tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21249069827855275602024-02-08T05:08:18.355+05:30A Touch of TabascoTurning the mundane into a fiascoBasically Blahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03995493281302773762noreply@blogger.comBlogger159125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2124906982785527560.post-23035708147685389582020-10-31T10:50:00.006+05:302020-10-31T17:42:24.430+05:30That Time I was Forced to Kiss an Old Man (I was 6)<div style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #454545;">Bet that title grabbed your attention, didn’t it? That’s why you’re here - astonished, disgusted, sympathetic and or just plain hungry for a bit of gossip. Well, now that I’ve got your attention, here’s the story with every sordid detail.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="color: #454545;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="color: #454545;"><br /></span></span><span>I was six in a boarding school tucked away amongst the woods on a blue mountain. It was Halloween. For the seniors of the school, this was an exciting time. They got to arrange a spooky party, dress up (mostly as witches for some reason) and scare the living daylights out of their juniors who were forced to attend it. Although they went easier on the junior-most kids, most of whom were terrified and in tears the moment they stepped into the eerily decorated hall, they would make a beeline for the braver and feisty ones. It was good-natured bullying. And I, being somewhat sassy and precocious, was already a marked child.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div><div style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span><span>We’d heard the tales. Anything could happen during these parties. Things could get <i>pretty wild</i>. People had been locked in trunks. Almost every year, someone accidentally set their hair on fire. And one year, the police showed up because some smart arse decided to ring the school chapel bell at midnight. Hearing the bell tolling at midnight alarmed the gentle and caring townsfolk down the hill. Thinking there was trouble at the school and someone was ringing the bell for help, they summoned the police. Halloween parties were banned thereafter.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div><div style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span><span>As I stepped into the dimly lit smoky hall with the windows all blacked out, I took in the painstaking decorations – the hall had been transformed into a spooky woods of sorts. There were trees, rocks, candles, ‘burning embers’, creepers, artificial bats, cobwebs – the whole shebang really; you get my drift. And right in the midst of it all, was the pièce de résistance – a dingy little cave with a rickety chair placed in the middle. I knew it had my name on it.</span></span></div><div style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span><span>A coven of witches descended upon me, cackling away, dangling rubber spiders and snakes in my face and demanding to know if I was scared already. I sniggered. A mistake. I was quickly dragged off to the dingy cave and unceremoniously pushed into the chair.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div><div style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span><span>“We’re not going to let you go!” they shrieked. I was a bit perturbed. Not out of fear but the dank and slightly musty smell – some of their costumes were out of the school’s drama costume cupboard which was rarely aired out. These witches, they smelt of mothballs and neglect.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div><div style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span><span><br /></span><span>“We will not let you go until you kiss HIM!” they reiterated and pointed behind me. </span></span><span>Surprised, for I thought I was alone in the cave, I spun around in my chair and noticed HIM for the first time.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div><div style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Sitting there quietly, his bony arms resting on an emaciated lap with a cigarette between his knobbly fingers, his spindly legs crossed, all his yellowing teeth displayed in a grimace and hollows of madness where his eyes should have been. There, in all his osseous glory, sat the skeleton from the Biology lab.</span></span></div><div style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span><span>Now I was perturbed. This was not how I’d imagined my first kiss. This man – or what was left of him – was far too old for me or for anyone living, really. And yet, kissing him was my only way out of this cave with the shrieking teenagers blocking the exit.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div><div style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span><span>“Kiss him! Kiss him!” The witches were now chanting. I kept shaking my head, refusing with a growing sense of revulsion for my skeletal companion. Seeing as how we’d reached an impasse on the negotiations, one of the witches decided to end the stalemate. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div><div style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Reaching over, she plucked something from the languid skeleton. And then I had a bone shoved in my face. It could have been an ulna. Or a radius. I was in no mood for the finer details. The incessant shrieking and the rank odours abounding had assaulted my senses enough.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div><div style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I did it. Holding my breath, I kissed the bone. Triumphant screeching laughter rang out as I dashed out of the cave, not once looking back at the gaunt recipient of my affections who was, no doubt, having his bone reattached.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div><div style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And that, folks, is how I, as a young innocent child, was forced to kiss a fossil of a man. Or woman. I never checked.</span></div><div style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">For the next 10 years, I’d look into the glass cupboard in the Biology lab and know that we had a history – just me and that grinning skeleton. A secret from beyond the grave.</span></div><div style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #454545; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Happy Halloween!</span></div><p style="text-align: left;"></p>Basically Blahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03995493281302773762noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2124906982785527560.post-60679958885026288752020-03-04T13:04:00.000+05:302020-03-04T13:30:18.239+05:30A Post For My Favourite Uncle: Of Banana Peels & Dog Poop<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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My Uncle A passed away recently. It wasn’t unexpected for we saw him deteriorating slowly over months – a losing battle with cancer that he’d fought valiantly well for a long time. But that doesn't make the loss any easier. With his demise, I felt the loss of a kindred spirit though I often joked that he had to be my favourite uncle only because he was my only uncle. Of everything else, the things we shared most in common was a penchant for good humour, a weakness for practical jokes and a fondness for beer. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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And so it was that several years ago, we decided to prank my Cousin U and his wife AP when we went to visit them at their house. Amongst Uncle A’s many talents was the ability to mould squished, blackened banana peels into the most remarkable likeness of dog turds. Before our visit, we sat at home, laboriously crafting these fruity ‘turds’ under his expert guidance. Once done, we left them to air dry and blacken nicely.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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AP, ever the hospitable hostess, fussed over us at their place. It was the first time she was meeting this uncle and she was determined to ensure everything went well. There was excellent food and drink and general bonhomie. Brandy, their delightful Golden Retriever, bounded excitedly around us.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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As the afternoon wore on, Uncle A discreetly placed the ‘turds’ on the floor, very close to where Brandy sat with his tail wagging furiously. He then sneakily veered the conversation towards Indian cities and pollution. Cousin U and AP agreed that our cities were dirty and pitiable.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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“Bangalore really stinks, doesn’t it?” said Uncle A. “In fact, I can smell something shitty right now.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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I agreed and shot a disgusted look out the open windows even as I battled an awful feeling of laughter bubbling up inside me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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Uncle A continued sniffing the air theatrically, a revolted expression on his face. Then he looked directly at the ‘turds’ and exclaimed, “Oh! Your dog has pooped here!”</div>
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Cousin U and AP were horrified. Brandy looked even more thrilled that everyone’s attention seemed to be directed at him and became more boisterous. Cousin U tried to reprimand him for his indiscipline, but Brandy just looked pleased as punch, showing no remorse for the crime he’d been accused of.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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AP looked stricken and prepared to clear up the mess, apologising profusely and insisting that this was very uncharacteristic of Brandy. “No, no, don’t worry about it,” said Uncle A reassuringly. As a harried AP approached to clean up the mess, he added “We really love dogs, don’t worry”. And then, without any further ado, he leaned over and picked up the ‘turds’ with his bare hands and proffered them to her. AP visibly blanched in sheer horror.</div>
