For a young girl who recently made a remark about my age.
Eww, I can see her making a face. Wrinkling her nose in disgust. Old women! Yewww! They smell, she thinks. And they got chin on their hair. And they can't control their bladder very well. I know an old woman, she tells her friends, who hauls up her boobs over her shoulder much like a sari pallu. Old women, she says while shuddering involuntarily, have ugly bottoms. They wear lumpy underwear. Old women, she confides at an uncharitable moment, should be banished. Better still, she adds as an afterthought, old women should be made to suffer each other. She collapses with laughter at the thought of withered ladies huddled together like penguins to keep each other warm.
Bah! I tell you this, young lady. Someday, you too will lose your firm skin and start wearing Tena Lady. Some day, I bet, some day.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
A quick tale 119
A lift home
It is one of those rare occasions when he is in a car with someone he barely knows. She had offered to drop him home because it was on her way. And he accepted. Now there's 45 minutes of journey time to be filled with conversation. He starts off by thanking her very much for the offer. Oh it's nothing, she dismisses. And that's the end of that. So he sits trying to think of another conversation starter. Her work. How long has she been at the job, he asks. 18 months. And before that? She used to be in a different job. Oh, ok. And what was that, he wonders. Same thing, she says. Oh, ok. And why did she leave her earlier job? The boss harrassed me. He is sorry to hear that. More silence follows.
Should he ask her about her family? May be something less personal. Perhaps cricket. Or politics. Or reality tv. He looks up and remarks how terrible the weather is. Yes, she nods, terrible weather indeed. Nice shoes, he says. Yeah, thanks. I've always liked good shoes, he says, god, I love a pair of good legs. He does not know how the last bit slipped out. Awkward pause. I didn't mean it that way, he stumbles. You have nice legs. And I like a woman with good legs. But I don't fancy you. Not that you are not fancyable. But you're not my kind. He rambles uncontrollably. Do I take a right here? she asks. He can sense the iciness in her tone. Yes, please. The next house on the left. He gets out, thanks her, runs inside and shuts himself into a closet. He doesn't want to see another human for the next ten years.
It is one of those rare occasions when he is in a car with someone he barely knows. She had offered to drop him home because it was on her way. And he accepted. Now there's 45 minutes of journey time to be filled with conversation. He starts off by thanking her very much for the offer. Oh it's nothing, she dismisses. And that's the end of that. So he sits trying to think of another conversation starter. Her work. How long has she been at the job, he asks. 18 months. And before that? She used to be in a different job. Oh, ok. And what was that, he wonders. Same thing, she says. Oh, ok. And why did she leave her earlier job? The boss harrassed me. He is sorry to hear that. More silence follows.
Should he ask her about her family? May be something less personal. Perhaps cricket. Or politics. Or reality tv. He looks up and remarks how terrible the weather is. Yes, she nods, terrible weather indeed. Nice shoes, he says. Yeah, thanks. I've always liked good shoes, he says, god, I love a pair of good legs. He does not know how the last bit slipped out. Awkward pause. I didn't mean it that way, he stumbles. You have nice legs. And I like a woman with good legs. But I don't fancy you. Not that you are not fancyable. But you're not my kind. He rambles uncontrollably. Do I take a right here? she asks. He can sense the iciness in her tone. Yes, please. The next house on the left. He gets out, thanks her, runs inside and shuts himself into a closet. He doesn't want to see another human for the next ten years.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Friday, March 24, 2006
A quick tale 118
Remembering mother
Some nights I wake up wondering if your nose was as I remember it. Sharp and defined. I remember you used to tie your wispy thin hair with a string stripped from the bark of a banana tree. I used to pull it to annoy you. 'As if I have 6 feet of hair for you to play with! Go away', you would rebuke me while re-tying the sad bunch into an indistinct bundle. And your voice. A while ago, I was worried that I was starting to forget the sound of your voice. But one day, out-of-the-blue, I remembered the children's rhyme you used to sing. Something about running squirrels and yellow pumpkins. I recalled your voice in an instant.
When I look at myself in the mirror these days, I compare my reflection with your photo. Same eyes, nose. And when I brush back my hair, I can see where I get my broad forehead from. Funnily enough, I never inherited your love for coffee. They say that you used to run through the back door to your mother's house for an extra gulp. Did you really do that?
As far as I can recall, you never complained. But you had quite a temper. The other day I heard someone mention that you were an ocean of patience. How we tend to bestow upon the departed a uniformly genial disposition. As your first born, I often bore the brunt of your short fuse. You would pinch me on my thigh and I would howl with pain. I only have to close my eyes and it stings even today. I cannot believe you have been gone for so long. I still remember telling the younger ones that you will be back soon. Because it was getting dark and you would never stay out after sunset. I refused to believe that you were not coming back. I was angry at you for a long time for neglecting us. But at nights, I would talk to you. I told you about my graduation. How I took up father's profession. My wedding. The birth of your first grandchild (he was still born). I named my daughter after you. I tell her that she looks like you. May be I just want her to look like you. She is a wonderful mother. Even if she pinches her little boy on his arm once in a while.
My father lost his mother 50 years ago this Tuesday. He was a teenager then. This is an imagined piece.
Some nights I wake up wondering if your nose was as I remember it. Sharp and defined. I remember you used to tie your wispy thin hair with a string stripped from the bark of a banana tree. I used to pull it to annoy you. 'As if I have 6 feet of hair for you to play with! Go away', you would rebuke me while re-tying the sad bunch into an indistinct bundle. And your voice. A while ago, I was worried that I was starting to forget the sound of your voice. But one day, out-of-the-blue, I remembered the children's rhyme you used to sing. Something about running squirrels and yellow pumpkins. I recalled your voice in an instant.
When I look at myself in the mirror these days, I compare my reflection with your photo. Same eyes, nose. And when I brush back my hair, I can see where I get my broad forehead from. Funnily enough, I never inherited your love for coffee. They say that you used to run through the back door to your mother's house for an extra gulp. Did you really do that?
As far as I can recall, you never complained. But you had quite a temper. The other day I heard someone mention that you were an ocean of patience. How we tend to bestow upon the departed a uniformly genial disposition. As your first born, I often bore the brunt of your short fuse. You would pinch me on my thigh and I would howl with pain. I only have to close my eyes and it stings even today. I cannot believe you have been gone for so long. I still remember telling the younger ones that you will be back soon. Because it was getting dark and you would never stay out after sunset. I refused to believe that you were not coming back. I was angry at you for a long time for neglecting us. But at nights, I would talk to you. I told you about my graduation. How I took up father's profession. My wedding. The birth of your first grandchild (he was still born). I named my daughter after you. I tell her that she looks like you. May be I just want her to look like you. She is a wonderful mother. Even if she pinches her little boy on his arm once in a while.
My father lost his mother 50 years ago this Tuesday. He was a teenager then. This is an imagined piece.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
A quick tale 117
A plan
Atchoo! she will sneeze as soon as she sights him and then proceed to blow her nose loudly into a tissue. That should bring him to her table. If it doesn't, she will go on to moan and groan in a low voice. That should do the trick. And once he comes over, he is bound to enquire about her health. I'm okay, she will whisper in a feeble tone. But he will not be convinced. So he will ask her again how she was really feeling. To be honest, she will begin, my head feels like it is being pounded by a million little red hot hammers. And my body...she will pause unable to continue. She will wipe an imaginary tear from her eye. He will nod like he understands. I know, he will say, I felt the same last week. You must have caught the flu bug from me. I should never have forced you try the soup from my plate. I'm so sorry. He will shake his head several times in contrition. Why don't you go home today? he will offer. But there's so much work to be done, she will sound distraught. Your well-being comes first, he will insist, take the day off. And she will submit reluctantly. For now, she waits. Drumming her fingers on the table.
Atchoo! she will sneeze as soon as she sights him and then proceed to blow her nose loudly into a tissue. That should bring him to her table. If it doesn't, she will go on to moan and groan in a low voice. That should do the trick. And once he comes over, he is bound to enquire about her health. I'm okay, she will whisper in a feeble tone. But he will not be convinced. So he will ask her again how she was really feeling. To be honest, she will begin, my head feels like it is being pounded by a million little red hot hammers. And my body...she will pause unable to continue. She will wipe an imaginary tear from her eye. He will nod like he understands. I know, he will say, I felt the same last week. You must have caught the flu bug from me. I should never have forced you try the soup from my plate. I'm so sorry. He will shake his head several times in contrition. Why don't you go home today? he will offer. But there's so much work to be done, she will sound distraught. Your well-being comes first, he will insist, take the day off. And she will submit reluctantly. For now, she waits. Drumming her fingers on the table.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
A quick tale 116
A bit of a nonsense story
He always felt embarrassed when he used the word itinerary. Like laughing at someone's funeral. Or remembering a dirty joke during Physics class. Or fancying your best friend's wife. He could never bring himself to say the word. Why couldn't it just be schedule? Or timetable? Why itinerary? Was it Eye-tinerary? Or It-in-erary? He could never decide. And the 'rary' at the end was positively vulgar. And suddenly, the word seemed to crop up everywhere. On holiday brochures. Guide books. Rock star tour dates. World cup football matches. Everyone seemed to have an itinerary. Heck, even his 8-year old son was given one before he went on a school trip. What's with the word? What's with the world? Itinerary this. Itinerary that.
He'd had enough. So one day, he took a pair of black markers and went around town striking out the word wherever he saw it. He would go into libraries, search out dictionaries and black out the word and its definition. It was his personal battle. His holy war against a world that had embraced itinerary. Psychiatrists saw a troubled mind. Oprah-fans saw a deeply scarred psyche. He needs healing, they murmured behind his back. Did your mother not read you books when you were young? Was your cat run over by a dentist's car? They asked silly questions to get to the root of his problem. The simple answer was that he abhorred the word. And the more he ran away, the more he was chased. The man who did not like itinerary, ran the headline next to his scowling face. Neighbourhood kids made up pathetic rhymes and sang out 'He's hoary! He's hairy! He's lost his i-ti-ne-rary!'.
It had to stop. So the man scribbled the word all over his house. itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary. He surrounded himself with the very demon he was running away from. It seemed to work. He no longer actively disliked the word. And once, when an American friends casually mentioned it, he did not even puke. But just as he was warming to it came a blow. He choked on an artichoke and died instantly. At his funeral service, someone giggled. They might as well have mentioned the word.
He always felt embarrassed when he used the word itinerary. Like laughing at someone's funeral. Or remembering a dirty joke during Physics class. Or fancying your best friend's wife. He could never bring himself to say the word. Why couldn't it just be schedule? Or timetable? Why itinerary? Was it Eye-tinerary? Or It-in-erary? He could never decide. And the 'rary' at the end was positively vulgar. And suddenly, the word seemed to crop up everywhere. On holiday brochures. Guide books. Rock star tour dates. World cup football matches. Everyone seemed to have an itinerary. Heck, even his 8-year old son was given one before he went on a school trip. What's with the word? What's with the world? Itinerary this. Itinerary that.
He'd had enough. So one day, he took a pair of black markers and went around town striking out the word wherever he saw it. He would go into libraries, search out dictionaries and black out the word and its definition. It was his personal battle. His holy war against a world that had embraced itinerary. Psychiatrists saw a troubled mind. Oprah-fans saw a deeply scarred psyche. He needs healing, they murmured behind his back. Did your mother not read you books when you were young? Was your cat run over by a dentist's car? They asked silly questions to get to the root of his problem. The simple answer was that he abhorred the word. And the more he ran away, the more he was chased. The man who did not like itinerary, ran the headline next to his scowling face. Neighbourhood kids made up pathetic rhymes and sang out 'He's hoary! He's hairy! He's lost his i-ti-ne-rary!'.
It had to stop. So the man scribbled the word all over his house. itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary itinerary. He surrounded himself with the very demon he was running away from. It seemed to work. He no longer actively disliked the word. And once, when an American friends casually mentioned it, he did not even puke. But just as he was warming to it came a blow. He choked on an artichoke and died instantly. At his funeral service, someone giggled. They might as well have mentioned the word.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
A quick tale 115
Wrapping
It sat in front of her, wrapped in shiny, gold paper. With a little red satin bow perched on top. It sat in front of her, like an obedient little girl.
Go on, open it.
She stared at it.
Go on.
She had never been given a gift like this before.
Aren't you curious?
Sometimes her gift would come in a plastic bag.
Oh, c'mon. Open it.
Sometimes it'd just be handed to her. Unwrapped and naked.
Don't you want to know what I got for you?
But often, nothing.
If you don't open it, I will.
She couldn't take her eyes off it.
A hand drew the little box away from her and started to peel the layers of wrapping. She looked away, somehow it didn't feel right to stare.
Stripped of its sheltering, the gift was thrust in front of her.
Like it?
Shiny, ornate, pretty, nude. A jewellery box or something equally unnecessary. She wished the mystery had lasted a little longer.
Love it.
It sat in front of her, wrapped in shiny, gold paper. With a little red satin bow perched on top. It sat in front of her, like an obedient little girl.
Go on, open it.
She stared at it.
Go on.
She had never been given a gift like this before.
Aren't you curious?
Sometimes her gift would come in a plastic bag.
Oh, c'mon. Open it.
Sometimes it'd just be handed to her. Unwrapped and naked.
Don't you want to know what I got for you?
But often, nothing.
If you don't open it, I will.
She couldn't take her eyes off it.
A hand drew the little box away from her and started to peel the layers of wrapping. She looked away, somehow it didn't feel right to stare.
Stripped of its sheltering, the gift was thrust in front of her.
Like it?
Shiny, ornate, pretty, nude. A jewellery box or something equally unnecessary. She wished the mystery had lasted a little longer.
Love it.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Friday, March 10, 2006
A quick tale 114
At around 5 one afternoon
It has been a bad day so far and you just heard on the news that British Gas is hiking its prices again and that every minute another 100 hectares of tropical rain forests are cleared to make way for commercial crop. You start tuning the car radio when you hear an old pop song. Something silly about love that lasts till the end of time. You hate the song and you hate what is happening to the world and its rising gas prices. You wonder what's the point of eternal love if you have to pay exorbitant bills. Where do you go with love that lasts forever and ever if there's no world in the first place because the environment is fucked up? And all that news about Irish priests abusing children. And people being killed because they did not like a certain cartoon. And George Bush. And now this song about immortal love.
With the song ringing in your ears and spinning in your head, you get out of the car. It's pouring outside and you walk aimlessly. Crying for the world and marvelling at how beautifully awful life is.
It has been a bad day so far and you just heard on the news that British Gas is hiking its prices again and that every minute another 100 hectares of tropical rain forests are cleared to make way for commercial crop. You start tuning the car radio when you hear an old pop song. Something silly about love that lasts till the end of time. You hate the song and you hate what is happening to the world and its rising gas prices. You wonder what's the point of eternal love if you have to pay exorbitant bills. Where do you go with love that lasts forever and ever if there's no world in the first place because the environment is fucked up? And all that news about Irish priests abusing children. And people being killed because they did not like a certain cartoon. And George Bush. And now this song about immortal love.
With the song ringing in your ears and spinning in your head, you get out of the car. It's pouring outside and you walk aimlessly. Crying for the world and marvelling at how beautifully awful life is.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
A quick tale 113
A letter
Last night I lay awake thinking about you. Wondering where you are right now. Perhaps married. With kids. May be a daughter? Is she the same age now as I was when I met you? 11? Do you worry about what happens to her when she travels by bus? Or walks home from school? Or gets stopped on the road by someone asking her for directions? For you must know what happens to girls in public. How they get fondled. Their breasts touched and squeezed and pinched. How they get rubbed against. From the back. By strangers who press themselves against young girls. Leaving an ugly impression on their minds. Confusing the girls. Who are too young to understand what is happening to them. Too young to have the words to explain to others. Leaving them feeling ashamed and dirty.
Do you accompany your daughter when she goes to tuition class?Do you tell her to carry an umbrella with her no matter what the weather? Do you tell her why?
Do you lay awake at nights wondering about the girl you touched all those years ago? Do you wonder where she is now? And whether she is married and has kids. And if she warns her daughter about the men who don't see her as a child? Do you worry about it coming back to haunt you? It always does. As I write this, there's someone watching your daughter. And she is about to lose her innocence. Very, very soon.
Related link: Blank Noise Project
Last night I lay awake thinking about you. Wondering where you are right now. Perhaps married. With kids. May be a daughter? Is she the same age now as I was when I met you? 11? Do you worry about what happens to her when she travels by bus? Or walks home from school? Or gets stopped on the road by someone asking her for directions? For you must know what happens to girls in public. How they get fondled. Their breasts touched and squeezed and pinched. How they get rubbed against. From the back. By strangers who press themselves against young girls. Leaving an ugly impression on their minds. Confusing the girls. Who are too young to understand what is happening to them. Too young to have the words to explain to others. Leaving them feeling ashamed and dirty.
Do you accompany your daughter when she goes to tuition class?Do you tell her to carry an umbrella with her no matter what the weather? Do you tell her why?
Do you lay awake at nights wondering about the girl you touched all those years ago? Do you wonder where she is now? And whether she is married and has kids. And if she warns her daughter about the men who don't see her as a child? Do you worry about it coming back to haunt you? It always does. As I write this, there's someone watching your daughter. And she is about to lose her innocence. Very, very soon.
Related link: Blank Noise Project
Saturday, March 04, 2006
A quick tale 112
Parcel
‘This came for you by this afternoon’s post’, said the elderly neighbour handing her a parcel. She thanked him and was about to leave when the old man said ‘it seems rather bulky’.
‘…’
‘It was quite heavy when the postman gave it to me’, he continued.
‘…’
‘He was about to leave when he found your apartment locked. I offered to take it in for you’
‘Thank you for doing that’
‘Is there anything breakable inside?’
