Tag: Humour

An ogre or gingerbread cookies?

I picked up one of those best selling thrillers for light reading a few days ago. I must say! I am a software engineer and all that, and yet it stumps me every time I read one of these techno thrillers. Get me started on some code, and try as I might to design and think of all possible scenarios, seldom is there a time that I have the blasted thing to work in the first attempt. If nothing else, I would have taken care enough to miss a semi-colon in a particularly hard to spot spot. Without a once-over, I am bound to have let something slip.

Yet, these fantastic heroes and heroines of these thrillers just sit there and whiz through complex networks and hacking into the most complex systems set up with millions of lines of security code in a jiffy.

All I can do is sigh, and hope the sigh would transfer some of that luck over to me. Imagine how much time I would get to muck around with what to write if I could only do that?! Here, allow me to wallow in some scenarios for you…

Scenario 1:
The question in the practical examination in the Engineering examination read:  Design and code the shortest path algorithm and come up with the best route to get from the USA to Sevapettai village.

What happens to me if I were brilliant heroine like above?

The question could have stumped everyone, but being an excellent programmer, she had got it right in the first attempt. She actually proved that Djikstra not only had a spelling that wasn’t the shortest possible, but his algorithm could be improved as well. She was left to think and write about the pros and cons of having ogres as pets in the house for the remainder of the examination.

Scenario 2: I forgot my password.

What happens to me if I were brilliant heroine like above?

She never forgot her password because she was so good at cracking them. It took her 2.56 seconds to break into her own password and transfer all the data she needed, leaving her with 59 minutes and 58.44 seconds to twiddle her thumbs and wonder about whether gingerbread cookies had ginger and bread in them and why they were called cookies if it were really bread.

See the possiblities? Sigh again.

I Dare!

I wonder if you have seen or heard about the Ariel advertisement for detergent in India. The media company did not go for actresses, models, sportsmen and even politicians to star in their advt and went in for the serious effect. Watching a spot of Indian television always seems to remind me of the inordinate amount of time we spend thinking about and caring for our clothes. It tugs at my heart strings a bit to see that I don’t accord more than a second’s thought in selecting detergent. It is mostly void of thought while yanking on the phone and lifting it off the shelves at Costco. If this is the lackadaisal attitude I take towards something that is advertised for 1/3rd of all the slots, I wonder what I would be serious about. Tut Tut.

Still such is life. If I haven’t been too worried about that slight yellow tinge in my creamy whites before, why start now? Yet, I was forced to think about it with a trifle more seriousness when I saw a person I thought was worth emulating go on screen and telling you about how she cares for her whites. The guilt pang is a bit strong as the household has no whites to talk about anymore. All whites in the house are systematically washed with runny colours and their peace is shattered. I see to it. I give it enormous odds of 5 washes, and if by then I haven’t ruined it, I will change my name. I am not nourishncherish anymore! I shall be whitewash.

Given all of this, why do I ramble on about detergent? Well..I confess I felt numb when I saw Kiran Bedi go out on television and tell me how to soak the darn things. If she told me how to react to a poor child unable to fend for himself by the roadside, or even told me about how to rescue a stranded cat from high up a telephone pole, that was different. But, Kiran Bedi telling me how to wash my inner garments seems as un-Director-General-like as it is possible to be in Modern Civilization.

I remember my adrenaline high for several days after reading her biography, “I Dare”. To the feminist teenager, that is the sort of story that fills you with willpower to achieve and dream. I actually attributed my lack of spectacular success to the fact that I did not have to swim across a river everyday to get to School. I remember my friends asking if everything was okay with me, and I said, “Yes…I will!” or some such equally irrelevant answer simply fused with determination.

So, here it is. Just thinking of “I Dare!” has awakened that spirit in me. I will take a couple of whites and try Ariel Oxy on them to see if the Director General is as good as she claims.

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.

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…..

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?

Friggatriskaidekaphobia?

