Wednesday, December 05, 2007

I swear I’m lying

It’s funny how you sometimes see two people sitting side by side and they are a study in contrast. Today I was captioning a Parkinson show and first there was Sharon Osbourne, looking stunningly beautiful and admitting freely that she has had innumerable plastic surgeries done to her body because she is so insecure about her looks. She very honestly admits that she doesn’t seem to be able to respect the body that she has been given, to the extent that she had botox shots just before appearing on the interview. She was remarkably candid about that aspect of her life.

And then came in model Sophie Dahl, young, drop-dead gorgeous and the first thing she says is that she doesn’t think she is beautiful. With a practiced smile, an affected accent and carefully upturned lips, she says she was a deeply ugly child and she doesn’t know that she is beautiful now either. So, here’s a girl who thought she was ugly and so decided to become a model. How much would you lie to seem modest? I wonder what Osbourne was thinking just then.

Monday, November 26, 2007

Beware, you Russians!

There was a program on ABC this morning about poisons used for assassinations. The presenter says, “Poison for assassination is an unfamiliar tool in the West. But in Russia, people have been poisoning each other since the Middle Ages.”

I thought that sounded really funny. Like a scene from ‘Spy vs Spy’ in MAD magazine, with shifty eyed blond Russian spies sneakily dropping poison into each others’ cups, constantly keeling over and up again on their feet with a snigger, putting yet another poison in yet another meal.

Sunday, November 04, 2007

Please handle with care

Why does everyone toy around with my heart and toss it into the recycle bin each time? (By everyone, I don’t mean it literally of course.)

Rumi said, Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it. But is it any wonder that I have built massive walls all around my heart if each time I let people in, they very considerately shred it to bits?

I came across a beautiful silence some time back. I knew it from the distant past. So far back that I had forgotten about its existence. It just crept into my evening so quietly, so stealthily. Like the twilight changes into a velvety night even as you watch the moon rising slowly. It does not take you by surprise. Just feels very comforting and familiar, as if it never left you.

And now, it’s gone again. Why did it come back for such a fleeting moment? Where is it gone now?

Too many questions? But I really need some answers. Perhaps the Universe reads my blog.

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Loo poem

Speaking of plumbing with personalities, our office ladies’ toilet too is highly individualistic. The flush runs continuously. There is a trick to it. So, the other day, one of the girls in the office put up a notice on the side of the flush which had the following written:

“Toilet water continuously running.

Press button to flush

then once again quickly to stop running.”


Later, someone had scribbled on the top: “Is this haiku?”

I strongly suspected it was Sarah. I asked her and my suspicions were confirmed. She said she found the writing almost peaceful. Sarah Hoskin is one of the funniest girls I have met.

Sunday, October 21, 2007

Home is where the showerhead is

Spent a week in lovely Tasmania. It’s a place out of the world.

But was I glad to come back home to my bathroom. I love my bathroom. It’s the best in the world. My shower is a bit temperamental, it’s true. But it was nice to be back fiddling with the knobs all the while. The water has to be just the right pressure or else the flow slows down to a trickle, or else gushes with a force that threatens to peel off your skin. Same with the temperature. Only at a critical pressure is the water a good mix of hot and cold. A degree, nay a second more to the left, and the water scalds you. Similarly in the other direction, and the water is freezing. It is all made even more sublimely complex because there are two knobs to be manipulated. I think I am the only one who loves the whole phenomenon. Showering in my bathroom is probably a daily torture for everyone else.

But as a shayar said,

Kisne jaana hai badalte hue mausam ka misaaj
Usko chaaho to samajh paaoge fitrat uski.

Sunday, October 14, 2007

A week later...

“The coffee is nice and hot. The cake is yummy.”

“I am glad you like it.”

“Yes, it is very cosy and warm here. The flowers are so pretty, and look at those little noisy birds!”

“Do you go to cafes often?”

“I used to…”

“Right.”

A very comfortable silence as both drink their coffee. It is very peaceful and feels very safe.

“Stranger, would you like to have another coffee with me?”

“Um…sure. But can you give me a minute? I have to go somewhere. I’ll be right back.”

