I'm feeling unusually sad today. The reason? Quite simply, the absolute pig's breakfast that our politicians and bureacrats have made of the Commonwealth Games. Foot overbridges are collapsing. Stadium ceilings are crashing down. Athletes quarters are shoddy and uninhabitable. The list goes on.
"But sad? You? Surely not, Naren!", you ask me censoriously. "Haven't you lived here for the 45 years that you have existed? Doesn't it give you a kind of immunity to disclosure shock that people from other countries don't have. Like you go out with your ABCD cousin eating chaat and where he lies alternately writhing and pooping the next morning, you're tucking into vada pao?"
The answer to all your questions is a shamefaced "Yes". And yet, I AM feeling sad beyond expression. Why this should be so, can't say exactly. I think it's because the shame is now international.
Earlier, you see, we used do all this quietly before our adorably mute domestic audiences who would cheerfully shrug off 1200 crore fodder scams with a cheery "boys will be boys!" and would good naturedly vote in favour of giving them another go. But this time, it's Public. The World Knows! And the World is Laughing! Oh the shame! Even countries like Jersey and Guernsey are planning to pull out it seems. Jersey and Guernsey! Their entire population is less than my housing complex.
Of course India is not silent! No Sir! Everywhere, people are voicing their displeasure. Ranting against Kalmadi. Ridiculing Dixit. Demanding Manmohan Singh's resignation.
And completely missing the point. The reason all this has happened is not that these people are filled with greed and avarice. They are, but if it hadn't been them specifically, it would have been someone else. The point is that our glorious system of benevolent socialistic public service propriety or whatever it is that this country functions under, holds no one accountable. This is endemic to all public institurions large and small. There is no punishment for crime. No one can be sacked for dereliction of duty, for example. And no one has ever served a prison term for abuse of office.
I have no idea why this should be so. Take the case of the toilet paper scam. You know the one. Where toilet paper was bought for Rs. 4000 a roll when it should have cost Rs. 100. The matter 'is still being probed', as far as I know.
Why in freakin hell this should take so much time is beyond me. Here is what you or I would have done.
Step 1. Find out if the toilet rolls have really been bought for Rs. 4000/- each. Clue - See the invoice. You should see a figure which says Rs. 4000/- per roll, or if not, divide the total invoice amount in rupees by the total number of rolls in numbers and see if the answer is Rs. 4000. It is? Good now go to
Step 2. Find out the fair market price for the rolls. Go to the supermarket. Buy a roll. When checking out, see the amount printed on the bill. Does it say Rs. 100? Good. Keep the receipt.
Step 3. Ask the guy who approved the invoice why his ass should not be put into jail.
How complicated can this be? Why should it take a frikkin committee, who, after a month of dedicated scrutiny are still unable to answer in one of two ways
A) Yes, the rolls were purchased for Rs.4000/- per when they are freely available for Rs. 100/- per
B) No, the media is being dishonest. The rolls were bought for Rs. 100/- per and not for Rs. 4000/- per, and please put the said media person into prison
By the way, the news I heard what that the 'probe committe' is 'recommending' that 'Darbari be sacked'. Sacked? SACKED! This is not unlike asking General Dyer to write 100 times "I will not order firing on defenceless people again". The man should be given rigorous imprisonment unless he is able to prove he was acting on superiors' orders, in which case the superiors should be given rigourous imprisonment.
The moral, as far as I can see, is that unless someone is given real punishment, someone nuts are really nailed to the floor, nothing is ever going to change. And to my village idiot mind, it looks the right thing to do, doling out punishment I mean. Compromising the nations honour and all that. But then, that's probably because I'm not a highly trained and skilled bureaucrat.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
The Week That Was
One thing that never ceases to amaze me, as it must you, if you've been following this jolly little autobiography of mine, is how easily I manage to continue to exist despite so obviously being a total loser. I have no doubt there would be a decent market for tips on how to do this - "Be a total loser and continue to exist" is the title that comes to mind ("12 straight weeks on the NYTimes bestseller list") - but the thing is, I don't have a clue. It seems incredible that I should have so many super-tolerant people around me. My parents. My sisters. The missus. The boys. A whole lot of friends. And you, dear reader, who, sacrificing valuable opportunities of increasing your wealth by obscene amounts, are reading this page.
Good. Got that off my chest. And now to recount the last weeks happenings.
The stellar part of my life these days is the interaction with the boys while teaching them.
The elder one is the more silent and decorous of the two. I think he feels that his dad is a pumpkin brain, but in a gentlemanly manner that I think he inherits from me, he keeps that opinion to himself. Usually, anyway. And he politely laughs at my jokes such as they are.
I came up with one when I was teaching him complex numbers. "a+ib is a complex number" I told him. "And?" he replied politely, because he knew that already
"And b12+i is a b-complex number"
"Hahaha" he replied "I think I'll go through the section on Complex Planes on my own". So much for levity in the teaching process.
The younger one, on the other hand, is clearly in awe of me. The reason is that I teach him economics. This is a subject towards which, thanks to the absurdly dense textbook they have, he has developed a healthy hatred. And I don't blame him.
Entrusted with the task of writing a textbook for ninth-standard students learning about economics for the first time in their lives, the rhetorically gifted chaps in charge of writing the textbook have done the prose in a style heavy enough to be employed in auditors' reports of public limited companies. James Joyce would read like the Brothers Grimm in comparison.
