Yogic Alcoholics

I travel quite frequently by local buses. The travel itself may not always be pleasurable or aromatic for that matter. The buses cater to a large cross-section of the populace – many of whom do not seem to bother with aroma therapy. I don’t blame them – far from it. But sometimes, you also have quite the belligerent bloke.

One time, I am standing in the bus surrounded by the soapless – my tummy neatly tucked in for longer and longer periods of time before exhaling slowly and then inhaling again swiftly. All of this in an unconspicuous manner mind you. For they get upset if they think their body odours offend you. So, I have this nice Yoga routine going on when one bloke with tattoos all over his body looks at the bloke next to me,and says , “Yo! What – getting smart with me eh?”

To which tattooless odour replies nonchalantly, “Yeah .. ” and turns his back on him and starts looking out the window. By now, the female next to Mr. Tattoo casts him a glance that had nothing but admiration dripping from it. There is something in admiring looks from the opposite sex that seem to act like dish soap, baking soda and vinegar(the combination makes it foam like a volcano)

Mr.Tattoo upped his belligerence quotient a bit and took to shouting. Now folks who know me will attribute this sensitivity to the length of my nose, but I smelled something different in the whole melee. Alcohol. I am a careful sort of person and prefer not to be in the limelight, if at all possible. So, I tried to discreetly move away from the spot, when tattoo guy spots me inching away and thinks his bravado has impressed me to such an extent that I actually decided to move away, and he gathered all the energy at his disposal and shouted. “You want to see how hard my punch is? Ya da?”

The tattoo less one meanwhile takes indifference as the best option and continues to look out the window. He then turns and catches Mr Tattoo’s eye for an instant, and that was enough for him. He launched into it – with a vim and the kind of energy that would have been more productively used on soaping himself. Then to my horror, he pulls up his pant legs. Now I am all for self expression and all that, but this was getting a bit thick. I was just thinking of getting down and walking down the rest of the way, when Monsieur Tattooless decided to do the same thing and mercifully exited the bus.

I turned to see that Mr.Tattoo was actually brandishing a knife in his sock when he pulled up his trouser legs. I tumbled out of the bus at the next stop. Crawling was better than risking my life. To my knowledge, all Tattooless did was say “Yeah..”. For that, if he got shown the knife, I didn’t know what would happen if he found out that I was inhaling and exhaling rather slowly to keep the many smells emanating from him at bay.

http://www.wired.com/wiredscience/2010/10/drunks-see-intent/

Then, I see this news article talking of how alcohol makes people see intent even when there isn’t any. Like any bartender would gladly tell you, or I will, having had that exp. on the bus. Maybe, every glass of alcohol should be served only after a few minutes of Yoga. Make every one of ’em Yogic Alcoholics.

Woof Woof!

The husband did well I thought, and yet they gave him a dog biscuit. I mean to say, I did think of rolling up my sleeves to bark at the fellow, but if a non-barker got a dog biscuit, what would a barker get? I was in no mood for bones at the moment.

The h. and his friends performed admirably at the San Jose Rock ‘N Roll half marathon. One of them actually ran like he had a fierce dog at his heels the whole way through and finished in an hour and 36 minutes.

Anyway, the point is when these marathons are conducted, there is a goodish amount of food given along the way and at the finish line. Having run a long distance, it is not uncommon to see marathoners sweating and panting , queueing up at these lines to pick up food. Bananas, oranges, water, rotten tasting fiber bars left to please the smarting eye on the kitchen counter till the lady of the house discreetly gets rid of it, salt tablets, foil cloaks – this is where they make their money back. I mean, these marathoners actually pay to run, so here is where they get their ROI is the general consensus. I once saw a fellow’s pants stuffed with assorted peanut packets, some chocolate chip cookies, three oranges and 2 bananas, and he wasn’t even halfway through the food line.

This, though was the first time I saw a dog biscuit packet in the accumulated finish line wealth. It is entirely possible one mistook the panting and yipped one at him, but I thought it mean. The husband was so biffed, he went and collected a beer bottle to make up for it.

Woof Woof and a Bottle of Beer!

Robots, Lord Indra & Global Warming

You know every time one of these scientists came up with a study on global warming, I shudder. I mean have you seen those photographs of what Earth would like in 40 years? I suppose we should get started on one of those research studies to see how we can spout gills to survive.