“OK.”

“See you then. Goodbye.”

“Will you be back?”

“Goodbye.”

..leaving behind someone very confused and bewildered.

So, it is back into the little dark corner now.

Sunday, October 07, 2007

I don’t want to go out

“Go outside for a bit. Do you good.”

“No. It’s too cold out there.”

“No, it’s not. I’m sure it’s not.”

“It is. I did try stepping out earlier. And before that. It is always cold.”

“Perhaps it was yesterday. Look now. It might be better.”

“I know it will not be better. I have tried too many times. Let me just stay in my little room and read a book.”

“But you need fresh air and sunshine.”

“Yes. But there is a bitter draught blowing outside and the sun is too weak. I’d rather just stay here in my bed.”

It went on like this for a long time.

Then one day…

“Um…hello, stranger.”

“Hello. Nice day out here.”

“Perhaps. But I think I’ll stay here in my room and talk to you from my window, if you don’t mind.”

“As you wish. Did you sleep well?”

“Not really. The doctor says I should go outside and get some exercise and build up an appetite. That will help me eat and sleep better. But it is very cold outside.”

“It is not too bad, actually. In fact I passed a fine and cosy café at the last bend. Very quaint, with colourful flowers in window boxes and a little fountain in the courtyard. There are some yummy cakes too.”

“Really?”

Pause.

“Is it too far down the road?”

“Oh no. Just round the bend that you can see if you lean out a bit.”

“Uh, yes. I think I see it.”



“If you came to your doorstep I think you’ll even be able to see the fountain.”

“Alright. I can come up to the door.”

“See the mass of blue? Those are the flowers in the first window box. The others you can’t see are a lovely yellow, red and white.”

“Oh… Well, I think I’ll grab my jacket and come and have a look. You will not take my jacket away from me, will you?”

“Of course not. Would you like to have some coffee?”

“Yes, that sounds good. In fact, I think I can vaguely remember having been to that café once a long, long time ago.”

“It hasn’t changed much all these years, you know. I do like going there all the time. Very warm and quiet and peaceful. Here, let me help you with your jacket.”

”Ouch, I think I am getting a shoe bite. You see, I have not walked in these shoes for a long, long time.”

“It will bite a bit and then stop. Don’t worry. And the café is not far anyway.”

Small, unsure steps.

“You look a little bothered with the breeze whipping your hair about. Here, wear my cap.”

The fear subsides a bit. The ache in the heels ease a little.

“Roll down the sleeves of your jacket. That way you won’t feel too cold. And walk slowly so that your shoes don’t hurt you too much. We’re in no hurry.”

And so they walked down to the café for the much needed nourishment of body and soul.

Tuesday, October 02, 2007

Sorry, I didn’t catch your name…

Samuel Goldwyn (He of the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer fame among other things) is supposed to have said to a friend once, "Why did you name your son John? Every Tom, Dick, and Harry is named John".

I would like to play the friend’s advocate here.

A few months ago, I was at the birthday party of my friend’s little girl. It was a bachcha party consisting solely of mothers and their children, and I was the only one with no child of her own. Young mums all over the place with their little kids screaming and shouting and fighting, and generally keeping the atmosphere lively and ripe for an economy-size headache. Being the ultra-polite girl that I was, I spoke to the proud mums, asking about their kids and trying to look wondrously surprised and pleased as the mum pointed at her little one in the brood. So in this manner, I was wading along the sea of mothers and stopped at yet another one.

“That is my girl there, in the pink frock.”

There were about 3-4 girls in pink, including the birthday girl. For some reason, all little girls in this country seem to wear only pink, I know not why. Anyway, I made the usual gushing sounds along the lines of, “Oh, she is sooo cute!” and so on.

Then I asked, “What’s her name?”

“Noosa.”

“Sorry? Noosa?”

“Yes.” The smile on the proud mum’s face hitched up a notch or two. “We conceived her when we went to Noosa for our honeymoon. So, we named her Noosa.”

I wasn’t very sure if I was supposed to say “Oh, what a lovely name!” I let the silence hang in the air like a dangling sword rather than lie so blatantly.

