Tag: Life

I normally ignore marketing calls or deflect them with dexterity. But one day, I got stuck. I was feeling particularly lethargic after a largish meal and sitting out in the garden thinking of this and that – you know musing on life. One of those rare days that life awards you, and in this weakened state, the telemarketer caught me. The hound.

He told me I might die any instant and that by not insuring my life for an additional amount, I am doing my family a grave injustice. It seemed a bit unlikely. I mean, I was sitting under some very large trees, but there did not seem to be much of a storm about to dislodge them from the soil and crash them on me just then. Moreover, I told him I already had insurance. It did not seem to deter him. He just went on, about how it would cost me nothing, and all I had to do was die. I didn’t like the strain of this talk, and told him I wasn’t interested. He increased his level of whatever-it-was he was trying to do, and I increased the strength with which I resisted his efforts. Neither budged, neither gave in. We circled each other at that perfect stance that boxers reluctant to throw that first punch do. Our words were our punches, though I cannot claim to infusing any sort of variety into my comebacks. They were all variations of “No thank you, I am not interested right now.” As you know there are only so many ways one can say that sentence, and my patience was starting to wear thin.

I could not use the technique of not knowing the language, since I had already explained in perfect English that he was being a relentless hound, and he would be better served if he diverted his energies elsewhere. Finally, when this fellow refused to give up, I asked him with all the remaining reserves of energy left in me, if I could ask him a question. I felt him gloat on the other end. Finally. He had elicited my interest, and now all he had to do was close the deal and get the fat commission check and go home basking in his triumphant glory.
“Do you like dogs?” I asked.
“Yes…” he drew out his response. Unsure and wondering where the conversation was going. The very effect I was going for. Serves him right – he isn’t the only one who can gloat.
“So, as long as I am polite, you will not relent is it? Is that how it works? Because if that is the reason, I can just say something rude about dogs and end this conversation for both of us right now. Quick and painless…”

Do you know what he did when I asked him this? He chuckled and giggled like a pup caught in the act of chewing the carpet. I have already called him a hound and compared him to a puppy, so I find it a bit unfair to compare him to any other animal now, but I am sorely tempted. At least he had the decency to hang up soon afterward, but left me wondering for a few minutes. I mean what a job to be trained to make otherwise polite people impolite?

A slight breeze shook the tree overhead and I scrambled indoors. I didn’t want to tempt fate just yet.

We bolster independent decision making. I know … you think these are mere words? In our case we have proof. The television in our household has taken the philosophy straight to its heart . The television now decides for us when and for how long we get to watch television. The one thing it lacks is finesse. When cutting off our viewing, it does so rather abruptly and rudely. It just goes BLEEP accompanied by similar cursing from the viewers and sits there smirking at you.

This behavior on the part of the television has been viewed as base treachery by the husband, who regards the TV with a fond affection, having spent many fruitless hours in its company. He simply cannot believe that when it has received so much attention, it should flip out in this uncouth manner. When simple things did not work, the husband resorted to the one thing software engineers are comfortable doing to televisions. He gave it a well aimed whack on its backside. He claims to have seen the mechanic in his locality as a boy doing the same to radios and tape recorders with amazing results. I personally think the first one was delivered in frustration and passed off as scientific nudging.

Anyway, that seemed to work for a while, but the TV now seems blaise about even this and refuses to start up again till it finds a time convenient for it.

In other news, there has been considerable excitement about a tooth fairy visiting the house. The daughter exclaimed loudly and bursting with excitement that the tooth fairy gave her EXACTLY what she wished for. I must mention that the tooth fairy from Amazon.com has been hiding in the closet for more than a month now waiting to give the gift.  The daughter’s tooth shook and shook, till it finally fell off one day. The historic event happened in her school and they were sweet enough to give her a tooth case with the precious tooth to place under her pillow for the tooth fairy.

Since tooth fairies are this intuitive and give you exactly what you wish for these days and considering the husband seems rather forlorn with the television’s continued apathy towards his state; it may be good idea to knock out one of his teeth one of these days just to see what he’d get. There is one problem though, the tooth fairy seems rather petite and bringing in a TV might not be possible. Wonder if they have any baggage restrictions. Hmm….