But the Summer of 2010, seems to have softened my fears a bit. We had a mild summer, with a few days of the Sun bobbing and fresh flowers. I spent all of this summer annoying my family and friends in other countries, mostly in Asia, telling them all about the mist filled mornings and the mild drizzles and the cloudy clouds. I don’t think any of them were too happy with this relentless gloat I had going on, but distance and love can be a great restraining influence, and I was therefore allowed to roam around sans physical injuries. Just before I transcended the levels calling for justifiable physical violence, the sun burst forth in all its fury. In fact, the Sun has taken it upon himself to expend all the summer’s worth of sun in one action packed week.

Just like we would not know how to react if we were to spout gills, some of us don’t really know how to react to this spot of Summer in the Fall. Some people have reacted to it most strangely by asking each other what they thought of Robots wherever they met. I am usually fairly quick on the uptake, but I was clueless – foggy if you know what I mean,  wondering what robots had to do with global warming. Maybe, I’d let a significant scientific study slip through the cracks.

Some others have become stranger still and talk incessantly about Lord Indra. I know he is the King of Gods and all that, but beyond that I am quite helpless.

All of these factors have left me with a sort of dull ache between the eyebrows. If the temperature goes up any more, and the robots become any matier with the Indian King of Gods, I might just do what the thermometer did.

Did you hear about the thermometer that couldn’t take it anymore? It burst.

I am sorry if that sounded like the rottenest thermometer joke in recent times, but it is the effect of a jarring note on a hot day. I was referring to the thermometer up in LA – it simply threw up its hands in despair and burst at 113 F

http://mobile.latimes.com/wap/news/text.jsp?sid=294&nid=23162863&cid=17190&scid=-1&ith=0&title=Local

To all you folks who think I just became cuckoo with the heat, I finally figured out that robots have nothing to do with global warming and global warming has nothing to do with Lord Indra.

The folks are all buzzing about Endhiran, the new Rajinikant movie about Robots released this week. Since, it would be odd for folks to behave madly in the middle of Fall in the Bay Area, I suppose these movie chaps prayed to Lord Indra to tune up the temperature a bit. The passing madness could be attributed to the sun on the bare head, you see?

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=219283&id=690222330

All is well – watch the robots and wait for the gills to spout.

The Pictuaraguan @ The Asian Games

All hopes of the tiny island nation of Pictuaragua were pinned on Wilpat Shue as he walked up the stairs to the weightlifting arena. Nike had promised him an advertisement slot if he could bung in a gold at the Asian Games in New Delhi. To the Pictuaraguan President, this was huge. This meant, Nike would enter the markets and little boys who wanted to play ‘Seven stones’ will aspire to play ‘Seven stones’ wearing fashionable Nike shoes, and that may be just the boost Pictuaragua needed to turn its poor agrarian economy around.

“No pressure Wilpat”, said the President pompously stroking his goatee, “the entire nation depends on you and the Nike deal, that is all!”

Wilpat was the hot favorite for the gold medal, but he had a somewhat annoying habit, one that is employed by quite a few top athletes. He made heavy noises – he claimed weightlifting was strenuous.
“GRUNT! OHHHH!” He would scream and then he would flex his gleaming muscles and issue the following “HAARRUMPH! OOOMPAAA! BBEERRRRR AAAH  GRRREEAADDDDYYYYY?” with increasing intensity. And then flex them muscles once more for good luck and lift.

True to form, Wilpat surveyed the audience and issued the first of his grunt – “GRUNT!” Nothing happened. In fact, folks looked mildly amused and a couple of dogs peeped in to see who the new animal was. It was during the HAARRUMPH” stage that the first grumblings of dissent were heard from the building. It did sound like an elephant herd practicing for the Jungle choir. The OOMPAA was not as long as the HAARUMPH, but built on the previous one was too much strain. Wilpat bent down and started on the BBEERRRR and picked up the rod when he felt something solid bunging him on the back of his head. GAAARR he continued and another one hit him unconscious. He dropped the rod on his foot and crashed with a resounding thud on the ground.

The tiles from the false ceiling in the arena had just collapsed unable to bear the strains of Wilpat’s vocal chords. Poor Wilpat lost points and did not win the Gold Medal as predicted because he had dropped the bar on his foot while falling. “Anywhere else…”, said the judges, “but rules are rules.”

The Chief Minister of Delhi rushed on to the scene and urged everybody to retain their optimism. She said minor glitches such as this will not hold the prestigious Asian Games from being conducted. She also urged future competitors to not make as much of a noise as Wilpat did, and asked them to walk onto the arena gingerly on their toes like ballet dancers. If they could do that, and if care was taken not to cheer anybody, there was nothing preventing the games from proceeding she said.

Instead of saying “Quite a Tournament!”, we will say ‘A Quiet Tournament!” she joked. Nobody laughed for fear of the roof.