Now, for those who are not familiar with the geography of Australia, Noosa is a popular sea-side holiday town in Queensland. All I can say is, thank goodness the girl wasn’t conceived in Kalgoorlie or Dubbo. When I was in Perth, I always used to say that when I have kids, I will name them after two suburbs of Perth – Mirrabooka and Kalamunda. Who knew that my little joke would travel along the ethereal machinations of fate and crystallize into cruel reality for a little girl many miles away?

Noosa Chakrapani.

Why do parents give such names to their kids? What are they thinking when they do it? Is it just another way of living your life through your child’s?

“Oh, I could not become a doctor. So I want my child to be one when she grows up. I don’t care that her music teacher says she is gifted.”

“Oh, my parents gave me such a boring old name like Shanta. So let me give my child an exotic name. I think Miami sounds good.”

Little Miami grows up and as soon as she turns 18, a declaration appears in the local newspapers, “I, Miami Arvind Patil, do hereby declare that I change my name to Kanta Arvind Patil.” So much for Shanta’s dreams.

How many children have to go through the torment of odd names, not only at the hands of bullying school mates, but even more mercilessly, though more subtly, in adult life too? A distant cousin of mine was named Vamana. Sure it is one of the names of Vishnu, but everyone knows it to be a synonym for a dwarf. Thankfully, he was given two names and now he goes by his second name, Trivikram. His first cousins were named Kshitisha and Kritartha. Even the doctor couldn’t help but wonder aloud why they were labeled with such tongue-twisters.

And thusly I rest my case, Mr Goldwyn.

I am going to give my kids the safest, most boring names on earth. Something on the lines of all my cousins and I - Rohit, Ravi, Sarita, Rekha, Shrikant, Kanti, Jyoti. Kailash. I’d rather have my children be mildly annoyed with me than hate me downright.

Saturday, September 15, 2007

Can you kiss an accent?

A good thing about my job is, I get to hear a lot of different world accents. And Australia itself has people from all parts of the world.

Most people find the Italian accent very sexy. But I have had quite a few Italian guys trying to hit on me and so I have now come to associate it with unwanted advances. I hear a guy speaking to me with an Italian accent, I am immediately on my guard.

I personally love the Irish accent. I could listen to a guy talking with a broad Irish accent forever. Only thing is, I wouldn’t understand anything of what he said. Yes, even when he is talking in English. Nevertheless, I wouldn’t want him to stop talking. Please note that I keep saying ‘he’. The exact same accent in a woman, I wouldn’t care much for. Oh, and one of my fantasies is to kiss a handsome Irish guy while he is talking ;)

I just heard the Welsh accent for the first time today. (Where do all the Welsh people hide? Even in British programs, you find the English, the Scots, the Irish, but almost never a Welshperson) It is a bit like an understandable version of the Irish accent. The Scottish accent is kind of sweet but after a while, the sing-song tone gets on my nerves.

And I love the accent of educated Indians who do not communicate primarily in English. Like most of our parents and uncles and aunts. A beautiful example is Shri S N Goenkaji. Irony is that the average foreign person will understand them much better than our cosmopolitan accents simply because they speak more slowly and clearly.

The Aussie accent? Love it, mate! Aussie, Aussie, Aussie! Oi, oi, oi!

Friday, September 07, 2007

Afternoons...

Remember we used to be asked to write essays in school titled, ‘If I was the prime minister of the country’?

Well, if I were the leader of this world, I would ban the time of the day between 1pm and 4pm.

All afternoons with their morphia-like lethargy and stupor-inducing, meaningless existences with the time passing like warm tar crawling uphill, and when the mind just refuses to acknowledge even the spark of a hope of activity and it is so hard to believe that there can be such things as the bright and cheery mornings or the vivacious nights issued to us alongside the afternoons.

Thank the good Lord for coffee. Even instant coffee.

And yes, this was written in the afternoon.

Tuesday, August 07, 2007

The next train to arrive on platform 1 goes to...

My friend asked me, “What are you reading currently?”

I said, “The train timetable.”

“Ah. What do you think of it?”

