nag, did you say buster? Let's see! That's all. Let's see!
Anyway, the risotto was eventually done. The rice, like the walls of the kitchen and the hair on my husband's head, was evenly covered with butter, cheese, onions, mushrooms, tomatoes, garlic, pepper and several finely chopped unidentified vegetables. It tasted wonderful. Maybe I'll forgive him for calling me a nag, after all!
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Still the missis
Let me assure you wonderful people out there that I love and care for my husband with the intensity of a Juliet. This does not mean that I believe he is a profound thinker. Juliet, to the best of my knowledge, never expected Romeo to come up with the Theory of Relativity or write a seminal work on diffferential calculus. Indeed, she would have freaked out if he HAD done something like that. So I merely raise my eyebrows when he presents an example of his goofiness and let it pass. But today, he made me shake my head slowly from side to side and look heavenward as if in silent prayer. The reason is this joke he made up. I overheard him telling it to the kids. Here it is, in its entirety. Judge for your self.
Once upon a time there lived a boy who had a troublesome poltergeist in his closet. It kept flinging everything around and ripping up things kept in that closet.
The boy was tired of its pranks and tried everything to get rid of it. He even hired a psychic to talk to the ghost and persuade it to go away. The psychic talked and talked, offering all kinds of lures and goodies, but to no avail.
One day, as he was studying for his Hindi exams, he suddenly got a brainwave. He ran to the kitchen and fixed a nice hot steaming cup of coffee, topped with foaming milk, and kept it in the closet.
As he shut the doors, he heard a loud slurping sound which continued for a few minutes and then stopped. He opened the closet doors expectantly and found the cup empty. The coffee was all gone!
He smiled to himself and went back to his studies. He knew that the ghost would bother him no more. Because he had read in his Hindi textbook
Latte ke bhoot baaton se nahin maantein.
Once upon a time there lived a boy who had a troublesome poltergeist in his closet. It kept flinging everything around and ripping up things kept in that closet.
The boy was tired of its pranks and tried everything to get rid of it. He even hired a psychic to talk to the ghost and persuade it to go away. The psychic talked and talked, offering all kinds of lures and goodies, but to no avail.
One day, as he was studying for his Hindi exams, he suddenly got a brainwave. He ran to the kitchen and fixed a nice hot steaming cup of coffee, topped with foaming milk, and kept it in the closet.
As he shut the doors, he heard a loud slurping sound which continued for a few minutes and then stopped. He opened the closet doors expectantly and found the cup empty. The coffee was all gone!
He smiled to himself and went back to his studies. He knew that the ghost would bother him no more. Because he had read in his Hindi textbook
Latte ke bhoot baaton se nahin maantein.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Thisis the Missis
Missis! Isn't that what he calls me? Oh, by the way, I'm the long suffering protagonist of this blog. I finally got the password out of the husband and decided to use this blog to set things right.
But first, hi to all of you. I've read most of the comments and you people sound like a sweet bunch of guys. Just the kind of credulous, trusting simple people who would easily swallow the lies that my adorable but economical-with-the-truth husband dishes out.
I am not the Stalin-cum-Mao Tse Tung that he makes me out to be. But the bits about him being a complete buffoon are quite accurate. And it is not just me who feels that way. I'll give you an example.
The other day, Naren took his mom and aunt to the doctors. On their way back, it started pouring. Naren dropped them in the foyer and went to park the car in the parking lot, which is about 50 feet away.
Naren's mom, who is convinced that this 43 year old 76 kg heavy man will catch a cold if more than 10 raindrops fall on his head, begged him to use the umbrella (there is one in the car) on his way from the parking lot to the building. They took the elevator up.
Five minutes later, Naren walked into the house, drenched as usual.
"Naren! Didn't you use the umbrella?", mom asked.
Naren remarked, sarcastically, that he used the umbrella to walk from the car to the building and since it was the car umbrella, walked back to the car, put the umbrella in and walked back.