PS:

http://www.hindu.com/2010/09/23/stories/2010092357330100.htm – Now, tiles on false ceiling collapse in weightlifting arena (after the bridge collapse, the deplorable state of housing for the athletes, now tiles).
“Glitches won’t bring down Games”: Sheila Dikshit,  Delhi Chief Minister

LinkedIn & Slur Motion Photography

“Please stand back – we will answer all your queries.”
I wave to my adoring fans who would like to just have one word with me. I stand next to my second level contact in LinkedIn, while he is looking dazed with all the attention. I assure him that all will be well, and I am there to take care of the number of people who jostle around him for photographs and such. Not that I wouldn’t like a photograph with him myself. I can entrust the camera to the one person I can rely on. The husband. He would never lose the camera; but what he does with it is an entirely different matter.

I am not sure whether he would attempt that new technique in photography he was so enamoured with the last time I was around a mini celebrity, I hope not. The technical term is ‘Slur Motion Photography’ or the ‘Earthquake Effect’. The results were fine if I were viewing them sitting on a vibrating machine or one of those massaging chairs you see in malls with old men burping loudly on them. But if I were to see them standing still, it took a practiced eye to find me, and that is not the state of affairs one wants when being photographed with your Second Level Contact in LinkedIn whenever that maybe.

So, who is my second level contact on LinkedIn? None but the President of the United States, Barack Obama! To all you skeptics who don’t believe me, I snapped an image of my screen.

Obama.jpg

Here is a sample of Slur Motion Photography, that I personally find admirable as long as you are not looking to retain memories of yourself in it and such.

For more pictures of the same calibre, please go to http://suroba.wordpress.com/2010/09/19/one-more-take-saar/

Philtrums and Parafiltrums

There is something about parenthood that messes up the pride gene. Humble people who never looked to anyone for a bit of credit will find themselves boasting freely of their offspring. In fact, it is rumoured that folks coming within 500 yards of my parents’ house run a considerable risk of getting trampled by the band. If blowing the trumpet means boasting, watching my father at it, can be nothing short of a band. I assure you, if all you are doing is looking to kill a couple of hours, please drop by my parents and ask how his children are doing. I hear he has the course split into three equal parts. After 1/3rd of the course is done, coffee is served. The second 2/3rd later, snacks and water, and if you have survived the last portion, you are invited to a free meal with an added bonus. The bonus has a wonderfully sweet surprise element to it – you get an encore anytime you ask for it. Free of cost.

Boasting about one’s offspring takes various forms: some like to go for the audio-visual aspect, some not. For example, folks coming to visit my in-laws would do well to leave their spectacles at home. For their course, contains lots of pictures from tattered albums, and include complete latitude and longitudinal elements to every feature in the album. It is a bit like reading the National Geographic with poor pictures.

I blog – so, that’s where I boast. What am I here to gloat about? One day, the daughter and I are enjoying a perfectly normal evening stroll, and discussing matters of importance in our lives like chocolates and cycling, when she dons a serious look on her face and asks me, “Amma – you know everything right?”
There is something about flattery, I filled out a little, and said modestly, “Well…not everything, but … What’s up?”
She looks at me, casually brushing the area between her nose and upper lip, and says, “Umm…I have a Science question.”  The one opening she knows will get her full answers from my side. I unwittingly encourage her to ask away throwing in a quote about the thirst for knowledge.

“What is this area called?” she asks.
“Eh?” I falter
She is still stroking the area between the nose and upper lip, and asking me what the bally thing is called. How am I supposed to know? I don’t exactly notice the area everyday. It is just there. I suppose it serves a purpose: something like preventing food from going straight to your nose when you stuff your mouth. But apart from that, I have little knowledge. I wasn’t always the best at Biology.

“Eh…mustache area?” I answer, to which she gives a loud laugh that sounds like a waterfall pounding on tins below and says, “Then, the cheek is the kissing area?” (Yes, she is young – she still thinks I know everything remember?!)

So, I ask you – what is that fertile piece of land between the nose and upper lip called on your face?

I suppose I did the right thing, by admitting that I haven’t the foggiest clue, and the pair of us set out to look for the term. Thank heavens for Google. I don’t know what we would have done without that marvel. Apparently, that hideous thing where caterpillar sized mustaches grow on men is called the ‘Parafiltrum’, and the canal is called ‘Philtrum’

Philtrum – humph, Parafiltrum – humph again. Even wikipedia doesn’t have a link for it as of today (http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Special:Search&search=Parafiltrum)

All that glitters …

Have you wondered why these Army Generals always display all their medals about their persona? It is simple psychology. The more impressive one looks, the more confidence you have in him.