Friggatriskaidekaphobia? I don’t think so. If anything, I suffer from Friggamoria. Friggatriskaidekaphobia, is the fear of Friday the 13th. As for me, 13th or no, I love Fridays. In fact, if the day can summon enough ghosts to have declared holidays, all the better is my notion.

As teenagers, we often outdid one another in extra-ordinary ways (the euphemism for dumb). One time, we got it into our heads that the one thing that would make us all invincible was if we summoned a ghost. Yes…a ghost. I am not sure whose idea it was exactly, for we were clearly not very bright. Once we’d decided to summon the ghosts, all that was left for us was to decide which one. Some ghastly research later, we agreed that it had to be someone who had an untimely death – somebody who would have to have some reason to lurk around. Some unfinished business and someone famous.

If you are going to go through the trouble of inviting a ghost, it might as well be someone you can get an autograph from.

I don’t know whether you have summoned a ghost before, so let me walk you through the process.

Required:
– Some gullible teens
– A candle
– A matchbox
– A solitary stool
– A white sheet (You need to give the ghost an illusion of company – duh!)
– A corridor nearby (required for the time when you run shrieking like a demented banshee)

Preferred Date & Time: Friday, the 13th. Night (around midnight is perfect for this exercise)

You dim out the lights – the moonlight, streaming in through the open windows, should be just enough to throw eerie shadows. Place the candle on a solitary stool, away from other furniture. (This point is life-saving when you knock the candle out and run screaming) Leave the windows slightly open, so there is a mild breeze. Nobody talks, nobody smirks. The quietness in the room is constricting to the point that the cool air from the open windows brings in not shivers, but profuse sweating. Then, one of you drapes the white sheet over yourself and the chanting begins.

Slowly, everybody enters a sort of trance. Sit facing the candle and concentrate with all your might on the tip of your nose thinking about the name of the person whose ghost you are summoning. All is quiet for a few minutes.

Be patient.

Be patient.

Suddenly, there is a distinct flicker of white – the candlelight almost dies out with that speck of white. A loud gasp from all assembled. The concentration on the tip of the nose breaks, and the white disappears only to have the piano start playing by itself.

After this, there is not much to record. The hearts raced and prodded the legs on to run as fast as possible. The corridor was filled with shrieking violets, who put a rampaging herd of bisons to shame. Nobody knew whether they were holding their own hands, or the ghosts hand, or their hearts in their hands. JUST RUN!

PS: It turns out that one person got bored with staring at her nose and sneaked off to play the piano.

PPS: Part Fiction

Jam relieves Jam

My recent trip to India was filled with driver chronicles. I am not going to bore the general public with the story of another driver who drove us in Kulu Manali. But I do have to mention him. We had asked for a car with driver to take us upto Rohtang Pass ( a peak where it was possible to view snow in the Indian Summer) Rohtang Pass is beautiful, but getting there is no relaxing soak in the spa. There are roads upto midway up the mountain. After that, it is blind faith in your car driver.

Driver KM (for Kulu Manali or Killer Man) was lean, bronzed and had a mean cut running across his jowl, that served to accentuate a sinister look.  If you get a driver like ours, the chances of getting killed by his looks was greater than being killed by the lack of roads. Driver KM seemed to have taken strong training from Mafia overlords, Hollywood and Arnold Schwazanegger in the looks-could-kill department. While he claimed to have control over the vehicle, he seemed to be totally lacking in control on his own emotions. In hindsight, it might have been worse if his areas of control had been switched, but we heard from others that they got drivers who knew how to control both the car and their temper. Sad – still, life is a bargain.

Rohtang Pass took a good 3.5 hours from where we stayed in Manali. We left at 7 a.m. The driver opined we were late. “Jam lag jaati hai” he told us. He explained to us with a stern face that traffic jams were common, and frivolously leaving at 7 a.m. does not suit the strict guidelines set by a peak as severe as Rohtang Pass.