I don’t like to think of myself as an opportunistic girl, but then I thought, if I am actually encouraging an all-night revelry with his friends involving beer, wine and other variants of OH compounds; I might as well get something out of it. You know for being the understanding, accommodating spouse simply dripping with the human milk of kindness and all that. I am referring to the World Cup Fever that gripped most Indian households in the past week.

The husband made plans and backup plans just in case something interrupted (Gasp!) the match telecast in between – he had it all sorted out a few days in advance. I must tell you he made no plans for our stay on our honeymoon,  and sat up calling random hotels late into the night the previous day begging and pleading to put us up, but that is germane to this issue. The India Vs Sri Lanka match is the point here.

Patriotism aside, I said, “If India wins the World Cup, I want you to get a gardener who will bring some level of order to the backyard.” The back yard looks like the ecosystem belonging to forests, the plants die and the cycle of life blooms in wildflowers and weeds. I personally would have liked for it to have some trails too, but there is no place for trails. Not to mention the dried leaves from the neighbor’s giant tree that shakes itself and deposits around 3 metric tons of dried leaves in my garden every year. The problem is the garden is not big enough to have someone come in regularly and clearly too much for me to manage on my own. So it wilts and throws me looks of disdain every time I pass by. I wince and strengthen my resolve to have the “situation rectified”, and there matters stand.

“If you don’t call a gardener, I shall rake the leaves myself today.” I added for good measure. The husband has had a good Indian upbringing with regular doses of guilt as part of his diet and things like this did not seem to deter him.

“I will call the gardener.” he repeated.

“Yes….but if you can’t find one, I’ll do it.” Still nothing. The stubborn mule.

Well…I’ve had training too, and did not retreat. In fact, I kept upping the dosage till he backed off and said, “Okay…if I can’t find a gardener, I’ll rake the leaves and make the garden look like one.”

So far, I have only seen elephants throw mud on their heads, but if Dhoni can shave his head for the World Cup, the ardent supporter of the Indian Team for the past 3 decades can surely throw some mud over his head. *Insert Evil grin*

Update: The garden now resembles Dhoni’s head – bald and clean!

There is a wedding I remember particularly well. I don’t remember who got married exactly. Somebody is always getting married in these elaborate Hindu rituals in our family that I certainly can’t be expected to keep track. Well, what is that I remember you ask. A fair question. I remember my mother looking ravishing in a MS blue saree. That saree was becoming of her, and I really liked it because it was a simple, elegant one that suited my mother’s pinkish hues perfectly. In fact, every time somebody complimented her, she blushed uncharacteristically and turned a deeper shade of pink that clashed with the brilliant blue. (The father had bought her the saree as a surprise, and she thought she had to blush every time somebody said the saree was looking good. I told her that that part of the proceedings was unnecessary, but what the mind knows, it cannot undo.) So, there she sat, looking resplendent and blushing periodically.

The wedding was a South Indian one, and wherever you turned, there seemed to be a photographer looking harried and clicking photograph after photograph. To me, it seemed like the crowd was spotted liberally with these sorry looking photographers till I realized that they were all the same guy – he just seemed different by looking harried at varying levels. Anyway, this man dodged the crowds and kept clicking all around my beautiful mother, never once capturing her at her finest. It looked like he was swarming all around her, but not a single photograph of her sitting there turned up in the wedding album, which we were invited to see later despite strong protests from my end. “Bad enough I sat through the wedding!” was not a good enough protest apparently.

Anyway, while thumbing through the album I noticed that the photographer had waited and waited till she beat it to the dining hall and stuffed her face with three idlis and a vada before taking his photograph. So, there she was looking like a particularly vindictive dentist wrought havoc on her face in the wedding album instead of looking divine and smiling like she ought to. One side of her face was swollen with the idli so badly that had I not seen the size of the idlis served that evening, I would not have believed the feat possible.