"An economy is a rather loosely defined term for any broad classification of interrelated productive activities such as farming, manufacturing and supply of a variety of services that people are ready to buy from markets at a price", they tell the tots, expecting rousing cheers at the revelation.
The son was extremely grateful when I explained it in terms of farmer, blacksmith and goatherd.
"Wow Annie! You know everything!" was his reaction.
"He believes I am the cat's pajamas as far as economics is concerned." I told myself. Pleased as punch I was and I'm sure no one will grudge me that reaction.
But things have a way of turning, if you know what I mean. I had occasion, this week, to explain what capitalism, communism, socialism and other isms which constitute political theory, meant. The lad listened in rapt attention.
I was floating. Rarely do I hold anyone's attention like this. It feels good. I can understand why Deepak Chopra and similar chaps go about saying things like 'realizing that our true self is one of pure potentiality and aligning with the power that manifests everything in the universe'. He knows he's talking rot, but the public is listening! Intoxicated by this, he continues and in no time is telling people that 'God's love is beyond death' and that 'one must do what one does because doing is what one must do when one does what one must'.
Which is why I waxed lyrical about communism, dragging in Animal farm, and generally "kicked ass" as my sons are fond of saying.
The missus confronted me later in the evening.
"What rot have you feeding Gautham?" she demanded.
"What did I do now?"
"He's going on about becoming a communist" she said, scowling.
"What!"
"Yes. He's been telling me that communism is the only way and that he's all for it"
I meekly tried to defend myself.
"I was telling him how bad communism was and how it has failed around the world"
"Well, your rhetoric is evidently half-baked, Mr Ayn Rand. You need to polish your spiel" And with that unkind barb, she walked away.
Well, to cut a long story short, I engaged the lad in conversation later in the evening. It transpired that he hates his tuition classes and my statement that communism believed in a classless society had won him over to that ideology.
I hit my forehead with my palm, in a gesture popularly known on twitter as 'facepalm' or, among the more subtle, as 'manoj kumar' or simply 'manoj'.
Which, come to think of it, is how I spend most weekends.
Good. Got that off my chest. And now to recount the last weeks happenings.
The stellar part of my life these days is the interaction with the boys while teaching them.
The elder one is the more silent and decorous of the two. I think he feels that his dad is a pumpkin brain, but in a gentlemanly manner that I think he inherits from me, he keeps that opinion to himself. Usually, anyway. And he politely laughs at my jokes such as they are.
I came up with one when I was teaching him complex numbers. "a+ib is a complex number" I told him. "And?" he replied politely, because he knew that already
"And b12+i is a b-complex number"
"Hahaha" he replied "I think I'll go through the section on Complex Planes on my own". So much for levity in the teaching process.
The younger one, on the other hand, is clearly in awe of me. The reason is that I teach him economics. This is a subject towards which, thanks to the absurdly dense textbook they have, he has developed a healthy hatred. And I don't blame him.
Entrusted with the task of writing a textbook for ninth-standard students learning about economics for the first time in their lives, the rhetorically gifted chaps in charge of writing the textbook have done the prose in a style heavy enough to be employed in auditors' reports of public limited companies. James Joyce would read like the Brothers Grimm in comparison.
"An economy is a rather loosely defined term for any broad classification of interrelated productive activities such as farming, manufacturing and supply of a variety of services that people are ready to buy from markets at a price", they tell the tots, expecting rousing cheers at the revelation.
The son was extremely grateful when I explained it in terms of farmer, blacksmith and goatherd.
"Wow Annie! You know everything!" was his reaction.
"He believes I am the cat's pajamas as far as economics is concerned." I told myself. Pleased as punch I was and I'm sure no one will grudge me that reaction.
But things have a way of turning, if you know what I mean. I had occasion, this week, to explain what capitalism, communism, socialism and other isms which constitute political theory, meant. The lad listened in rapt attention.
I was floating. Rarely do I hold anyone's attention like this. It feels good. I can understand why Deepak Chopra and similar chaps go about saying things like 'realizing that our true self is one of pure potentiality and aligning with the power that manifests everything in the universe'. He knows he's talking rot, but the public is listening! Intoxicated by this, he continues and in no time is telling people that 'God's love is beyond death' and that 'one must do what one does because doing is what one must do when one does what one must'.
Which is why I waxed lyrical about communism, dragging in Animal farm, and generally "kicked ass" as my sons are fond of saying.
The missus confronted me later in the evening.
"What rot have you feeding Gautham?" she demanded.
"What did I do now?"
"He's going on about becoming a communist" she said, scowling.
"What!"
"Yes. He's been telling me that communism is the only way and that he's all for it"
I meekly tried to defend myself.
"I was telling him how bad communism was and how it has failed around the world"
"Well, your rhetoric is evidently half-baked, Mr Ayn Rand. You need to polish your spiel" And with that unkind barb, she walked away.
Well, to cut a long story short, I engaged the lad in conversation later in the evening. It transpired that he hates his tuition classes and my statement that communism believed in a classless society had won him over to that ideology.
I hit my forehead with my palm, in a gesture popularly known on twitter as 'facepalm' or, among the more subtle, as 'manoj kumar' or simply 'manoj'.
