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.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
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
Saturday, May 24, 2008
The Odisha files
I don't understand much about politics. Actually, I don't understand much about ANYTHING, but politics is something I understand even less about. I mean, I know our great leaders are doing everything they can to help the poor and lift the country to the sunlit uplands of peace and prosperity, but sometimes I just can't see the logic behind their actions. Why, for instance, does Amar Singh, who is such a great leader, spend so much time leading the Bachhan family, who are not really poor? And why in the world would he want his security upgraded to Z-category when no terrorist in his right mind would want to assassinate him, because he's doing a much better job of buggering up the nation than they could ever hope to?
But the thing that takes the cake is Naveen Patnaik's great effort to change his state's name to Odisha from Orissa and the name of the language to Odiya from Oriya. Now is this profound or what? Here you have a state which is the poorest in the nation, where people routinely die of starvation, where women and children are sold in weekly markets and what do you give them? A spelling change. And the beauty is the way it is presented by the press, as if Naveen had to struggle night and day against immense opposition to achieve this. Who in their right mind would? But perhaps Naveen is not really to be blamed. It is the latest political doctrine - when you can't do anything, increase the reservation and rename something. It's a lot easier than ensuring effective administration and just governance. Who wants to tramp around the place ensuring that the poor get a fair deal when all you need to do is to increase the OBC quota for something?
I despair for my country, I really do. I know I should stick to writing funny stories but today, I really don't feel funny at all. I quite love India. I've been all over the country and I've found the people to be really nice. To be sure, there is the odd asshole or criminal, but most Indians are warm and hospitable people. And honest. And clever. So how in the world do we have a political system where anyone can get away with anything? What the hell went wrong? Who elected Amar Singh?
But the thing that takes the cake is Naveen Patnaik's great effort to change his state's name to Odisha from Orissa and the name of the language to Odiya from Oriya. Now is this profound or what? Here you have a state which is the poorest in the nation, where people routinely die of starvation, where women and children are sold in weekly markets and what do you give them? A spelling change. And the beauty is the way it is presented by the press, as if Naveen had to struggle night and day against immense opposition to achieve this. Who in their right mind would? But perhaps Naveen is not really to be blamed. It is the latest political doctrine - when you can't do anything, increase the reservation and rename something. It's a lot easier than ensuring effective administration and just governance. Who wants to tramp around the place ensuring that the poor get a fair deal when all you need to do is to increase the OBC quota for something?
I despair for my country, I really do. I know I should stick to writing funny stories but today, I really don't feel funny at all. I quite love India. I've been all over the country and I've found the people to be really nice. To be sure, there is the odd asshole or criminal, but most Indians are warm and hospitable people. And honest. And clever. So how in the world do we have a political system where anyone can get away with anything? What the hell went wrong? Who elected Amar Singh?
Sunday, May 18, 2008
How to address a Bengaluru Auto driver
Whenever I stay in Bangalore, Sheela's brother most graciously ferries me around in his car to wherever I want, which is nice of him, but has deprived me of some very important insights into human nature, a very specific sub-species of humanity known as the Bangalore Auto Driver (BAD). This time, owing to his being busy, I volunteered to get around by myself on autos. He warned me, saying that it is a thing not easily mastered by novices, but I decided to take the plunge. Hence this report.
At the outset, let me clarify that, despite all the cynical and adverse publicity given to the BADs by various writers, the BAD is actually part of the homo sapien species. The seemingly aberrant behavior, surly countenance and reluctance to perform any kind of beneficial economic activity such as taking people to their destinations is simply an acquired evolutionary feature and should be understood as such. This account is intended to guide the reader in his or her interactions with the BAD
First, unlike in Mumbai, one does not get in to the auto and bark out one's destination, just like that. I don't exactly know what happens if one does that, but no one's ever tried it and survived. Perhaps the auto driver slashes your throat. Even the question puts the shivers into most Bangaloreans. What you do is go humbly to the rickshaw driver, avoiding eye contact at all times, and request him to take you to your destination
"Chalukya Hotel?"