Where am I going with all this you ask? Well…We’d been on a cruise recently. A 3 day affair that was spotted about with plenty of food and exotic desserts. Not only were there formal dinners where everyone looked smashing, but there were photographers as well. Ha! Now you see where this leads? These guys wanted to catch me at my stuffed face best, and this episode with my mother’s photograph reminded me to steer clear. I think they give these guys some sort of training to just hover around the vicinity and then attack when the spoon reaches the mouth. I’d just popped in a baby potato and looking very idli-in-mouth-like-mother-ish when this guy came to click my photo.

I mean I can only classify it as bizarre I suppose. I burst out laughing with the potato in my mouth and covered my face in glee that I denied the guy the chance of his lifetime. Ha! and Ha! again! He did not take to this kindly, and used zoom lens instead to get a ghastly close-up picture of me making me look like two me-s, but it was better than what the potato would have done. To that I am grateful.

The morning commute was an interesting one. One moment, there was silence and lackadaisical looks from fellow commuters who could not wait to get to their workspots. I was just wishing that something to brighten up the atmosphere would come up, when the very next station brought in mice, ducks, fairies and princesses. Though it is generally an argument (with merit) to say I hallucinate in the mornings, I kid you not. I saw them all. The squealing and the quacking breaking into the still silence of grumpy morning commuters was a very real one.

To one whose most interesting moment in the past week has been the fact that a building’s fire alarm system considered me a hot one, this was indeed something. Again, allow me to explain: I walked past the building and the buildings alarm went off
“WAHANANANNAANANANANANN”

I don’t suppose it is easy to jump up in alarm when one is walking at a steady 45 paces a minute, but I managed it with some difficulty. I restored the nerves from a-jingling, rectified the center of gravity and set off again (for those wondering why I did not do the noble act and help residents out in their time of crisis, the building seemed to be an empty one and not even the receptionist bothered to come out and check) So, I set off again and I had just crossed the perimeter of the building when the alarm stopped. So, I stepped back into the sidewalk right in front of the building and off it went again. The red hot fire alarm seemed to be whistling itself crazy – See?
This morning, a little boy mouse came and sat next to me, I questioned him where he was going dressed up like a mouse, and he grinned and said they were going to watch the Disney on Ice show and that was why it was particularly important to dress up like the characters. “Where are you going?” he asked.
I told him that I wished I could go to the Disney on Ice show too, but I was going to office.

“You can come with me too. You can sit and watch Mickey with me.” he said blushing deeply while his mother looked on and smiled. He then blushed a little harder, looking a deep fire alarm red and said, “We could have ice cream together there.”

A pre-schooler and a building. What can I say about my charm?

I would have gone, but the building might miss me.

Crocodile! Crocodile! May we cross the Golden river?
Crocodile: Yes you may, if you have cyan on you.

I remember this being one of the hottest games of our youth. We roped off a portion of the street and positioned the crocodile in there, while the goal for the remaining was to cross the river. If you did have the colour the crocodile was looking for, you usually donned an unnecessarily supercilious expression and made a big scene about strolling across the river, while the poor crocodile looked more crocodile-like than crocodiles do – wanting to tear and rip you apart, but the rules of the game bound one. The ones who did not have the colour on them ran across while the croc lunged and grabbed. If caught, you were the next crocodile and so on.

When we first started playing this game, we were very much the rainbow kids – not very innovative in our colours. Then slowly, we expanded to yellowish purple and bluish orange. Anything to get all of them to run across. That was when, I quipped, “I have diglish danglie on my underwear” (Or whatever ridiculous colour it was), and stroll across. The modicums of decency allowed one to stroll across wearing a white panty without verification, but just a small pang of guilt. Best to leave the attitude behind on such occasions. But this method was soon vetoed, because one could not possibly have 255 colours, and all their permutations and combinations on a small panty, and some people claimed they did.

I loved playing this game because this is when I started taking an interest in vocabulary. I learnt about ‘Scarlet’ and ‘Turquoise’ and ‘Garnet’ and ‘Fushcia’ just so I could ask for these colours when it was my turn to be a crocodile. I am not even sure I knew the exact colour myself, but so didn’t the others, and I was finally queen of the river.

Imagine my chagrin then when years later, I said ‘Teal’ or ‘Mauve’ matter of factly only to have the husband stare at me like he was oggling through a glass barrier at a very mentally disturbed gorilla. “You mean purple?” he’d ask. I let it pass thinking the poor lad in his youth hadn’t played this enriching game of crocs and must not be penalised.