‘No, no’
‘It’s a little late for a Christmas present’
‘…’
‘Unless it’s your birthday or something’
‘No, no’
‘It’s from the USA…it says so on the package’
‘…’
‘Must be expensive. The postage cost’
‘…’
‘I used to send blood pressure medicines to my brother in England. The stamps used to cost more than the medicines itself’
‘…’
‘You look tired. Would you like me to carry the package for you till your door?’
‘No, no, I’m fine’
‘Look, they’ve misspelt your name on the package. Two As instead of one’
‘…’
‘I don’t know how they managed to wrap it so well’
‘…’
‘The package has travelled half way across the world and still not a single tear’
‘…’
‘It must be something very important for it to be shipped from America’
‘…’
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to carry it for you?’
‘No, I’m fine, really’
‘You see, the package must be…’
She didn’t wait for the old man to finish. She sprinted down the hallway to her apartment holding the parcel close to her chest.
**
‘Looks like you were up well past midnight’, greeted the old man as she was leaving for work the next morning. ‘I saw the light burning in your apartment’.
‘…’
‘Must be that thing in the parcel…’
‘…’
‘Listen, why don’t you come home for dinner tonight? Sheela has made some excellent halwa and you can have a taste of that. Yes? Good. See you at 7 tonight’
**
‘Have some more rice. Look, you are so thin…’, said the old man piling her plate with delicately spiced rice.
‘But...’, she protested weakly.
‘None of that. Sheela, serve her some more rotis. Yes, two more’
‘…’
‘At your age, I used to eat 20 chapathis in one go. These days you young people hardly eat anything. So little food, so little sleep. And all that staying up late night…’
‘…’
‘So were you working last night?’
‘Mmm’, she said, thankful for the food in her mouth that stopped her from saying more.
‘And that parcel?’
‘…’
‘It must’ve been work papers then’, he reasoned, more to himself
‘…’
‘But from USA?’
‘…’
‘And the parcel rattled when I shook it. Cannot have been papers inside…’
‘…’
‘Nothing fragile either. It did not say ‘Handle with care’ on top. No papers, no glass…’
‘Will you stop going on about the parcel? Can’t you see? The girl is getting tired. She has to be up early tomorrow for work’, chided the wife bringing the old man’s grilling to an abrupt halt.
**
‘They took Shinde-saab away in an ambulance this morning. Must be around 6 o’clock…’ The watchman gave her details of the hospital where the old man had been rushed to after he complained of chest pain.
**
She was one of the last people to see the old man alive. Around 3 pm that afternoon, his wife Sheela wanted to go to the toilet and for a brief period the old man was left alone in the company of his young neighbour. She bent down low and whispered something in his ears. He passed away a few hours later. They said he looked peaceful, just like was sleeping. Some mourners even noticed a faint trace of a smile on his face. But they dismissed it as a figment of their imagination. They shouldn’t have.
‘This came for you by this afternoon’s post’, said the elderly neighbour handing her a parcel. She thanked him and was about to leave when the old man said ‘it seems rather bulky’.
‘…’
‘It was quite heavy when the postman gave it to me’, he continued.
‘…’
‘He was about to leave when he found your apartment locked. I offered to take it in for you’
‘Thank you for doing that’
‘Is there anything breakable inside?’
‘No, no’
‘It’s a little late for a Christmas present’
‘…’
‘Unless it’s your birthday or something’
‘No, no’
‘It’s from the USA…it says so on the package’
‘…’
‘Must be expensive. The postage cost’
‘…’
‘I used to send blood pressure medicines to my brother in England. The stamps used to cost more than the medicines itself’
‘…’
‘You look tired. Would you like me to carry the package for you till your door?’
‘No, no, I’m fine’
‘Look, they’ve misspelt your name on the package. Two As instead of one’
‘…’
‘I don’t know how they managed to wrap it so well’
‘…’
‘The package has travelled half way across the world and still not a single tear’
‘…’
‘It must be something very important for it to be shipped from America’
‘…’
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to carry it for you?’
‘No, I’m fine, really’
‘You see, the package must be…’
She didn’t wait for the old man to finish. She sprinted down the hallway to her apartment holding the parcel close to her chest.
**
‘Looks like you were up well past midnight’, greeted the old man as she was leaving for work the next morning. ‘I saw the light burning in your apartment’.
‘…’
‘Must be that thing in the parcel…’
‘…’
‘Listen, why don’t you come home for dinner tonight? Sheela has made some excellent halwa and you can have a taste of that. Yes? Good. See you at 7 tonight’
**
‘Have some more rice. Look, you are so thin…’, said the old man piling her plate with delicately spiced rice.
‘But...’, she protested weakly.
‘None of that. Sheela, serve her some more rotis. Yes, two more’
‘…’
‘At your age, I used to eat 20 chapathis in one go. These days you young people hardly eat anything. So little food, so little sleep. And all that staying up late night…’
‘…’
‘So were you working last night?’
‘Mmm’, she said, thankful for the food in her mouth that stopped her from saying more.
‘And that parcel?’
‘…’
‘It must’ve been work papers then’, he reasoned, more to himself
‘…’
‘But from USA?’
‘…’
‘And the parcel rattled when I shook it. Cannot have been papers inside…’
‘…’
‘Nothing fragile either. It did not say ‘Handle with care’ on top. No papers, no glass…’
‘Will you stop going on about the parcel? Can’t you see? The girl is getting tired. She has to be up early tomorrow for work’, chided the wife bringing the old man’s grilling to an abrupt halt.
**
‘They took Shinde-saab away in an ambulance this morning. Must be around 6 o’clock…’ The watchman gave her details of the hospital where the old man had been rushed to after he complained of chest pain.
**
She was one of the last people to see the old man alive. Around 3 pm that afternoon, his wife Sheela wanted to go to the toilet and for a brief period the old man was left alone in the company of his young neighbour. She bent down low and whispered something in his ears. He passed away a few hours later. They said he looked peaceful, just like was sleeping. Some mourners even noticed a faint trace of a smile on his face. But they dismissed it as a figment of their imagination. They shouldn’t have.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Blog-a-thon for Blank Noise Project
image courtesy: Blank Noise Project
To mark their one-year foray into the blog world, Blank Noise Project have decided to host a Blog-a-thon on the issue of street harassment. If you’d like to participate, send an email to blurtblanknoise@gmail.com before the 6th of March. Here's my entry, a story posted a year ago.
Tonight
It was just a few hours since she had been married and the excitement from the wedding ceremony had given way to an exhausted lull. She was sitting in the marriage hall surrounded by cousins and aunts. Her younger cousins were chatting away while the aunts were busy gossiping. Soon she would have to get ready for the evening reception. "So", began her aunt, "are you ready for tonight?". At this cue, the other women started shooing the kids away. This talk was not meant for their ears. The new bride lowered her eyes and pretended not to understand. "You know, it's going to be your first night. I am going to tell you something important" the older lady proceeded. So this is going to be sex education, the bride thought, bring it on.
"Do you know what happens on the first night?", another aunt quizzed. The newly-wed, feeling utterly embarrassed, did not answer. She was thinking about that time, when she was nine, when an uncle put his hands up her skirt. And how this went on for months. She remembered the time when an old man pressed himself against her in a crowded bus. She recalled the day when the college peon had exposed himself to her at the college lab. She pushed the thoughts away, lowered her eyes and nodded as the aunt proceeded to give a graphic and crude version of what she was to expect on her wedding night. There were giggles and chuckles all around.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
A quick tale 111
A conversation
‘Tell me when it’s convenient for you.’
‘I’m alright, don’t trouble yourself. It’s okay.’
‘No, I’d really like to visit you. Tell me when.’
‘Listen, I’ve recovered quite well. So…’
‘Are you saying you don’t want me to come?’
‘Of course not. You’re welcome anytime.’
‘You’ve just been down with this big illness and I’d like to look you up’
‘It was not that big. Besides you have to travel for nearly two hours for my sake…’
‘That’s no problem at all. What’s a couple of hours for you?’
‘Are you sure you want to come this far for me?’
‘Not if you don’t want me to’
‘No, no, that’s not what I meant. I’d love to see you. I just don’t want to inconvenience you.’
‘Nonsense! It’s my duty. Would five o’clock today be alright with you?’
‘Five would be…’
‘I can make it later if you like’
‘No, no, five would be fine. Are you sure you want to come this far?’
‘Yessss. Unless you don’t want me to’
‘No! I want you to. Just that…can you come tomorrow?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, did you have plans for this evening?’
‘Well, some other friends are coming home today…you are more than welcome to join them but you may feel a little out of place.’
‘Okay then. What time tomorrow?’
‘Yeah but mom…’
‘I know, you’re 27 and you can take care of yourself quite well. But you’ll always be…’
‘Alright, alright. Tomorrow then. Say 5 o’clock?’, said the daughter rolling her eyes.
‘Tell me when it’s convenient for you.’
‘I’m alright, don’t trouble yourself. It’s okay.’
‘No, I’d really like to visit you. Tell me when.’
‘Listen, I’ve recovered quite well. So…’
‘Are you saying you don’t want me to come?’
‘Of course not. You’re welcome anytime.’
‘You’ve just been down with this big illness and I’d like to look you up’
‘It was not that big. Besides you have to travel for nearly two hours for my sake…’
‘That’s no problem at all. What’s a couple of hours for you?’
‘Are you sure you want to come this far for me?’
‘Not if you don’t want me to’
‘No, no, that’s not what I meant. I’d love to see you. I just don’t want to inconvenience you.’
‘Nonsense! It’s my duty. Would five o’clock today be alright with you?’
‘Five would be…’
‘I can make it later if you like’
‘No, no, five would be fine. Are you sure you want to come this far?’
‘Yessss. Unless you don’t want me to’
‘No! I want you to. Just that…can you come tomorrow?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, did you have plans for this evening?’
‘Well, some other friends are coming home today…you are more than welcome to join them but you may feel a little out of place.’
‘Okay then. What time tomorrow?’
‘Yeah but mom…’
‘I know, you’re 27 and you can take care of yourself quite well. But you’ll always be…’
‘Alright, alright. Tomorrow then. Say 5 o’clock?’, said the daughter rolling her eyes.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
A quick tale 110
A Russian author is read
This woman, who has small feet, lies on her bed reading Dostoevsky. She pauses to place the book face down on her stomach. Then she lifts her head and plumps her pillow with both hands. She drops her head and sinks instantly into the recent plumpness of the cushion. She picks up the book and as her eyes graze listlessly over the text of the 'The Idiot', her mind wanders.
Tomorrow she will tell her colleagues at the accounting firm where she works as an executive assistant, that she spent the night reading Dostoevsky. She will make sure that she says 'Dos-te-ove-ski'. The Russian way to pronounce the name. Then she will go on to tell them about the apocalyptic framework of the book, the characters and their conflicts penned across a moving landscape of pre-Soviet Russia. She will talk about it during the second half of the lunch break so that her colleagues give her more attention than the sandwich in front of them.
And later at coffee break, Brian, the handsome one, will mention how well-read she was. She reads some Russian author and all, he will say. And everyone around him will nod in assent. Some years later, when they will have moved on to different jobs, someone will say something about their favourite author and someone else will say, ah, I used to know this girl from my last job, she has even read Dostoevsky (pronouncing it 'some Russian author').
For the moment, the woman whose feet are small, shuts her eyes and sleeps a dreamless sleep.
This woman, who has small feet, lies on her bed reading Dostoevsky. She pauses to place the book face down on her stomach. Then she lifts her head and plumps her pillow with both hands. She drops her head and sinks instantly into the recent plumpness of the cushion. She picks up the book and as her eyes graze listlessly over the text of the 'The Idiot', her mind wanders.
Tomorrow she will tell her colleagues at the accounting firm where she works as an executive assistant, that she spent the night reading Dostoevsky. She will make sure that she says 'Dos-te-ove-ski'. The Russian way to pronounce the name. Then she will go on to tell them about the apocalyptic framework of the book, the characters and their conflicts penned across a moving landscape of pre-Soviet Russia. She will talk about it during the second half of the lunch break so that her colleagues give her more attention than the sandwich in front of them.
And later at coffee break, Brian, the handsome one, will mention how well-read she was. She reads some Russian author and all, he will say. And everyone around him will nod in assent. Some years later, when they will have moved on to different jobs, someone will say something about their favourite author and someone else will say, ah, I used to know this girl from my last job, she has even read Dostoevsky (pronouncing it 'some Russian author').
For the moment, the woman whose feet are small, shuts her eyes and sleeps a dreamless sleep.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Alert
Is there anyone reading who went to Children's Garden School in Mylapore, Chennai in the 80s? Please email me at ammania@ gmail.com
Thank you.
Thank you.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
A quick tale 109
At your insistence
That’s the trouble with books like these. You love them so much that you reccomend it to people with an evangelical zeal. Oh, you’ll lovvvvvve it, you promise your friend as you stuff the book in her hands. You make her read the blurb and watch her face eagerly for reaction. Read the prologue, read the prologue, you urge her hoping that this will get her ecstatic. I know you’re going to lovvvvvve it, you keep repeating while making sure that she takes the book with her. A couple of weeks later, you bring up the book again. Casually, hiding the impatience in your voice. Has she reached that bit where the girl finds out about his past? No? Oh dear, what have you done! Forget what you said and get on with it. How far has she read then? She mumbles something about the early bits which you are sure is a mistake. Because it’s such a quick read.
Some months later, she returns the book. So what does she think? Great, wasn’t it? Yes, yes, she nods, she has never read anything quite like this. You beam like a mother who has just been told that her child has won the Nobel Prize after winning an Olympic gold medal during lunch break. By the way, you wonder, has she ever been to this restaurant? They serve the most amazing food! She has got to try it. She’ll lovvvvvvve it, you just know.
That’s the trouble with books like these. You love them so much that you reccomend it to people with an evangelical zeal. Oh, you’ll lovvvvvve it, you promise your friend as you stuff the book in her hands. You make her read the blurb and watch her face eagerly for reaction. Read the prologue, read the prologue, you urge her hoping that this will get her ecstatic. I know you’re going to lovvvvvve it, you keep repeating while making sure that she takes the book with her. A couple of weeks later, you bring up the book again. Casually, hiding the impatience in your voice. Has she reached that bit where the girl finds out about his past? No? Oh dear, what have you done! Forget what you said and get on with it. How far has she read then? She mumbles something about the early bits which you are sure is a mistake. Because it’s such a quick read.
Some months later, she returns the book. So what does she think? Great, wasn’t it? Yes, yes, she nods, she has never read anything quite like this. You beam like a mother who has just been told that her child has won the Nobel Prize after winning an Olympic gold medal during lunch break. By the way, you wonder, has she ever been to this restaurant? They serve the most amazing food! She has got to try it. She’ll lovvvvvvve it, you just know.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
A quick tale 108
Relating to worldwide church
Some years ago, a young girl chanced upon the word ‘ecumenical’. She ran it past her tongue, slid it down her throat and discovered a pleasurable sensation. She found it the most intriguingly wonderful word and being a young girl, she was keen to use it in a conversation. But ecumenical being ecumenical, is not an easy word to slip into a casual talk with friends. However, a year later, the opportunity presented itself unexpectedly when she was travelling by train. She overheard two people in the next carriage discussing clues to a crossword puzzle.
‘Relating to the worldwide Christian church, ten letters’, said the fat one. ‘Hmm…catholic?’ ventured the younger man. ‘No’, said his friend, ‘third letter U’. Then they both went silent for a while. Ecumenical! Ecumenical! She wanted to scream. This could be her only chance to use the word she reckoned with rising panic.
‘Papal? Churchical?’ guessed the younger man once again. Churchical? CHURCHICAL?? She wanted to yell. That’s not even a word, you moron! She had to hurry up. Or this occasion could be lost forever. But how could she walk over to two strangers and offer an answer to their crossword puzzle? Won’t they assume that she had been overhearing their entire conversation? That she was interested in them? But isn’t it her duty to use the word? Hadn't she had waited long enough? Such were the thoughts pulling her in conflicting directions when the fat one said ‘16 Across. Researched dissertation. Six’. She knew the answer. But she no longer cared if they knew their 'thesis' or not.
Some years ago, a young girl chanced upon the word ‘ecumenical’. She ran it past her tongue, slid it down her throat and discovered a pleasurable sensation. She found it the most intriguingly wonderful word and being a young girl, she was keen to use it in a conversation. But ecumenical being ecumenical, is not an easy word to slip into a casual talk with friends. However, a year later, the opportunity presented itself unexpectedly when she was travelling by train. She overheard two people in the next carriage discussing clues to a crossword puzzle.
‘Relating to the worldwide Christian church, ten letters’, said the fat one. ‘Hmm…catholic?’ ventured the younger man. ‘No’, said his friend, ‘third letter U’. Then they both went silent for a while. Ecumenical! Ecumenical! She wanted to scream. This could be her only chance to use the word she reckoned with rising panic.
‘Papal? Churchical?’ guessed the younger man once again. Churchical? CHURCHICAL?? She wanted to yell. That’s not even a word, you moron! She had to hurry up. Or this occasion could be lost forever. But how could she walk over to two strangers and offer an answer to their crossword puzzle? Won’t they assume that she had been overhearing their entire conversation? That she was interested in them? But isn’t it her duty to use the word? Hadn't she had waited long enough? Such were the thoughts pulling her in conflicting directions when the fat one said ‘16 Across. Researched dissertation. Six’. She knew the answer. But she no longer cared if they knew their 'thesis' or not.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
A quick tale 107
One morning in January
You have to pee. And the teacher looks forbidding. So you slip out when she has her back turned to the class. The watchman at the gate is busy savouring the day's first bidi with his eyes closed that he barely notices you scrambling out of the school. It should be easy tracing your route back home. Or so you think. You've noticed things on your way to school each morning. There's the green tree with pink flowers, the lamp post with a donkey tied to it, the fishmongers with stalls of dried fish laid out, Nimmy's house, Pillayar temple, green tree with yellow flowers and then it should be home. You quickly shuffle past the landmarks one by one.