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At this point, Cousin U had caught on and began to laugh, as did everyone else in the room.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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Uncle A, wherever you are now, I’d like to say “Rest in peace” but I know you’d find that terribly boring. Instead, I wish you well and hope you are surrounded by plenty of banana peels, dogs, and gullible people with intact funny bones. I’ll catch up to you when my time comes. It’ll be easy I think – I’ll just follow the trail of laughter and sheepish souls slapping their foreheads in realisation. Keep our cold beers ready like you always did, okay?</div>
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Basically Blahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03995493281302773762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2124906982785527560.post-76833351516911053672019-10-28T15:40:00.000+05:302019-10-28T15:40:56.166+05:30Excuse me, I'd like to order a snake<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The last time I posted was last year? Eeks! I haven’t exactly abandoned this blog. In my defence, I have checked on it from time to time to see whether I put any new posts up. I haven’t, clearly.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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I was at the annual day celebration of a non-profit animal organisation last week. It was a series of speeches and videos covering the events of the past year. I sat up eagerly when a wildlife veterinarian strode up to speak. Wildlife vets have the best job in the world in my opinion. Not the easiest, for sure, but they have my admiration and respect – and a dash of envy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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She regaled the audience with tales of rescues – birds, little rodents, tortoises and snakes all enmeshed in the tangles of our urban jungle. She went on to educate the audience about snakes, the need to avoid killing them on sight, and the usefulness of snakes like Rat Snakes that curb vermin. She ended by reminding us that wildlife must be respected – they’re not pets.</div>
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Soon after this, there was a buffet lunch. As I made my way across to the lunch area, I stumbled across a lady that lives in my neighbourhood. We exchanged pleasantries before she said, “You know, I’m waiting to speak to one of the people from the welfare group.”</div>
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“Oh,” I said, noticing that she looked quite antsy. “What about?”</div>
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“You know I have a huge garden, right?” she asked. I said yes, recalling she has a massive garden, teeming with trees and flowering creepers.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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“I want to ask them how I can introduce a Rat Snake into my garden.”</div>
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“There are so many rats in my garden. I was wondering how I can get a Rat Snake into my garden to control the rats. May be they could release a Rat Snake in my garden?”</div>
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I could feel little ripples of laughter gurgling up to the surface. “You should probably ask the wildlife vet,” I suggested, hoping I could be privy to that conversation when it happened. Seeing as how my words clearly seemed to fortify her notion that she’d had a brainwave, I added warmly, “You have a lovely garden. Any Rat Snake would be happy there.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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Unfortunately, I wasn’t privy to the request for a Rat Snake, but I would give anything to find out how that went down.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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Basically Blahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03995493281302773762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2124906982785527560.post-72635403473041982482018-06-03T19:59:00.000+05:302018-06-03T20:01:06.845+05:30Don’t Get Mad, Get Lost<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Over a late Sunday lunch today, nibbling at comfort food, my friend KO and I got around to reminiscing about <a href="http://a-saltedpeanut.blogspot.com/2011/10/tidbits-from-thailand.html" target="_blank">a trip we took to Thailand</a> some years ago.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We had a couple of days to kill in Bangkok. So of course, KO being KO awoke one morning and declared, “I must see the River Kwai or I will die.” (I am prone to exaggeration so shush!)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And so we toddled over to our nearest tourist information centre and asked the lady there how to get to the River Kwai. Her eyes turned to saucers as she exclaimed, “Kwaiiiii?!”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Yes,” said I, thinking that this trip would probably take a few hours by bus. We could hop on in Bangkok, hop off at the River Kwai, KO would stare solemnly at the water and declare her will to live and we could all go about our normal Bangkok business by the early evening.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As if!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My heart sank as the lady traced a long, meandering line across the map to indicate where we’d have to travel. It was absolutely miles away. No direct buses. This was going to take a while. She scrawled a name in Thai on a piece of paper and handed it to us, telling us to show that scrap to people on the first bus out who’d then help with further direction. This was before Google Maps and great internet connectivity became a thing, by the way.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">To date I have no idea what was on that scrap of paper, just that I hung onto it with every fibre of my being. After a bit of bumbling around, we made our way onto a local bus and showed the conductress, a middle-aged loud-voiced lady, the paper. She gave us our tickets.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We stayed seated on that bus for a very long time, an ominous feeling gathering heavier about us as we got further and further out of the city. Finally, multiple stops later, I tugged at the conductress’ sleeve as she walked past and pointed to the scrap of paper. She went ballistic and gestured and wailed and pointed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Yes, we had clearly overshot our stop by miles. We hopped off the bus with the conductress’ voice ringing in our ears and flagged a cab back to a bus/van station we’d seen a little way behind. Wandering into the van station, we realised to our horror that nobody spoke any English. All we had was our scrap of paper and a lot of gesturing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The details get fuzzy at this point as it has been quite a few years since this happened. There were a lot of people gathered around us – cabbies, some van personnel and some curious bystanders. There was a lot of gesturing and shouting – for some reason people thought that the louder they shouted in Thai, the higher the probability that we’d understand. Some paper drawings and dumb charades later, we had a vague idea of what the recommended plan of action was.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And then we were on our way in a van with a bunch of strangers. We had no clue where we were headed or how we’d make it back to Bangkok. I think we switched vans or hopped into another cab somewhere. We relentlessly pressed on, determined to get to Kwai come what may.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Finally, we made it to a busy bazaar of sorts. There were rows of stalls selling trinkets and junk jewellery, enthusiastic hawkers and even more enthusiastic cycle rickshaw guys. With some relief, we realised we were closer to a touristic area and people here spoke and understood a smidge of English.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Jostling through a crowd of excited vendors and curious people – half a dozen of whom called out to KO as “Indian” and me as “Pakistani” – we found a cycle rickshaw who agreed to take us the remaining way to the banks of the River Kwai.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We wandered up to the Burma border, along the banks of the river, munched some lunch with views of the river and a gigantic Buddha statue, hopped along the toy train tracks and finally decided to head back. This entailed more cycle rickshaws, vans and a bus that dropped us in the middle of nowhere in the twilight, but close enough to flag down a passing cab and get back to Bangkok city without too much of a dent in our wallets.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In all, we’d hopped 11 modes of transport that day and put our trust in dozens of strangers - all this to see what is essentially a rotting old bridge. Would we do it again? Not likely. However, it makes for one of our most fun Thai memories. Getting lost and just going with it rather than getting mad and going ballistic. We were tired, hot and quite worried, but not once did we turn on each other, snapping the other’s head off for being an idiot. The shared exasperating experience cemented our friendship even stronger than before. I don’t remember too much about the River Kwai, our destination. But I do remember getting there. As Elli, old boy, said, “The journey, not the destination matters…” That, and your fellow travellers.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Here’s to 30+ years of knowing KO.</span><br />