Which, come to think of it, is how I spend most weekends.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
An Arctic Tale - Reposted
(When people run out of ideas, they usually join politics. Gone-casers like me go a step further. They re-post old blog entries. Apologies and all that)
The blizzard was fierce. Old Tuskegaw the Inuit hunkered down with his huskies in the little ice shelter he had rustled up. The tundra could be lethal. He knew that, and was taking no chances.
The dogs whimpered. Even for them, this blizzard was too much. Tuskegaw could sense that. He was grateful to the spirits for guarding them thus far, and prayed they would continue to do so.
For he had a mission to accomplish. A sled full of Geometry books, just imported from China where printing was the cheapest, to be transported to his tribespeople, living on the North Pole. Knowledge! Liberation from generations of battle with unforgiving Nature!
Tuskegaw looked heavenward and thanked the spirits once again for the rare honour bestowed upon him. It was not everyday that one got the opportunity to cart Asian geometry to polar coordinates.
The blizzard was fierce. Old Tuskegaw the Inuit hunkered down with his huskies in the little ice shelter he had rustled up. The tundra could be lethal. He knew that, and was taking no chances.
The dogs whimpered. Even for them, this blizzard was too much. Tuskegaw could sense that. He was grateful to the spirits for guarding them thus far, and prayed they would continue to do so.
For he had a mission to accomplish. A sled full of Geometry books, just imported from China where printing was the cheapest, to be transported to his tribespeople, living on the North Pole. Knowledge! Liberation from generations of battle with unforgiving Nature!
Tuskegaw looked heavenward and thanked the spirits once again for the rare honour bestowed upon him. It was not everyday that one got the opportunity to cart Asian geometry to polar coordinates.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
She's got platitude!
I'm usually a careful sort of bloke. You know, look both sides before crossing, don't volunteer for magician's tricks, give completely dishonest answers even on the most 'anonymous' surveys. So it is part of standard operating procedure to disappear when the arrival of random auntie visitors from the neighbourhood is announced. I've learned from harsh experience that to stay is to suffer for hours in a cosmix flux of recipes, platitudes, medical histories, astrological beliefs and a summary of the distasteful qualities of people not among those present.
Yesterday was a tragic slip-up. I was in the living room with my computer, sucking up the finest twitter wisdom (for example, @cgawker said "ESPN needs to hire more anchors without nostril hair", which has more pure truth in it than most religious texts) when an auntie landed up. By the time I realised something sinister was afoot, the bell had gone and the round had started.
I should actually skip all the pleasantries and cut to the chase because just listing down the pleasantries would run into a dozen blog pages. It goes something like this
"How's your dad?"
"My dad is fine"
"How's your mom?"
"My mom is fine"
"How's your brother?"
"My brother is fine"
And so on, going up to "your second cousin, the one who married the russian girl. How is he?".
I long for the day one of these aunties turns out to be a mathematician and says something like
"How is a?" for all a ϵ {R} where {R} is the set of all your living relatives.
That would be so cool! (to be continued)
Yesterday was a tragic slip-up. I was in the living room with my computer, sucking up the finest twitter wisdom (for example, @cgawker said "ESPN needs to hire more anchors without nostril hair", which has more pure truth in it than most religious texts) when an auntie landed up. By the time I realised something sinister was afoot, the bell had gone and the round had started.
I should actually skip all the pleasantries and cut to the chase because just listing down the pleasantries would run into a dozen blog pages. It goes something like this
"How's your dad?"
"My dad is fine"
"How's your mom?"
"My mom is fine"
"How's your brother?"
"My brother is fine"
And so on, going up to "your second cousin, the one who married the russian girl. How is he?".
I long for the day one of these aunties turns out to be a mathematician and says something like
"How is a?" for all a ϵ {R} where {R} is the set of all your living relatives.
That would be so cool! (to be continued)
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Saturday, 21st August 2010
I've just signed up for a site called ohlife.com which is a kind of online diary. Every day, it sends you a mail asking you how your day was and what you did, to which you sort of respond by pouring your heart out. I've done it for two days running now, and it looks like jolly good fun. It's private though. Understandable,because you could be writing anything, but in my case, the posts are dreadfully lacking in the saucier aspects. Age. Anyway, I thought I'd unleash the exhibitionist in me and put this on my blog. As long as I don't compromise anyone's privacy, should be fine, I thought. So here goes. Entry number one.
Had one of those tiffs with the missus. Subject being twitter, as usual.
"You're spending far too much time on twitter", she said, to which I responded with understandable outrage because compared to many on my timeline, I'm hardly on twitter at all. However this did not fit into her stalinist guidlines on conducting debates and much dudgeon occured. It was up to me to sign peace in the evening, following the tried and trusted technique of beginning with abject surrender. Life.
Went to Dahisar and handed over the staircase fabrication to poor impoverished Yatin. He is really a fine mind, Yatin is. Wish i could do something to harness it. He is also of a slightly ambiguous moral fibre, which makes unsupervised delegation a risky proposition.
Cooked Goa Sausages for dinner. Total WIN. Added a couple of potatoes and onions to my trusty non-stick pan, deskinned the sausages and added the meat, added a cupful of water and simmered the mess for about 10 minutes. Then, on an impulse, indulging in my core life philosophy that everything tastes better with cheese, I added a generous dollop of grated Gouda. The bread-wallah turned up around this time and I bought a dozen 'pao' from him.