Then, I read this article about different kinds of color blindness. So, where some see palettes of colours, others don’t. It also gave me a tit-bit that I have suspected all along. Women are less prone to being color blind than men.

http://mikestake.wordpress.com/2011/01/11/im-blind-colorblind-that-is/
I quote:
“Color blindness is an inherited condition(usually anyway) most common in men ( 8-12 percent of Caucasian men, and less than one half of one percent in women).  ”

Not all forms of colour blindness is acute enough to not recognize primary colours – it is subtler than that. While we see the bottle greens and the olive greens, some of them just see green or possibly gray. I’d like to play Crocodile Crocodile with one of these people just to see how interesting it is.

My previous post told us about the sort of cloth headed things one needs to do when the partner is standing in the queue for food. The partner, in the meanwhile, was bored stiff. He took to observing those fellow sufferers in queue with him.

It turns out the family right in front of him had adopted a fundamentally different approach from the one we had adopted. We had decided to go for the divide and rule policy – queues vs scourging for seats. The family in front of us seemed to be staunch believers that everything was an experience to be shared by all. Every time, I circled back to see how the queue inhabitants were doing, I had the All-for-one-and-one-for-all song ringing in my head. Not that there was anything wrong with this approach, but it did seem like the children could have done with some time to sit quietly while the food was ordered. There were two children, and two adults. They did not seem to be complaining to us, but, I couldn’t help noticing the children spilling all over them and crying (1 infant plus one girl). At one point, the infant in their arms attempted a parabolic dive into a location known to her alone from her father’s arms. The older one had a most unpleasant expression on her face. Like Disneyland wasn’t at all the magical place she’d expected. The poor child probably thought that if somebody waved their wands, the food would find their way to them.

Ever the resilient birds, they waited. Nature had taught them that patience is rewarded with a plate of whatever was up there on the menu charts. The line snaked slowly, dully, their aching legs causing them to squat even. Eventually, they reached the counter.

The whole time, we’d been there, the menu was written in large signboards and were flashing in front of us. The husband and brother, who were the queue heroes for the day, had prepared  a magnificent list to recite at the counter, replete with dessert. According to them, if you were standing for this long, it might as well be a grand lunch. Admirable sentiments, if not wholly agreeable to the belly.

Imagine our chagrin therefore, that the all-for-one-family spent a full 10 minutes deciding what it was they planned to eat at the counter. I mean – the dishes were right there! Could they have missed the boards? Not possible, it was the only thing to look at, with hunger gnawing at your insides.

After getting the food, they would have to find seats and then eat. I wonder what they managed to see at the Park that day. We managed a decent list because the husband’s fine-tuned fast pass algorithm saw him rushing from one end to the other and picking up fast passes, so we could get the rides lined up. For the remaining part, we went for the less popular rides and had fun all the same.

Sometimes, divide and rule works.

I witnessed something for the first time during our trip to Disneyland this time – the parks were filled to capacity and people were being turned away at the park entrance. It was a revelation of sorts to me because I didn’t know the park had a capacity to begin with. It was always such a sea of folks that I imagined those at the gates just stood there and sighed people through thinking of flood gates and drops in an ocean or whatever it is folks at park entrances think about. This historic day meant that the usually long lines were enough to sink the heart of the most optimistic soul.

I shall outline for you the process of buying some food on days such as this:
1) Position 1 member with a cell phone in hand at the back of a line that is nowhere near a food court. It is preferable if this person is a stamina gun and one who posesses a certain capacity to entertain and amuse the mind while standing in the queue. Reading the park map only gets you through 10 minutes (even if you memorize the names of all rides and restaurants – I checked), and the lines to get food snaked much longer that.
2) The other member with a cell phone must be one skilled enough to spot movement from a mile away and swoop down like a hawk. Hawks, if you study them, don’t swoop on whims. They observe, detect and decide on when to swoop on their prey. Looking around, reading subtle body language signals from other members already seated and eating. Constrained in every way by the burden of being a human being means no wings, no huge wing spans from which to soar and spy, bad eye-sight and not to mention the fact that we actually have bladders with needs while hawks probably don’t.