“Well, I am not able to decide which category it falls in - fiction or mythology.”

“If you ask me, it is just false propaganda.”

Really, why do the trains behave like they have a different agenda altogether? It is with great reluctance that they carry us to our desired destinations. Every now and then I hear the disjointed computer announcements saying with an air of supreme indifference (Understandable. After all, even computers are entitled to some apathy), “The 8:23 service to Gordon is delayed by approximately 45 minutes” (Hooray! I’ll not be more than an hour late to work today!) or, “The 7:18 service to Mcarthur has been cancelled” (That means I will have to miss tonight’s dinner party. I will spend the rest of the day trying to find the bright side of this.)

A few Sundays back I was waiting at one of the smaller train stations for a train to town. It was too small to be blessed with regular arrival announcements or indicators. There was only an extremely complicated timetable with a system of colour coding and numbering, which, if you knew advanced calculus, told you which train came on what platform at what time. After about 15 minutes of figuring out the timetable, I concluded that my train was due at 10 minutes past the hour. Well alright, I was exaggerating. Maybe not 15 minutes. 13 at the outside.

A train had passed by already while I was calculating, but I tried to believe that it was not mine.

I waited. And waited. The 10 past was long past. A goods train rumbled by. An express train zipped past. Well, not zipped, exactly. Sydney trains go at a majestic pace. Bloody waste of precious time, but bloody majestic.

Every two minutes, the station master would play the message: “Please stand behind the yellow lines. Please mind the gap when boarding or alighting from a train.” Fine, but where is the train to board or alight from? Perhaps that express train was actually a regular train and the driver just forgot to stop. It has happened once, I swear.

I was in a western line train when I noticed that some passengers at the door got a bit flustered and then came the announcement, “Ladies and gentlemen, the driver forgot to stop at Auburn station. We regret the mistake. But he WILL be stopping at Lidcombe station.” Thank God for small mercies. Everyone was too aghast to say anything.

Anyway, the train did come eventually. Perhaps the timetable is fiction loosely based on actual fact.

Monday, August 06, 2007

Did I forget something?

I haven’t used my credit card in ages and ages. Last month for the first time, I was shown an outstanding amount of $20 which was the annual fees for the card.

I forgot to pay because most of the times I don’t even remember that I own a credit card. Finally today I remembered and logged on only to find that the bank charged me $35 as late fees yesterday. How frustrating is that? Paying 175% (or whatever…do the maths) interest on the annual fees of a card I have not used more than 5 times in five years. All because I forgot about it one day more than I was allowed to.

When I got to thinking about it, I realized that I have been putting too many reminders in my phone of late. And most of the times I forget the task in spite of that.

That got me thinking about absent-mindedness. Now Mother is constantly reminding me how my memory is worse than that of a 90-year-old. But why? Then I remembered, a lot of the folks on my father’s side are that way. Does it run in the family? Can absent-mindedness be hereditary? I googled it. One of the search results was a site that said that absent-mindedness can be a cute trait. Obviously not the site I am looking for. Cute! Tell that to my mother and my aunts who have to deal with a bunch of forgetful men and children (I think it is hereditary).

Opened up a couple of websites (University websites, no less). Not helpful.

Then there was a US government website of medicine and health. Looked more promising. Opened the page and it listed a number of research articles. Did a ctrl-F to look for absent-mindedness. Ah, there it was!

The title read: “Absent-mindedness and shop-lifting - a case study”.

Umm…next.

The next one was: “Alleged shoplifters and psychiatric outpatients: drugs, absent-mindedness and mental state compared”.

Right…

If you think about it, I don’t think absent-mindedness is such a big deal anyway. I mean, if it was, surely there would be counselling centres for abused family members of affected people, or Absents Anonymous and things like that, isn’t it?

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

More thoughts on coffee

Opening the coffee tin in my office pantry today brought to mind a little event of my life from long back.