Discovery - Pao goes beautifully with goa sausage curry.
Overcome by the beauty of the moment, I poured myself a fairly stiff Black Label with a little ice and water.
Discovery 2 -- Black Label goes beautifully with goa sausage curry.
Stayed away from the computer for the rest of the night. Gautham was whining away about being bored and being a whiskey down, I rashly suggested we should watch "Borat". Well, watch it he did. He laughed and laughed, if that's any consolation, but MY ears were mostly a bright red. What an outrageous movie to watch with your 13 year old son! I hope he doesn't
imbibe anything from it. Luckily, Sheela doesn't know anything about this or divorce would be imminent in the family.
Had one of those tiffs with the missus. Subject being twitter, as usual.
"You're spending far too much time on twitter", she said, to which I responded with understandable outrage because compared to many on my timeline, I'm hardly on twitter at all. However this did not fit into her stalinist guidlines on conducting debates and much dudgeon occured. It was up to me to sign peace in the evening, following the tried and trusted technique of beginning with abject surrender. Life.
Went to Dahisar and handed over the staircase fabrication to poor impoverished Yatin. He is really a fine mind, Yatin is. Wish i could do something to harness it. He is also of a slightly ambiguous moral fibre, which makes unsupervised delegation a risky proposition.
Cooked Goa Sausages for dinner. Total WIN. Added a couple of potatoes and onions to my trusty non-stick pan, deskinned the sausages and added the meat, added a cupful of water and simmered the mess for about 10 minutes. Then, on an impulse, indulging in my core life philosophy that everything tastes better with cheese, I added a generous dollop of grated Gouda. The bread-wallah turned up around this time and I bought a dozen 'pao' from him.
Discovery - Pao goes beautifully with goa sausage curry.
Overcome by the beauty of the moment, I poured myself a fairly stiff Black Label with a little ice and water.
Discovery 2 -- Black Label goes beautifully with goa sausage curry.
Stayed away from the computer for the rest of the night. Gautham was whining away about being bored and being a whiskey down, I rashly suggested we should watch "Borat". Well, watch it he did. He laughed and laughed, if that's any consolation, but MY ears were mostly a bright red. What an outrageous movie to watch with your 13 year old son! I hope he doesn't
imbibe anything from it. Luckily, Sheela doesn't know anything about this or divorce would be imminent in the family.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Education and the Good Life -
The missus came back from younger son's school open-house with a long face.
"Bad, huh?" I asked.
She didn't answer. Just sat down on the sofa and buried her face in her hands.
I understood. Her worst fears had come true. "He did well in the tests?" I asked.
She mutely nodded her head and proffered a sheet of paper which simply said "Algebra-40/40. Geometry - 40/40".
I realise that you, dear reader, might have developed a slight throbbing feeling around the temples upon reading such drivel. Feeling sad when your child score full marks, forsooth!
But bear with me. When you are au courant with the background, I am sure the light of enlightenment will dispel the darkness enveloping your consciousness. Hmm. Perhaps I shouldn't read so much Deepak Chopra. Anyway, here's the background.
Younger son is smart, quick on the uptake, and used to be the bee's knees academically speaking till he realized that he could get by without actually studying at all, based on his ability to "creatively answer" question papers.
Creative answering involves (according to younger son) rewriting the question in your own words, and making it 2x to 3x longer, which then easily passes off for the answer. This technique works admirably for subjects like the languages or history (he's been maxing them as much as they can be maxed) but tends to have disastrous results when applied to algebra or geometry. Younger son finds this unfortunate, but does not seem to feel that a change in methodology is merited.
Missus, on the other hand, has been despairing most vociferously. "You have spoiled him" is the major thrust of her arguments and "if you ever took even one hundredth of the interest in his studies as you take in twittering-gittering, he would stand first with his eyes closed". The missus, as you might have gathered, has a low opinion of Web 2.0.
I've been advocating motivation, mainly by promising various goodies, but the missus belongs to the management by punishment school of thought. She announces all kinds of penalties for milestones not achieved. Such as "No TV for a week". Or "No touching the computer". Or "No playing football". And so on.
Unfortunately for her, a lad of our younger son's resourcefullness finds this the equivalent of a slow full toss. Easily despatched to the boundary. "No net? No sweat" is his slogan, because he easily gets on to the internet when missus is watching one of her soaps. Even the "No more football" rule is easily bypassed by getting one of his mates to plead with missus to allow him to play "a most important match, auntie, please, pretty please" whereupon she has to agree or risk being labelled "dragon auntie" by the kids in the building.
This time, however, we were determined to drill some sense into his head. We locked up all the computers in the house. The key was carefully hidden in secret locations known only to the missus and the location changed daily. It resulted in operational problems for scatterbrains like me. I often forget to take my clothes into the bathroom when I go to bathe and this policy meant have to spend several anxious minutes waiting for the missus to rescue me from death by pneumonia. But the objective of denying him access to the internet was achieved. I was assigned the task of telling all his friends that he wouldn't be coming to play football for the whole week. And things would certainly change. Or so we thought.
He defiantly stuck to his policy of studiously avoiding all study and managed to get by on the strength of his "creative answering" in the languages and in history. Our only hope was that he would plug his algebra or geometry, or atleast score badly in them, giving us much needed leverage over the lad.