I functioned as the latter in our team of food gatherers. I had going for me what hawks probably didn’t. Optimism. I walked around aimlessly, smiling at people who made the mistake of making eye contact at me. Finding seating for a party of two on a day like this is a challenge, try doing it for seven and then one sees why the stomach is such an irascible thing to live with. I mean, cannot it eat for the day in the morning at the free breakfast buffet? It certainly behaved like it was. Ate like it was preparing for a spell of 24 hours in famine country and yet 5 hours later, the glutton was asking for more. Tut!

After what seemed like hours, I found 2 folks shifting their left buttock. I swooped – I’d gotten 2 seats. This is where Genghis Khan can take his lessons from me. Having acquired this piece of real estate, I looked around once again and found a couple chatting with fervour. People were leaving them alone since their plates seemed full. But I saw their plates were full enough, but not full enough to last till team member (1) got to the head of the line. I sat there looking bored and played with their little one amusing himself by throwing things on the floor from the table. I peek-a-boo-ed and gurgled. I don’t know whether Genghis Khan actually enjoyed conquering more lands, I enjoyed the process of playing with this child leaving the harried ones to eat in peace. They were so grateful that they actually got another chair for me and joined the tables together before leaving.

And that is how one gets seven seats together on a day that Walt Disney’s spectre gets turned away from the park.

That is also the story of us becoming Dislineophobes (yes, creativity takes a hit when attention is diverted to survival, and I couldn’t find the word for fear of queues)

Happy New Year Folks!

The past week has been a busy one for Santa. He was supposed to fly to India to meet the President from Finland. On the way, he decided to see all the good children of this school in Dubai where the niece and nephew study, because they have been so good and reward them. There has been much excitement and chatter. The maps have been consulted multiple times by even those allergic to  Geography teachers to route the map from Finland to India via Dubai.

Seeing Santa in the corridors of your own school must be exciting. I can still remember being about a knee high with no front teeth sitting in a hall waiting for Santa to come. What? After he visits the President of India, he takes a detour down to the South and graces the Lena School corridors for those children have been good too. Duh. I remember sitting around waiting eagerly for Santa to arrive – I was seated along the corner, and this particular Santa, came strewing chocolates and sweets all around to general mayhem. Thinking back, I think he bore a remarkable resemblance to the woodcutter of the school. Anyway, the point is: while he was creating joy all around and throwing sweets, he also poked my eye, which had my eye watering, and my little mind up in moral chaos.

You see, all my life up until then, I’d been told that if you lied, or did not eat, or did something that was to discredit the name of the honorable clan from whence you sprout, God will poke your eyes. It was true, I had borrowed a sharpener from a boy in my class, and promptly lost it. I was in the process of honing several lies to tell him, one of the options being stout denial, another feigning surprise at the existence of sharpeners and the like. Still wondering how to break the news in short, for this boy was known to have attained fame by eating a worm. What if, his revenge was shoving one down my throat?  I hate worms not considering that they aren’t particularly esculent. Technically, I hadn’t lied yet, but maybe God knew that I was thinking of lying and sent Santa as a precaution.

I don’t know how the world rates North Korea allegedly having an arsenal of nuclear weapons and attacking South Korea and the world waiting to see how US would react, but it was definitely not as serious as the problem I faced. Soon after Santa left, a hurried meeting was called for. My best friends rose to the occasion as usual, and we all agreed that it had been a sign. The best thing to do was tell him the truth, and if he runs after me with a worm, one friend said she would take on the task of bringing a teacher on the premises by any means known to her.

I don’t exactly remember the end to this story – I just remember it being a huge anti-climax. It was all quite simple really. I was not chased down corridors with a worm in his hand, I know that for sure. So, it may be that Santa gave him a new sharpener as a gift and he forgot about the one I lost for all I care. But I do remember asking my father if I could have a sharpener for my very own in the sweetest tone I could don, simply fluttered with ‘pleases’ and ‘thank yous’.

I am sure it tickled the parent to have such a polite request for a sharpener, but these moral epilogues drained one.