You see your house at a distance. You break into a run. This is it. You cannot hold on any longer. There. Another few steps. A second more. You've reached home. You run inside pushing past your mother. Sadly, you'll have to change your skirt. But that doesn't matter, you're home now. Mother's full of questions. Did you come home alone? Didn't they see you leaving? Is there no toilet at school? And then she grabs you, hugs you, kisses you and starts to cry. What if you had been run over by a car? Or a lorry? The way they drive! Oh my god! My child! What would have happened to you? She's practically wailing now. And you don't understand what the fuss is all about. It's not like you're a baby. You're nearly four.
You have to pee. And the teacher looks forbidding. So you slip out when she has her back turned to the class. The watchman at the gate is busy savouring the day's first bidi with his eyes closed that he barely notices you scrambling out of the school. It should be easy tracing your route back home. Or so you think. You've noticed things on your way to school each morning. There's the green tree with pink flowers, the lamp post with a donkey tied to it, the fishmongers with stalls of dried fish laid out, Nimmy's house, Pillayar temple, green tree with yellow flowers and then it should be home. You quickly shuffle past the landmarks one by one.
You see your house at a distance. You break into a run. This is it. You cannot hold on any longer. There. Another few steps. A second more. You've reached home. You run inside pushing past your mother. Sadly, you'll have to change your skirt. But that doesn't matter, you're home now. Mother's full of questions. Did you come home alone? Didn't they see you leaving? Is there no toilet at school? And then she grabs you, hugs you, kisses you and starts to cry. What if you had been run over by a car? Or a lorry? The way they drive! Oh my god! My child! What would have happened to you? She's practically wailing now. And you don't understand what the fuss is all about. It's not like you're a baby. You're nearly four.
I've started so you finish - Update 4
Maverick
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. 15 years later, her husband seems to be enjoying it.
Charukesi
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. Her mother despaired, "haven't I told you a million times not to exaggerate?"
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. 15 years later, her husband seems to be enjoying it.
Charukesi
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. Her mother despaired, "haven't I told you a million times not to exaggerate?"
Monday, January 30, 2006
I've started so you finish - Update 3
Rubic Cube
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. She owed it all to the small success that she achieved when she blasted the shop owner for selling such cheap stuff, those that would come apart after the first use. The Rs. 15 lipstick had damaged her school ID card in her small kitty purse. The shop owner gave her goods worth Rs. 100 to keep her from damaging his reputation. 13 years later, Sandhu is enjoying a year's worth of free calls on her cellphone network after threatening to sue the telecom company for potential breach of privacy - all that the customer service representative asked her to confirm her birthdate. Last year, she won a $500 shopping card from Walmart after she exaggerated the amount of emotional turmoil that she had to undergo when they stopped stocking her favourite Chapstick. Her neighbourhood dealers are joining hands to get an indemnity bond signed from her in their favour. Rumour has it that she is planning to move court against them. On what grounds? Racism. Knowing Sandhu, I know she would have her way. Infact, Sandhu may even strike a deal with them if they want to continue their business in this area. She claimed to know the Senator well enough to put them out of the business in the tristate area. Afterall, one would not want to lose millions of dollars in business for the sake of a few coupons worth 1000s of dollars. Would they? Sandhu would leverage that in her favor. I know! Ah, the economic power of exaggeration! Hmmm...
Boo
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. But she had the talent to keep quiet about certain things too. She never exaggerated let alone tell the truth about so many things that were actually happening in her life. She was afraid that the truth might sound like an exaggeration. And she didn't want to be called a liar. That was more important.
Ramya
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. To begin with, she decided to spell the word with eight Gs.
Chaitanya
She was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. Life became so much fun when exaggerated. All her friends were the best in the world, her school, neighborhood kids, her sister, her relatives, her house, everything was best in the world. All places she traveled were the best places in the world, all the things she got were the best in the world. Soon her college was the best in the world, so was her boyfriend and then husband, two kids best in the world, even her in-laws were best in the world. She is now 45 getting her elder daughter married, of course to the best son-in-law in the world. Yeah, life is really good with exaggeration.
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. She owed it all to the small success that she achieved when she blasted the shop owner for selling such cheap stuff, those that would come apart after the first use. The Rs. 15 lipstick had damaged her school ID card in her small kitty purse. The shop owner gave her goods worth Rs. 100 to keep her from damaging his reputation. 13 years later, Sandhu is enjoying a year's worth of free calls on her cellphone network after threatening to sue the telecom company for potential breach of privacy - all that the customer service representative asked her to confirm her birthdate. Last year, she won a $500 shopping card from Walmart after she exaggerated the amount of emotional turmoil that she had to undergo when they stopped stocking her favourite Chapstick. Her neighbourhood dealers are joining hands to get an indemnity bond signed from her in their favour. Rumour has it that she is planning to move court against them. On what grounds? Racism. Knowing Sandhu, I know she would have her way. Infact, Sandhu may even strike a deal with them if they want to continue their business in this area. She claimed to know the Senator well enough to put them out of the business in the tristate area. Afterall, one would not want to lose millions of dollars in business for the sake of a few coupons worth 1000s of dollars. Would they? Sandhu would leverage that in her favor. I know! Ah, the economic power of exaggeration! Hmmm...
Boo
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. But she had the talent to keep quiet about certain things too. She never exaggerated let alone tell the truth about so many things that were actually happening in her life. She was afraid that the truth might sound like an exaggeration. And she didn't want to be called a liar. That was more important.
Ramya
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. To begin with, she decided to spell the word with eight Gs.
Chaitanya
She was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. Life became so much fun when exaggerated. All her friends were the best in the world, her school, neighborhood kids, her sister, her relatives, her house, everything was best in the world. All places she traveled were the best places in the world, all the things she got were the best in the world. Soon her college was the best in the world, so was her boyfriend and then husband, two kids best in the world, even her in-laws were best in the world. She is now 45 getting her elder daughter married, of course to the best son-in-law in the world. Yeah, life is really good with exaggeration.
Friday, January 27, 2006
I've started so you finish - Update 2
Karthik Ram
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. Exaggeration, in the words of her know-it-all friend and exaggeration-guru, a certain Ram, is embellishment of truth. The 'great' divide, a thin line between lying and exaggeration until that moment had remained elusive to her puny self. "Amma! I got the first mark in English", when there were at least ten students ahead of her was lying. And that is something she should never utter. In addition to the beatings/scoldings (depending on Appa's mood) there was always God's punishment to be afraid of. Her grandmother had told her many tales where Gods swooped down to earth in their winged vaahanas and blinded one with sharp instruments whenever they lied to their parents. I wonder why it took her all of 13 years to understand the difference between lying and exaggerating.
Aravind
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. Her eyes openedup to a whole new world infront of her. The chirping birds were telling thestories of the land they have flown over. The rainbow was the mastery of theunknown creator. Wind was now the carrierers of fragrance from the otherpart of the earth. Rain was the tears of the ultimate mother. She had forgotten her last 12 years in darkness as a nightmare.
Chaitanya
She was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. Life became so much fun when exaggerated. All her friends were the best in the world, her school, neighborhood kids, her sister, her relatives, her house, everything was best in the world. All places she traveled were the best places in the world, all the things she got were the best in the world. Soon her college was the best in the world, so was her boyfriend and then husband, two kids best in the world, even her in-laws were best in the world. She is now 45 getting her elder daughter married, of course to the best son-in-law in the world. Yeah, life is really good with exaggeration.
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. Exaggeration, in the words of her know-it-all friend and exaggeration-guru, a certain Ram, is embellishment of truth. The 'great' divide, a thin line between lying and exaggeration until that moment had remained elusive to her puny self. "Amma! I got the first mark in English", when there were at least ten students ahead of her was lying. And that is something she should never utter. In addition to the beatings/scoldings (depending on Appa's mood) there was always God's punishment to be afraid of. Her grandmother had told her many tales where Gods swooped down to earth in their winged vaahanas and blinded one with sharp instruments whenever they lied to their parents. I wonder why it took her all of 13 years to understand the difference between lying and exaggerating.
Aravind
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. Her eyes openedup to a whole new world infront of her. The chirping birds were telling thestories of the land they have flown over. The rainbow was the mastery of theunknown creator. Wind was now the carrierers of fragrance from the otherpart of the earth. Rain was the tears of the ultimate mother. She had forgotten her last 12 years in darkness as a nightmare.
Chaitanya
She was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. Life became so much fun when exaggerated. All her friends were the best in the world, her school, neighborhood kids, her sister, her relatives, her house, everything was best in the world. All places she traveled were the best places in the world, all the things she got were the best in the world. Soon her college was the best in the world, so was her boyfriend and then husband, two kids best in the world, even her in-laws were best in the world. She is now 45 getting her elder daughter married, of course to the best son-in-law in the world. Yeah, life is really good with exaggeration.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
I've started so you finish - Update
Suguna
'Sandhu, come here' her mom shouted at the top of her voice. Sandhya's mom was very hard working. They were only two in their family. She did not know where her father lived. Her mom worked as a house maid in the nearby colony. Sandhya was sent to a convent. Her mom wanted Sandhya to be well educated. Sandhya said to her friends that her father lived abroad and her mom was a manager in a bank. She would demand for pocket money from her mother everyday just to get chocolates for her friends to make them understand that she was rich. She made sure her mom got a new pen every month. She would proudly say to her friends that her mom got her a pen just like that. She was 13 when she loved the joys of exaggeration. She never had interest in education and so quit her studies after her 12th grade. She is married now with 2 kids (twins) and a paralyzed husband and her mother still works for her and she now knows what it means to be a mother and to have a kid at the age of thirteen. Not one but two.
Karthik. M
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. She figured out that this was an easy way to become popular and most talked about in her little gang. So she started telling tall tales about how her family was rich and wealthy, how she always topped the exams with minimal of efforts, how all the boys in the neighborhood always winked when she walked by... As time flied by, Sandhu graduated and started searching for a job. As she was not the most technically gifted person, she faced rejection wherever she went.. That was when her friend Karthik suggested about auditioning for Television news reporter vacancies. The moment Sandhu walked into the world of 24/7 news reporting, she realized that this was what she was made for. All her exaggeration skills could be utilized to the full in this job. It was a match made in heaven !!
New Delhi
24/01/2005
The XYZ party had major internal bickering and the “Y” faction has broken away from the party. It is widely rumored that one of the reasons for the party split is the ‘sensational’ reporting of the differences in the last annual meeting by particular news channel headed by chief reporter “Sandhu”.
Sowmya
"Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. Though she went overboard at times her peers never saw through her tall tales and the adults excused her for her age. There were times when she had spotted UFOs and other times when she had sat next to the pilot during a flight!!! This kept going on until, she was 18, when things started getting serious - this time it was a stalker. He was a tall, handsome guy who followed her everywhere - sometimes she even heard him talking through her bedroom window......Her parents were not sure whether this was one of her tales or it was real - for none other than her had seen her stalker....They decided it was time to tell Sandhu to stop spinning tales since she had gone too far this time. But since she kept insisting they decided to bring her to me"
- Dr. Dhivyaa MD [Psychiatry]
Case report for Sandhvika [24], diagnosed Schizophrenic, presently undergoing treatment at National Institute for Mental Health.
'Sandhu, come here' her mom shouted at the top of her voice. Sandhya's mom was very hard working. They were only two in their family. She did not know where her father lived. Her mom worked as a house maid in the nearby colony. Sandhya was sent to a convent. Her mom wanted Sandhya to be well educated. Sandhya said to her friends that her father lived abroad and her mom was a manager in a bank. She would demand for pocket money from her mother everyday just to get chocolates for her friends to make them understand that she was rich. She made sure her mom got a new pen every month. She would proudly say to her friends that her mom got her a pen just like that. She was 13 when she loved the joys of exaggeration. She never had interest in education and so quit her studies after her 12th grade. She is married now with 2 kids (twins) and a paralyzed husband and her mother still works for her and she now knows what it means to be a mother and to have a kid at the age of thirteen. Not one but two.
Karthik. M
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. She figured out that this was an easy way to become popular and most talked about in her little gang. So she started telling tall tales about how her family was rich and wealthy, how she always topped the exams with minimal of efforts, how all the boys in the neighborhood always winked when she walked by... As time flied by, Sandhu graduated and started searching for a job. As she was not the most technically gifted person, she faced rejection wherever she went.. That was when her friend Karthik suggested about auditioning for Television news reporter vacancies. The moment Sandhu walked into the world of 24/7 news reporting, she realized that this was what she was made for. All her exaggeration skills could be utilized to the full in this job. It was a match made in heaven !!
New Delhi
24/01/2005
The XYZ party had major internal bickering and the “Y” faction has broken away from the party. It is widely rumored that one of the reasons for the party split is the ‘sensational’ reporting of the differences in the last annual meeting by particular news channel headed by chief reporter “Sandhu”.
Sowmya
"Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. Though she went overboard at times her peers never saw through her tall tales and the adults excused her for her age. There were times when she had spotted UFOs and other times when she had sat next to the pilot during a flight!!! This kept going on until, she was 18, when things started getting serious - this time it was a stalker. He was a tall, handsome guy who followed her everywhere - sometimes she even heard him talking through her bedroom window......Her parents were not sure whether this was one of her tales or it was real - for none other than her had seen her stalker....They decided it was time to tell Sandhu to stop spinning tales since she had gone too far this time. But since she kept insisting they decided to bring her to me"
- Dr. Dhivyaa MD [Psychiatry]
Case report for Sandhvika [24], diagnosed Schizophrenic, presently undergoing treatment at National Institute for Mental Health.
Monday, January 23, 2006
I've started so you finish
Radhika
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration.
“Ma, did you know Sujit, who always scored the highest marks? He was crying in class today because he has no friends.”
“Really?” said the mother, I thought I saw him playing cricket this afternoon. “No ma, that was after he cried. To make him happy the class played with him.”
“Hmm.”
“Ma, when can I start to wear a bra? I know Reena is wearing one, and half the class, ma, all the girls. They said their mothers gift-wrapped it for them because it was their first one.”
“Concentrate on your homework Sandhu, you have three subjects to finish before you go to bed tonight.”
The next day she told her wide-eyed classmates about her cousin’s home. “Did you know they have four servants for each member of the family? One to cook, one to clean, and the other two to just make sure everything is in order around the room. My cousin told me secretly that one also does all the class homework for her!” Her father must be rich then, replied one of the girls. “Oh yes! He gets comics and all her clothes, even her new bra from Dubai!” she whispered. The girls giggled. “Take us to her home,” said one of them. Sandhu brought her hand to her mouth and shook her head. “No no, not me. and what will we do in that big house? With so many rooms and such a biiiig garden behind their home…did I tell you about the snake I saw in her garden the other day!? Thiiiis big,” she showed, stretching her arms wide as far as they could go. “The rich have really no peace of mind you know.”
Della
Sandhu was thirteen when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. She was
amazed at how the days span past, time seemed slick and thin when she had
something to occupy her mind. She whiled away her least favourite classes
plotting out what she would say to her friends. Carefully, almost lovingly
she worded these half-truths. To her, they were not lies. To her they were
not even tales....but threads reeling off the loosely-spun sweater sleeve
that was her child's sparkling mind. If you had looked closely, things
glittered when she opened her mouth.But her eagerness to embellish did not impress her family or peers. They mistook it for a need to impress. They mistook it for dishonesty.
Sandhu was twenty-five when she discovered some things are better without
the spin.
Varun
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. "12 and a half, actually", she would say, if you asked her. "It was in June, just after school had started, and my birthday is in December". The discovery had nothing to do with a worn-out copy of the 'Hitchhkers guide to the galaxy'. lying forlonly in the almirah in her bedroom- atleast definitely not with the intricate Vogon poetry contained in it- ,nor was it related in any possible way to her new-found love for Visu's movies. It happened one afternoon - "in June", she reminds - just like that, while she was sitting on the floor beside the bed with a cup of tea, still in her school uniform, and her mother had tossed away the latest 'Ananda vikatan' contentedly and turned to her with: "So what did they teach you in the English class today?".
"Adventures of rapunzel", blurted Sandhu.
"Hmm...".
"Rapunzel is a small girl ma, only the size of my thumb. Nobody can even see her."
"Really?".
"Yes ma. Today we read only one story. Rapunzel wanders into a forest one day. There is a big lion in that forest ma..."
The next day, Sandhu's mother received a note from the English teacher informing her that Sandhu, along with several other girls, had been absent from 'yesterdays class'.
"Ah, The joys of exaggeration! Who cares about the beating!"
Venkat
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. Like when
she got her grandpa to escort her to and from school because "there
was a strange, bearded man trailing her". In truth, she just enjoyed
being chaperoned. Over time, she became bolder, and started lying
outrageously. Like the time when she made a lot of friends in college
talking about a week long vacation in Europe, when in reality she had
just gone to visit some distant relatives in rural Punjab. After
graduation, she inflated her academic achievements to get into a
top-notch consulting firm in California. Recently, she filed a false
sexual harassment lawsuit against a colleague. Wanting to avoid
unwanted publicity, her company paid her a half a million dollars and
let her go. Last I heard, she was back in India, telling people how
she won the California State Lottery. In a way, she did, I guess.