Whatever may be his shortcomings in the temper department, I must grant Killer Man that in the envisioning department he did not fail. We started back from Rohtang Pass on the narrow roads, and right enough there was a spot where progress stopped. When yaks carrying people overtake you on the roads, you realise there is a problem.

I “kya-ho-gaya-bhaiya”-ed him (what happened brother?) to find out what happened. I mused on how in India, one embraces everybody as family, and perfect strangers become your elder brother or maternal uncle in a jiffy. Driver KM’s jaws were firm –  he crytpically replied, “Jam lagi hai”. He seemed fond of the phrase.

I was confused, and being the sort of inquisitive bird that I am; I wanted to know what caused the jam. I hoped there wasn’t an accident of any kind. Driver KM was swift this time. There was hardly a second’s gap before he took to chastising me about speaking and thinking good thoughts. He said it would make me a better person. I had committed a heinous crime in suggesting there might have been an accident. Now, if there was an accident, it would be entirely my fault. I found the insinuations a bit unfair, but the only other option I had of getting back to my hotel was para-gliding down some steep cliffs and I wasn’t in the mood. So, I kept quiet and simmered in the background.

Conversation lulled for a while after this. I couldn’t bear it any longer and decided to investigate. It turns out that two large lorries with drivers having roughly the same ego as the size of their vehicles were attempting to cross each other on a road that would gladly accomodate two bicycles and a duck, but no more. So, the blokes sat staring at each other for an hour. Neither would back down, and neither would move. Vehicles snaked up for miles on either side, while these two egotists carried on their fun who-doesn’t-blink-first game.

I sighed good humoredly. I had to think happy thoughts remember? So, I sat and thought of Kissan Jam and all my favorite flavors. I like pine-apple and mixed fruit, don’t you?


After a jolly hour of this game, an officious looking person came and hustled everybody to get moving. He brandished his impressive moustache – a must when it comes to mediating between lorry drivers in India, and got the traffic moving without making either of them think like they were sacrificing in any way.
What can I say? My sweet thoughts relieved the jam. I didn’t mention it to Killer Man – some things are best left unsaid.

The White Tiger Stops at Gray – Part 2

I now know what the writers of television soap operas must be going through. I mean, they stop at a crucial point, only to come back the next day to find another point at which to stop. Pretty hard task. I am going to do the square thing and proceed with the story after recapping the driver episode with you all, instead of this deplorable practice that SUN TV serial writers have of replaying the last 5 minutes and then going in for a break soon after.

So far, we have a driver who is bordering on giving me a nervous breakdown and my intestines are on the verge of collapsing under the strain of an upset stomach and  butterflies. Also to note that I am going back with my young daughter alone in the car for a good hour and a half to the airport, and I had begged the husband to keep calling me every few minutes.

I don’t know what I expected the calls to do – inform the police to strap up their hound dogs on the highway if I don’t pick up? Anyway, before going, I dutifully emptied the contents of the stomach lining again and hoped that while the lining grew back, there would not be much else to throw out and resolved that I will not stop en-route for any such requirements. I told the daughter in as much subtlety as possible to tone the conversation down. You see I’ve got to be careful while telling her this. Next thing I know, she’ll be asking the driver – “Driver Uncle, are you dangerous?” and we all know that not-dangerous-driver-uncles can turn dangerous when asked that question.

I don’t remember if there was a Greek hero who was honoured for having unending reserves of energy. It sounds like the kind of hero that Greek mythology would have liked. Anyway if there was someone like that, this driver would have been his avatar. Mere things like driving and being up and about the whole day did not seem to tire him. Catch me at the end of a work day, and you will see the drooping sunflower about to close up and leave for the day, not the bright sunflower beaming up at the sun. Not him however. He kept the charade up and blabbed to me about his life story again. I was quieter than usual, but simple things like that did not deter him.

I must mention that it started raining now. I peered out of the car, and the countryside was steadily darkening and the rain started a patter. Spooky Agatha Christie novels competed with Sherlock Holmes (The hound of the baskervilles I think is the one where the pouring rain forms the backdrop) and the Arvind Adigas of the World I cursed almost loudly.