And you know what? They believed him. Both his mother and his aunt believed that he walked back with the umbrella, then went back to the car, kept the umbrella inside it and then walked back to the building.
I rest my case.
But first, hi to all of you. I've read most of the comments and you people sound like a sweet bunch of guys. Just the kind of credulous, trusting simple people who would easily swallow the lies that my adorable but economical-with-the-truth husband dishes out.
I am not the Stalin-cum-Mao Tse Tung that he makes me out to be. But the bits about him being a complete buffoon are quite accurate. And it is not just me who feels that way. I'll give you an example.
The other day, Naren took his mom and aunt to the doctors. On their way back, it started pouring. Naren dropped them in the foyer and went to park the car in the parking lot, which is about 50 feet away.
Naren's mom, who is convinced that this 43 year old 76 kg heavy man will catch a cold if more than 10 raindrops fall on his head, begged him to use the umbrella (there is one in the car) on his way from the parking lot to the building. They took the elevator up.
Five minutes later, Naren walked into the house, drenched as usual.
"Naren! Didn't you use the umbrella?", mom asked.
Naren remarked, sarcastically, that he used the umbrella to walk from the car to the building and since it was the car umbrella, walked back to the car, put the umbrella in and walked back.
And you know what? They believed him. Both his mother and his aunt believed that he walked back with the umbrella, then went back to the car, kept the umbrella inside it and then walked back to the building.
I rest my case.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
An incident from my courtship
I've been off the blogosphere for a while now, on the grounds that I have nothing worthwhile to write about. I think up something, write a few lines about it and then, since it sounds stupid, let dare not wait upon I would, like the poor cat i' the adage.
I have been rethinking this policy, however. You see, with the amount of grey matter that I have been blessed, it is well nigh impossible for me say or write anything that is not stupid. And Okie Dokie just threatened to wring my neck if I don't write something instanter. Not that I am unduly worried about that threat, neck-wringing rights vesting currently with Mrs. Shenoy, but it is an important indication about the way the public is thinking. The public is thinking, show us again what an ass you are.
I have several topics on which I can display my ass-ness. The oil crisis, for one. The state of the economy, perhaps. Or what our foriegn policy towards China should be. But I'm going to settle for my favorite topic - Life with the Missus.
Today's anecdote comes from our courtship days. Those of you who have been following the story of my drab little life will recall how I was unceremoniously hauled by the scruff of my neck and flung into the maelstrom of matrimony. Well, there was a brief period where I was sailing at the edge of this whirlpool, in the little sliver of brightness called courtship, right between the dull sunlessness of celibate bachelorhood and the dark, rain-clouded thunderstorm of married life.
I had made the trip to Mysore and was accorded the treatment reserved for royalty. Eat this beta, drink this, beta, are you comfortable, can I get you another quilt. And there were any number of people who wanted to meet me. I thought at the time that they sought my views on world affairs but all that they were doing were getting a good look at the yahoo who would take away their beloved princess. And in those early days, I managed to create the impression that I was a total bone-head, an impression the missus carries to this day and which forms the basis of all our interpersonal transactions. One of the defining moments was this one.
One of her uncles had come down to meet me. He had quite a reputation for pulling people's legs, though I didn't have a clue at the time. He started off innocuously enough, with a general discussion on the state of affairs in the nation. Sheela was there too. And soon, his mother, that is, Sheela's grandmother, walked in. I promptly touched feet. She was a sweet old soul, semi-invalid because of arthritis, but cheerful nonetheless.
"Mother," said Uncle, "Naren is from Bombay."
" Yes I heard. Bombay must be a nice place. I've been there many years ago", said grandma.
" Sheela's just back from Bombay. She went there to visit Naren," added Uncle.
"Did you like Bombay?" asked grandma.
Sheela reminded her that she had visited Bombay quite frequently.
"She knows Bombay better than I do" I addded, graciously.
"She saw the Kutub Minar in Bombay" said Uncle to grandma.
Grandma's brow furrowed in thought. "Kutub minar? That's in Delhi, isn't it?"