Boo
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. She got more friends in school, her parents gave her more attention and for once she got more listeners than her sister did. She was thrilled to be popular. Her trip to her native village during the summer holidays became a trip to Kerala when she told about it in school. Her consolation prize in essay competition at school became first prize with an Eagle diary (stolen from Dads cup board!) at home. She got a new cousin who sent her chocolates from America and a pen (boy) friend from Australia. Strange but true, she started believing what she said and the imaginary world she was creating to gain attention was very soon becoming her real world. It was hard to keep up with the lies and she spent lot of time thinking about new ones and not to get caught with the old ones. Sometimes she wondered if people knew what she was doing and were just playing along to keep her happy. The thought made her sad. But there was no stopping her. Nothing yet!
Gif
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. So after a whole 60 years of it, on an extremely ordinary day, which began like just any other day, with that cup of hot coffee in the morning with newspaper on her lap, bang, she decided to be bored of exaggeration and also decided to play it soft for the rest of her life. And so, an hour after dinner that evening, when she had this acute shooting pain all along her arms, she gently mentioned it to her daughter-in-law. Her daughter-in-law having given to her pains and illnesses, more than half her time, bang, decided at that very moment to not take it upon her anymore and proceeded with ignoring her acute shooting pain in the arm and what's more, she made a limerick of it all and sang it sweetly to her little baby son and put him to sleep.
.....
It's always paining and hurting and killing and drilling
A scratch is always a mountain of a molehill
It's never a nothing or even a trifle thing
Now it's an acute pain all along her arm,
But a little itch, I bet, is all that it is!
.....
So when they awoke the next morning, it was no ordinary day, Sandhu was dead of a massive heart attack and her grandson had had a very sound sleep and the daughter in law, she took upon herself to be blamed for ignoring it all and wailed aloud and we heard Sandhu's son telling her.... 'Oh stop exaggeratting, will you?'
Anon
Sindhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. She had fallen down from her cycle, her ego more bruised than body. She came home, told her Mom, and walked in to search for a BandAid just as her Mom was screaming into the phone " Come home now! The kid's HURT! There has been an accident!"
Mom smiled at her. It would their little secret. And it worked very well too : father came home early, and they went out for an early dinner followed by a movie. ("Just to get her mind off the hurt").
That started it all. "I have to have this cycle or I'll die…" . " Oh, my teacher loves me So, I am the most brilliant student!" One inflated line after the other, over the years. Till one day "It's either him or I walk out".
"Oh, we had the most brilliant day! We went out for dinner and I wore the dress he bought me and we had the bestest time ever!" , she enthused over the phone. The parents suitably pleased, she placed the phone back. On the other side of the bed, he lay snoring in a drunken stupor. They had gone a meal in the nearby restaurant, where each had tried to fill the yawning emptiness inside : she with too much food, he with too much drink.
She had learnt the joys of exaggeration at 13. And lived to regret it
Anon 2
She came back and started cleaning and tidying. She did the dishes and began scrubbing the tiny kitchen clean. The harsh bite of the brush as it abraded the already clean sink soothed her soul. She felt the accumulated debris of the day wash away with the waves of tiredness that came in increasing magnitude. Till it was time to go and crash into a dreamless sleep.
Sindhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggertion. It had been a old dusty volume of some magazine her father subscribed to, where she had read the line " Work is the anodyne to pain". And realized that it was meant for her. Through the pain of losing parents, through the pain of fending for herself in assorted relatives' houses as unwanted maidservant. Through the years of struggle to study, find a job.
She had relaxed when she had married. Just long enough for the luxury of being able to think, to dream, sink in and become an addiction. Till it all tumbled down in one fell swoop : his flight; the discovery of the missing funds, the affair with the woman he had run away with.
Never again, she vowed. Pain continually knocked at her mind. Occupy it every instant. The body was the only sacrifice that could protect her. And it was cheap at the price. Exaggertion. A term she had coined for exaggerated exertion. Prozac for the soul.
Tangent
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration.
PS: Actually she was only 10.
Ammani
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. The rest, as she would say, is world history.
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration.
“Ma, did you know Sujit, who always scored the highest marks? He was crying in class today because he has no friends.”
“Really?” said the mother, I thought I saw him playing cricket this afternoon. “No ma, that was after he cried. To make him happy the class played with him.”
“Hmm.”
“Ma, when can I start to wear a bra? I know Reena is wearing one, and half the class, ma, all the girls. They said their mothers gift-wrapped it for them because it was their first one.”
“Concentrate on your homework Sandhu, you have three subjects to finish before you go to bed tonight.”
The next day she told her wide-eyed classmates about her cousin’s home. “Did you know they have four servants for each member of the family? One to cook, one to clean, and the other two to just make sure everything is in order around the room. My cousin told me secretly that one also does all the class homework for her!” Her father must be rich then, replied one of the girls. “Oh yes! He gets comics and all her clothes, even her new bra from Dubai!” she whispered. The girls giggled. “Take us to her home,” said one of them. Sandhu brought her hand to her mouth and shook her head. “No no, not me. and what will we do in that big house? With so many rooms and such a biiiig garden behind their home…did I tell you about the snake I saw in her garden the other day!? Thiiiis big,” she showed, stretching her arms wide as far as they could go. “The rich have really no peace of mind you know.”
Della
Sandhu was thirteen when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. She was
amazed at how the days span past, time seemed slick and thin when she had
something to occupy her mind. She whiled away her least favourite classes
plotting out what she would say to her friends. Carefully, almost lovingly
she worded these half-truths. To her, they were not lies. To her they were
not even tales....but threads reeling off the loosely-spun sweater sleeve
that was her child's sparkling mind. If you had looked closely, things
glittered when she opened her mouth.But her eagerness to embellish did not impress her family or peers. They mistook it for a need to impress. They mistook it for dishonesty.
Sandhu was twenty-five when she discovered some things are better without
the spin.
Varun
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. "12 and a half, actually", she would say, if you asked her. "It was in June, just after school had started, and my birthday is in December". The discovery had nothing to do with a worn-out copy of the 'Hitchhkers guide to the galaxy'. lying forlonly in the almirah in her bedroom- atleast definitely not with the intricate Vogon poetry contained in it- ,nor was it related in any possible way to her new-found love for Visu's movies. It happened one afternoon - "in June", she reminds - just like that, while she was sitting on the floor beside the bed with a cup of tea, still in her school uniform, and her mother had tossed away the latest 'Ananda vikatan' contentedly and turned to her with: "So what did they teach you in the English class today?".
"Adventures of rapunzel", blurted Sandhu.
"Hmm...".
"Rapunzel is a small girl ma, only the size of my thumb. Nobody can even see her."
"Really?".
"Yes ma. Today we read only one story. Rapunzel wanders into a forest one day. There is a big lion in that forest ma..."
The next day, Sandhu's mother received a note from the English teacher informing her that Sandhu, along with several other girls, had been absent from 'yesterdays class'.
"Ah, The joys of exaggeration! Who cares about the beating!"
Venkat
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. Like when
she got her grandpa to escort her to and from school because "there
was a strange, bearded man trailing her". In truth, she just enjoyed
being chaperoned. Over time, she became bolder, and started lying
outrageously. Like the time when she made a lot of friends in college
talking about a week long vacation in Europe, when in reality she had
just gone to visit some distant relatives in rural Punjab. After
graduation, she inflated her academic achievements to get into a
top-notch consulting firm in California. Recently, she filed a false
sexual harassment lawsuit against a colleague. Wanting to avoid
unwanted publicity, her company paid her a half a million dollars and
let her go. Last I heard, she was back in India, telling people how
she won the California State Lottery. In a way, she did, I guess.
Boo
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. She got more friends in school, her parents gave her more attention and for once she got more listeners than her sister did. She was thrilled to be popular. Her trip to her native village during the summer holidays became a trip to Kerala when she told about it in school. Her consolation prize in essay competition at school became first prize with an Eagle diary (stolen from Dads cup board!) at home. She got a new cousin who sent her chocolates from America and a pen (boy) friend from Australia. Strange but true, she started believing what she said and the imaginary world she was creating to gain attention was very soon becoming her real world. It was hard to keep up with the lies and she spent lot of time thinking about new ones and not to get caught with the old ones. Sometimes she wondered if people knew what she was doing and were just playing along to keep her happy. The thought made her sad. But there was no stopping her. Nothing yet!
Gif
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. So after a whole 60 years of it, on an extremely ordinary day, which began like just any other day, with that cup of hot coffee in the morning with newspaper on her lap, bang, she decided to be bored of exaggeration and also decided to play it soft for the rest of her life. And so, an hour after dinner that evening, when she had this acute shooting pain all along her arms, she gently mentioned it to her daughter-in-law. Her daughter-in-law having given to her pains and illnesses, more than half her time, bang, decided at that very moment to not take it upon her anymore and proceeded with ignoring her acute shooting pain in the arm and what's more, she made a limerick of it all and sang it sweetly to her little baby son and put him to sleep.
.....
It's always paining and hurting and killing and drilling
A scratch is always a mountain of a molehill
It's never a nothing or even a trifle thing
Now it's an acute pain all along her arm,
But a little itch, I bet, is all that it is!
.....
So when they awoke the next morning, it was no ordinary day, Sandhu was dead of a massive heart attack and her grandson had had a very sound sleep and the daughter in law, she took upon herself to be blamed for ignoring it all and wailed aloud and we heard Sandhu's son telling her.... 'Oh stop exaggeratting, will you?'
Anon
Sindhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. She had fallen down from her cycle, her ego more bruised than body. She came home, told her Mom, and walked in to search for a BandAid just as her Mom was screaming into the phone " Come home now! The kid's HURT! There has been an accident!"
Mom smiled at her. It would their little secret. And it worked very well too : father came home early, and they went out for an early dinner followed by a movie. ("Just to get her mind off the hurt").
That started it all. "I have to have this cycle or I'll die…" . " Oh, my teacher loves me So, I am the most brilliant student!" One inflated line after the other, over the years. Till one day "It's either him or I walk out".
"Oh, we had the most brilliant day! We went out for dinner and I wore the dress he bought me and we had the bestest time ever!" , she enthused over the phone. The parents suitably pleased, she placed the phone back. On the other side of the bed, he lay snoring in a drunken stupor. They had gone a meal in the nearby restaurant, where each had tried to fill the yawning emptiness inside : she with too much food, he with too much drink.
She had learnt the joys of exaggeration at 13. And lived to regret it
Anon 2
She came back and started cleaning and tidying. She did the dishes and began scrubbing the tiny kitchen clean. The harsh bite of the brush as it abraded the already clean sink soothed her soul. She felt the accumulated debris of the day wash away with the waves of tiredness that came in increasing magnitude. Till it was time to go and crash into a dreamless sleep.
Sindhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggertion. It had been a old dusty volume of some magazine her father subscribed to, where she had read the line " Work is the anodyne to pain". And realized that it was meant for her. Through the pain of losing parents, through the pain of fending for herself in assorted relatives' houses as unwanted maidservant. Through the years of struggle to study, find a job.
She had relaxed when she had married. Just long enough for the luxury of being able to think, to dream, sink in and become an addiction. Till it all tumbled down in one fell swoop : his flight; the discovery of the missing funds, the affair with the woman he had run away with.
Never again, she vowed. Pain continually knocked at her mind. Occupy it every instant. The body was the only sacrifice that could protect her. And it was cheap at the price. Exaggertion. A term she had coined for exaggerated exertion. Prozac for the soul.
Tangent
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration.
PS: Actually she was only 10.
Ammani
Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration. The rest, as she would say, is world history.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
How about this?
If I gave you an opening line, would you give me the rest of the story? Let's see how this goes. The story begins with the line 'Sandhu was 13 when she discovered the joys of exaggeration.' See if you can spin the rest of the story in about 200-300 words. More if you need it. Send it to ammania@ gmail.com
Will post the stories next week. Ta!
Will post the stories next week. Ta!
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
A quick tale 106
Lucky
She sits slumped in front of her telly, this woman whose name I forget, wondering why she has never won a prize. She casts her mind back to all the lottery and raffle tickets she has ever bought, all the coupons ever filled out and all the scratch cards ever scraped. And yet, she thinks to herself, the results have always been the same. Nothing. Better luck next time. Sorry. She sighs audibly, picks up the remote control and flips channels. Perhaps, it has something to do with my zodiac. May be it’s the star I was born under. Does one have to have a lucky mole or something? she wonders. Even Tracy next door told me that she won a fridge in a lucky draw. How come my name never gets drawn? she asks herself.
She changes channel once again. And lands on a show that is giving away a brand new car as a prize. To win, viewers need to call and answer a very simple question. She picks up the phone, dials the number and answers ‘America’ into the recording machine. She leaves her details and hangs up. She knows it’s the wrong answer. But what difference would it make?
Some days later, she sees Tracy driving a new car. She doesn’t want to know how she got it.
She sits slumped in front of her telly, this woman whose name I forget, wondering why she has never won a prize. She casts her mind back to all the lottery and raffle tickets she has ever bought, all the coupons ever filled out and all the scratch cards ever scraped. And yet, she thinks to herself, the results have always been the same. Nothing. Better luck next time. Sorry. She sighs audibly, picks up the remote control and flips channels. Perhaps, it has something to do with my zodiac. May be it’s the star I was born under. Does one have to have a lucky mole or something? she wonders. Even Tracy next door told me that she won a fridge in a lucky draw. How come my name never gets drawn? she asks herself.
She changes channel once again. And lands on a show that is giving away a brand new car as a prize. To win, viewers need to call and answer a very simple question. She picks up the phone, dials the number and answers ‘America’ into the recording machine. She leaves her details and hangs up. She knows it’s the wrong answer. But what difference would it make?
Some days later, she sees Tracy driving a new car. She doesn’t want to know how she got it.
Friday, January 13, 2006
A quick tale 105
Yesterday, around tea time
A woman is reading a newspaper in a cafe. She has just come across a news item which claims that studies have revealed that 53% of all married men have thought about infidelity at some point in their marriage. Why, the woman realises with a start, that's nearly every other married man! Which means, she considers, it could be this man here, that one there and this chubby old man sitting across the room from me and staring at my boobs lustfully.
A woman is reading a newspaper in a cafe. She has just come across a news item which claims that studies have revealed that 53% of all married men have thought about infidelity at some point in their marriage. Why, the woman realises with a start, that's nearly every other married man! Which means, she considers, it could be this man here, that one there and this chubby old man sitting across the room from me and staring at my boobs lustfully.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
A quick tale 104
Coffee with strangers
She has gone out for coffee with some people she does not know very well. Talk turns to a popular author and his works. She has never heard of him nor read any of his books. They evidently love him and are analysing his style, content and the multiple layers his books work on.
One of them turns to her and wonders what she thinks of the author. She loves him, of course! However, she was a little flummoxed by the way his last book ended. Most unsatisfactory, she felt. They all nod in agreement. She looks at her watch and suddenly remembers that she has an appointment to keep. Will they excuse her please? She’s terribly sorry she can’t stay and continue with the discussion. Why, of course! She has their numbers and will definitely call. And then, she slips out hurriedly. If you saw her leaving, you'd think she really had an appointment to keep.
She has gone out for coffee with some people she does not know very well. Talk turns to a popular author and his works. She has never heard of him nor read any of his books. They evidently love him and are analysing his style, content and the multiple layers his books work on.
One of them turns to her and wonders what she thinks of the author. She loves him, of course! However, she was a little flummoxed by the way his last book ended. Most unsatisfactory, she felt. They all nod in agreement. She looks at her watch and suddenly remembers that she has an appointment to keep. Will they excuse her please? She’s terribly sorry she can’t stay and continue with the discussion. Why, of course! She has their numbers and will definitely call. And then, she slips out hurriedly. If you saw her leaving, you'd think she really had an appointment to keep.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
A quick tale 103
Nostalgia need not be exciting
It occurs to you like a bolt of lightning. You wish to call your sister and share the news with her straightaway. But she lives in a different country and it's an unsocial hour right now where she lives. Still, you quickly finish your shower, hastily get dressed, run down to the phone and dial the 15 digits that make up her telephone number.
'Hello...'' goes the other end.
"Hi, it's me. Do you remember this tune?', you ask, humming the melody that has been making its round in your head all night.
'...'
You hum some more. 'Remember?'
'...'
You repeat the hum. 'Now?'
'Yeah', she says finally, 'it's the opening music from that old radio show, no? What about it?'
'Nothing. I just wanted to see if you remembered it', you say slightly annoyed that she isn't half as excited as you were when you remembered an old tune from your childhood.
It occurs to you like a bolt of lightning. You wish to call your sister and share the news with her straightaway. But she lives in a different country and it's an unsocial hour right now where she lives. Still, you quickly finish your shower, hastily get dressed, run down to the phone and dial the 15 digits that make up her telephone number.
'Hello...'' goes the other end.
"Hi, it's me. Do you remember this tune?', you ask, humming the melody that has been making its round in your head all night.
'...'
You hum some more. 'Remember?'
'...'
You repeat the hum. 'Now?'
'Yeah', she says finally, 'it's the opening music from that old radio show, no? What about it?'
'Nothing. I just wanted to see if you remembered it', you say slightly annoyed that she isn't half as excited as you were when you remembered an old tune from your childhood.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Guest Blog from Chinna Ammani
It's awards time and after extensive consultation with the industry experts, beloved Chinna Ammani and her jury of one (including herself) has come up with the first ever blog awards for the Tamil TV industry. A word of caution, if you don't watch Tamil TV, skip this one. But if you do, behold! Here come the Ammies!!
Best actors: Vijai Aadiraj and Chetan for their excessive over acting.