Apparently, the towing truck I had called for had studied this aspect of psychology well. Of all the rotten experiences, one of the most rotten has to be getting a flat tire. Of course, one never discovers a flat tire at a convenient time. Nevertheless, this time hurt. It happened at the end of a very long and tiring day – 16 hours of non-stop nonsense. I got into the car, my little chariot to take me home towards my comfortable bed that seemed to be sending positive signals of welcome, and felt the car sag a bit. So, I got out to check what had happened and lo and behold the tire looked like a soggy piece of bread, with a car on it. The car looked sorry to be exerting any sort of pressure on the blasted piece of rubber. But cars, unlike dogs, are constrained in movement, and cannot lift one side up and stand on three tires of their own will.

I’ll race through the next steps: Called the emergency road service, female promised aid within 10 minutes, clear directions given, waiting commenced. If I wanted, I could not have chosen a clearer spot to get a flat tire. I mean a person with no knowledge of any of the roads in my town could have gotten there. On one of the arterial roads, in one of the major complexes. Can’t miss.

“Only 10 minutes, only 10 minutes, only, only 10 minutes…” I sang to myself for 45 minutes, and decided to call again. The female who had promised me aid 45 minutes ago, came on again, and I wailed to her. She promptly got in touch with the driver and he said he’d lost his way. I don’t exaggerate much here – you would have to work really hard to lose your way on this road. Still, I can be charitable and gave him another 15 minutes. This time, the truck came.

You know how Great Emperors used to go down to the battlefield in all their regalia to enthuse the troops? Just their presence would do. I don’t think Akbar heartened his troops as much as that tow truck heartened mine. I mean to say! What an impressive vehicle it was. For starters, it gleamed yellow and came with blinking lights. The daughter was thoroughly impressed with the spectacle, and we both gaped at it longingly. Food, water and sleep were moments away.

The truck stopped, and the truck driver jumped down to survey the scene. He was methodical. Methodical Joe. The front left tire was the soggy bread. I’d mentioned it on the phone twice. But he checked the rear two, the front right and finally exclaimed “HA!” on finding the flat tire. He then walked around his large truck in a clockwise direction thrice, and tapped the compartments in a xylophonic manner. All part of his process I suppose, but I admit that my confidence in the food-water-sleep-moments-away dream sagged a bit.

Methodical Joe then opened a compartment containing an assortment of tools, and inspected each tool thoroughly. Just as I thought, he would use this nut, or that screw, he would replace it, and move on to the next. He then, closed Compartment #1, and walked around the truck in an anti-clockwise direction, and opened Compartment #2. He pulled each spanner one by one, and replaced them in exactly the same order in which he had taken them out. I felt Lady Patience deserting me. When he opened Compartment #6, I asked him if everything was okay. He replied without much conviction that it was okay.

I did not know what he was looking for, but just in case he was looking for the spare tire in his truck, I told him that my spare tire was in my car trunk. He seemed to consider it a valid point. He then came and pulled the tire out of my car trunk and repeated the opening-compartment-procedure three more times. By now, Lady Patience had completely deserted me and had sent Lady Hunger to keep me company.

I asked him a bit edgily if he knew what to do. His candor at a moment like this impressed me. He said, simply and bravely, that he did not know. I gaped at the man. I suppose he felt sorry for me and said he will send somebody else and left.

Luckily, his replacement (who came in a far less impressive vehicle I might add) had my car up and running in about two hunger pangs.

All that glitters…..

Little Miss Perfect sat on a Muffet

The news is throwing items at me faster than I can blog. Just as my brain buzzes with something witty about News A, there is News B that is wierder than A, and before I know it, I haven’t written about both. Who was the author who said, that the world need not look to fiction to find the bizarre. We have it there right in front of us? Some guy or girl.

I am sure most people have been judged in some capacity or the other – either during interviews or competitions. I have always found it a little dicey when you are sitting in one of these interviews, and folks who are there to judge pop a question at you. Something like, “What is your biggest mistake?” Now, I have before me two choices. I could bare my soul and tell them of all the mistakes I ever made, and rank them by magnitude or chronologically starting from the time you dropped an ice-cube down your brother’s shirt in the freezing winter, causing an unpleasant scene for one and all. Of course, one is fraid of weeping at an interview, and we go for the light effect.

Something about how much I hate to see the counter top dirty, and how I put up a sign in the office kitchen saying – “No cleaning lady comes after you to clean up, so please do your duty.”

To which some drip replied, “Wow…then how is it, the kitchen seems reasonably clean when I do walk in?”
To which I replied, “Because I cleaned up you $%$^.”
To which the drip replied, “There you are then. There is a cleaning lady!”