"There's one in Bombay too, according to Sheela". Uncle. Sheela is blushing prettily.
"No, no, grandma's right, uncle, the Kutub minar is in Delhi". Me, the fathead.
"Really? I could have sworn Sheela saw one in Bombay."
"Must be some other minaret. The Kutub Minar is definitely in Delhi". I carried on, oblivious. Sheela was the color of beetroot by now.
"Shut up you rascal" giggled grandma, and ambled away to the kitchen. I had still not got it. Uncle, who had suddenly developed a fit of coughing, ran away from the room. It was only when we were married and some act of goofiness reminded this incident to Sheela did she explain the imagery to me. THEN I got what they meant! It was too late of course. The letters B U F F O O N are firmly emblazoned against my name in the book of Sheela's mind and defines all her readings of my actions.
I have been rethinking this policy, however. You see, with the amount of grey matter that I have been blessed, it is well nigh impossible for me say or write anything that is not stupid. And Okie Dokie just threatened to wring my neck if I don't write something instanter. Not that I am unduly worried about that threat, neck-wringing rights vesting currently with Mrs. Shenoy, but it is an important indication about the way the public is thinking. The public is thinking, show us again what an ass you are.
I have several topics on which I can display my ass-ness. The oil crisis, for one. The state of the economy, perhaps. Or what our foriegn policy towards China should be. But I'm going to settle for my favorite topic - Life with the Missus.
Today's anecdote comes from our courtship days. Those of you who have been following the story of my drab little life will recall how I was unceremoniously hauled by the scruff of my neck and flung into the maelstrom of matrimony. Well, there was a brief period where I was sailing at the edge of this whirlpool, in the little sliver of brightness called courtship, right between the dull sunlessness of celibate bachelorhood and the dark, rain-clouded thunderstorm of married life.
I had made the trip to Mysore and was accorded the treatment reserved for royalty. Eat this beta, drink this, beta, are you comfortable, can I get you another quilt. And there were any number of people who wanted to meet me. I thought at the time that they sought my views on world affairs but all that they were doing were getting a good look at the yahoo who would take away their beloved princess. And in those early days, I managed to create the impression that I was a total bone-head, an impression the missus carries to this day and which forms the basis of all our interpersonal transactions. One of the defining moments was this one.
One of her uncles had come down to meet me. He had quite a reputation for pulling people's legs, though I didn't have a clue at the time. He started off innocuously enough, with a general discussion on the state of affairs in the nation. Sheela was there too. And soon, his mother, that is, Sheela's grandmother, walked in. I promptly touched feet. She was a sweet old soul, semi-invalid because of arthritis, but cheerful nonetheless.
"Mother," said Uncle, "Naren is from Bombay."
" Yes I heard. Bombay must be a nice place. I've been there many years ago", said grandma.
" Sheela's just back from Bombay. She went there to visit Naren," added Uncle.
"Did you like Bombay?" asked grandma.
Sheela reminded her that she had visited Bombay quite frequently.
"She knows Bombay better than I do" I addded, graciously.
"She saw the Kutub Minar in Bombay" said Uncle to grandma.
Grandma's brow furrowed in thought. "Kutub minar? That's in Delhi, isn't it?"
"There's one in Bombay too, according to Sheela". Uncle. Sheela is blushing prettily.
"No, no, grandma's right, uncle, the Kutub minar is in Delhi". Me, the fathead.
"Really? I could have sworn Sheela saw one in Bombay."
"Must be some other minaret. The Kutub Minar is definitely in Delhi". I carried on, oblivious. Sheela was the color of beetroot by now.