Best actresses: Devayani, Suganya and the Sati Savithris of Indiya Tollaikaatchi
Best dressed award:
1. All the வில்லிs with a thilagam as tall as LIC (not Narasimhan, the building) and ஜகஜக பட்டுப் புடவை walking down in பயங்கர வெயில் in their பங்களா lawn (only lawn because shooting INSIDE பங்களா is expensive, you see)
2. All lawyers perpetually in black coats and white collars. Even while at home. Even if you woke them up at midnight!
Best நானும் இருக்கேன், நானும் இருக்கேன் industry-இல் award : LIC Narasimhan
Best dialogue - jointly awarded to "சிறுக்க்க்க்க்க்க்க்க்க்க்க்க்க்கீஈஈஇ..." and "Keep trying, keep on trying.. better luck next time too" (from Pepsi Ungal Choice).
Please note : The opening lines of all DD dramas "பார்வதீ,பார்வதி...
(கௌசல்யா சுப்ரஜா ராம பூர்வா playing in the background)
நம்ம பொண்ணு சீதாவ இன்னிக்கு சாயங்காலம் பொண்ணு பாக்க வர்றாங்க..."
came close but took voluntary retirement this year since this dialogue has been winning for years now.
Best signoff line(s): SUNTV Top 10 : for its innovative சம்பந்தா சம்பந்தமில்லாத "மஜா-கூஜா","கஜினி-காலி நீ", "சந்திரமுகி-சந்திரமண்டலம்","mumbai express - late arrival"
Best dubbing artiste - Jeya Geetha for not making a single attempt in changing her tone and thus maintaining the same voice for Kowsalya, Deivayani , Metti Oli Gayathri and others...with the same dialogue "வாழ்க்கைங்கிற சக்கரத்துக்கு மனைவி ஒரு அச்சாணி மாதிரி" in all serials.
Jeya geetha's aunt Anuradha (who dubs for Khushboo) came very close but her engleees language (like the tamizhised "veee vill go to the meetings tomaaroow") was tooo good that we couldn't categorize it under tamizh awards
Best art direction - jointly awarded to DD drama Props team for having cane sofa sets in mythological dramas and National award winner Thotta Tharani for using the same house, same office , same file, same flover vaas, same poo , same scenery foto frame for all AVM serials.
Best (continuing) life time irritation - all of K. Balachander's heroines who wink or widen their eyes in innocence or oodufy a stray strand of hair from their forehead. It's supposed to endear them to us but ஆனால் உவவே.....
Best cookery show - SAAPIDA VAANGA - for presenter Vasanth's (of Vasanth & Co) killer opening line "வாங்கம்மா முளகா பஜ்ஜி...வாங்கம்மா உருளைக்கிழங்கு பாயிஸம்..."
Best life time achievement - Kalthoon Tilakji and Shanmugasundaram (for their continuous and sincere efforts in imitating Sivaji Ganesan in their dialaak delivery , baadi language etc)
Best re-re-re-runner : All of Vijay TV's films / serials/ shows which enjoy a silver jubilee run on Vijay TV alone
Best imitator : Maggaalakshmi on Jaya tv's live request show trying to do a Pepsi Uma by saying things like"உங்களுக்கு ரெண்டு வயசுல குழந்தை இருக்கா? ச்சோஓஓஓஒ ச்ச்ச்ச்ச்வீட்...அப்ப்றம் Sunday எல்லாம் எப்படி போயிண்டிருக்கு?"
Update
Best loyalty award : Kavithalaya Krishnan - 25 years of குண்டு சட்டியில் குதிர ஓட்டfying
Best name : 'Telephone Mani' , 'Typist Gopu' ,'Vellai Subbaiya' and 'Karuppu Subaiya' were among the several nominees but none came close to KALAIMAMANI PASI SATHYA - she not just added her debut film before her name but also the coveted (!) Kalaimamani award before that. We've (by 'we' I mean I) learnt from reliable sources that Omakucchi Narasimhan has made his umpteenth trip to Poes Garden, lobbying for the prestigious award but has returned disappointed
Chinnathirai Chitra award : Runner up is Revathy Sankaran who sings at the drop of a tumbler on her cookery show with சம்பந்தா சம்பந்தமில்லாத lines like "ஹே பொண்ணே பல்லாங்குழி ஆட வாரியா?"
But the clear winner as voted by the puliya mara panchayat was Paravai Munimma. She sings even while boiling water. Here's a sample from her cookery show.
தண்ணி தளைக்கயில
துளசி-இலய போட்டேனே
ஆறிப் போன தண்ணீர
அம்புட்டும் குடிச்ச ஆச மச்சான்
Needless to say, we're (by 'we', I mean I) still reeling under the attack!
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
A contest
This could be fun. Play the audio clip below and try to identify the tamil song my son's singing. It's a recent hit song and if you listen closely, you'll hear me mention it at the start of the clip. Go on, give it a go.
That Michael Jackson-like 'oww!' after the first line is his own improvisation. Okay, I may have had a hand in that. But full credit for teaching him the song goes to someone else. You know who you are. Thanks-di!
Monday, January 02, 2006
A quick tale 102
A real story
You see him at a distance. Running to catch the bus that you're sitting in and peering out of. His strides are long and he is holding up his hand to signal to the driver to wait for him. The bus driver hasn't noticed him and gets ready to move out of the bus stop. He checks his rear view mirror and then his side mirror and gently slides into first gear. The noise reminds you of a singer clearing his throat before launching into a song. But this is no time for ornamental similies. You look out at the buscatcher again. He has picked up speed and is hurtling towards the bus. At this rate, you estimate, he should be able to make it. But just about.
The driver is now checking the road to see if he can pull out. A car is blocking his path. This should give the runner precious seconds he so badly needs, you think. C'mon lad, you mentally cheer, you can do it! There's not far to go! The runner puts in all his effort for one final burst. You pray to the Gods, invoking their powers to impel him towards his destination. But the bus has started moving now leaving its wannabe passenger behind. Stop, you want to cry, there's a man who wants to board the bus. Instead you sit glued to the seat with guilt, staring at your feet. The bus has now picked up speed and is well on its course. You lift your head and look out of the window. You see him at the bus stop, bent down, hands resting on knees and panting heavily. He looks up and smiles at you. It wasn't my fault, you try to tell him. It's alright, he seems to say, I didn't want to get on the bus anyway.
You see him at a distance. Running to catch the bus that you're sitting in and peering out of. His strides are long and he is holding up his hand to signal to the driver to wait for him. The bus driver hasn't noticed him and gets ready to move out of the bus stop. He checks his rear view mirror and then his side mirror and gently slides into first gear. The noise reminds you of a singer clearing his throat before launching into a song. But this is no time for ornamental similies. You look out at the buscatcher again. He has picked up speed and is hurtling towards the bus. At this rate, you estimate, he should be able to make it. But just about.
The driver is now checking the road to see if he can pull out. A car is blocking his path. This should give the runner precious seconds he so badly needs, you think. C'mon lad, you mentally cheer, you can do it! There's not far to go! The runner puts in all his effort for one final burst. You pray to the Gods, invoking their powers to impel him towards his destination. But the bus has started moving now leaving its wannabe passenger behind. Stop, you want to cry, there's a man who wants to board the bus. Instead you sit glued to the seat with guilt, staring at your feet. The bus has now picked up speed and is well on its course. You lift your head and look out of the window. You see him at the bus stop, bent down, hands resting on knees and panting heavily. He looks up and smiles at you. It wasn't my fault, you try to tell him. It's alright, he seems to say, I didn't want to get on the bus anyway.
Friday, December 30, 2005
A quick tale 101
Detail
People thought of him as a pain in the ass (if you will excuse my language). He fixed his meetings at 8.23 ams and 11.56 ams, expected his lunch at 1.48 pm every day, slept for exactly 8 hours and 3 minutes each night and had 2 and 2/3rds of a spoon of sugar in his cup of tea. If ever you made the mistake of asking him for his age, he would kill you with detail. How many years, days, hours, seconds, that kind of thing. He needed his change back, nothing rounded off. If you had to share a bill with him, he would divide the bill by the number of people around the table and pay exactly his share. Don’t get him wrong. He just loves to be precise.
I know he makes a great character on paper. But he was hell to live with. And I just couldn’t take it after 4 years, 18 days and 12 minutes. So I left him.
People thought of him as a pain in the ass (if you will excuse my language). He fixed his meetings at 8.23 ams and 11.56 ams, expected his lunch at 1.48 pm every day, slept for exactly 8 hours and 3 minutes each night and had 2 and 2/3rds of a spoon of sugar in his cup of tea. If ever you made the mistake of asking him for his age, he would kill you with detail. How many years, days, hours, seconds, that kind of thing. He needed his change back, nothing rounded off. If you had to share a bill with him, he would divide the bill by the number of people around the table and pay exactly his share. Don’t get him wrong. He just loves to be precise.
I know he makes a great character on paper. But he was hell to live with. And I just couldn’t take it after 4 years, 18 days and 12 minutes. So I left him.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
A quick tale 100
Confessions of a cook
Have you ever wondered what goes into your dosai? I wish you did. Because I see you waiting at the counter now, drumming your fingers impatiently for that ghee roast you have ordered. And I suddenly remember the fight I had with my wife this morning. I will not tell you what I am about to do next but tomorrow morning you will wake up complaining of stomach pain. And you will blame it on the water, which your wife has not been boiling enough before filling up the bottles. You will come back again for your afternoon fix and by then I will have patched up with my dearest. Tomorrow I will be extra nice to you. Today, enjoy your dosai, saar.
Have you ever wondered what goes into your dosai? I wish you did. Because I see you waiting at the counter now, drumming your fingers impatiently for that ghee roast you have ordered. And I suddenly remember the fight I had with my wife this morning. I will not tell you what I am about to do next but tomorrow morning you will wake up complaining of stomach pain. And you will blame it on the water, which your wife has not been boiling enough before filling up the bottles. You will come back again for your afternoon fix and by then I will have patched up with my dearest. Tomorrow I will be extra nice to you. Today, enjoy your dosai, saar.
A quick tale 99
At the 3.15 showing of King Kong
You walk into the movie theatre alone, stand in queue and ask for one ticket for the next show of King Kong. Well actually, you whisper ‘one ticket, please’ because you don’t want others to see that you’re there to watch the movie on your own. ‘Single, adult…that would be…’ rattles the ticket assistant loudly while proceeding to issue you your ticket. You slink quickly into the unlit hall, find your seat and settle down even though it’s a good 25 minutes before the show is due to start.
Some time later, a family of four slips into your row. The father sees you sitting alone and wonders if the seat next to you is taken. No, you shake your head, while still looking at the blank screen. He asks you again, just to confirm. What’s the matter with these people? you wonder. Why must every activity be undertaken in convivial togetherness? Besides what’s the point of taking someone along when all you’re ever going to be doing is staring at a screen in a darkened room? Still, the man has just asked you a question and is waiting for you to answer. No, you say. A little too loudly. He waits for a second and then sits two seats away from you. Suddenly you wish you had brought someone along. If only to hold hands with when King Kong tosses aside New York cabs like you would a tooth pick.
You walk into the movie theatre alone, stand in queue and ask for one ticket for the next show of King Kong. Well actually, you whisper ‘one ticket, please’ because you don’t want others to see that you’re there to watch the movie on your own. ‘Single, adult…that would be…’ rattles the ticket assistant loudly while proceeding to issue you your ticket. You slink quickly into the unlit hall, find your seat and settle down even though it’s a good 25 minutes before the show is due to start.
Some time later, a family of four slips into your row. The father sees you sitting alone and wonders if the seat next to you is taken. No, you shake your head, while still looking at the blank screen. He asks you again, just to confirm. What’s the matter with these people? you wonder. Why must every activity be undertaken in convivial togetherness? Besides what’s the point of taking someone along when all you’re ever going to be doing is staring at a screen in a darkened room? Still, the man has just asked you a question and is waiting for you to answer. No, you say. A little too loudly. He waits for a second and then sits two seats away from you. Suddenly you wish you had brought someone along. If only to hold hands with when King Kong tosses aside New York cabs like you would a tooth pick.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
A personal note
Going away on holiday to India. It may be some time before new posts are up. Please excuse delay. Thank you.
Monday, November 14, 2005
A quick tale 98
One busy morning at the railway station
He is charging down the platform, weaving through the crowd that has gathered to see loved ones off. His legs, unaccustomed to such frenzied aerobic activity, are doing their best to carry his bulk towards the train that is gradually pulling out of the station. One final burst and he's nearly there. He grabs hold of the cold metal handle of the train carriage, drops his suitcase inside and heaves his body up the steps. Pausing to catch his breath, he turns around to wave to the fast-receding throng of bye-sayers. It is nice to pretend that some of them were there for him. That some of them were crying into their handkerchieves, unable to look up and see him go. That some of them were wiping their eyes for the tears made it hard to see. That they wanted to keep waving and keep looking at him until he became a tiny speck in the distance. That some of them wanted to come running along with the moving train as far as the platform would allow, for his sake. That they kept repeating their goodbyes and their promises to keep in touch with him until it became a meaningless chant. He likes to think they played out the drama, all for his benefit.
For, wouldn't it be sad that he was going away and not one friend or relative or neighbour or neighbour's dog could come to see him off and tell him how much they were going to miss him? He turns around to look at others in the carriage. And smiles the smile of one who was given a fond farewell.
He is charging down the platform, weaving through the crowd that has gathered to see loved ones off. His legs, unaccustomed to such frenzied aerobic activity, are doing their best to carry his bulk towards the train that is gradually pulling out of the station. One final burst and he's nearly there. He grabs hold of the cold metal handle of the train carriage, drops his suitcase inside and heaves his body up the steps. Pausing to catch his breath, he turns around to wave to the fast-receding throng of bye-sayers. It is nice to pretend that some of them were there for him. That some of them were crying into their handkerchieves, unable to look up and see him go. That some of them were wiping their eyes for the tears made it hard to see. That they wanted to keep waving and keep looking at him until he became a tiny speck in the distance. That some of them wanted to come running along with the moving train as far as the platform would allow, for his sake. That they kept repeating their goodbyes and their promises to keep in touch with him until it became a meaningless chant. He likes to think they played out the drama, all for his benefit.
For, wouldn't it be sad that he was going away and not one friend or relative or neighbour or neighbour's dog could come to see him off and tell him how much they were going to miss him? He turns around to look at others in the carriage. And smiles the smile of one who was given a fond farewell.
A quick tale 97
I must tell you something
You and I go back a long time. So I think I can tell you. Do you remember that day when you tripped in front of the news stand and hoped that no one saw you? I was there. I was watching as you picked yourself up and dusted your behind and check your shoes to see if your heels were still in place. It was pretty funny, actually. I hope I can keep a straight face when I meet you next time. But pardon me if a little smirk escapes. If you ask me why, I'll tell you it's that hilarious joke I heard on Jonathan Ross last night. But to be honest, it'll be the sight of you, sprawled out, on your back, in front of the news stand the other day that I will be recalling. How angry you were when someone asked you if you were alright! Of course, you were. And how brave of you to walk without wincing. How is your ankle now, my dear? Do apply an ice pack to reduce the swelling and stay away from 4 inch heels and King's Cross station for a few weeks.
You and I go back a long time. So I think I can tell you. Do you remember that day when you tripped in front of the news stand and hoped that no one saw you? I was there. I was watching as you picked yourself up and dusted your behind and check your shoes to see if your heels were still in place. It was pretty funny, actually. I hope I can keep a straight face when I meet you next time. But pardon me if a little smirk escapes. If you ask me why, I'll tell you it's that hilarious joke I heard on Jonathan Ross last night. But to be honest, it'll be the sight of you, sprawled out, on your back, in front of the news stand the other day that I will be recalling. How angry you were when someone asked you if you were alright! Of course, you were. And how brave of you to walk without wincing. How is your ankle now, my dear? Do apply an ice pack to reduce the swelling and stay away from 4 inch heels and King's Cross station for a few weeks.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
A quick tale 96
Heard the one about Kumar?
I had to do away with him. He was getting unmanageable.
Previously...
'Yes, Kumar likes the movie too'
'Kumar? Who Kumar?', they cried in unison as if it were a chorus in a song.
'My boyfriend...', I mumbled looking down at the ground.
'YOUR boyfriend? Your BOYFRIEND?', screamed my best friend Bubbs stressing different parts of the sentence for effect.
'How long has this been going on? Why didn't you tell us?', quizzed Nimmy, her best friend.
I shrugged in response.
They wanted to know all about him. So I told them as fast as I could make up the details. He was 21, an Engineering graduate. I wanted him to have a sensitive side, so I made him work with an NGO for orphaned kids. He was 6 ft 2, slim-built and wore glasses. He coached poor kids football and organised morchas to protest the demolition of slums in his spare time ('awwww', they cooed).
They wanted to meet him. So I sent him away to Brussels to attend an international conference on child development organised by UNICEF. From time to time, I would slink away in full view of my friends to talk to 'Kumar' on the phone. I'd come back giggling and tell my friends how naughty Kumar was. They'd blush and I'd act all coy.
Couldn't they at least see his photo? No, I said, Kumar was camera-shy and hated having his photo taken. What about talking to him? Couldn't Bubbs and Nimmy say hello to him over the phone? Oh no, Kumar was very busy fundraising. As a matter of fact, he was meeting the Ambani brothers to discuss corporate funding that very day. He wouldn't like to be disturbed.
That shut them up for a while before they started again. So I gave him chicken pox, broke his leg, killed his grandmother, drowned him in work and once, I even drained his mobile phone batteries. They were persistent, those bitches! They wanted to meet him at any cost. Unless I could manufacture a boyfriend at a short notice, I was quickly running out of excuses. Which is when mother nature gave me a hand. A train in Andhra was washed away by flash floods and guess who was on the ill-fated train? Kumar was on his way home after organising donations for victims of a cyclone in Rayalseema when the tragedy happened.
I went into mourning for a few days. But secretly, I was preening. I had officially had a boyfriend and lost him. Score: me - 1, the bitches - 0. Ha!