That particular anecdote, tickles the funny bone of the husband, and may be looked upon with the benign eye by the judges.

Apparently, the other option of proclaiming one is perfect is far from perfect. Look at this poor peacock from Philippines. She was strutting along just fine in the Miss Universe beauty pageant. In fact, couple of birds had their little bets going on her. Then, just as she was preening that last feather down by the bottom of her tail, she was handed the mitten. The reason? She was asked about the time she made a mistake, and she, not wanting to tell the time that she socked her brother with a wet sock, said she isn’t the kind of person who makes mistakes, and that proved to be her biggest mistake.

http://abcnews.go.com/WN/miss-philippines-venus-raj-loses-beauty-pageant-made/story?id=11473055&page=2little miss perfect.

Wolf Hall

One would think that panels of judges are folks with a serious outlook on life. They may be with or without glasses, but all of them with formidable stares. So, to be entrusted with a task as serious as deciding the best book of the year is no mean task.

I do not think that a senior Assistant Commissioner of Police would burst a balloon under your chair and laugh heartily over your dilemma for example.  In the same vein, I expected an excellent book to win the Booker every year. It is not as if there is a dearth of books.

Yet, I cannot help thinking that the 2010 panel of judges for the Booker Prize were a fun-loving lot. They seemed to think that having had to read Wolf Hall themselves, why not inflict the same on the rest of the world? The judges idea of a practical joke. I sound harsh, but there are very few books I have left mid way through. I love reading and any author who has spent many hours coming up with something readable, I laud them. Pretty broad-minded what? This broad minded view, however, I was forced to shelve with Wolf Hall.

At first, I thought I was not concentrating and rapped myself hard on the knuckles and sat down to study. I studiously went back to get the characters names and their relationship to one another. One time, I was thoroughly piqued to find that the character, who had hitherto been mentioned somewhere along with the many Annes and Liz-es, was a member of the domestic staff in either the protagonist’s sister’s family or the king’s lover’s family, and had no relevance to the plot whatsoever.

I suppose some folks call it style – as for me, I call it bad writing. I look to fiction with a view to enjoying my time. If, while doing so, I also pick up a thing or two about History and the Medieval Ages, I am all for it. But 65% of the book later, if I am still struggling to find the plot, I question the existence of one.

Sometimes I would be bounding along thinking Thomas is saying something and he also did this, only to realise that midway through the sentence, the “he” had shifted to the Cardinal, who due to unforeseen circumstances (beyond the control of the writer) was unable to actually be among those physically present. A fair bit of dialogue happens in one’s imagination – the protaganist’s imagination I mean.

I am all for imagination, and actually thought I had to come up with the rest of the story by myself. After the first chapter, the book failed to grip and once it had lost its hold on me, it continued on its path, and I on my own, only to find myself drooling on the story.

There is one sequel I will not be reading.

Couscous

Every so often, we are treated to the look that the parents reserve for the pitiable. There is no scorn, no anger, just a sense of deep feeling. Given that it is their children it is being directed at, the eyes also fill with an unspeakable sorrow. The first time this look was given was when we declared we like eating brown rice and actually went ahead with the montrosity of eating it in front of them. The mother thought it looked and tasted like a mixture of husk and bran and remarked that it is the kind of stuff they feed horses and cows in their village. She would stealthily boil some white rice on the side, and say, “This is for getting a good taste at the very end.”

Buffaloes, however queue up to take training from us, and we saunter on merely laughing at these jabs. In fact, I keep pushing different “healthy grains” just to see the reaction – both with the parents and the parents-in-law. This time, the grain of the day was Couscous. Couscous is easy to make and is absolutely bulging with fibre. I love Couscous and rasam.

To drive home the point, I require folks to carry out a simple test: ask a hard core South Indian, who has preferably not studied in one of the fancier schools and ask them to say 1-S-1-L (onu ess onu ellu) they’d say. In fact, they’d call you a loosu for that.  You notice the subtle ‘u’ addition to the letters? Well, that can be a particularly trying thing when one is eating Cous Cous and teaching them to pronounce the thing.

“Kusu-Kusu-vaa?” (‘Kusu’ for the Tamil challenged is the word for the burp that lost its way and made it out through the rear of the body). Folks will agree with me here when I say that it is not one of the more pleasant things to be reminded of when wolfing down heavenly rasam and Cous-Cous.

This follows an argument about kusu-kusu being samba rava, and I think to myself that samba rava does not sound as unpalateable as kusu-kusu, and let things be. They are all a variant of wheat – why nitpick?