Note that I do not use any more words than necessary. Even the question mark is implied in the intonation.
The responses to this question can be one of several.
Sometimes even this innocuous question, possibly because you haven't asked it with sufficient humility, results in a little tirade, conveying the auto driver's views on the despicable nature of Chalukya Hotel as a destination and of you as just the kind of low life who WOULD want to go to places like that.
Do not be disheartened. He does not mean it. Even if it does, he does not mean you any harm. Withdraw from his august presence with head bowed at all times and walk backwards till you are a respectable distance away. See for instance the movie Mughal-e-Azam for guidance to proper obsequiousness. You will find it in the courtiers approaching the Emperor Akbar for minor favors such as commutation of a death sentence.
Often, the auto driver also adds a sarcastic barb, pointing you out to other auto drivers as if to say "Look at this loser. Chalukya hotel! His father ever went to Chalukya hotel or what?" and ends it with a bit of raucous laughter.
Choke back those rising sobs and hold back those tears. The auto driver might not take kindly to drama gima.
However, there are a few auto drivers who are very sweet and nice about the whole thing. These are the thinkers, the Socrateses among the pack, people who have realized the futility of life, people who will feed dumb animals and give alms to the poor. If you are fortunate enough to meet one of them, he will smile in a saintly manner and with a look of infinite sadness tell you that he cannot come to Chalukya hotel. He doesn't tell you why but you can guess it must be something grave. Probably promised his dying grandmother he would never got to Chalukya Hotel.
Where, one might ask, do these guys all want to go? That, dear reader, is one of life's great mysteries. Perhaps, like great sages, the great BADs are here for a purpose us ignorant people cannot fathom. Perhaps it's just our sheer inferiority that puts us out of contention for receiving favors from them. Perhaps you'll have to climb a few Himalayan mountains scouring for wise men who can tell you the answer. But one thing is abundantly clear. What they are definitely NOT here for is to go to Chalukya Hotel
At the outset, let me clarify that, despite all the cynical and adverse publicity given to the BADs by various writers, the BAD is actually part of the homo sapien species. The seemingly aberrant behavior, surly countenance and reluctance to perform any kind of beneficial economic activity such as taking people to their destinations is simply an acquired evolutionary feature and should be understood as such. This account is intended to guide the reader in his or her interactions with the BAD
First, unlike in Mumbai, one does not get in to the auto and bark out one's destination, just like that. I don't exactly know what happens if one does that, but no one's ever tried it and survived. Perhaps the auto driver slashes your throat. Even the question puts the shivers into most Bangaloreans. What you do is go humbly to the rickshaw driver, avoiding eye contact at all times, and request him to take you to your destination
"Chalukya Hotel?"
Note that I do not use any more words than necessary. Even the question mark is implied in the intonation.
The responses to this question can be one of several.
Sometimes even this innocuous question, possibly because you haven't asked it with sufficient humility, results in a little tirade, conveying the auto driver's views on the despicable nature of Chalukya Hotel as a destination and of you as just the kind of low life who WOULD want to go to places like that.
Do not be disheartened. He does not mean it. Even if it does, he does not mean you any harm. Withdraw from his august presence with head bowed at all times and walk backwards till you are a respectable distance away. See for instance the movie Mughal-e-Azam for guidance to proper obsequiousness. You will find it in the courtiers approaching the Emperor Akbar for minor favors such as commutation of a death sentence.
Often, the auto driver also adds a sarcastic barb, pointing you out to other auto drivers as if to say "Look at this loser. Chalukya hotel! His father ever went to Chalukya hotel or what?" and ends it with a bit of raucous laughter.
Choke back those rising sobs and hold back those tears. The auto driver might not take kindly to drama gima.