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Basically Blahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03995493281302773762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2124906982785527560.post-3123402696102347672018-04-21T23:04:00.000+05:302018-04-21T23:40:59.520+05:30On Onsen: Bathing Like The Japanese<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Japan has been on my bucket list for absolutely ages now – well, at least since I’d watch incomprehensible episodes of "Takeshi’s Castle" on cable TV for a daily shot of amusement. More recently, Aziz Ansari’s "Modern Romance" piqued my curiosity about Japanese society in general. With ‘Sakura’ i.e. the cherry blossom season approaching, the time was ripe. <br />
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I’ll get around to describing the rest of my travels around Japan soon (hopefully), but the one activity that has evoked the most curiosity in people around me after I returned was my visit to an ‘onsen’ – a Japanese public bath (with natural hot spring water). So here’s that blow-by-blow account of how it went. <br />
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Nagano is hot-spring country if you’re on the island of Honshu. There are numerous hot-spring-fed ‘onsens’ in the area so it was the natural choice to, quite literally, take the plunge. <br />
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At the entrance to the onsen, I was greeted by a large sign saying, "Bathing of people with tattoo will be refuse" with something that looked like a truncheon next to it. Thankfully, I haven’t got over my cowardice enough to brave a tattoo, so all was good in the hood. Next up, a row of coin-operated lockers to deposit my shoes.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfnz1O-QPuNdezpliRzkHiPKTF4VNEg9ATyKu82ujMnsBDB9TLmGo-G3F5mKZEsS2qeL7iLry8wJcLc6MNPhNQLrYfLzcIxqbkTK0e9WmXxZTo-hCW-TEC1Yx0gC2EBVOoEm_Y4hsG8j8/s1600/MVIMG_20180412_120932.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfnz1O-QPuNdezpliRzkHiPKTF4VNEg9ATyKu82ujMnsBDB9TLmGo-G3F5mKZEsS2qeL7iLry8wJcLc6MNPhNQLrYfLzcIxqbkTK0e9WmXxZTo-hCW-TEC1Yx0gC2EBVOoEm_Y4hsG8j8/s320/MVIMG_20180412_120932.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Padding over to the lobby area, I gaped at a ticketing machine with dozens of options and prices, all unhelpfully marked in Japanese. However, the staff was very helpful and a lady immediately came over to explain it all and help me get the right ticket. For a paltry 650 Yen, I could shower, steam and soak in all of their various temperature-controlled pools as well as the outdoor one. There were dozens of other options such as renting or buying towels and so on. <br />
<br />
Heading over to the bath entrance area, there was a clear demarcation between the entrances for men and women. Luckily, this was boldly marked in English signage as well so I avoided that boo-boo I once made back in the hot springs of Kulu (India)…. But that’s a story for another day; suffice to say that there are some traumatised men in that region. If you’re one of them, sorry, I didn’t mean to point AND laugh; yes, at 15 degrees C, it was a ‘very (ahem) cold day’ and it’s understandable you chose to dive into the pool in panic. <br />
<br />
Anyhow, back to my onsen…. <br />
<br />
I entered a large and brightly lit locker-room area. It had rows of coin-operated lockers for storage of all belongings and rows of mirrors and hair dryers for after. It also had a lot of naked women. I realised instantly that I was bringing the average age down in the area by at least 50 years. <br />
<br />
Stripping off and depositing my clothes and belongings in a locker, I made my way towards a completely steamed-over sliding glass door. The door slid open just as I approached and a genial old lady stepped through. Smiling and bowing, she said, “konnichiwa” (hello) and I returned the greeting. Just like two people passing each other on the street. Only we’re starkers. <br />
<br />
There were rows of hand showers and taps, each with a mirror, a small plastic basin lying on a tiny plastic stool and bottles of shampoo, soap, and conditioner. I was glad I’d read up about onsen etiquette because the Japanese are particular about it and I really didn’t want to screw up. <br />
<br />
Showering is serious business in Japan. Doubly so at a public bath where it’s customary to make a huge show of really scrubbing yourself clean before getting into the pools to soak. Women were sitting on the tiny stools, dipping wash cloths into the plastic basins and scrubbing themselves sore. Not many used the hand shower, preferring instead to keep filling the basins from the tap and applying the old dip-and-scrub technique. <br />
<br />
I tried to follow suit, but was no match for my neighbour who sat there scrubbing herself for what seemed like forever and showed no signs of finishing even when I decided I was done at least 20 minutes later. After rinsing off the stool and replacing the basin atop it as I’d read I should do, I plodded over to the pool area. <br />
<br />
Now, etiquette tells you to gently lower yourself into the pool. No diving and splashing, no dipping your towel into the water, and no putting your head underwater. It’s considered inappropriate to drop your towel into the water or wring it out into the pool. The Japanese women usually fold their towels and place them on their heads while they soak. I felt silly doing that and was paranoid that I’d end up dropping it into the water in my attempt to balance the thing on my conical head. So I folded it up neatly and placed it on the side as some helpful travel guides had advised. <br />
<br />
As I soaked in the first indoor pool, I quickly became aware that I was possibly the only one with long hair and it probably shouldn’t be left free, bobbing around in the water around me. Casting a discreet look around, I spotted just one lady with slightly longish hair and she’d clipped it up. Thankfully, nobody had reprimanded me yet and I’d had the good sense to bring a hair clip into the shower area along with my towel, so I quickly piled the unruly tresses up on my head and secured them with the clip. <br />
<br />
Nobody paid me any attention as I climbed in and out of the half a dozen different pools of varying temperatures, chemical compositions, and jets, bubbles and other sensory delights. The onsen I’d chosen is a local hangout and there were at least 15 to 20 local residents. Mostly octogenarians who clearly all knew each other. People sat around in pairs or trios, chatting away happily. Some soaking, some paddling their legs in the water. <br />
<br />
As I walked past others standing around with their baskets of toiletries engrossed in pleasant conversation, it felt so ordinary. Like the genial old residents of my area at home meeting each other at the local market on Sundays and having a chinwag. Only they’re all starkers. This must be what naked dreams feel like? <br />
<br />
That’s when I noticed a woman crawling on all fours. Yes, starkers and on her hands and knees. She was slowly crawling toward the shower area. This placed me in a sort of dilemma. Was she in trouble? Ill or dizzy? I didn’t want to stare, more so because her bum cheeks and things were in my direct line of vision. Should I go over and try to help? <br />
<br />
And then I realised that none of the other chattering patrons were paying her any attention. They continued to stand around yammering while she slowly crawled past them. The sheer ridiculousness of the situation hit me. I felt that awful laughter bubbling up inside me. My lips were flinching in an anguished attempt to not crack a smile. Time to extricate myself quickly and hurry out to that outdoor pool where I could face the hillside and snigger unnoticed. <br />
<br />
Gingerly making my way around an old lady who was quite comatose in the outdoor pool, I sank into the deliciously warm water and took in the view of the surrounding hills and the steaming tiny waterfalls feeding the pool that created a comforting, steady rippling sound. <br />
<br />
Bliss? Yes, this was it. I closed my eyes and soaked for the longest time here. The water was magical. My skin felt tingly and was turning the brightest shade of pink while my entire body felt light. <br />
<br />
The water can feel uncomfortably hot after a bit. I could feel my ears burning from the steam and my heart starting to beat very quickly. I moved further out of the water to take in some of the cool air, hugging the smooth round stones on the side for support. I felt slightly intoxicated and figured that I must now closely resemble the hot-spring-bathing snow monkeys with their expressions of intense bliss and semi-consciousness.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit1l7XCxEssJYgTPNsjZFo5t6tGcFiJ6SnUm-5IVB_w15zL6ljQafX6NHKBR86reDYXHt8ui-xAcdS32ZV-RdHjOfK1gThbLMarqc_adqJ_czNCi1cIbhdI4ZH-fKODC9e76xg5b74q_M/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-04-21+at+10.54.13+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="510" data-original-width="786" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit1l7XCxEssJYgTPNsjZFo5t6tGcFiJ6SnUm-5IVB_w15zL6ljQafX6NHKBR86reDYXHt8ui-xAcdS32ZV-RdHjOfK1gThbLMarqc_adqJ_czNCi1cIbhdI4ZH-fKODC9e76xg5b74q_M/s320/Screen+Shot+2018-04-21+at+10.54.13+PM.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
My prior reading up about the onsen experience had told me that light-headedness, racing heartbeat and so on were warning signs. And so I knew my body had had enough. As I made my way back to the shower area, side-stepping the yakking ladies on my slightly wobbly legs, the spectacle of the crawling lady made sense. <br />
<br />
After quickly showering, reclaiming my clothes and drying my hair, I was ready to face the world again. <br />
<br />