As you know, that was not to be. How he achieved this is a mystery to us. I voiced the optimistic opinion that he was a Ramanujan kind of math genius, to which the missus gave a hollow laugh and said that he had either managed to procure a copy of the test papers in advance or copied wholesale from someone.
And younger son? He seems very happy with the result, thank you very much, and has resolved to let his winning methods continue.
-Update: It turns out that the lad actually cracked both Algebra and Geometry and is quite gifted at math in general. I am astounded! He must get it from his mother.
"Bad, huh?" I asked.
She didn't answer. Just sat down on the sofa and buried her face in her hands.
I understood. Her worst fears had come true. "He did well in the tests?" I asked.
She mutely nodded her head and proffered a sheet of paper which simply said "Algebra-40/40. Geometry - 40/40".
I realise that you, dear reader, might have developed a slight throbbing feeling around the temples upon reading such drivel. Feeling sad when your child score full marks, forsooth!
But bear with me. When you are au courant with the background, I am sure the light of enlightenment will dispel the darkness enveloping your consciousness. Hmm. Perhaps I shouldn't read so much Deepak Chopra. Anyway, here's the background.
Younger son is smart, quick on the uptake, and used to be the bee's knees academically speaking till he realized that he could get by without actually studying at all, based on his ability to "creatively answer" question papers.
Creative answering involves (according to younger son) rewriting the question in your own words, and making it 2x to 3x longer, which then easily passes off for the answer. This technique works admirably for subjects like the languages or history (he's been maxing them as much as they can be maxed) but tends to have disastrous results when applied to algebra or geometry. Younger son finds this unfortunate, but does not seem to feel that a change in methodology is merited.
Missus, on the other hand, has been despairing most vociferously. "You have spoiled him" is the major thrust of her arguments and "if you ever took even one hundredth of the interest in his studies as you take in twittering-gittering, he would stand first with his eyes closed". The missus, as you might have gathered, has a low opinion of Web 2.0.
I've been advocating motivation, mainly by promising various goodies, but the missus belongs to the management by punishment school of thought. She announces all kinds of penalties for milestones not achieved. Such as "No TV for a week". Or "No touching the computer". Or "No playing football". And so on.
Unfortunately for her, a lad of our younger son's resourcefullness finds this the equivalent of a slow full toss. Easily despatched to the boundary. "No net? No sweat" is his slogan, because he easily gets on to the internet when missus is watching one of her soaps. Even the "No more football" rule is easily bypassed by getting one of his mates to plead with missus to allow him to play "a most important match, auntie, please, pretty please" whereupon she has to agree or risk being labelled "dragon auntie" by the kids in the building.
This time, however, we were determined to drill some sense into his head. We locked up all the computers in the house. The key was carefully hidden in secret locations known only to the missus and the location changed daily. It resulted in operational problems for scatterbrains like me. I often forget to take my clothes into the bathroom when I go to bathe and this policy meant have to spend several anxious minutes waiting for the missus to rescue me from death by pneumonia. But the objective of denying him access to the internet was achieved. I was assigned the task of telling all his friends that he wouldn't be coming to play football for the whole week. And things would certainly change. Or so we thought.
He defiantly stuck to his policy of studiously avoiding all study and managed to get by on the strength of his "creative answering" in the languages and in history. Our only hope was that he would plug his algebra or geometry, or atleast score badly in them, giving us much needed leverage over the lad.
As you know, that was not to be. How he achieved this is a mystery to us. I voiced the optimistic opinion that he was a Ramanujan kind of math genius, to which the missus gave a hollow laugh and said that he had either managed to procure a copy of the test papers in advance or copied wholesale from someone.
And younger son? He seems very happy with the result, thank you very much, and has resolved to let his winning methods continue.
-Update: It turns out that the lad actually cracked both Algebra and Geometry and is quite gifted at math in general. I am astounded! He must get it from his mother.
Monday, August 9, 2010
General "Dear Diary" stuff
Once again, I am confronted with mysterious physical phenomena, baffling even the finest scientific minds around. I refer to the Strange Case of the Variable Length Tape.
It started, like most things in my life, with a shopping expedition. We were shopping for my brother-in-law who had lost weight recently. My sister, whose husband the said brother in law is (just clarifying) said his waist was 33 inches.
"About your waist size, I think, Naren" my sister said.
Hereupon the missus, displaying her complete lack of tact and finesse, laughed loudly and said "HAHAHAHAHA! Thirty three! He's at least thirty eight!"
Thirty eight people in Shopper's stop turned around to look at me.
"But I wear size 34 jeans", I protested, feebly.
She immediately organized a measuring tape from one of the shop attendants and in the presence of many interested onlookers, measured my waist. "See. Thirty seven and a half" she called out at about 120 decibels. There it is. Impossible to explain, unless you factor in the possibility of the tape having shrunk 10.29411%. This is probably its linear coefficient of contraction.
The other possibility is funny business. The missus is a Gold Card holder or something of the said Shoppers Stop. She keeps flaunting it and getting free parking and what not. Surely, the staff are in cahoots with her and organized a falsification of tape measures. The missus of course laughed out at my allegations. Kalmadi could take her correspondence course in brazenness. The inconvenient fact remains that I still wear size 34 jeans.
Among other things, I've been taking active interest in the education of the boys. This is turning out to be great fun.