However, there are a few auto drivers who are very sweet and nice about the whole thing. These are the thinkers, the Socrateses among the pack, people who have realized the futility of life, people who will feed dumb animals and give alms to the poor. If you are fortunate enough to meet one of them, he will smile in a saintly manner and with a look of infinite sadness tell you that he cannot come to Chalukya hotel. He doesn't tell you why but you can guess it must be something grave. Probably promised his dying grandmother he would never got to Chalukya Hotel.
Where, one might ask, do these guys all want to go? That, dear reader, is one of life's great mysteries. Perhaps, like great sages, the great BADs are here for a purpose us ignorant people cannot fathom. Perhaps it's just our sheer inferiority that puts us out of contention for receiving favors from them. Perhaps you'll have to climb a few Himalayan mountains scouring for wise men who can tell you the answer. But one thing is abundantly clear. What they are definitely NOT here for is to go to Chalukya Hotel
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
National Awards
As I sit here pretending to work, a news item flits by. Some people are being awarded Padma Vibhushan and Padma Bhushan awards. Among them, Tendlya, who looks rather smart. And for some mysterious reason, Pranab Mukherjee. What the F has he done? Apart from screwing up foreign policy all over the place?
Anyway, the thing that prompted me to write this post - my contribution to post-erity - is that one of the awardees for Padma Bhushan is Chandrashekhar Dasgupta, a former Ambassador. I was just thinking how nice it would be if they had awarded one to Dara Singh for being a former Maruti.
Anyway, the thing that prompted me to write this post - my contribution to post-erity - is that one of the awardees for Padma Bhushan is Chandrashekhar Dasgupta, a former Ambassador. I was just thinking how nice it would be if they had awarded one to Dara Singh for being a former Maruti.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Saturday, May 3, 2008
A rose by any other name-brand
There are many ways of earning money. Some people choose to toil away in a farm and earn money from the rice or wheat that they grow. Others work in factories, for which they might be paid a daily wage. Or you can buy T-shirts with pirate skulls painted on them by people in China and sell them for $154 a piece, which is what one Ed Hardy does.
I have nothing against Ed. Indeed, I envy him his easy lifestyle. Pay the Ching Hou Garment company of Guangzhou for 10,000 tee shirts at 0.82 per and sell them at $154 less retail commission. I'm not much of a mathematician - I would readily acknowledge Newton and Leibniz to be my superiors - but I know enough to tell that Ed is rolling in the stuff. What I marvel at is that the supply of suckers in this world seems endless.
How does someone like me who, lets be frank here, has the style consciousness of a hippopotamus in a mud pool, cash in on this abundance of suckerness? I thought I would list down a few business plans and pass it around the blogosphere for some free advice. Please don't steal them. If you do, please send me my share .
Business plan 1
Product - Designer bread
USP - Available in bold colors and post-modern shapes.
Designer logo - Five grains of wheat stuck on the wrapper
Target Customer-
Retail price - $49.95 per loaf.
Manufacturing - Sourced from The Ching Hou Designer Bread Company of Guangzhou @
$49.95 per 20 ft. container
Quality policy - We will tell the chaps at The Ching Hou Designer Bread Company of Guangzhou, "Chaps, make sure it is of a good quality, ok?
Do you think Kleiner Perkins will fund it? I guess so, can see no downside.
Business Plan 2
Service- Designer appendicectomy scars
USP - Available in bold colors and post-modern shapes.
Designer logo - Five distinctive stitches on the abdomen
Target Customer-
Retail price - $4,995 per scar. (The operation is extra)
Manufacturing - Outsourced to The Ching Hou Designer Scar Company of Guangzhou @
$49.95 per scar
Quality policy - We will tell the chaps at The Ching Hou Designer Scar Company of Guangzhou, "Chaps, make sure the knives and needles and stuff are clean, ok?
Kleiner Perkins should be able to fund this one as well.