I had to do away with him. He was getting unmanageable.
Previously...
'Yes, Kumar likes the movie too'
'Kumar? Who Kumar?', they cried in unison as if it were a chorus in a song.
'My boyfriend...', I mumbled looking down at the ground.
'YOUR boyfriend? Your BOYFRIEND?', screamed my best friend Bubbs stressing different parts of the sentence for effect.
'How long has this been going on? Why didn't you tell us?', quizzed Nimmy, her best friend.
I shrugged in response.
They wanted to know all about him. So I told them as fast as I could make up the details. He was 21, an Engineering graduate. I wanted him to have a sensitive side, so I made him work with an NGO for orphaned kids. He was 6 ft 2, slim-built and wore glasses. He coached poor kids football and organised morchas to protest the demolition of slums in his spare time ('awwww', they cooed).
They wanted to meet him. So I sent him away to Brussels to attend an international conference on child development organised by UNICEF. From time to time, I would slink away in full view of my friends to talk to 'Kumar' on the phone. I'd come back giggling and tell my friends how naughty Kumar was. They'd blush and I'd act all coy.
Couldn't they at least see his photo? No, I said, Kumar was camera-shy and hated having his photo taken. What about talking to him? Couldn't Bubbs and Nimmy say hello to him over the phone? Oh no, Kumar was very busy fundraising. As a matter of fact, he was meeting the Ambani brothers to discuss corporate funding that very day. He wouldn't like to be disturbed.
That shut them up for a while before they started again. So I gave him chicken pox, broke his leg, killed his grandmother, drowned him in work and once, I even drained his mobile phone batteries. They were persistent, those bitches! They wanted to meet him at any cost. Unless I could manufacture a boyfriend at a short notice, I was quickly running out of excuses. Which is when mother nature gave me a hand. A train in Andhra was washed away by flash floods and guess who was on the ill-fated train? Kumar was on his way home after organising donations for victims of a cyclone in Rayalseema when the tragedy happened.
I went into mourning for a few days. But secretly, I was preening. I had officially had a boyfriend and lost him. Score: me - 1, the bitches - 0. Ha!
Monday, November 07, 2005
A quick tale 95
The day you lost faith
She sits across the café from you, in the same spot, day after day. And her order never changes. A chocolate doughnut, large fries, cheeseburger and a caffe latte with cream. How she manages to stay a size 8 on that diet remains a mystery to you. You watch her devour her lunch as you cautiously pick at your salad because you read somewhere that eating slowly makes you eat less. You could chew on one leaf of lettuce for an entire lunch hour.
Looking at her, you console yourself that she’s probably a bimbette. In fact, you’re certain that she is a brainless twat, a 23-year old infant with boobs. The next day, you see her reading something about Ergonomics and solving Kakuro simultaneously while stirring her fourth sugar cube into the coffee cup. So what, you tell yourself, she’s probably got a lousy personal life. You’re convinced she’s been jilted a thousand times. Actually, you’re sure that she gets just one Christmas card each year. From her credit card company. The following day, you see her lunching with the neighbourhood George Clooney. Ha, you say to yourself, bet she’s a non-starter in the career department. She probably works for a pharmaceutical company testing new drugs on herself. Or in a factory making little cocktail umbrellas wearing a thimble all day. You certainly weren’t expecting her to interview you for your new job. And that was the day, 23rd of February 2005 that you lost all faith in god.
She sits across the café from you, in the same spot, day after day. And her order never changes. A chocolate doughnut, large fries, cheeseburger and a caffe latte with cream. How she manages to stay a size 8 on that diet remains a mystery to you. You watch her devour her lunch as you cautiously pick at your salad because you read somewhere that eating slowly makes you eat less. You could chew on one leaf of lettuce for an entire lunch hour.
Looking at her, you console yourself that she’s probably a bimbette. In fact, you’re certain that she is a brainless twat, a 23-year old infant with boobs. The next day, you see her reading something about Ergonomics and solving Kakuro simultaneously while stirring her fourth sugar cube into the coffee cup. So what, you tell yourself, she’s probably got a lousy personal life. You’re convinced she’s been jilted a thousand times. Actually, you’re sure that she gets just one Christmas card each year. From her credit card company. The following day, you see her lunching with the neighbourhood George Clooney. Ha, you say to yourself, bet she’s a non-starter in the career department. She probably works for a pharmaceutical company testing new drugs on herself. Or in a factory making little cocktail umbrellas wearing a thimble all day. You certainly weren’t expecting her to interview you for your new job. And that was the day, 23rd of February 2005 that you lost all faith in god.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
A quick tale 94
One or the other
Is that a silk saree you’re wearing? Lovely colour. It reminds me of a story. Yes, I’ll make it quick. Sit down. How’s the back? Good. Then let me begin.
A woman (it was hard to tell her age) was stirring sugar into her cup of tea while looking out at her garden. It’s strange, she thought, there are no butterflies. At this time of the year, the air is usually full of fluttering wings. Where have they gone, she wondered. Perhaps they have all been captured while they were still worms and dropped into hot water to make silk, she panicked. For, the lady mistakenly believed that silkworms left to live then go on to become garden butterflies. This led her to think that it was either butterflies or silk. Everything was a choice, she concluded. Satisfied that she had reduced all of life’s dilemmas to a simple aphorism, she took a noisy sip from her mug.
Is that a silk saree you’re wearing? Lovely colour. It reminds me of a story. Yes, I’ll make it quick. Sit down. How’s the back? Good. Then let me begin.
A woman (it was hard to tell her age) was stirring sugar into her cup of tea while looking out at her garden. It’s strange, she thought, there are no butterflies. At this time of the year, the air is usually full of fluttering wings. Where have they gone, she wondered. Perhaps they have all been captured while they were still worms and dropped into hot water to make silk, she panicked. For, the lady mistakenly believed that silkworms left to live then go on to become garden butterflies. This led her to think that it was either butterflies or silk. Everything was a choice, she concluded. Satisfied that she had reduced all of life’s dilemmas to a simple aphorism, she took a noisy sip from her mug.
Monday, October 31, 2005
A quick tale 93
Rough draft of a quick story
She decided to write another story. Her 93rd. This one would be a short one. Just like the rest.
It'd be about a woman. A middle-aged woman. No, it would be about a man. She wouldn't give him a name. She was rubbish at names.
It'd be about a man who would be thinking about red hair. How it wasn't red at all. More like orange. Pale orange. Because red was a Sunday, granny's loose skin on the back of her palm, last day of summer holidays, 17th birthday, first bicycle, Sweta, Deepavali of 1983 kind of a colour. And not a hair sort of a colour. Just like how he was not brown. More like dark pale cream. Brown was a Wednesday, dull ache, afternoon 3 pm, weather report, heavy metal kind of a colour. Not a colour you'd associate with people.
That, would be her story. And the anonymous commenter would say how much he liked her earlier stories.
She decided to write another story. Her 93rd. This one would be a short one. Just like the rest.
It'd be about a woman. A middle-aged woman. No, it would be about a man. She wouldn't give him a name. She was rubbish at names.
It'd be about a man who would be thinking about red hair. How it wasn't red at all. More like orange. Pale orange. Because red was a Sunday, granny's loose skin on the back of her palm, last day of summer holidays, 17th birthday, first bicycle, Sweta, Deepavali of 1983 kind of a colour. And not a hair sort of a colour. Just like how he was not brown. More like dark pale cream. Brown was a Wednesday, dull ache, afternoon 3 pm, weather report, heavy metal kind of a colour. Not a colour you'd associate with people.
That, would be her story. And the anonymous commenter would say how much he liked her earlier stories.
Sunday, October 30, 2005
A quick tale 92
Why some people should be banned
There are several things in the world he cannot tolerate. Like those who say 'at the end of the world' and use the word 'literally' when it is not end of the world or literal. He will not stand for anyone who grinds their teeth. Or blows their nose loudly. He absolutely abhors anyone that casually mentions their trips abroad, totally out of context.
He: Would you like a drink?
Abhorable he/she: I was in Australia recently
There are other minor irritants like those who look over his shoulder while he's reading a newspaper. Those who sing along with a song in a movie hall. Anyone who cracks knuckles or writes poetry or describes themselves 'unique, complicated, bundle of contradiction' in their blog profile. But the worst, the undoubted worst, has got to be one who reads the Reader's Digest.
There are several things in the world he cannot tolerate. Like those who say 'at the end of the world' and use the word 'literally' when it is not end of the world or literal. He will not stand for anyone who grinds their teeth. Or blows their nose loudly. He absolutely abhors anyone that casually mentions their trips abroad, totally out of context.
He: Would you like a drink?
Abhorable he/she: I was in Australia recently
There are other minor irritants like those who look over his shoulder while he's reading a newspaper. Those who sing along with a song in a movie hall. Anyone who cracks knuckles or writes poetry or describes themselves 'unique, complicated, bundle of contradiction' in their blog profile. But the worst, the undoubted worst, has got to be one who reads the Reader's Digest.
Saturday, October 29, 2005
A quick tale 91
A man and what he thought of women
A man who was feted as the most creative person in the world was attending a conference. Like many people who work in advertising, Mr. French (for that was his name, not his nationality) believed his words made the world go around, stopped global warming and helped Middle East peace process. When in fact, it did little more than help sell cigarettes and vodka. Anyway, this man had had a particularly large bit of steak for lunch and was feeling rather sluggish. So to amuse himself, he mumbled something aloud about women being crap at their jobs. Immediately, there was a collective gasp in the room. And everyone pretended to be shocked at his opinion. But of course, they always knew what he thought of women.
Soon his quote was all over the media. And suddenly Mr. French became the most-hated man in the world. Second only to George Bush. For a middle-aged man like Mr. French this was as good as it could get. And he just loved the attention. He had to resign afterwards but, so what? At least he didn't have to sit through another boring session on 'Creativity in the Global market'.
Now, Mr. French felt more powerful than ever. If he could decide that women were crap, he could make dogs romantic and chairs athletic. He felt like God. He is currently working on more important pronouncements. These will change the course of humanity, he is sure. And after that, it will be Mars. Unlimited powers to him.
A man who was feted as the most creative person in the world was attending a conference. Like many people who work in advertising, Mr. French (for that was his name, not his nationality) believed his words made the world go around, stopped global warming and helped Middle East peace process. When in fact, it did little more than help sell cigarettes and vodka. Anyway, this man had had a particularly large bit of steak for lunch and was feeling rather sluggish. So to amuse himself, he mumbled something aloud about women being crap at their jobs. Immediately, there was a collective gasp in the room. And everyone pretended to be shocked at his opinion. But of course, they always knew what he thought of women.
Soon his quote was all over the media. And suddenly Mr. French became the most-hated man in the world. Second only to George Bush. For a middle-aged man like Mr. French this was as good as it could get. And he just loved the attention. He had to resign afterwards but, so what? At least he didn't have to sit through another boring session on 'Creativity in the Global market'.
Now, Mr. French felt more powerful than ever. If he could decide that women were crap, he could make dogs romantic and chairs athletic. He felt like God. He is currently working on more important pronouncements. These will change the course of humanity, he is sure. And after that, it will be Mars. Unlimited powers to him.
A quick tale 90
About Nilakantan
He was named for the blue-throated Lord Shiva. He's 34, married with 2 kids, fantasises about top-heavy movie actresses and sometimes gets confused between his left and right. He once threw up on his father's shoes and dumped them in the bin. Some years ago, he lied about having read a famous book just to impress a girl. Likely to sing when drunk. Thinks he can write much better poetry than some of what he reads. AB positive. Gemini. Gets startled easily like when people sneeze loudly. Is acutely embarrassed of his English and often begins emails with 'my english isnt very good so pls xcuse...'. Was thrilled when Amit Varma referred to one of his comments on Indiauncut last week. Mole on wrist. Scar on eyebrow from playing cricket. IQ 108.
But of course she wouldn't know any of that. To her, he'd be the one who gave her her first glimpse of human insides as he lay sprawled in his own murky puddle of blood in the middle of the road. And the one she quickly averted her eyes from when she realised what she was looking at.
for varna.
He was named for the blue-throated Lord Shiva. He's 34, married with 2 kids, fantasises about top-heavy movie actresses and sometimes gets confused between his left and right. He once threw up on his father's shoes and dumped them in the bin. Some years ago, he lied about having read a famous book just to impress a girl. Likely to sing when drunk. Thinks he can write much better poetry than some of what he reads. AB positive. Gemini. Gets startled easily like when people sneeze loudly. Is acutely embarrassed of his English and often begins emails with 'my english isnt very good so pls xcuse...'. Was thrilled when Amit Varma referred to one of his comments on Indiauncut last week. Mole on wrist. Scar on eyebrow from playing cricket. IQ 108.
But of course she wouldn't know any of that. To her, he'd be the one who gave her her first glimpse of human insides as he lay sprawled in his own murky puddle of blood in the middle of the road. And the one she quickly averted her eyes from when she realised what she was looking at.
for varna.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
A quick tale 89
Treat for the TV people
This happened about 22 years ago. So please don't leave comments in the comment box that such a thing cannot happen today and so on. Of course, it cannot happen today. Because we're talking about a time when there was only one channel on TV, which was a black & white set and there was only 4 hours of transmission everyday between 6 and 10 pm.
In those days, you were a little boy who had been told that tiny, palm-sized people lived inside the winding cables and that they appeared every evening at the appointed hour to entertain you.
Concerned for their welfare, you secretly laid out a glass of milk and some biscuits by the set at nights. These, to your delight, always managed to disappear in the morning. Until one day when your father commented about how one of the presenters was growing fat as if she had been feasting on milk and butter. So you did not leave anything out that night and you thought you heard the presenter stumble while making an announcement the next day. When you did not leave anything out again the following day, you thought she had grown dark circle under her eyes. A third day without milk and biscuits and she looked positively gaunt to you. Even your father remarked upon it.
It was sometime then that you were given your first bicycle and you quickly forgot all about the nightly treats for the TV people. These days you pretend to know all about transmitters and antenna and cable and how we get moving images inside the television set. But you still want to believe that for those 3 weeks in 1983, small people lived inside a little electronic box in your living room. And that you kept them well-fed.
Silly, I know. But try telling that to you .
This happened about 22 years ago. So please don't leave comments in the comment box that such a thing cannot happen today and so on. Of course, it cannot happen today. Because we're talking about a time when there was only one channel on TV, which was a black & white set and there was only 4 hours of transmission everyday between 6 and 10 pm.
In those days, you were a little boy who had been told that tiny, palm-sized people lived inside the winding cables and that they appeared every evening at the appointed hour to entertain you.
Concerned for their welfare, you secretly laid out a glass of milk and some biscuits by the set at nights. These, to your delight, always managed to disappear in the morning. Until one day when your father commented about how one of the presenters was growing fat as if she had been feasting on milk and butter. So you did not leave anything out that night and you thought you heard the presenter stumble while making an announcement the next day. When you did not leave anything out again the following day, you thought she had grown dark circle under her eyes. A third day without milk and biscuits and she looked positively gaunt to you. Even your father remarked upon it.
It was sometime then that you were given your first bicycle and you quickly forgot all about the nightly treats for the TV people. These days you pretend to know all about transmitters and antenna and cable and how we get moving images inside the television set. But you still want to believe that for those 3 weeks in 1983, small people lived inside a little electronic box in your living room. And that you kept them well-fed.
Silly, I know. But try telling that to you .
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
A quick tale 88
A question of choice
You're the guy holding up the queue unable to decide what you want for lunch. You've tried numbers 13, 18 and 19 on the menu. You're a vegetarian and so that rules out number 1 to 8 and 28 to 45. You hate cauliflower and you're allergic to brinjal and mushroom. Number 23 is alright except that it gives you a bad case of flatulence and with a client meeting scheduled later that afternoon, you cannot risk it. That only leaves you with the three you've already had several times this week.
Someone behind you grumbles about how long it's taking you to decide. You panic. What'll it be? Should I go with number 18 again?, you wonder. It's not bad but it does make you feel a bit funny afterwards. Number 13? Nah, bad breathe. Number 19 then. Darn! But you had it just yesterday.
You hold up three fingers to the cashier. One for each dish. You ask him to choose. He picks your ring finger. Number 13.
'Can I have a plate of number 19, please?'
You're the guy holding up the queue unable to decide what you want for lunch. You've tried numbers 13, 18 and 19 on the menu. You're a vegetarian and so that rules out number 1 to 8 and 28 to 45. You hate cauliflower and you're allergic to brinjal and mushroom. Number 23 is alright except that it gives you a bad case of flatulence and with a client meeting scheduled later that afternoon, you cannot risk it. That only leaves you with the three you've already had several times this week.
Someone behind you grumbles about how long it's taking you to decide. You panic. What'll it be? Should I go with number 18 again?, you wonder. It's not bad but it does make you feel a bit funny afterwards. Number 13? Nah, bad breathe. Number 19 then. Darn! But you had it just yesterday.
You hold up three fingers to the cashier. One for each dish. You ask him to choose. He picks your ring finger. Number 13.
'Can I have a plate of number 19, please?'
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
A quick tale 87
Reason for being late
A young man is getting ready for work. It’s a quarter to nine in the morning and he should have left for office a good 20 minutes ago. He has yet to finish tying his tie, slip into his shoes and take a last minute leak. He may not wash his hands afterwards if he is in a rush. But right now, he’s busy planning his excuses for coming late to work. Traffic, he reckons. That would be the most obvious. Lousy traffic, he would say, one side of the road closed for road works and it was jammed for almost 2 miles in either direction. But what if someone asked which road. No, it had to be something else, he reasons. Headache. Yes, that sounded reasonable. Or was it too common a lie? Besides, he would have to keep up the act for the rest of the morning. No, it had to be something more genuine-sounding.