The immediate inspiration is a friend's son getting into IIT with a very high rank. Said friend is going around telling everyone that it was HIS coaching that enabled this feat, a claim I find suspicious because this said friend, at one time, could not spell "Wadala" (a suburb of Bombay). I had to tell him how to spell it.
I mentioned this to the missus.
"That's because he's not from Bombay, doofus' said the missus.
Oh alright, but I still reserve my judgment. Anyway, the upshot of this is that I've been commanded to help the boys with their studies.
The younger one is in Class IX. He (quite rightly, in my opinion,) resents my presence when he is with his books and has launched a Non Co-operation Movement of sorts.
Not that he isn't stymied by things. The other day, he reported that he couldn't understand Economics, a newly introduced subject for him.
I volunteered to explain it to him. He promptly declined the offer, saying that he knew all the anwers, because he had memorized them. Missus randomly asked him a few and indeed, the answers came out pat. His only grouse was that he wasn't able to understand a word of it. Ironically, the chapter was called "Understanding Economics". And the missus was perfectly satisfied with this because, as she says "no one understands economics anyway. Least of all YOU, my sweet". Which is true, but still!
The older guy is in ClassXI. He is rather more respectful towards me. But even this is proving a little difficult because his syllabus has things like "Gay-Lussac's Law". He promptly wonders if there is a "Straight-Lussac's Law" as well and we spend a good ten minutes smirking away, by which time I've already got something else to do or he wants go down and play.
Ah well, life.
It started, like most things in my life, with a shopping expedition. We were shopping for my brother-in-law who had lost weight recently. My sister, whose husband the said brother in law is (just clarifying) said his waist was 33 inches.
"About your waist size, I think, Naren" my sister said.
Hereupon the missus, displaying her complete lack of tact and finesse, laughed loudly and said "HAHAHAHAHA! Thirty three! He's at least thirty eight!"
Thirty eight people in Shopper's stop turned around to look at me.
"But I wear size 34 jeans", I protested, feebly.
She immediately organized a measuring tape from one of the shop attendants and in the presence of many interested onlookers, measured my waist. "See. Thirty seven and a half" she called out at about 120 decibels. There it is. Impossible to explain, unless you factor in the possibility of the tape having shrunk 10.29411%. This is probably its linear coefficient of contraction.
The other possibility is funny business. The missus is a Gold Card holder or something of the said Shoppers Stop. She keeps flaunting it and getting free parking and what not. Surely, the staff are in cahoots with her and organized a falsification of tape measures. The missus of course laughed out at my allegations. Kalmadi could take her correspondence course in brazenness. The inconvenient fact remains that I still wear size 34 jeans.
Among other things, I've been taking active interest in the education of the boys. This is turning out to be great fun.
The immediate inspiration is a friend's son getting into IIT with a very high rank. Said friend is going around telling everyone that it was HIS coaching that enabled this feat, a claim I find suspicious because this said friend, at one time, could not spell "Wadala" (a suburb of Bombay). I had to tell him how to spell it.
I mentioned this to the missus.
"That's because he's not from Bombay, doofus' said the missus.
Oh alright, but I still reserve my judgment. Anyway, the upshot of this is that I've been commanded to help the boys with their studies.
The younger one is in Class IX. He (quite rightly, in my opinion,) resents my presence when he is with his books and has launched a Non Co-operation Movement of sorts.
Not that he isn't stymied by things. The other day, he reported that he couldn't understand Economics, a newly introduced subject for him.
I volunteered to explain it to him. He promptly declined the offer, saying that he knew all the anwers, because he had memorized them. Missus randomly asked him a few and indeed, the answers came out pat. His only grouse was that he wasn't able to understand a word of it. Ironically, the chapter was called "Understanding Economics". And the missus was perfectly satisfied with this because, as she says "no one understands economics anyway. Least of all YOU, my sweet". Which is true, but still!
The older guy is in ClassXI. He is rather more respectful towards me. But even this is proving a little difficult because his syllabus has things like "Gay-Lussac's Law". He promptly wonders if there is a "Straight-Lussac's Law" as well and we spend a good ten minutes smirking away, by which time I've already got something else to do or he wants go down and play.
Ah well, life.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Not Nought Nought Seven, surely!
'M' was staring right through her interlocutor, as if he did not exist.
"I said" he repeated "Bond will have to be recalled. Or very soon, we will have to liquidate him"
"I heard you, Sir Nigel", M said to the Home Secretary "I just can't believe it, that's all."
"Can't believe Bond could commit an indiscretion of this nature?" Sir Nigel said, "Come, now, you're surely not so innocent as to believe that people can't be queer and not show it?"
"I know, Sir Nigel, but Bond! He was such a ladies man. Miss Moneypenny will attest to the fact."
Miss Moneypenny blushed "Truth to tell, he never did a thing! I was rather hoping.. er.. that he would. No wood, it would seem"
"Thank you Miss Moneypenny" said M, acerbically, and sent the poor lady scuttering behind her desk, red eared.
"And you, M, shall have to answer why Bond was not vetted when you knew that several of his cousins were ..um.. batting for the other team, so to speak. Michael Bond, first cousin. Robert Bond, uncle. John Bond, second cousin."
M was the picture of contrition. "I'm really sorry, Sir N. I ought to have known...'