I have nothing against Ed. Indeed, I envy him his easy lifestyle. Pay the Ching Hou Garment company of Guangzhou for 10,000 tee shirts at 0.82 per and sell them at $154 less retail commission. I'm not much of a mathematician - I would readily acknowledge Newton and Leibniz to be my superiors - but I know enough to tell that Ed is rolling in the stuff. What I marvel at is that the supply of suckers in this world seems endless.
How does someone like me who, lets be frank here, has the style consciousness of a hippopotamus in a mud pool, cash in on this abundance of suckerness? I thought I would list down a few business plans and pass it around the blogosphere for some free advice. Please don't steal them. If you do, please send me my share .
Business plan 1
Product - Designer bread
USP - Available in bold colors and post-modern shapes.
Designer logo - Five grains of wheat stuck on the wrapper
Target Customer-
- 1. Style conscious professional who needs to make a statement with the sandwich he/she takes to work.
- 2. Sucker
Retail price - $49.95 per loaf.
Manufacturing - Sourced from The Ching Hou Designer Bread Company of Guangzhou @
$49.95 per 20 ft. container
Quality policy - We will tell the chaps at The Ching Hou Designer Bread Company of Guangzhou, "Chaps, make sure it is of a good quality, ok?
Do you think Kleiner Perkins will fund it? I guess so, can see no downside.
Business Plan 2
Service- Designer appendicectomy scars
USP - Available in bold colors and post-modern shapes.
Designer logo - Five distinctive stitches on the abdomen
Target Customer-
- 1. Style conscious professional who needs to make a statement when he/she undresses, for various reasons.
- 2. Sucker
Retail price - $4,995 per scar. (The operation is extra)
Manufacturing - Outsourced to The Ching Hou Designer Scar Company of Guangzhou @
$49.95 per scar
Quality policy - We will tell the chaps at The Ching Hou Designer Scar Company of Guangzhou, "Chaps, make sure the knives and needles and stuff are clean, ok?
Kleiner Perkins should be able to fund this one as well.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
The Greatness Gene
There is a gene for greatness. I know it. I am not in a position to prove it right now, but I know that great people are born only to other great people. Soon we will have elections here and then all you skeptics will see it for your self.
I am talking of people like Kumaraswamy, who gets the greatness gene from Devegowda himself, that patriot who has done so much for his poor self, his poor wife and his extremely poor children, M. K. Stalin who likewise, inherits it from Karunanidhi, Milind Deora, Jitin Prasada, the Thakerays son and nephew, and even old Narayan Rane's whatsisname son, I can think of dozens.
Disappointingly some of our so called great leaders did not posses this gene, evidenced by the fact that none of their progeny are great.
Start with Rani Lakshmibai of Jhansi. Unlike the Scindia family, who wisely decided to support the nice, white, British masters, this belligerent queen fought them recklessly, even killing herself in the process. Had it not been for the kindly Scindias who decided to betray her to the British, why, she might have actually won. Luckily for our country, the nice British masters were able to defeat her, and won for the Indian people a hundred years of secure serfdom instead of dangerous independence. And the Scindias, you will note, gave us many many great leaders including the young and dashing Jyotiraditya Scindia and the not so young but no less dashing Vasundhara Raje. And Rani Lakshmibai? Her direct descendant is a petty shopkeeper in Indore, I heard. See? See what I mean?
Second non-great on my list is Mahatma Gandhi who left no son, daughter, cousin, in-laws, nobody at all to prove that he had the greatness gene. Bal Thakeray rightly condemns him as having ruined the country, unlike himself who has given us a son AND a nephew, both adept at beating up wrongdoers.
Third has got to be Vallabbhai Patel. They used to call him the strong man of India, but where is the son? The daughter? Anybody at all?
The list continues, though, mercifully, it does not have any current leaders on it. Even that rotund excrescence, Chhagan Bhujbal, has given to the nation two equally rotund young excrescences, nephews I think, who are as great as him.