His elderly neighbour slipped and broke her ankle this morning. He had to phone the ambulance and wait till she was in safe hands. How about that? Winner. That’s got to sound sincere. A 68-year old neighbour who lived all alone. She would have been climbing down the stairs that morning when she missed the last step. She would have had a hip operation only recently. Such a lovely lady who never forgot his birthday. So kind, almost a mother to him. Who would help her if he didn’t?
He couldn’t wait to get to office and give his reason for being late. They would click their tongues in sympathy for the neighbour he did not have, he was sure. Now, if only the traffic would start moving and stop delaying him further.
A young man is getting ready for work. It’s a quarter to nine in the morning and he should have left for office a good 20 minutes ago. He has yet to finish tying his tie, slip into his shoes and take a last minute leak. He may not wash his hands afterwards if he is in a rush. But right now, he’s busy planning his excuses for coming late to work. Traffic, he reckons. That would be the most obvious. Lousy traffic, he would say, one side of the road closed for road works and it was jammed for almost 2 miles in either direction. But what if someone asked which road. No, it had to be something else, he reasons. Headache. Yes, that sounded reasonable. Or was it too common a lie? Besides, he would have to keep up the act for the rest of the morning. No, it had to be something more genuine-sounding.
His elderly neighbour slipped and broke her ankle this morning. He had to phone the ambulance and wait till she was in safe hands. How about that? Winner. That’s got to sound sincere. A 68-year old neighbour who lived all alone. She would have been climbing down the stairs that morning when she missed the last step. She would have had a hip operation only recently. Such a lovely lady who never forgot his birthday. So kind, almost a mother to him. Who would help her if he didn’t?
He couldn’t wait to get to office and give his reason for being late. They would click their tongues in sympathy for the neighbour he did not have, he was sure. Now, if only the traffic would start moving and stop delaying him further.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
A quick tale 86
Moral of the story
Your shirt is creased badly. Again. Whoever ironed it hasn’t bothered to do it properly and you now have three crease lines running parallel to each other from shoulder to wrist. Today is also the day when your socks decide to lose their elasticity and slump listlessly around your ankles. And I hate to add this, just this morning you discovered a small bald patch on your crown.
In short, it has been a miserable start to the day and while sitting in your car, waiting for the traffic lights to turn green, you remember that you’ve left some important papers behind at home and you’re already running late. So you curse some more. Precisely at that moment, a little boy comes up to your car window and points to his mouth and stomach and begs for your kindness. A few coins please, saab. I haven’t had food in three days, saab, he pleads. He’s not lying, you can tell. The caved-in stomach and sunken eyes and scrawny legs and the strong smell of poverty he reeks support his claim.
You know this the point in the story when you’re supposed to feel grateful for the shirt on your back and the coins that jangle in your pocket and quit moaning and make peace with your life and be misty-eyed and remorseful and all that. But no. You don’t feel anything. And to be honest, you’re still pissed off about your shirt.
Your shirt is creased badly. Again. Whoever ironed it hasn’t bothered to do it properly and you now have three crease lines running parallel to each other from shoulder to wrist. Today is also the day when your socks decide to lose their elasticity and slump listlessly around your ankles. And I hate to add this, just this morning you discovered a small bald patch on your crown.
In short, it has been a miserable start to the day and while sitting in your car, waiting for the traffic lights to turn green, you remember that you’ve left some important papers behind at home and you’re already running late. So you curse some more. Precisely at that moment, a little boy comes up to your car window and points to his mouth and stomach and begs for your kindness. A few coins please, saab. I haven’t had food in three days, saab, he pleads. He’s not lying, you can tell. The caved-in stomach and sunken eyes and scrawny legs and the strong smell of poverty he reeks support his claim.
You know this the point in the story when you’re supposed to feel grateful for the shirt on your back and the coins that jangle in your pocket and quit moaning and make peace with your life and be misty-eyed and remorseful and all that. But no. You don’t feel anything. And to be honest, you’re still pissed off about your shirt.
Saturday, October 15, 2005
Monday, October 10, 2005
Must read
It is not often that I come across writing that is this powerful. This simple. And this moving. Ramya Nageswaran writes about her grandmother in 'Paatikku oru anjali' (tamizh).
Friday, October 07, 2005
A quick tale 85
Hero
She was the head girl in your school. Some years your senior, she was the one that every other girl in school admired, emulated and secretly loved. Your classmates would even have a bet about how she would wear her hair that day. You usually won because you knew her style. You were confident that she would become really famous some day. Like an astronaut or a scientist or a novelist. She was destined for greatness, you believed.
You would never have thought that one day she would walk into the supermarket where you now worked. And ask you where you stocked coconut oil. You want to tell her how much she meant to you in your school days. How much you adored and worshipped her. That she hasn’t changed one bit in nearly two decades. That she should have stuck to the fringe she sported back then. Instead, you lead her to the shelf where coconut oil bottles are stacked. And then you lean over and whisper conspiratorially ‘but they are cheaper in the rival supermarket’.
She was the head girl in your school. Some years your senior, she was the one that every other girl in school admired, emulated and secretly loved. Your classmates would even have a bet about how she would wear her hair that day. You usually won because you knew her style. You were confident that she would become really famous some day. Like an astronaut or a scientist or a novelist. She was destined for greatness, you believed.
You would never have thought that one day she would walk into the supermarket where you now worked. And ask you where you stocked coconut oil. You want to tell her how much she meant to you in your school days. How much you adored and worshipped her. That she hasn’t changed one bit in nearly two decades. That she should have stuck to the fringe she sported back then. Instead, you lead her to the shelf where coconut oil bottles are stacked. And then you lean over and whisper conspiratorially ‘but they are cheaper in the rival supermarket’.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
A quick tale 84
Regime
The box was locked and the keys jangled from a string that hung around the old one’s neck. The box was marked ‘culture’ and the only one authorised to open it was the Honorable Mr. Vulture. Its contents were ancient, sacred and could not be tampered with. For they contained the rules that the citizens of the land to live by.
No climbing doors. Must jump 32 times every second Tuesday of the month. Every dog must be accompanied by a piano on 2 legs. Never, repeat, never ask a crow where he is headed. Yogurt to be consumed standing up always. Like I said, the culture box had diktats that decided how one must live.
Of course there were groups of people, mostly young, who rebelled, asked questions, got together in secret and broke the rules. Like not wearing a balloon on their heads on Fridays. And talking with their eyes open. But when the authorities came down on them, their clandestine activities were exposed and the guilty shamed. The public were warned to uphold the culture rules otherwise they would suffer a similar fate.
Every now and then, a new rule would be added to the already confounding mass of regulations. No one knew who came up with it. There would be a ban on the word ‘it’ on the 1st of each month. And people had to remember to point but not say the word. But everyone agreed this was their great culture and you must never mess about your legacy.
note: I wink and nod at George Orwell
The box was locked and the keys jangled from a string that hung around the old one’s neck. The box was marked ‘culture’ and the only one authorised to open it was the Honorable Mr. Vulture. Its contents were ancient, sacred and could not be tampered with. For they contained the rules that the citizens of the land to live by.
No climbing doors. Must jump 32 times every second Tuesday of the month. Every dog must be accompanied by a piano on 2 legs. Never, repeat, never ask a crow where he is headed. Yogurt to be consumed standing up always. Like I said, the culture box had diktats that decided how one must live.
Of course there were groups of people, mostly young, who rebelled, asked questions, got together in secret and broke the rules. Like not wearing a balloon on their heads on Fridays. And talking with their eyes open. But when the authorities came down on them, their clandestine activities were exposed and the guilty shamed. The public were warned to uphold the culture rules otherwise they would suffer a similar fate.
Every now and then, a new rule would be added to the already confounding mass of regulations. No one knew who came up with it. There would be a ban on the word ‘it’ on the 1st of each month. And people had to remember to point but not say the word. But everyone agreed this was their great culture and you must never mess about your legacy.
note: I wink and nod at George Orwell
A quick tale 83
Some day, some time
‘You never know when we’ll need it. Don’t throw it away’, said the mother.
‘When would you ever need an old umbrella held together by a string and safety pins?’, asked her young daughter who had launched herself into cleaning their home on a Sunday morning.
‘What if we had a sudden downpour?’
‘Amma, we’ve not had seasonal rains in three years. Forget sudden downpours.’
‘But what if it rained suddenly and I had to go out to buy some food?’
‘We’d just order food by telephone’
‘But what if the rains brought down a big tree and it fell on our telephone lines and our telephones went dead?’
‘Then we’d just borrow some from our neighbours’
‘But what if they had run out of food and cannot spare us any?’
‘Then we’d just get wet going out to buy some food. Now throw away the umbrella, will you?’
The mother nodded but put it away behind her sarees in the cupboard. So when it did rain one unusual March morning and there was nothing left in the fridge and the neighbours were away on holiday, she went out to the market. The tattered old umbrella tucked under her arm.
‘You never know when we’ll need it. Don’t throw it away’, said the mother.
‘When would you ever need an old umbrella held together by a string and safety pins?’, asked her young daughter who had launched herself into cleaning their home on a Sunday morning.
‘What if we had a sudden downpour?’
‘Amma, we’ve not had seasonal rains in three years. Forget sudden downpours.’
‘But what if it rained suddenly and I had to go out to buy some food?’
‘We’d just order food by telephone’
‘But what if the rains brought down a big tree and it fell on our telephone lines and our telephones went dead?’
‘Then we’d just borrow some from our neighbours’
‘But what if they had run out of food and cannot spare us any?’
‘Then we’d just get wet going out to buy some food. Now throw away the umbrella, will you?’
The mother nodded but put it away behind her sarees in the cupboard. So when it did rain one unusual March morning and there was nothing left in the fridge and the neighbours were away on holiday, she went out to the market. The tattered old umbrella tucked under her arm.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Projectwhy Short Story Competition Entries
Click here to read all entries to the Projectwhy Short Story Competition. Please vote for the winner. Thank you.
Friday, September 30, 2005
A quick tale 82
Earlier this evening
Right now only one person is alive. In flashback however, both of us started crossing the busy road.
Written for the Caferati Weekly Flash Fiction Competition. Theme for week 4 - flashback
Right now only one person is alive. In flashback however, both of us started crossing the busy road.
Written for the Caferati Weekly Flash Fiction Competition. Theme for week 4 - flashback
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
A quick tale 81
Footwear blues
Do you remember that day when you walked out of the temple and found your slippers missing from where you had left them? At first, it was a feeling of utter incomprehension. Then came denial. No, it couldn't have happened. Not to me. But who would want to take my worn-at-soles slippers, you wondered. And gradually, you realised that they were gone for good. Your favourite pair was now bearing the weight of a different owner. You felt angry. Not just at the person who stole it. But at your slippers. How could they just leave me? I should never have spent good money getting them repaired. Wretched ungratefuls! Finally, you accepted it. And started looking for a pair that fit you from among the dozens left outside the temple.
Do you remember that day when you walked out of the temple and found your slippers missing from where you had left them? At first, it was a feeling of utter incomprehension. Then came denial. No, it couldn't have happened. Not to me. But who would want to take my worn-at-soles slippers, you wondered. And gradually, you realised that they were gone for good. Your favourite pair was now bearing the weight of a different owner. You felt angry. Not just at the person who stole it. But at your slippers. How could they just leave me? I should never have spent good money getting them repaired. Wretched ungratefuls! Finally, you accepted it. And started looking for a pair that fit you from among the dozens left outside the temple.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
A quick tale 80
Death of a friend
You've just found out that your classmate from school was one of those killed in the attack on World trade Centre some years ago. You rack your brains to remember every detail about her. She was dark, thin, of average height. Did she wear glasses? Probably. You do recall her voice. Nasal. Nothing singularly remarkable to deserve such a high-profile death, you think. But the next time September 11th events are mentioned, you say 'I used to know someone who died in the attacks. We were such good friends'.
You've just found out that your classmate from school was one of those killed in the attack on World trade Centre some years ago. You rack your brains to remember every detail about her. She was dark, thin, of average height. Did she wear glasses? Probably. You do recall her voice. Nasal. Nothing singularly remarkable to deserve such a high-profile death, you think. But the next time September 11th events are mentioned, you say 'I used to know someone who died in the attacks. We were such good friends'.
Monday, September 26, 2005
A quick tale 79
A certain woman makes up her mind
She is sitting at her table, this middle-aged woman who has decided to set right her life on a Thursday evening. She is making a list of people she has had to please in the past year. 293 people on the list. Including the man from that call centre who called so many times that she simply had to buy broadband connection from him. And that disabled man who sat at the entrance to the supermarket with sad eyes and a collection box. And her colleague who had offered carrot cake last week. One which she said she loved although she finds the idea of carrot in a cake revolting. And that librarian who recommended a truly awful book to read on her holiday.
Starting this very minute, she resolves, she would no longer do anything to please anyone. No matter what they thought of her. No more Thai food for friends’ sake. Or staying back late to help colleagues with their projects. And no way could she be persuaded to renew her gym membership again. This is a new me, she thinks. The phone rings. It’s her landlady calling to say that she is forced to raise the rent because she’s strapped for cash. She finds herself agreeing and understanding and saying an awful lot of ‘ofcourses’.
But from tomorrow...
She is sitting at her table, this middle-aged woman who has decided to set right her life on a Thursday evening. She is making a list of people she has had to please in the past year. 293 people on the list. Including the man from that call centre who called so many times that she simply had to buy broadband connection from him. And that disabled man who sat at the entrance to the supermarket with sad eyes and a collection box. And her colleague who had offered carrot cake last week. One which she said she loved although she finds the idea of carrot in a cake revolting. And that librarian who recommended a truly awful book to read on her holiday.
Starting this very minute, she resolves, she would no longer do anything to please anyone. No matter what they thought of her. No more Thai food for friends’ sake. Or staying back late to help colleagues with their projects. And no way could she be persuaded to renew her gym membership again. This is a new me, she thinks. The phone rings. It’s her landlady calling to say that she is forced to raise the rent because she’s strapped for cash. She finds herself agreeing and understanding and saying an awful lot of ‘ofcourses’.
But from tomorrow...
Sunday, September 25, 2005
A quick tale 78
Serves her right
They raised their eyebrows in shock and clicked their tongues in sympathy when a terrible mishap befell her. Secretly though, they rubbed their hands in glee. She really had no right to be so beautiful, successful, rich. Or young.
They raised their eyebrows in shock and clicked their tongues in sympathy when a terrible mishap befell her. Secretly though, they rubbed their hands in glee. She really had no right to be so beautiful, successful, rich. Or young.
Saturday, September 24, 2005
A quick tale 77
Bird
They spotted it one morning. Lying on its back with feet up in the air. As if riding a bicycle upside down.
'Is it sleeping, ma?'
'I don't think so'
She did not know if her son understood what death meant. She did not wish to lie to him. Nor did she want to tell him about god, heaven, hell and after life because she was not sure where she stood on such issues.
'I think the bird is dead'
The little boy nodded as if he knew.
They spotted it one morning. Lying on its back with feet up in the air. As if riding a bicycle upside down.
'Is it sleeping, ma?'
'I don't think so'
She did not know if her son understood what death meant. She did not wish to lie to him. Nor did she want to tell him about god, heaven, hell and after life because she was not sure where she stood on such issues.
'I think the bird is dead'
The little boy nodded as if he knew.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
A quick tale 76
On dumping her
'You're too good for me', he said.
One look at his pathetic face and she agreed.
'You're too good for me', he said.
One look at his pathetic face and she agreed.
A quick tale 75
A man who mispronounced
He was 44, a director in a big company and someone who played golf on Saturday mornings. He also mispronounced the word 'embarrass'. He would say 'embrace' instead. When he was younger, whenever he said 'God, that is so embracing', people laughed it off. They thought he was being funny. Like when people deliberately mispronounce words such as 'foreign' or 'America' because they get the laughs.
As he grew older, he continued saying 'embrace' and was never corrected. By now he was in a senior position and heading million-dollar projects. Now, unless you want to lose your job, you don't go around telling your director how to pronounce. So if you ever heard a middle-aged man saying that he was so embraced, please laugh it off. But do tell him if his fly zip is open.
He was 44, a director in a big company and someone who played golf on Saturday mornings. He also mispronounced the word 'embarrass'. He would say 'embrace' instead. When he was younger, whenever he said 'God, that is so embracing', people laughed it off. They thought he was being funny. Like when people deliberately mispronounce words such as 'foreign' or 'America' because they get the laughs.
As he grew older, he continued saying 'embrace' and was never corrected. By now he was in a senior position and heading million-dollar projects. Now, unless you want to lose your job, you don't go around telling your director how to pronounce. So if you ever heard a middle-aged man saying that he was so embraced, please laugh it off. But do tell him if his fly zip is open.
A quick tale 74
The reason she was crying
A young woman was crying all the way from Churchgate to Borivili. Which, if you don’t know Mumbai, is quite some distance. Now most people who saw her, saw a pretty, young, affluent woman and assumed that the reason she was crying was ‘man’ problem. She must have had a fight with her boyfriend. Or she must’ve been dumped, they guessed. When really, if you had asked her why she was crying, she would’ve told you that her dog been run over in quick tale 71. And that she was feeling incredibly guilty. Because while her dog lay dead all she could think about was how gorgeous the guy who had run her over was.
A young woman was crying all the way from Churchgate to Borivili. Which, if you don’t know Mumbai, is quite some distance. Now most people who saw her, saw a pretty, young, affluent woman and assumed that the reason she was crying was ‘man’ problem. She must have had a fight with her boyfriend. Or she must’ve been dumped, they guessed. When really, if you had asked her why she was crying, she would’ve told you that her dog been run over in quick tale 71. And that she was feeling incredibly guilty. Because while her dog lay dead all she could think about was how gorgeous the guy who had run her over was.