'You are damn right you should have. Everyone knows that Bonds prefer gentlemen"
"I said" he repeated "Bond will have to be recalled. Or very soon, we will have to liquidate him"
"I heard you, Sir Nigel", M said to the Home Secretary "I just can't believe it, that's all."
"Can't believe Bond could commit an indiscretion of this nature?" Sir Nigel said, "Come, now, you're surely not so innocent as to believe that people can't be queer and not show it?"
"I know, Sir Nigel, but Bond! He was such a ladies man. Miss Moneypenny will attest to the fact."
Miss Moneypenny blushed "Truth to tell, he never did a thing! I was rather hoping.. er.. that he would. No wood, it would seem"
"Thank you Miss Moneypenny" said M, acerbically, and sent the poor lady scuttering behind her desk, red eared.
"And you, M, shall have to answer why Bond was not vetted when you knew that several of his cousins were ..um.. batting for the other team, so to speak. Michael Bond, first cousin. Robert Bond, uncle. John Bond, second cousin."
M was the picture of contrition. "I'm really sorry, Sir N. I ought to have known...'
'You are damn right you should have. Everyone knows that Bonds prefer gentlemen"
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
The King and the Tiger
(I've been going through a terrible writer's block, as a result of which I've been turning out complete rot. "So what's new?" you must be saying to yourself, dear reader (silently, though, because you are too kind to discourage budding authors with criticism, however well meaning), but this time, it's Really Rotten. So I decided to attempt a little plagiarism with a story (I swear this is true) I heard from a random uncle at bedtime, many many summers ago. Said uncle is no longer among the living but any shortcomings of the tale are entirely to his account.)
Today, children, I will be telling you a fable. Once upon a time, there lived a just and wise king. A king who was loved and respected by his subjects. Not that this is germane to the fable but one has to build up atmosphere, no?
Right. The king had had a hard day hunting in the forest. He was on the trail of a fierce tiger. His team of drum-beaters and conch-blowers had cornered the beast for the king to kill but somehow, the tiger gave the entourage the slip. Darkness was falling. The king decided to go back to the palace.
At the palace, the king had a quick bath and a meal, washed down with a pitcher of chilled beer, and was asleep in no time, thanks to his strenuous hunt. And soon, he slipped into a dream.
He dreamt he was in the forest again. Chasing the tiger. Hot in pursuit, the brave king outran his entourage and soon, he realised he was in deep shrubbery, without any sign of the tiger. The silence was chilling. The wind would rustle the leaves once in a while. Suddenly, a bird or two would chirp out shrilly, startling the king. There was no sign of the tiger at all.
The king knew it was out there somewhere. He could almost sense it. Night was falling and the king suddenly felt that the hunter and the hunted had interchanged places. It was his turn to feel scared.
Suddenly, the king heard a rustling in the bushes behind him. A sixth sense told him this was not the breeze and he instinctively leaped towards a babul tree which stood before him. It was not a moment too soon, children, for indeed, it was the tiger and it had made a charge towards the spot the king was standing nary a minute ago. The king's instinct had saved him from certain death!
Safely atop the tree, the king looked down at the tiger. After a few tries at climbing the tree, which was too slender to bear its weight, the beast had settled down on its haunches, waiting for the king to come down, as it sensed he must, sooner or later.
The king to do nothing but wait, now, could he? He hoped fervently that his entourage would return and scare the beast away. But night had fallen and the forest was eerily silent. In the dim light of the moon, the king could see the glittering, watchful eyes of the tiger. The king was beginning to despair.
And to add to his problems, he needed to go to the bathroom very badly. Number one, if you know what I mean. Getting off the tree was out of the question so the king decided to do wee wee straight from the branch.
To the kings amazement, the tiger grabbed the stream of pee - yes, just like that - and started climbing up!
The king was startled and stopped peeing. The tiger fell on the ground with a resounding thud. The king decided to pee again.
Again the tiger grabbed the stream and started climbing. When it was almost at the branch, the king stopped peeing again and the tiger fell, this time with a louder thud.
Again the king started peeing and again the tiger started climbing and again the king stopped and again the tiger fell. This time the silly tiger did not get up. It had broken its neck.
The king was overjoyed and relieved. He decided to shin down the tree and ....
awoke to find his missus - the queen, that is - absolutely furious that he had peed all over his mattress.
The moral, dear children, is not to drink too much beer before going to sleep.
Today, children, I will be telling you a fable. Once upon a time, there lived a just and wise king. A king who was loved and respected by his subjects. Not that this is germane to the fable but one has to build up atmosphere, no?
Right. The king had had a hard day hunting in the forest. He was on the trail of a fierce tiger. His team of drum-beaters and conch-blowers had cornered the beast for the king to kill but somehow, the tiger gave the entourage the slip. Darkness was falling. The king decided to go back to the palace.
At the palace, the king had a quick bath and a meal, washed down with a pitcher of chilled beer, and was asleep in no time, thanks to his strenuous hunt. And soon, he slipped into a dream.
He dreamt he was in the forest again. Chasing the tiger. Hot in pursuit, the brave king outran his entourage and soon, he realised he was in deep shrubbery, without any sign of the tiger. The silence was chilling. The wind would rustle the leaves once in a while. Suddenly, a bird or two would chirp out shrilly, startling the king. There was no sign of the tiger at all.