"Shut up you rascal" giggled grandma, and ambled away to the kitchen. I had still not got it. Uncle, who had suddenly developed a fit of coughing, ran away from the room. It was only when we were married and some act of goofiness reminded this incident to Sheela did she explain the imagery to me. THEN I got what they meant! It was too late of course. The letters B U F F O O N are firmly emblazoned against my name in the book of Sheela's mind and defines all her readings of my actions.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Tagged
Rads tagged me with a tag whose rules are
1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people, and acknowledge the person who tagged you
Now, I've been off blogging for a while because I couldn't think of anything interesting to say. I mentioned this to a couple of friends conversationally, the other day. Sheela, who was there, remarked that this did not seem to stop me from talking. Ignoring the barb, for we Shenoys do not stoop to vulgar debate, especially when we do not have a suitable reply, I further hardened my resolve to write only if I hve something worthwhile to write about.
Well, I'm about to break that resolution. I have on my table here, at work, for reasons unknown, a book called "The Great Political Theories". I pick it up and turn to page 123. The fifth sentence and the three following it are
"There are, in fact, many ways in which the senate can either benefit or injure those who manage public property, as all these matters are referred to it. What is even more important is that the judges in most civil trials, whether public or private, are appointed from its members, where the action involves large interests. "
I will presently put a sock in it and desist from typing the other two sentences because I don't want to put my audience, a faithful if foolhardy bunch numbering about half a dozen, into a deep coma. That lively bit of prose was about the Roman Senate and was written about the theories of a chap named Polybius (ca.203-120BC, Greek Πολύβιος)who must have been the president of their Comedy Club.
"Yo, Polybius, my man, was haapenin" someone would say. And Polybius would promptly reply that the senate is obliged in the first place to pay attention to the commons in public affairs and cannot carry out inquiries unless the senatus consultum is confirmed by the people. This would crack up all the people and the TV guys would look at him as the just the chap to replace Conan O'brien.
The last part of the tag,
Tag five people, and acknowledge the person who tagged you
I will have to postpone on the grounds that I don't know five people who can read. But I can acknowledge my tagger, Rads, as one of the wittiest and soundest person I know. She might not be able to achieve the heights of Polybius, but she can mangle a QWERTY as well as anyone else. One would be well advised to visit her page.
Apart from this, I have a nice weekend vacation to write about, and a visit to the shopping districts of Mumbai with wife. And of course the IPL cricket final which I saw in the stadium.
See you soon
1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people, and acknowledge the person who tagged you
Now, I've been off blogging for a while because I couldn't think of anything interesting to say. I mentioned this to a couple of friends conversationally, the other day. Sheela, who was there, remarked that this did not seem to stop me from talking. Ignoring the barb, for we Shenoys do not stoop to vulgar debate, especially when we do not have a suitable reply, I further hardened my resolve to write only if I hve something worthwhile to write about.
Well, I'm about to break that resolution. I have on my table here, at work, for reasons unknown, a book called "The Great Political Theories". I pick it up and turn to page 123. The fifth sentence and the three following it are
"There are, in fact, many ways in which the senate can either benefit or injure those who manage public property, as all these matters are referred to it. What is even more important is that the judges in most civil trials, whether public or private, are appointed from its members, where the action involves large interests. "
I will presently put a sock in it and desist from typing the other two sentences because I don't want to put my audience, a faithful if foolhardy bunch numbering about half a dozen, into a deep coma. That lively bit of prose was about the Roman Senate and was written about the theories of a chap named Polybius (ca.203-120BC, Greek Πολύβιος)who must have been the president of their Comedy Club.
"Yo, Polybius, my man, was haapenin" someone would say. And Polybius would promptly reply that the senate is obliged in the first place to pay attention to the commons in public affairs and cannot carry out inquiries unless the senatus consultum is confirmed by the people. This would crack up all the people and the TV guys would look at him as the just the chap to replace Conan O'brien.
The last part of the tag,
Tag five people, and acknowledge the person who tagged you
I will have to postpone on the grounds that I don't know five people who can read. But I can acknowledge my tagger, Rads, as one of the wittiest and soundest person I know. She might not be able to achieve the heights of Polybius, but she can mangle a QWERTY as well as anyone else. One would be well advised to visit her page.
Apart from this, I have a nice weekend vacation to write about, and a visit to the shopping districts of Mumbai with wife. And of course the IPL cricket final which I saw in the stadium.
See you soon
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