Would I recommend this? Absolutely. If I lived in Japan, there’s no other way I’d rather bathe. I’d be right in the thick of action with the bantering ladies and their dangling toiletry baskets. <br />
<br />
It feels completely normal, natural, and is incredibly relaxing. For the prudish and coy: take heart. Nobody bats an eyelid or looks at you even. As the sole foreigner there, I attracted negligible attention. With all that steam, hot-spring-induced borderline delirium, and possible geriatric short-sightedness, you’re well covered. Just ask butt-naked crawling lady.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<i>Pointers for travellers in the area: </i><br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><i>This onsen, <a href="http://www.uruoikan.com/bath/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Uruoikan</a>, is run by a hotel but is open to the public from 10AM to 6PM </i></li>
<li><i>It’s convenient as it is only a 20-minute walk from the city centre (Nagano station) </i></li>
<li><i>Apparently, there are free shuttle buses from the city centre too </i></li>
<li><i>The water is fed by natural hot springs and not artificially created </i></li>
<li><i>No tattoos allowed </i></li>
<li><i>There’s a restaurant and well-priced bakery if you’re ravenous after </i></li>
<li><i>You can buy/rent towels and other things </i></li>
<li><i>The staff speaks decent English and will help you figure it all out, no worries </i></li>
<li><i>If your own nudity bothers you, you could wrap a towel around yourself while moving from shower to pool area, but you will definitely stick out like a sore thumb and attract more attention to yourself that way </i></li>
<li><i>This is a good bet if you’re keen on onsen but haven’t the time to make it to places like Shibu Onsen (which don’t have many baths open to the public, only guests, in any case)</i>
</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Basically Blahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03995493281302773762noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2124906982785527560.post-80872401681316761282017-04-27T14:34:00.000+05:302017-04-27T14:34:43.784+05:30'X' marks the rot<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Are you in touch with an 'ex' despite being in a happy relationship currently? Then, read no further really. You and I are from very different schools of thought.<br />
<br />
Think about it. Anything that has the word 'ex' in it, is either dead, dangerous, useless or prone to leaving you with a painful rash. Off the top of my head: Tyrannosaurus Rex, explosives, excrement, Dexter, sexists, exhibitionists, hexobarbital, vortex, sexagenarians, spandex, sexagenarians in spandex….<br />
<br />
A mopey face greeted me over a cup of morning coffee. I used my equivalent of the popular millennial ‘wassup’ greeting, which is to say, I said nothing but raised a quizzical brow. <br />
<br />
“My ex is getting married.” Heavy sigh.<br />
<br />
“And what about your current?” I asked with what I hoped was a sympathetic enough face. The same face I adopt when someone announces they stubbed a toe against a fire extinguisher and yet their request for a medal of valour was brutally quashed.<br />
<br />
“My current? I’m married to her.”<br />
<br />
“She must be really great if you married her.”<br />
<br />
“Well, yeah. But….” The mopey veil cascaded over the face again.<br />
<br />
My phone rang. A friend. I picked it up expecting to hear the usual chirpy “Hello!” Instead, I was met with a series of stifled sniffles and sobs. And it isn’t even flu season yet.<br />
<br />
The story began with, “So my ex was in town and….”<br />
<br />
You get my drift. Exes are bad news any which way you look at them. Some want to get back with you, some want to get their backs on you, you want to get back with some, get your back on some. It’s all very backward.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, I feel like I’m stuck in a bad game of Scotland Yard. Everybody’s in pursuit Mr. (or Ms.) X. It makes for a really long, tedious game that really isn’t going to end well for anyone.<br />
<br />
If you’re still hung up on your ex, then you’re being extremely disrespectful to your current partner. You aren’t doing the relationship any justice and you’re undeserving of any kind of love and effort they shower on you. Stop being a louse and cut somebody loose.<br />
<br />
If that somebody is the ex, first off, get them off your damn Facebook and stop accidentally liking their pictures from 8 months ago on Instagram. There are enough psychopathic stalkers out there without you having to throw your clown hat into the demented ring. <br />
<br />
When it comes to exes, the writing is quite clearly on the wall: Life allows you to exhale and exhilarate, if only you would exterminate, extinguish, extricate, excise, expunge, exclude, extirpate….</div>
Basically Blahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03995493281302773762noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2124906982785527560.post-81457085376586766232017-04-27T11:29:00.000+05:302017-04-27T11:29:51.226+05:30Mind Your Pees And Chews<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="heading 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="heading 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="heading 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="heading 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="heading 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="footer"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="35" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="10" QFormat="true" Name="Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Preformatted"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
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The other day, I was in a public restroom at my office building.
I was privy to a fascinating conversation. One sided. Simply because the lady
in the next stall was busy talking on her cell phone while doing the deed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I mean, don't get me wrong. I was deeply happy for her since
her son scored in the high 90s in his first grade exam and her aunty's
hysterectomy went off without a hitch. However, I really did not need to know
about the other son's persistent loose motions ("curry consistency") triggered by mangoes or the
details about her father-in-law's prostrate examination.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The cell phone has successfully killed what remained of
basic courtesy and simple decency. How often have I found myself seated at a
table for a meal, pushing a bunch of potatoes around on my plate for amusement,
simply because the three other people at the table are immersed in their
phones?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The rot extends even further than the cell phone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Have you ever opened a door for someone only to have them
march through without so much as a nod of thanks as if it was your bounden duty
to open doors for all of humanity? I constantly find myself stepping out of the
way to avoid someone sauntering past without a thought for personal space. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And as if adding insult to injury, the other day, this bumpkin
not only shoved past me, but added a loud, ripe belch as he waddled past. I
figured the belching may be some kind of pre-protozoan mode of communication
for as he padded up to his desk one morning - the time people usually greet
each other with a "hello" or "good morning", he let out yet another of those
trademark belches. The only thing louder than those animalistic belches is his
chomping and smacking while devouring lunch. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The extent to which basic decency has eroded is appalling. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I recently found myself in the role of a recovery agent - tackling
someone who'd spent somebody else's money and then dodged repaying it for well
over a year. Yes, my life gets interesting like that. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As it turns out, I am clearly better at pushing a person’s
buttons than I am at pushing lift buttons (on account of being a 'germaphobe').
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The money was repaid, but not without a
whiny note about how difficult it was to have to pay and how "wrong" I was to
have asked for it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Really? You spend somebody else's money that was not yours
to spend in the first place (loosely referred to as "daylight robbery") and then crib about having to pay
it back? That's a bit like stealing somebody's peanuts and then grumbling that
they give you gas, no?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shamelessness.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
People, just stop it already. Stop with the bad manners, the
screen gazing, the crudeness, the opportunistic selfishness. And the public
flatulence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That's all.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Please.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thank you.</div>
</div>
Basically Blahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03995493281302773762noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2124906982785527560.post-17796188677218176132017-02-05T17:08:00.000+05:302017-02-05T18:46:57.404+05:30A Woman's Career Is "Just An Option"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<style>
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<![endif]-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not to panic, people! Sexism is alive and well. Just ask
Trump. Or just call on people in my supposedly progressive neighbourhood.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today, I was told that having a career is <i>"just an option</i>".