The king knew it was out there somewhere. He could almost sense it. Night was falling and the king suddenly felt that the hunter and the hunted had interchanged places. It was his turn to feel scared.
Suddenly, the king heard a rustling in the bushes behind him. A sixth sense told him this was not the breeze and he instinctively leaped towards a babul tree which stood before him. It was not a moment too soon, children, for indeed, it was the tiger and it had made a charge towards the spot the king was standing nary a minute ago. The king's instinct had saved him from certain death!
Safely atop the tree, the king looked down at the tiger. After a few tries at climbing the tree, which was too slender to bear its weight, the beast had settled down on its haunches, waiting for the king to come down, as it sensed he must, sooner or later.
The king to do nothing but wait, now, could he? He hoped fervently that his entourage would return and scare the beast away. But night had fallen and the forest was eerily silent. In the dim light of the moon, the king could see the glittering, watchful eyes of the tiger. The king was beginning to despair.
And to add to his problems, he needed to go to the bathroom very badly. Number one, if you know what I mean. Getting off the tree was out of the question so the king decided to do wee wee straight from the branch.
To the kings amazement, the tiger grabbed the stream of pee - yes, just like that - and started climbing up!
The king was startled and stopped peeing. The tiger fell on the ground with a resounding thud. The king decided to pee again.
Again the tiger grabbed the stream and started climbing. When it was almost at the branch, the king stopped peeing again and the tiger fell, this time with a louder thud.
Again the king started peeing and again the tiger started climbing and again the king stopped and again the tiger fell. This time the silly tiger did not get up. It had broken its neck.
The king was overjoyed and relieved. He decided to shin down the tree and ....
awoke to find his missus - the queen, that is - absolutely furious that he had peed all over his mattress.
The moral, dear children, is not to drink too much beer before going to sleep.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
About Witty schools and other random stuff
How witty would these kids have to be? What kind of nursery classes would they have? Can't resist imagining a scenario.
Teacher: Ok, test for today. Pay attention, children. Ramu, stop picking your nose and smearing snot on Dipu's shirt. Right. Here's the assignment. "Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water." Come up with something witty to finish the rhyme.
Ramu: "God knows what they did up there. They came back with a daughter"
Teacher: That is like seven centuries old. Come up with something original or I'll give you an 'F'.
Ramu: er... "Hope you're on the pill, said Jack to Jill, you're looking way, way, hotter"
Teacher: Gosh! Who told you all this! You're supposed to be a nursery student. Boys and girls, please, no innuendo, sex, vulgarity, obscenity. And the meter is all off anyway. Ok, one more try
Ramu: "They grabbed some land and settled down there. They're classified now as 'squatters'"
Teacher: Oh, I suppose that'll have to do. Original but ho-hum. You get a 'B'. Ok, Dipu, you next.
And so the class would wear on. I'm sure the parents would have their work cut out with a witty kid or two in the house. "have you had your bath?" mom would ask. "Why, whose bath should I have?" the child would retort.
All this was happening when I was driving younger son to school.
"Why are you giggling, Annie?" he asked, with concern, because one of his prime worries, one he shares with his mother and elder brother, is that one of these days, I will go around the bend. They don't get the subtlety of my thought processes, apparently.
I told him what I was thinking. How quaint it would be to have a school which taught just one thing - wittiness. And the Jack and Jill thing.
His brow furrowed, as I had suspected.
"Annie, that is so not witty"
'What's not witty"
"That squatters thing. First of all, water and squatters don't rhyme"
"Ok then YOU come up with something better" I told the upstart.
"How about 'Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water. Jill turned round and ran away But jack chased hard and caught her'"
"That's supposed to be witty?" I was indignant. People who reprimand other people for not being witty should be demonstrably wittier, no?
"Atleast it rhymes. I'll tell you something witty. See those guys on the scaffolding? There, on the building to your right"
He was pointing out to a building getting repainted.
"Vyaas was saying that those guys must be sinners, because they are re-painting".
I confess I didn't get it straight off the bat, but when I did, I had to concede that it WAS wittier than anything I had come up with. Anyway, Gautham had already considered the argument settled in his favor. He adjusted his music for the morn, a scream-fest from some metal band called Lamb of God or something, to jet-engine-decibel levels, discouraging further discussion.
I let it pass. I would have anyway, even without having some faceless punk American teenager with a grouse against society ranting obscenely through my music sustem. Because, for the last few days, I have been mother AND father to the lads, the missus having gone for a few days to Bangalore.
The strain is showing on them.
And on me.
I have to wake up at 6 in the morning and fix them breakfast, a chore I am not designed to do flawlessly. In the last four days, I have burned my finger thrice, broken two cups of sentimental value, made an omelette with zero salt one day, made an omelette with twice the normal salt the other and dropped the lad late to school every single time.
I'm missing the missus terribly. I keep telling her so over the phone. Stuff like "I miss your touch. Your cheerful smile. Your twinkling eyes." You know the drill. But the missus is worldly-wise and since gets the jolly status reports every day from the lads, I suspect she doesn't believe my earnestness. I can almost see her smirking, actually. She's coming back this evening and I'm betting she will be at her jolliest and wittiest. Many jokes will be cracked at my expense.
But I won't have to fix breakfast. As far as I'm concerned, that puts the thing firmly on the right side of the balance sheet.
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