My aunt, Shashi chikki brought a jar of granulated coffee from Bahrain. Nescafe Gold, I think it was. The description said those were “coffee crystals”. Now every science student knows the difference between crystalline and amorphous substances, right? Who were they fooling? But this thing was so…nice, that I forgave them that mistake. The “crystals” were beautiful, with a matte finish, like miniature asteroids. I would place a few on my tongue and feel them melting. People in the past have witnessed the dawn of new eras, like the industrial era, or the Hippies era. I witnessed the granulated coffee era. The internet phenomenon was nothing compared to it.

This must have been, what, 8-10 years ago. It was the first time I had seen granulated coffee. Up until then, I had only seen powdered instant coffee. Well, to begin with I hardly ever saw instant coffee in any form, as none of our families had it. The only memories I have of instant coffee in my childhood are occasional glimpses of a little bottle of Bru, the contents inevitably turned into a solid block because powdered coffee hardens so easily, and the jar was hardly used anyway. Just kept there for “emergencies” that never came because the trusty filter coffee never let us down.

The coffee filter always has its own place on the kitchen platform, usually in a corner. Invariably, it is a battered and bruised thing, which means it is a well-loved instrument. I don’t remember seeing a shiny new one in any kitchen. I think a coffee filter is born bruised and battered, just like some people seem to be born old. I think my South Indian traits assert themselves strongest when it comes to coffee. Even now, I can’t help but be taken aback, and even feel a slight sense of betrayal when I encounter a South Indian household without a coffee filter or any other form of brewing apparatus.

There are some things you just don’t give up, no matter what.

Never.

Ever.

Monday, July 23, 2007

A random observation or two

The other day my friend said, “Coffee? A new one by Nescafe. Got just half the caffeine.”

“Half the caffeine? Then please put twice the amount in my mug.”

Why would I want to drink coffee with low caffeine or no caffeine? What is coffee without caffeine? Decaf coffee tastes bad too, so you can’t even say you drink it for the taste of it.

Instant coffee is bad enough. But I do admit I drink the detergent at work because I cannot afford to spend six bucks everyday on real coffee. At work, it is purely for the caffeine.

And today I was working on a program called ‘New Inventors’ on the ABC channel. A man has invented an exhaust fume diverter for horse trailers so that the horses don’t breathe in the vehicle fumes while they are being transported. One of the panelists in the program who are supposed to scrutinize every invention on the show, and examine it from all angles, and generally try to look very intelligent, asks the inventor, “What research is being done on transported horses being affected by carbon monoxide?”

The inventor, a horse-lover, was quiet for a long moment and then said, “Uh...I'm aware of my own research,” and explains a few technical points and concludes with, “But in a nutshell, what common sense would dictate, actually happens in those trailers.” The look on his face told it all.

Do these ‘expert’ panelists really think about the questions they ask? Or are they just filling in the empty space with noise, hoping it sounds like a clever observation? Do we need research to prove every little thing? Is common sense such a disposable trait nowadays?

If that panelist saw me on the road having a fit, he would probably say, “There hasn’t been enough research done on helping Indian females on Australian roads. Better not do anything to help her.”

Sure, trust the researchers. All these years they said vitamin C fights the common cold, and now all of a sudden, nope. Sorry. Throw all those lemons away. New research shows that vitamin C has no significant effect on the common cold.

So, what can cure the common cold? The answer is a lemon.

Tuesday, May 29, 2007

Rainy days and Mondays...

Nowadays I seem to have been allotted my very own personal little cloud that hangs over me all the time, assiduously raining over my parade. Very dutiful bugger of a cloud, I should say. Never a bright moment. And as a special treat, every now and then, it also puts up a little thunder and lightning show to make for an especially depressing time.

I think this is to make up for the months of bright sunshine I had last year. Hey, that means, I am due for that patch of sunshine soon once again! Yay!

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

I am smiling all day today

Today as I was on my way to the station to get to work, as usual, I was passing through the Honda car showroom. And this guy was standing there, having a coffee. He had a toolkit with him, so I assumed he was a mechanic or something. He said to me as I passed by, "Smile all day today. Trust me." I looked at him and said, "Thanks. And you too." He said, "I will." And I was on my way, and he was back drinking his coffee.

And the world was a little bit different. A little bit brighter, a little bit warmer (I actually had to take off my jacket after a while), and a little bit funnier too.