Would such a statement have been thrown at a man? Absolutely not. Because,
apparently, only men can have <i>real </i>jobs. For women, a job is just "an option". </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Deferring to the speaker's age (and possible signs of senility), I didn’t
bother to retort. Sometimes it’s just best to let the half-wits think they’ve
had the last word. Their words hold so little weight, it takes a whole lot of
idiotic words, tacked clumsily together into barely intelligible ludicrous
statements, for them to even become quote-worthy, you know?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just what would these half-wits advise that us working women
do with our lives? Marry men with "real jobs" and support them I suppose? In my
case, this half-wit would rather have me spending my time looking after the
day-to-day running of the apartment building in which we live. Don't get me wrong: I admire anyone who can take care of that AND keep up with a job that has round-the-clock demands. I am simply not cut out for it. I twirl and twirl and twirl, but Wonder Woman I am not.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Say, since my career is "just an option" that I can give up,
who is going to pay to put food on my table? Since I’m a woman, clearly I
should know my place and sponge off my parents perhaps? Or dip into the piggy
bank of my brother, what with his real career and all. Or just depend on some
random Mr. Money Bags, eh? Or wait... Jesus! He da man! He'll provide if I pray hard enough.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In this day and age, I am aghast that a woman’s career is
still taken so lightly. I speak for both single and married women. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For instance, single women friends have told me how they’ve
been taunted for "having no responsibilities". As if marriage and babies are
the only real responsibilities for women. How about running a house on your own? Planning
your own life so that you’re never going to have to be financially dependent on
somebody else? Single women run their own houses, pay rents and maintenance,
commute a couple of hours to work each day, work 10 even 15-hour days, take on
mortgages, support their parents, put food on their own dining tables, and so
on. Those, dear half-wits, are responsibilities too. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My married women friends, who "choose to continue working",
fare no better. When they drag themselves in through the front door of their
houses each evening after an exhausting day at work, what do they get? A nice
warm cup of coffee is thrust into the hands of their spouse, while they’re
dumped with a nice warm baby with a sopping, soiled diaper that needed to be
changed three hours ago. Woohoo! Nothing says "Welcome home" better than squelchy
poo!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve heard men at a previous workplace tell us, their women
counterparts, that they firmly believe men are the primary breadwinners while
women are, by design, meant to be caregivers playing a supporting role. This
sentiment voiced by men with shiny engineering degrees and fancy Master’s
degrees. It just goes to show that education does nothing. Equality? Pfft! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With such rampant misogynists around and women who continue
to perpetuate the notion of this "career optional" mentality, are things really
going to change any time soon? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My boss, a woman I look up to and admire to the core of my
being for doing it all and with such strength and poise, including co-founding the
company, was recently asked by a business journalist how she supports her
co-founder husband’s career. "Supports"? The fact that she co-founded the place
is of no consequence – the natural assumption being that the men did the 'real
work'. So a woman in a business is just there for what? Aesthetic purposes? To
see that the coffee machines are in working order? To chase up on errant
housecleaning staff?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Incidentally, in my apartment building, all maintenance
responsibilities are carried out by women. Because, you know, the men have 'real
jobs'. Yes, even the ones who’ve retired and vegetate in their houses all
day. Ass scratching is a real job, you know. I believe the official designation
is Chief Ass-ecutive Officer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, what would I really know? After all, society says a working
woman shouldn’t be taken seriously. Because a career is just an option. Just
like a side of fries with your burger. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m pretty sure this post is going to ruffle a lot of patriarchal
feathers and raise some chauvinistic hackles. How dare this woman voice her
opinion? How dare she speak out? How dare she place it on the internet for all
the world to read? While I eagerly await their hate mail, I have one last thing
to say to such indignant dunderheads:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Reading this blog post is just like a woman’s career to you –
you know, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">optional</i>. </div>
</div>
Basically Blahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03995493281302773762noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2124906982785527560.post-14198581485294677082015-10-18T20:02:00.000+05:302015-10-18T20:23:02.784+05:30Thou Shalt Never Say No To Me<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b><i>(Or The Lost Art of Accepting ‘No’ For An Answer)</i></b><br />
<br />
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My phone beeped. A text message.<br />
<br />
“Blah! What plans 2nite?!!!”<br />
<br />
“Dinner”, I tapped back.<br />
<br />
“Cancel it! We’re meeting XYZ.”<br />
<br />
I scowled – you know, my usual 'I smell something really rank and I might have stepped in it' face. This message from someone hardly that familiar to me. I resent being dictated to. Even an "Any chance you could cancel or postpone?" would have been far more polite and I would have reconsidered.<br />
<br />
Digging my cloven hooves in, I typed back: "No."<br />
<br />
My phone beeped again. "Do it."<br />
<br />
I didn't bother further.<br />
<br />
Every self-help guru out there seems to be spouting wisdom on how not to take ‘no’ for an answer. It’s about high time they shut their little pie holes, you think?<br />
<br />
'Leaning in' is one thing. 'Sitting on and pummelling' - or being a pushy, obnoxious ass - is quite another. Unfortunately, that fat line between the two hasn't just been blurred – it’s been Brazilian waxed into oblivion. Yes, it's a sore point.<br />
<br />
This brings me to the lost art of the Invitation. An invitation used to be a polite affair – a cheerful "come on over, this is going to be fun" sort of beckoning. It used to be truly inviting. It used to make you want to go, sometimes in an "I’ll grovel and kiss your stinky toes and clamber over your iron-spiked fence, pretty please, do not revoke this invitation" kind of way.<br />
<br />
Somewhere along the line, an invitation has been equated with a commandment. It is the 11th Commandment: "Thou Shalt Not Say No To My Plan Ever, For Whatever Reason." For someone who has quite the reputation for being snarky, I have a surprisingly low tolerance for rudeness and pushiness.<br />
<br />
Any time I *gasp* dare to say "no", I'm met with an immediate aggressive "But I've done A, B, C and bought D, E, F" and so forth. When I, oh-so-coldheartedly, stick to my guns, the person usually then resorts to whining and guilt tripping of sorts. "But you did not come for Occasion Z". What's with all the "butting"? That is just irksome.<br />
<br />
It’s simple really. If you are issuing an invitation, the expectation is that people can answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ depending. A gentle persuasion when you get a ‘no’ is okay. A spoilt-brat type tantrum is not.<br />
<br />
Since when did it become okay to think that your plans must take precedence and override somebody else’s prior appointments?<br />
<br />
For everyone out there reading this and thinking about the numerous times you've been pushed over and badgered into ungraciously accepting an ‘invitation’, please take heart. There are a few of us sitting around and smarting about it too.<br />
<br />
Now, just dig your heels in as much as you can and say ‘no’ if you want to. And when a spoilt-brat type tantrum is received, simply issue an invitation of your own:<br />
<br />
“You may strategically place your wonderful lips upon my posterior and kiss it repeatedly!” <i>(Barnabas Collins in Dark Shadows)</i></div>
Basically Blahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03995493281302773762noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2124906982785527560.post-25842555236170866982015-05-02T18:20:00.000+05:302015-05-02T18:20:27.886+05:30This Blog Ain't Dead Yet<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Just taking some time out until the world stops spinning and I can safely extricate my head from between my knees. :P</div>
Basically Blahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03995493281302773762noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2124906982785527560.post-1855926673619532632014-07-31T17:14:00.000+05:302014-08-05T12:10:07.710+05:30Other Tongue Blues<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I’m always rather stumped when I have to fill out a form which asks me for my “mother tongue”. I have to resist writing “overworked” there. I also reflect fondly back on the boy in school who earnestly wrote “pink”.<br />