A quick tale 73
Fan
A girl whose name is the same as your sister’s used to be a fan of the Hindi film actress Kajol. She used to watch every movie that featured Kajol at least three times. She knew the usual fine details about her idol. Like when she was born and what her favourite colour is and whom she would like to be born again as. And when Kajol married an actor, that lanky Hindi actor whose name escapes me, the young fan was quite upset. Because she believed they were ill-matched. And the day she read that Kajol had decided to cut down on her movie assignments to concentrate on raising a family, she was devastated. She went for a long walk to let the information sink in and skipped dinner that evening. Later that night she pulled down posters of Kajol from her bedroom wall and put up Sachin Tendulkar’s instead.
A girl whose name is the same as your sister’s used to be a fan of the Hindi film actress Kajol. She used to watch every movie that featured Kajol at least three times. She knew the usual fine details about her idol. Like when she was born and what her favourite colour is and whom she would like to be born again as. And when Kajol married an actor, that lanky Hindi actor whose name escapes me, the young fan was quite upset. Because she believed they were ill-matched. And the day she read that Kajol had decided to cut down on her movie assignments to concentrate on raising a family, she was devastated. She went for a long walk to let the information sink in and skipped dinner that evening. Later that night she pulled down posters of Kajol from her bedroom wall and put up Sachin Tendulkar’s instead.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Not a story at all
Two sisters - Lovely and Jubbly came by this way. But when they found that people in these stories had no names, they went back.
Monday, September 19, 2005
A quick tale 72
Habit
It was a bit like writing the old year in the date column in the first few days of the new year. Or still calling him your boyfriend months after you married him. Or brushing the non-existent hair off your shoulder the day after you chopped it. Or blowing into your mug of coffee to cool it long after it has turned lukewarm. She still referred to him in the present tense. And included him when she made dinner for four.
It was a bit like writing the old year in the date column in the first few days of the new year. Or still calling him your boyfriend months after you married him. Or brushing the non-existent hair off your shoulder the day after you chopped it. Or blowing into your mug of coffee to cool it long after it has turned lukewarm. She still referred to him in the present tense. And included him when she made dinner for four.
A quick tale 71
Death of a dog and other issues
You have just run over a dog. You could have sped on. But you are a decent person and so you stop and get out of the car. As you walk towards the bloody mess you wish you hadn’t. She’s a young woman of about 25 and there’s a look of utter incomprehension on her face. She’s staring at the recently squashed remains of her pet as if to make sure that what she is seeing is real. This will soon turn to anger and it will be directed towards you. ‘I’m sorry’, you say. She nods silently. You stand around the dead dog awkwardly not knowing what to do next.
‘I was taking her to the vet. She had an infection and has not eaten in two days’
‘I’m sorry’, you repeat, ‘Is there anything I can do?’
The woman, now crying freely in front of a stranger, shakes her head as if to say no.
You feel terrible. Even though it was not your fault. You feel wretched because you had two glasses of wine at lunch. You were confident nothing would happen. And now a dog lies with its innards exposed.
You want to hug her and tell her how truly sorry you are. And that you would never ever drink and drive again. But you find yourself asking if her dog was insured.
You have just run over a dog. You could have sped on. But you are a decent person and so you stop and get out of the car. As you walk towards the bloody mess you wish you hadn’t. She’s a young woman of about 25 and there’s a look of utter incomprehension on her face. She’s staring at the recently squashed remains of her pet as if to make sure that what she is seeing is real. This will soon turn to anger and it will be directed towards you. ‘I’m sorry’, you say. She nods silently. You stand around the dead dog awkwardly not knowing what to do next.
‘I was taking her to the vet. She had an infection and has not eaten in two days’
‘I’m sorry’, you repeat, ‘Is there anything I can do?’
The woman, now crying freely in front of a stranger, shakes her head as if to say no.
You feel terrible. Even though it was not your fault. You feel wretched because you had two glasses of wine at lunch. You were confident nothing would happen. And now a dog lies with its innards exposed.
You want to hug her and tell her how truly sorry you are. And that you would never ever drink and drive again. But you find yourself asking if her dog was insured.
A quick tale 70
Sometime soon
A man who has your name is walking down the parking lot towards his car. He even looks like you and shares your taste in music and women. But he drives a burgundy Ford fiesta which I know is different from what’s sitting in your garage. As he gets into his car your namesake is thinking about his unborn child, tax returns which are due to be filed and England winning the Ashes. What he does not know is that he has just won a hundred dollars in a raffle drawn in a country several seas away. He will find out later that day and let out a whoop which will bring his 7-months pregnant wife from the kitchen to enquire. But for now he is waiting in the queue for the cars in front of him to move and drumming his fingers on the wheel.
A man who has your name is walking down the parking lot towards his car. He even looks like you and shares your taste in music and women. But he drives a burgundy Ford fiesta which I know is different from what’s sitting in your garage. As he gets into his car your namesake is thinking about his unborn child, tax returns which are due to be filed and England winning the Ashes. What he does not know is that he has just won a hundred dollars in a raffle drawn in a country several seas away. He will find out later that day and let out a whoop which will bring his 7-months pregnant wife from the kitchen to enquire. But for now he is waiting in the queue for the cars in front of him to move and drumming his fingers on the wheel.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Two to tango
The wonderful Ideamani has come up with a fantastic fundraising idea. Over to him for the details.
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Ladies and Gentlemen, give it up for "Two to Tango"- A ProjectWhy Fundraiser! You will be given a ticket for every $2 (Rs.90) you pay and you enter into a raffle.The winner will win a prize of a 100 (or Rs.4,500) dollar gift certificate.SO come join us in this wonderful event! Win for a good cause!
Ladies and Gentlemen, give it up for "Two to Tango"- A ProjectWhy Fundraiser! You will be given a ticket for every $2 (Rs.90) you pay and you enter into a raffle.The winner will win a prize of a 100 (or Rs.4,500) dollar gift certificate.SO come join us in this wonderful event! Win for a good cause!
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Register and with as little as $2 from your pocket, you make a difference in someone's life! Your registration in this raffle will buy a complete meal for a child for a week in India! I urge you all to help me in this conquest of ours and donate generously to this cause, this IS the time when you can make a difference! All the registration fees can be sent here:
http://projectwhy.org/justonerupee.htm. Kindly mention your full names and email ids in the additional notes section when you complete transaction in paypal. You will then receive your random lucky draw number via email. Additional donations can also be directed to the same paypal account.Please help us help those less fortunate.
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Please encourage your friends to participate and I would really appreciate if you could mention it in your blog. Thank you.
Friday, September 16, 2005
A quick tale 69
When you had guests over for dinner
It is a familiar dance. You will offer some more. They will say they have had enough. No, no, you will insist, do have some more. Oh, but I’m stuffed already, they will plead. Why? Was it not to your liking? you will query faking anxiety. It was delicious really, they will answer to appease. But you ate so little, you will say in mock anger. I had three helpings, they will cry. Then another spoonful at least, you will add. And they will oblige.
Except last night. When they said no the first time. You didn’t ply them with more food. And they went home a little hungry.
It is a familiar dance. You will offer some more. They will say they have had enough. No, no, you will insist, do have some more. Oh, but I’m stuffed already, they will plead. Why? Was it not to your liking? you will query faking anxiety. It was delicious really, they will answer to appease. But you ate so little, you will say in mock anger. I had three helpings, they will cry. Then another spoonful at least, you will add. And they will oblige.
Except last night. When they said no the first time. You didn’t ply them with more food. And they went home a little hungry.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
A personal request
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My friend Anouradha Bakshi writes...
Project Why is in the s**** house as we really have no funds beyond this month.http://herewego.wikispaces.org/whyOnerupee
The above explains why.. and more whys.The thing is that till date we have been working on oxygen that yours truly keep bringing, now we need lungs, and the major one is the one rupee.
My friend Sophie, a volunteer and lovely lady, said it would need 4 people to get 3 and 3 only 6 times. Now I hate chain letters and pyramid marketing but can you think of a way to put this across.
Let me confess something, I am not a great believer and yet I believe and the last few days I have been seeking help from the invisible forces.. now maybe you are just one of them!
The thing is that if I do not get the act together, many will lose their hope in life. Now, we normally pour scorn on chain letters too, and have physically removed a pyramid marketer from the premises once upon a when. But we do believe in invisible forces.
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Please visit Projectwhy to find out how you can donate. Surely we can spare one rupee a day. Thank you.
My friend Anouradha Bakshi writes...
Project Why is in the s**** house as we really have no funds beyond this month.http://herewego.wikispaces.org/whyOnerupee
The above explains why.. and more whys.The thing is that till date we have been working on oxygen that yours truly keep bringing, now we need lungs, and the major one is the one rupee.
My friend Sophie, a volunteer and lovely lady, said it would need 4 people to get 3 and 3 only 6 times. Now I hate chain letters and pyramid marketing but can you think of a way to put this across.
Let me confess something, I am not a great believer and yet I believe and the last few days I have been seeking help from the invisible forces.. now maybe you are just one of them!
The thing is that if I do not get the act together, many will lose their hope in life. Now, we normally pour scorn on chain letters too, and have physically removed a pyramid marketer from the premises once upon a when. But we do believe in invisible forces.
-
Please visit Projectwhy to find out how you can donate. Surely we can spare one rupee a day. Thank you.
A quick tale 68
Last Tuesday around the same time as a quick tale 67
You look at your watch and it's midday already. You don't want to be late for the meeting with your consultant. You park the car and walk briskly towards the office when you see her. She tries to hide but not quickly enough.
How can you forget the face from your school years? She was your closest rival. The one who lost to you every time. The one who was always at your heels, breathing down your neck. Egging you to do better.
You walk over to say hello. She enquires about your life. You say something innocuous about marriage and kids and putting a hold on career. You leave out the flourishing real estate business and the gorgeous children and the incredible husband and the disastrous first marriage.
And what about her, you ask. She talks excitedly about her job, busy life and her lack of time for relationships. She sounds happy. You exchange telephone numbers and promise to stay in touch.
You turn around and wave to her as she enters a posh restaurant. You remember a cheque you have to drop off at a charity shop. You can still make it in time for the meeting, you hope.
You look at your watch and it's midday already. You don't want to be late for the meeting with your consultant. You park the car and walk briskly towards the office when you see her. She tries to hide but not quickly enough.
How can you forget the face from your school years? She was your closest rival. The one who lost to you every time. The one who was always at your heels, breathing down your neck. Egging you to do better.
You walk over to say hello. She enquires about your life. You say something innocuous about marriage and kids and putting a hold on career. You leave out the flourishing real estate business and the gorgeous children and the incredible husband and the disastrous first marriage.
And what about her, you ask. She talks excitedly about her job, busy life and her lack of time for relationships. She sounds happy. You exchange telephone numbers and promise to stay in touch.
You turn around and wave to her as she enters a posh restaurant. You remember a cheque you have to drop off at a charity shop. You can still make it in time for the meeting, you hope.
Monday, September 12, 2005
A quick tale 67
One lunch time last week
It’s Tuesday and you step out for a bite during lunch hour. You see her first. You recognise the face as one from your school years. Your rival. The one you lost to each time. In maths exams. In spelling competitions. In lemon-and-spoon races. Yes, the ONE.
You think of hiding but it's too late. She spots you and comes over to greet. So how have you been, you enquire. Oh the usual, she answers, marriage, babies, career-on-hold, things like that. Huge mortgage, crippling debt and a philandering husband, you add mentally.
And what have you been up to, she asks. Great job, fantastic prospects, frequent trips abroad, hectic partying, no time to settle down, you reply. Making it all sound unnecessarily glamorous.
Then you pull out your fancy mobile and note down her number. You promise to stay in touch and head for the restaurant. She turns around, waves and steps into a charity shop. I'll treat myself to a glass of wine today, you tell yourself.
It’s Tuesday and you step out for a bite during lunch hour. You see her first. You recognise the face as one from your school years. Your rival. The one you lost to each time. In maths exams. In spelling competitions. In lemon-and-spoon races. Yes, the ONE.
You think of hiding but it's too late. She spots you and comes over to greet. So how have you been, you enquire. Oh the usual, she answers, marriage, babies, career-on-hold, things like that. Huge mortgage, crippling debt and a philandering husband, you add mentally.
And what have you been up to, she asks. Great job, fantastic prospects, frequent trips abroad, hectic partying, no time to settle down, you reply. Making it all sound unnecessarily glamorous.
Then you pull out your fancy mobile and note down her number. You promise to stay in touch and head for the restaurant. She turns around, waves and steps into a charity shop. I'll treat myself to a glass of wine today, you tell yourself.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
A quick tale 66
Blame
She was sorry his coffee was not hot enough. She regretted that their food was so cold. She apologised for the weather not being good. Wasn’t she sad that their car had broken down. Surely it was her fault that their son had not passed the exam. How terrible she felt that the bank had not approved their loan. She took responsibility for the trains being late. And the baby being born early. And the government bans and the traffic jams. It was all down to her. It’s my mistake, it’s my mistake, it’s all my mistake, she admitted. When really, she couldn’t give a damn. A rat’s ass. Or a row of pins.
She was sorry his coffee was not hot enough. She regretted that their food was so cold. She apologised for the weather not being good. Wasn’t she sad that their car had broken down. Surely it was her fault that their son had not passed the exam. How terrible she felt that the bank had not approved their loan. She took responsibility for the trains being late. And the baby being born early. And the government bans and the traffic jams. It was all down to her. It’s my mistake, it’s my mistake, it’s all my mistake, she admitted. When really, she couldn’t give a damn. A rat’s ass. Or a row of pins.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
A quick tale 65
Sometime during the 4th round
‘What is the capital of Burundi?’ boomed the quizmaster.
Who cares? he thought. No, strike that. Who the bleeding fuck cares? What purpose does the capital of Burundi serve apart from making occasional appearances in corporate quizzes like this one? Have you ever met anyone that has been to Burundi? Or visited its questionable capital city? Who comes up with these questions? What is the point of this quiz? Why are we here? What is the reason for life?
He had a sudden, overwhelming urge to pull his pants down, haul his shirt over his head and run around the stage deranged shouting ‘Burundi! Burundi!’
‘Bujumbura’, answered team C.
‘What is the capital of Burundi?’ boomed the quizmaster.
Who cares? he thought. No, strike that. Who the bleeding fuck cares? What purpose does the capital of Burundi serve apart from making occasional appearances in corporate quizzes like this one? Have you ever met anyone that has been to Burundi? Or visited its questionable capital city? Who comes up with these questions? What is the point of this quiz? Why are we here? What is the reason for life?
He had a sudden, overwhelming urge to pull his pants down, haul his shirt over his head and run around the stage deranged shouting ‘Burundi! Burundi!’
‘Bujumbura’, answered team C.
Friday, September 02, 2005
A quick tale 64
One hot afternoon
You are sitting in a café alone. All by yourself. Feeling terribly sorry. That you have to pour your own tea, stir milk into it. With no one to offer sugar and for you to say ‘no sugar. Thank you’. You are sipping the hot brew when the waiter catches your eye. So you make a bet with yourself. If he walks over to your table and asks ‘anything else, sir?’ you will get a girl in the next six months. But if he does not, you are condemned to a life of solitude. He ambles along, stopping to smoothen a tablecloth. Then he clears a recently vacated table. Come over and ask me, you mentally beckon him. Mustering all the psychic powers inside you. He does not seem to get the message and starts to walk back to the kitchen. You start to panic. May be you are going to be condemned to a life of bachelorhood. No girlfriend, no wife and certainly no counselling to save your 8-year marriage. You are going to be drinking tea on your own with no one to offer sugar. ‘Garçon!’ you call out.
You are sitting in a café alone. All by yourself. Feeling terribly sorry. That you have to pour your own tea, stir milk into it. With no one to offer sugar and for you to say ‘no sugar. Thank you’. You are sipping the hot brew when the waiter catches your eye. So you make a bet with yourself. If he walks over to your table and asks ‘anything else, sir?’ you will get a girl in the next six months. But if he does not, you are condemned to a life of solitude. He ambles along, stopping to smoothen a tablecloth. Then he clears a recently vacated table. Come over and ask me, you mentally beckon him. Mustering all the psychic powers inside you. He does not seem to get the message and starts to walk back to the kitchen. You start to panic. May be you are going to be condemned to a life of bachelorhood. No girlfriend, no wife and certainly no counselling to save your 8-year marriage. You are going to be drinking tea on your own with no one to offer sugar. ‘Garçon!’ you call out.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Projectwhy Short Story Competition
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It's really quite simple. You mail me a short story of maximum 200 words, send your entry fee of just Rs.100 (or its equivalent) to Projectwhy and you could win £10 gift voucher from Amazon! If you're in the UK, you could win a £10 voucher from M&S.
The theme for the competition is 'childhood' and the last date for submission is 30th of September 2005. I'll put up the 3 short-listed stories on this blog and you get to decide the winner. You can send however many entries you want. If you cannot pay the entry fee, then any small sum will do.
This is your chance to become world famous. Okay, okay, famous among a handful of people. So get cracking and send your stories to ammania@gmail.com
Thank you.
It's really quite simple. You mail me a short story of maximum 200 words, send your entry fee of just Rs.100 (or its equivalent) to Projectwhy and you could win £10 gift voucher from Amazon! If you're in the UK, you could win a £10 voucher from M&S.
The theme for the competition is 'childhood' and the last date for submission is 30th of September 2005. I'll put up the 3 short-listed stories on this blog and you get to decide the winner. You can send however many entries you want. If you cannot pay the entry fee, then any small sum will do.
This is your chance to become world famous. Okay, okay, famous among a handful of people. So get cracking and send your stories to ammania@gmail.com
Thank you.
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