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.