<br />
Perhaps his confusion is quite reflective of what a handful of us feel. India with its gazillion languages, dialects and sub-dialects is mind-boggling to the unfamiliar ear. We drove the British out, kept their trousers, massacred their language and cried with indignation when they put tomato ketchup in Chicken Tikka Masala and called it their national dish.<br />
<br />
And yet, in that melee, there were a few who chose to retain the English language as it was meant to be. A small motley group of people who know English to be their “mother tongue” – Wikipedia numbers this group to be about 225,000.<br />
<br />
I’m one. I’m related to about 5 others and friends with a couple more. I don’t know where the rest have hidden themselves. A smart move since times are tough and circumstances are unwelcoming for Anglophones.<br />
<br />
It’s equally frustrating to have to explain to an astonished foreigner and a gawping Indian that you've grown up speaking only English, your family communicates only in English (yes, even the grandparents and so on), you think in English and you struggle with vernacular languages because your brain is far slower than Google Translate on Internet Explorer on a dial-up internet connection. Yes, people like us exist. Yes, we’re Indian. Yes, this is our normal. And no, we do not think we’re better than everyone else.<br />
<br />
An ex, an Englishman, was awestruck that I spoke as fluently as I did.<br />
<br />
“Your vocabulary is even better than mine,” he exclaimed rather patronizingly.<br />
<br />
“Why shouldn't it be?” I shot back. “My family is great with language, I went to a good school and I read a whole lot more than you do.”<br />
<br />
“Well, yeah,” he acknowledged, “but, you know, you’re Indian.”<br />
<br />
When he emailed a friend of his back in the UK telling him about his Indian girlfriend and that she “speaks only English”, the friend replied: “Did you mean she speaks no English?”<br />
<br />
Say, how do you tell someone to fuck off in smoke signals? Or should I just tom-tom that on my Indian drum?<br />
<br />
While travelling overseas, it’s somewhat insulting to be told I don’t sound like an Indian. Who are these Indians they've heard before? Ranjeet Singh in “Mind Your Language”? Call centre employees?<br />
<br />
It’s no easier back home. My dad often tells of the times he and his brother were mockingly called “East India Company” for conversing fluently in English. My other ex - the loser Ducky - and his family tried to enforce their mother tongue on me and then rolled over and played the damaged victims when <a href="http://a-saltedpeanut.blogspot.in/2010/02/mind-your-language.html" target="_blank">I dared voice my protest</a> (yes, in English). A friend was told by a stranger to “Go back to England” when she got into a fender bender and tried to sort the matter out in English rather than the local language.<br />
<br />
Anglophones are always given a really hard time. If you speak in English, they'll accuse you of being supercilious. If you try to speak a vernacular, they’ll mimic and mock your “anglicised accent”. If you shut up entirely, the men will call you shy and the women will label you snooty.<br />
<br />
You can’t apply for several English-based teaching/writing jobs abroad because being Indian means you’re automatically not a “native speaker of English”. Even China’s <a href="http://www.thanhniennews.com/commentaries/english-teaching-is-white-right-1415.html" target="_blank">“White is Right” policy</a> means it prefers English teachers who are blond-haired, blue-eyed Westerners, particularly Americans, with pitiable grammar. We can’t seem to catch a break and it’s only getting worse.<br />
<br />
There’s this sudden upsurge in enforcing the local language of the state on everybody. Our Prime Minister insists he will speak only Hindi while our state Chief Minister insists he will not look at any official documentation unless it is in Kannada. How they will ever work together is beyond me. But then, they’re politicians. Politicians don’t make anything work. They’re fluent in Stupidity.<br />
<br />
There’s this ad on television currently which has a bunch of people lowering flags with English alphabets on them and raising flags with various alphabets in vernacular languages on them. Wouldn't it just be simpler to put in additional flagpoles instead and let the little English alphabets be? It’s sad. It’s very representative of what is happening in the country today.<br />
<br />
We brag about our all-encompassing culture and yet curb one language for the sake of the other. We boast of a Constitution that grants citizens the freedom of speech but impose language restrictions on that speech. Hypocrisy is an unofficial language here and we're freakishly fluent in it.<br />
<br />
We need to stop thinking of English as a foreign language. It may not be as old as some of our other Indian languages. But it still has considerable historical significance and has even evolved to include several <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_English_words_of_Indian_origin" target="_blank">words of Indian origin</a>. English isn't foreign anymore. It was planted along with tea and coffee by the British. Yet we rant against this "foreign language", abhorring it over steaming cups of "<i>chai</i>" and "<i>kaapi</i>" and hailing our <a href="http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/india/Narendra-Modi-From-tea-vendor-to-PM-candidate/articleshow/22554466.cms" target="_blank">PM's humble origins</a> as a "<i>chai wallah</i>".<br />
<br />
That's something our pro-Hindi PM and mother-tongue enforcing politicians should think about as they slip into their trousers, don their foreign sunglasses and scoot off in their Morris-inspired cars to lecture people on language.<br />
<br />
I’m all for preserving ancient languages and all that, but when you shove <i>your </i>mother tongue down <i>my </i>throat, I gag. In English.</div>
Basically Blahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03995493281302773762noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2124906982785527560.post-31271782120980174332014-06-18T15:34:00.000+05:302014-06-18T15:40:15.560+05:30Words Unspoken<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"In the world of diplomacy, some things are better left unsaid." Luckily, I can blog them.<br />
<br />
I’d like to think that I have the gift of the gab. I certainly hope to God I do because I haven’t much else. (<a href="http://a-saltedpeanut.blogspot.in/2011/03/blundering-through-punder-years.html" target="_blank">I have whined about this before.</a> *Click*) To put it mildly: When talent was being distributed, I completely missed the memo and was most likely doing something pointless like foraging for goji berries.<br />
<br />
Therefore, to bolster some semblance of self-worth, I tell myself I possess a glib tongue. Of course, this is a pretty useless thing to possess and has, on occasion upon joyous occasion, utterly failed me. I was afflicted by social paralysis. It is possible that my heightened sense of diplomacy and love for keeping the peace overrides what I ought to have said in response to certain obnoxious individuals I have had the misfortune to encounter.<br />
<br />
So, without further ado, I present my shortlist of unfounded accusations hurled at me by half-wits and the responses I wish I’d mustered enough courage to actually give:<br />
<br />
<i>"You're shallow."</i><br />
<br />
Na-ah! I’m not shallow. On a scale of bottle cap to Indian Ocean, I’d rank around the depth of a hospital bed pan. I’d say that's pretty good considering the amount of poop I to have to put up with.<br />
<br />
<i>"People hesitate to approach you."</i><br />
<br />
Hell, yeah, if they’re selling weed or their grandsons, sometimes their weed-smoking grandsons. People may hesitate to approach me but they sure as hell have no problems in reproaching me. Isn't that a good thing…for them?<br />
<br />
<i>"You hate our parties."</i><br />
<br />
That’s because you use the term "party" loosely. What you should aptly be calling it is a "coma inducing night of Bingo/Tambola with a crowd of septuagenarians". Then I wouldn't hate your parties. I'd simply avoid them. Oh, wait. I did!<br />
<br />
<i>"There’s no such thing as a 50-50 relationship. It’s 60-40 at best. Women must compromise 200%." </i><br />
<br />
Ooh, look who finally woke up! Rip Van Winkle. You've been asleep the last couple of centuries. Not to worry, you didn't miss much. Just a couple of tiny, insignificant things like the atom bomb, a vaccine for small pox and, oh, yeah, WOMEN'S LIB.<br />
<br />
<i>"Your blog has no journalistic excellence."</i><br />
<br />
That’s why it's a blog, not The Wall Street Journal. Duh.<br />
<br />
<i>"You suck."</i><br />
<br />
Yeah, you’re right. Glad we can agree on something.<br />
<br />
Okay, so that last one I might have actually said. And it isn't even clever. Sigh. Yep, I suck.</div>
Basically Blahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03995493281302773762noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2124906982785527560.post-26381931983220176952014-05-12T15:36:00.000+05:302014-05-12T15:44:33.167+05:30Here a Quack, There a Quack<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My first ever report card, issued at the end of my first term in school, read: “She is an asset to the school.” The word “asset” boggled my young brain and I asked my mother what it meant. “It means ‘little donkey’,” said my mother and I never doubted her for a second. I wasn't even hurt because I believed this to be true of myself.<br />