The husband’s calls were coming in and so far I was asking the driver for location information and conveying them religiously to the better half. Given that each time he called, he was eating or drinking something, I am not sure how much of what I was saying was being absorbed. Once he said he was having tea, and then he was tucking into soft idlis, and then another time he was having coffee, and buying chips. Remember my bill of health in the gastronomic department? Empty – not a thing to eat or drink since a miserable black-tea-with-lemon in the morning and linings torn down. And every time the life savior called, he gave me a status update on what he was eating. Men and finesse I tell you.

“I love the rain. It reminds me of what all is possible on Earth.” The poet had commenced.

What did he mean by the promise of what all is possible on Earth? Did he simply mean the evaporation-condensation process or something else. He also added something about the place being really beautiful afterward. I had to agree. I love Earth soon after a rain too. Everything looks so clean and fresh.

We went on this way for a while – the poet talking, me barely nodding, daughter asking weird questions about the moon. I don’t know how long this happy state of affairs lasted before he told me his mother had died when he was three days old. He had been brought up by his mother’s sister. I felt a pang of sympathy for him.

“But I ran away from my aunt’s house when I was thirteen. You see my aunt’s daughters had attended their age and I felt awkward to live with them after that. It is embarrassing when…”

I almost gagged. I must take a minute here to bash this utterly nonsensical custom that is prevalent in South India with this “attended age” gig. Which other country in the WORLD makes such a huge deal of a natural biological process? I mean do we really need a band to come and perform when a girl attains puberty?  Do villages really need to gather round for food when this happens?

South Indians as a creed may not know how to enjoy their functions, but they certainly want their share of rituals and functions. They clammer for engagements and weddings and births and naming ceremonies and first birthdays. You see how this came to be? After the first birthday bash, there aren’t any rituals right up to the time the girl gets married – can be a long wait.  What about the male equivalent? Why not celebrate when his voice cracks or the first stubs of facial hair appear on his face? Huh?

Back to the point, this statement clearly had me on edge. I had no intentions of talking about the driver’s aunt’s daughter’s puberty. But what was I to do? There was a checkpoint of some sort coming up and he was slowing down for that. I wracked my brain a bit, and thought hard.

I was just pondering on this spot of a problem when I hit the perfect solution. Remember my telling you early in Part 1 that our family were a talkative bunch, and we were left trying to butt into the driver’s stream of talk for a few minutes of airtime? How does that happen? Simple – the fiend beat us to it at our own game.

So now I think, what tools do I have at my disposal to beat him at his own game? There are two occupants apart from me in the car. Though I can be impressive when I want to, and talk like the dickens, currently I was not interested in saying anything more than “Oomph” and “ah”, both unimpressive as conversation replacements you’ll agree. But I did have my daughter. If you tap her with the right sort of questions, she can perform to meet the expectations set by her genes. So, before the driver recovered from the checkpost, I asked her to narrate the Ariel story for (hold your breath) Driver uncle in great detail. I could have asked for any princess story and been safe. She went on about Ariel and Samuel or Samantha and Flooper and Ursula the sea witch for such a blasted long time.

You see what I’d done there? Driver Uncle was allowed to ask questions, but only about the story she narrated. So, filled up to his neck he may have been with Gujarat and fate and cousins attaining their age, he was stuck with a mermaid and a sea witch. Personally, I love Ursula the sea witch. Just her description and moral epilogues ran for a good 6 minutes.

We had reached an intersection of sorts – to the right seemed to be the first glittering lights of the airport, and to the left was a desolate road with nothing. There was no traffic anywhere nearby. The car slowed to a near stop: as if deciding and I gulped.

“Being evil is very bad. When you are evil, you will get destroyed right?” said my daughter summing up Ursula the sea witch’s fate

“Silence.

“Yes”. Pause.  “Will you be a good girl on the flight?” asked the driver.