I know, you're going to say what about the poor people? Why are their numbers swelling if we have so many great leaders? Why does the system keep robbing them of what is rightfully theirs? The PDS supplies? Their lands, in acquisitions? Their liberty in arbitrary assaults? You are a stooge of the Americans, if you feel that way. The reason all this happens is the caste system, foreign hands, forcible conversions, scantily clad cheerleaders, flags being flown upside down, insufficient reservation in the IIMs and the IITs, unscrupulous businessmen, actors smoking on screen, distorted versions of Akbar's story.And a few more I can't recall at this moment.
But it is NOT because of our great leaders. To say that is tantamount to treason. We might just lynch you.
I am talking of people like Kumaraswamy, who gets the greatness gene from Devegowda himself, that patriot who has done so much for his poor self, his poor wife and his extremely poor children, M. K. Stalin who likewise, inherits it from Karunanidhi, Milind Deora, Jitin Prasada, the Thakerays son and nephew, and even old Narayan Rane's whatsisname son, I can think of dozens.
Disappointingly some of our so called great leaders did not posses this gene, evidenced by the fact that none of their progeny are great.
Start with Rani Lakshmibai of Jhansi. Unlike the Scindia family, who wisely decided to support the nice, white, British masters, this belligerent queen fought them recklessly, even killing herself in the process. Had it not been for the kindly Scindias who decided to betray her to the British, why, she might have actually won. Luckily for our country, the nice British masters were able to defeat her, and won for the Indian people a hundred years of secure serfdom instead of dangerous independence. And the Scindias, you will note, gave us many many great leaders including the young and dashing Jyotiraditya Scindia and the not so young but no less dashing Vasundhara Raje. And Rani Lakshmibai? Her direct descendant is a petty shopkeeper in Indore, I heard. See? See what I mean?
Second non-great on my list is Mahatma Gandhi who left no son, daughter, cousin, in-laws, nobody at all to prove that he had the greatness gene. Bal Thakeray rightly condemns him as having ruined the country, unlike himself who has given us a son AND a nephew, both adept at beating up wrongdoers.
Third has got to be Vallabbhai Patel. They used to call him the strong man of India, but where is the son? The daughter? Anybody at all?
The list continues, though, mercifully, it does not have any current leaders on it. Even that rotund excrescence, Chhagan Bhujbal, has given to the nation two equally rotund young excrescences, nephews I think, who are as great as him.
I know, you're going to say what about the poor people? Why are their numbers swelling if we have so many great leaders? Why does the system keep robbing them of what is rightfully theirs? The PDS supplies? Their lands, in acquisitions? Their liberty in arbitrary assaults? You are a stooge of the Americans, if you feel that way. The reason all this happens is the caste system, foreign hands, forcible conversions, scantily clad cheerleaders, flags being flown upside down, insufficient reservation in the IIMs and the IITs, unscrupulous businessmen, actors smoking on screen, distorted versions of Akbar's story.And a few more I can't recall at this moment.
But it is NOT because of our great leaders. To say that is tantamount to treason. We might just lynch you.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Touching Tale - 2
(Author's note. I know this is really low, but I am totally bored and I have no idea what to do with my time. And I seem to have run out of ideas. What is the difference between Naren and a lockjaw patient? One has a biter's lock. The other has writer's block)
I spent the evening in my friend Sudarshan's office.
Sudarshan is a hot shot entrepreneur, running a KPO and is razor sharp at decision making. One nice thing about Sudarshan is that he is very approachable.
So I wasn't surprised when a small mouse like girl came in and stood hemming and hawing
Sudarshan smilingly told her "Speak out, speak out, I'm not going to eat you".
I raised my eyebrow, old dirty mind me and got an angry frown in return from Sudarshan.
"Sir," squeaked the girl "my mother-in-law blah blah husbands cousin blah blah may I leave early today?"
"Done. You can leave at 5", said Sudarshan, smiling "and now get back to work."