<br />
Birth order is said to play a huge role in psychological development and I’d be a fabulous case study for that theory. As the second born and youngest in the family – I lost that race to my brother by a narrow margin of six years - I quite naturally assumed the role of imbecile. Everyone has a natural tendency to tell the youngest what to do and how to do things. Decades later, nothing has changed.<br />
<br />
Indian society is fascinatingly mired in the belief that seniority is the only criterion one needs to be able to play advisor to anybody younger. It doesn't matter what the issue may be – irritable bowels, financial woes, marital strife, ingrown toenails…<br />
<br />
And since I was born into the role of the little ass, I seem to attract counsel – wise and otherwise – from just about everybody. No word of a lie, I don’t even step on the weighing scales at the gym anymore. I just walk in and some podgy woman who can’t stop belching each time she stretches tells me whether I've gained or lost weight. If she's feeling really generous, she'll even tell me exactly <i>where </i>that weight has appeared or disappeared. One particularly charming elderly gentleman told me I ought to “do exercises to grow taller” as only then could I “get a good life partner”. He was really tall so I presume his wife struck gold in his eyes. Imagine his shock when he walked out the gym and realised it was the 21st century, riddled with emancipated women.<br />
<br />
These self-professed counsellors are everywhere and if you are lucky enough to have that neon sign above your head that reads “space between my ears for rent”, you will receive innumerable <strike>perils </strike>pearls of wisdom. I don’t know why the West makes such a fuss over therapists and shrinks and all that mental health jazz. Please, people, just come to India. We have pro-bono counsellors crawling out of the woodwork. No appointments. No venues. The counsellor is omnipresent and omnipotent. The world is your couch.<br />
<br />
There was this fad where people would do crash courses in “counselling” and then scour the world for last-born children, younger people, the unmarried, the childless by choice, non-vegetarians, non-engineers and other such <i>non compos mentis </i>individuals to “counsel”. There must have been a mark on my front door for I entertained a fair number of these dubiously certified shrinks.<br />
<br />
My split with my ex, for instance, brought them hammering at my door, eager for glory – to be the one that patched up the ill-fated relationship and saved the day (I’m not sure for whom). Considering that that relationship itself was born of ill advice, it was but fitting that it should end with bad counselling too.<br />
<br />
You know how you’re supposed to go to a counsellor of your own free will and volition and talk to them with complete privacy? Yeah, we did away with all those formalities. May be the crash course crashed before it covered that part. I remember being cornered on a couch at home while my concerned folks looked sombrely on. The self-appointed counsellor gazed at me solemnly. I wasn't entirely sure this wasn't some sort of exorcism. Looking at me intently, she cleared her throat and in a stage whisper asked her first question: “So tell me, BB, why is it that you think you’re better than everybody else?”<br />
<br />
I had to bite my tongue to stop from hollering, “Because I am? Ha!” The sarcasm would have been wasted. <i>(Rapport building – 0, defensiveness building– 1)</i>. At least one thing’s for certain: my report card from society is never going to read “she is an asset” any time soon. As far as they are concerned, the “little donkey” is now a full-fledged ass. </div>
Basically Blahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03995493281302773762noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2124906982785527560.post-7430976746406998982014-04-07T15:45:00.000+05:302014-04-08T11:02:54.692+05:30What Is This Platonic Nonsense?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">If you want to test the intelligence of a dog, throw a dish towel over his head and see how long it takes him to shake it off. If you want to test the genuine progressiveness of an Indian Baby Boomer, throw platonic friendship at them and see how they deal with it – they’ll either lap it up quite normally, spring away from it in absolute horror or chew on it a while and then spit it out in complete confusion. Judge accordingly.</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">I've been regaled by stories of suspicious parents of women in particular. They’re constantly eyeing up the male classmate or colleague who turns up at their doorstep to hang out with the daughter much too often. There’s a definite stiffening of stance and wiggling of nose when a certain male name crops up in general conversation more than twice. An alertness creeps into the eyes when a male pronoun is mentioned. It's almost endearing that they’re so oblivious to the fact that their progeny has caught on but chooses to carry on anyway, turning a deaf ear to the tell-tale higher pitch in the parental voice as they report to another blood relative about “some colleague of hers” or “some friend” with a knowing emphasis.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">This general perceived acceptance of platonic friendships is convenient to those parents in denial, unwilling to accept that their homely, domesticated, convent-educated daughter could be so bold as to be in a *gasp* relationship with a boy *double gasp*. I had the misfortune of being seated next to one such mother on a bus. She proceeded to tell me, unwilling listener as I was, minute details about her two daughters. One had been an absolute letdown to the entire family, having brought much shame to her mother for marrying a man of her choice and, horror above all horrors, not from the same community. Ooh, taboo, taboo. I clucked my tongue and pretended to feel her shame and pain.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">The younger daughter was clearly her mother’s favourite. Her mother painstakingly listed out all of her myriad achievements, including marrying a “very good boy” from within the community. She then hastened to assure me that it was not an arranged match. “We are very open-minded, you know,” she gushed and I looked downright impressed. “This boy was a very good friend of hers, okay. They were friends for many, many years. They were JUST FRIENDS, okay? Just friends. There was nothing more because she is not THAT type of a girl. We told her, ‘Why not you marry him only? He is the perfect boy.’” I nodded sympathetically, concealing my amusement. “So she agreed and he also agreed and now they are very happily married!” she cooed, clapping her hands happily as I dabbed my teary eyes. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">Because that’s what truly platonic friends do, right? They leap at the opportunity to marry each other without so much as a second thought. Unfortunately for Bus Aunty, I knew the girl in question. And I also knew that she’d been seeing the guy quietly for a long while, slowly getting her folks - adherents to the arranged marriage norm - to envision him as the perfect boy. It helped that he was from the same community unlike her harlot sister.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">I frowned on the girl for ruining it for the rest of us. Platonic friendships seem to be a more modern, urban phenomenon seeing as we’re a culture that is rather zealous about gender segregation, arranged marriages, female chastity, women of virtue and whatnot. The concept does not quite sit well with a lot of the older generation.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">All this marrying of “just friends” business does not bode well for the rest of us who are genuinely just friends. It’s gone and muddied the pristine waters of platonic friendships. All the self-professed “progressive, open-minded” Baby Boomers think it’s perfectly okay to coax us into settling down with our good friends. Very little credit is given to our intelligence – if we thought the person was perfect for us, wouldn't we have embarked on a romantic relationship in the first place? Oh, no. The Baby Boomers are certain the scales will fall from our eyes only when they point it out. By the same token, I've seen people shake their heads in absolute consternation as they mull couples who have split or divorced and yet remain the best of buddies. “If they are such friends, why did they split?” they marvel, trying to wrap their heads around it.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">I remember being asked why I hadn't hooked up with my friend <a href="http://a-saltedpeanut.blogspot.in/p/mustard-mayo.html" target="_blank">Krazy Frog</a>. At that suggestion, Krazy Frog looked like he’d smelled something really rank while I collapsed into peals of laughter at the absurdity of the notion. How could I possibly explain to someone daft enough to make such a suggestion that what I had in my heart for Krazy Frog was exactly what I had for my gal pal <a href="http://kaoticsworkshop.blogspot.in/" target="_blank">KO </a>without sounding vaguely bisexual? I couldn't bring myself to form those really corny words “He is like my brother” which women from very traditional backgrounds would use to vehemently deny any sort of romantic relationship that would sully their good reputations.