She fled gratefully and we resumed our animated discussion on the state of the economy and the effect of the falling dollar on Sudarshan's bowel movements.
Soon another girl, foxier than the previous one, entered and brazenly asked for Friday off because she and her boyfriend were going out for the weekend and also wanted the company guest house in Lonavala which was available but Admin said need Sudarshan's ok.
Sudarhan thought for a moment and said, "Tell them to call me. I'll okay it. And you better be back on Monday!" She batted her eyelids, made a pout at Sudarshan and told him he was a sweetheart. As she left, Sudarshan made a grumpy face and said "All this work pressure and these people just want vacations. What am I to do?"
"You could have said no, couldn't you?" I asked
"I suppose I could, but sometimes you have to be careful about spoiling employee morale. Plus she's very efficient and she can handle everything I push at her. You have a dirty mind, Naren. That is not what I meant"
We had a cuppa and as I waited for Sudarshan to pack up, in came a smart young lad, one of their systems wizards, apparently.
"Boss, you'll have to give me a car", he said, in a whiny tone
Sudarshan raised his eyebrows.
"I don't like our agency's taxi service. Plus I NEED a cabin, boss, I need to command some respect. And that guy who makes the tea? He really needs to be sacked, he never gives me tea when I ask for it."
"Boss?" he enquired, for Sudarshan seemed strangely silent.
"Johnny," said Sudarshan, gritting his teeth, "you are not getting a single thing. If you don't like it around here, you can quit and you can quit now. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?"
Johnny slunk away without a word.
I didn't need to ask Sudarshan why he was so nasty to poor Johnny. I knew the reason. He had put all his begs in one ask-it
I spent the evening in my friend Sudarshan's office.
Sudarshan is a hot shot entrepreneur, running a KPO and is razor sharp at decision making. One nice thing about Sudarshan is that he is very approachable.
So I wasn't surprised when a small mouse like girl came in and stood hemming and hawing
Sudarshan smilingly told her "Speak out, speak out, I'm not going to eat you".
I raised my eyebrow, old dirty mind me and got an angry frown in return from Sudarshan.
"Sir," squeaked the girl "my mother-in-law blah blah husbands cousin blah blah may I leave early today?"
"Done. You can leave at 5", said Sudarshan, smiling "and now get back to work."
She fled gratefully and we resumed our animated discussion on the state of the economy and the effect of the falling dollar on Sudarshan's bowel movements.
Soon another girl, foxier than the previous one, entered and brazenly asked for Friday off because she and her boyfriend were going out for the weekend and also wanted the company guest house in Lonavala which was available but Admin said need Sudarshan's ok.
Sudarhan thought for a moment and said, "Tell them to call me. I'll okay it. And you better be back on Monday!" She batted her eyelids, made a pout at Sudarshan and told him he was a sweetheart. As she left, Sudarshan made a grumpy face and said "All this work pressure and these people just want vacations. What am I to do?"
"You could have said no, couldn't you?" I asked
"I suppose I could, but sometimes you have to be careful about spoiling employee morale. Plus she's very efficient and she can handle everything I push at her. You have a dirty mind, Naren. That is not what I meant"
We had a cuppa and as I waited for Sudarshan to pack up, in came a smart young lad, one of their systems wizards, apparently.
"Boss, you'll have to give me a car", he said, in a whiny tone
Sudarshan raised his eyebrows.
"I don't like our agency's taxi service. Plus I NEED a cabin, boss, I need to command some respect. And that guy who makes the tea? He really needs to be sacked, he never gives me tea when I ask for it."
"Boss?" he enquired, for Sudarshan seemed strangely silent.
"Johnny," said Sudarshan, gritting his teeth, "you are not getting a single thing. If you don't like it around here, you can quit and you can quit now. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?"
Johnny slunk away without a word.
I didn't need to ask Sudarshan why he was so nasty to poor Johnny. I knew the reason. He had put all his begs in one ask-it
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