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for settling down with someone who is your best friend. It’s the best kind of relationship to be in. But there’s got to be some sort of “spark”, a romantic interest, thrown into that mix of friendship and perfect togetherness. Call it chemistry or attraction or whatever. It just seems completely wrong to settle for someone you’re great friends with but feel absolutely no “spark” for. Sparks do not ignite magically later.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">Oh, as a footnote, anyone reading this who is thinking of turning down some arranged prospective groom with the line “Oh, we could be just friends but that’s about it” because there isn't a socially acceptable enough reason to say "No", please don’t. You’re playing right into their wily matchmaking hands because that is the perfect basis to arrange a marriage. "All that spark-shark, love-shove nonsense will come later," they’ll say. Trust me, it doesn't. It may have “come” 50 years ago, or something like it blossomed at least. It doesn't “come” anymore. Why settle for the cheap imitation?</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">My blood relatives thought they’d hit pay dirt with me when I reconnected with a childhood buddy and then proceeded to be good friends with him for several years. Knowing how terribly fond I was of Jatin (not his real name) and vice versa, they figured it’d be easy to convince us to throw a couple of garlands around each other and settle down to wedded bliss. Imagine their disappointment when I snickered every time it was suggested, balking at the very thought of being his missus. I was at a loss to explain to them how it didn't work that way. Yes, I was very fond of him (and still am) but the thought of marrying him made me want to retch.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">I hung up the telephone after one such call, rebuffing a relative who figured it’d be a brilliant match. Chuckling I told my mother what had been suggested before breaking into laughter. "Ha ha ha!" she chimed along. "Yuck! I had to say it’d be like settling down with Scion," I shuddered, still amused and making a mental note to mention this to Jatin so we could giggle over it. "Ha ha ha!" said my mother. I joined her at the table and we proceeded into five minutes of silence - me shoveling food into my mouth, while she contemplated the table.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">Finally, she looked up. Her expression was deadly serious. Very somberly, she asked, "But why not Jatin? Is it because-- is it because he is..." Her eyes widened in the certainty that she’d hit on the very painful truth and struggled to bring herself to finally say it: "Is it because he's bald?"</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">Gobsmacked, I sighed and gave up. Progressive Baby Boomers seem to agree on a number of things, among them: Lal Bahadur Shastri being the best prime minister, Sean Connery as Bond, reusing disposable containers and plastic cutlery, the reversibility of platonic friendships and, apparently, my complete and utter shallowness of being.</span></div>
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Basically Blahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03995493281302773762noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2124906982785527560.post-32317096866025539482014-01-31T15:12:00.000+05:302014-02-20T13:10:54.524+05:30Kecak, Kecak<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Bali was never on my bucket list of places to visit. I’d always dismissed it as too touristy and commercial. It only made matters worse that it seems to be all the rage with non-imaginative honeymooners. However, with flight fares and visa norms being conducive, it seemed like an ideal getaway for a few days. Besides, with some good research, I knew I could ferret out some quieter, non-touristy areas to explore.<br />
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Of course, there are certain traditions that a traveler must experience. I’d shied away from the long list of temple tours – as a non-practising Hindu, I didn't fancy my trip being turned into a pilgrimage. Nonetheless, since some of the temples – for instance, Tanah Lot or Uluwatu – are located in absolutely picturesque locations, I decided to grasp the nettle and pay a visit. It was well worth my while.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEsxhnMT0bMjZEqhK7iRfvGuXEX0NveW6awv3-ew47xHl5OMw_J1Tjg8pKc3yR1EpXNaQDJfIjLkRLCS4az_4Bznidnv4BbgtLfHkxPIGZUVbMxt9A68uIyVlDG9yDHbVxlKXPJeiD4-A/s1600/Edited+Photos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEsxhnMT0bMjZEqhK7iRfvGuXEX0NveW6awv3-ew47xHl5OMw_J1Tjg8pKc3yR1EpXNaQDJfIjLkRLCS4az_4Bznidnv4BbgtLfHkxPIGZUVbMxt9A68uIyVlDG9yDHbVxlKXPJeiD4-A/s1600/Edited+Photos.jpg" height="281" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Views from Tanah Lot & Uluwatu</i> <i>(Click to Enlarge)</i></td></tr>
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For one, I noticed that despite a lot of the Balinese people being more ummm, well…<i>vociferous </i>about their religion and castes than in urban India, their temples are wonderfully more open, welcoming, tolerant and less greedy than a lot of ours. While Tanah Lot didn’t impose any restrictions at all – I even saw tourists sauntering around in the main temple area with their shoes on – Uluwatu provided bright purple sarongs, free of charge, for both men and women whose clothes did not cover their knees.<br />
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The peace and genuine piety was not lost on me as I flashed back to a horrific visit to the Jagannath Temple in Puri (Orissa, India). Here, the vile priests whacked us with fat wooden sticks and demanded money for their “blessings”, picked out anyone light-complexioned/in jeans/sharp-featured, asking them to prove they were Hindu before allowing them in. <i>Dude, please. If I were giving out money to everyone who whacked me, my mother would have made the Forbes Rich List before I reached age 6.</i><br />
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My main interest in Uluwatu, nonetheless, was the famed Kecak fire dance - performed in an amphitheatre on a cliff at sunset. The view couldn't get any better – the sun splattering the sky in hues of yellow, orange and then pink and purple before sinking into the wide expanse of ocean. The organisers packed us in tighter than sardines – the amphitheater was crammed beyond capacity and at least an hour and a half before the show was to begin.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6KJ2DaK23k5wHNl3_tOKbu_rmx84QEsadDPZTLBHq7chUaYarxTGNxVO5Yk51aLH3Hl9lWGKSDmaJI8PpkXLBBKxK5B__TzwmBMkn16pxGmotpDGcDP_6OAhSfIvckNHG2VJJW7rvYiw/s1600/DSC03170.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6KJ2DaK23k5wHNl3_tOKbu_rmx84QEsadDPZTLBHq7chUaYarxTGNxVO5Yk51aLH3Hl9lWGKSDmaJI8PpkXLBBKxK5B__TzwmBMkn16pxGmotpDGcDP_6OAhSfIvckNHG2VJJW7rvYiw/s1600/DSC03170.JPG" height="86" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The audience squashed together (Click to enlarge)</i></td></tr>
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I knew from my research that the Kecak dance involved a few dancers performing scenes from the Hindu mythological tale “Ramayana” to the tune of 70 men, dressed in checked cloth around their waists, percussively chanting “kecak”. They weren’t kidding about the “kecak” chanting. It continued for a good 15 minutes initially – I got worried that was all there was to it: Sitting there listening to men chant “kecak” while absorbing the sweat liberally rolling off your neighbour in the sweltering amphitheatre.<br />
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However, the dancers soon showed up. The story was easy to follow for anyone vaguely familiar with the Ramayana – take it from someone who, on occasion, has struggled to distinguish her Hanumans from her Ganeshas. Having the pamphlet with the various scenes outlined for reference was handy too. Hanuman (or “Hanoman” as he is known in Bali) clowned around with the audience for a bit – further reiterating how much easier the Balinese seem to be about religion than the Indian Hindu fundamentalists. The performance was engrossing, the kecak-ing never relenting for the entire duration.<br />
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The performance built up to a crescendo with Hanuman, his tail on fire, running amok and setting Lanka on fire. There was fire and sparks flying around dramatically in the middle of the arena at the end as the kecak-ing singers reached a frenzied crescendo and then called it a night.<br />
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The remaining embers were doused with water while the crowd posed with various dancers for pictures before quietly filing out into the balmy night; everyone’s ears still reverberating with that annoyingly addictive yet rhythmic gibber: <i>kecak, kecak, kecak</i>…..<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip3RqAMENoFr7cIYjWqaZaOEOfl8G7ECvTaTRNsYwdgrSPKd7oCZmVpwp8kgYGwS-ZhcGvANVQm06WuwMKrKBIJ57AkvyfNU30Hs98O6fFRSA_bfKW3Z9su7kQozpZMG9dzD3ddoa3qrE/s1600/Bali+Aug+2013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip3RqAMENoFr7cIYjWqaZaOEOfl8G7ECvTaTRNsYwdgrSPKd7oCZmVpwp8kgYGwS-ZhcGvANVQm06WuwMKrKBIJ57AkvyfNU30Hs98O6fFRSA_bfKW3Z9su7kQozpZMG9dzD3ddoa3qrE/s1600/Bali+Aug+2013.jpg" height="281" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Scenes from the Kecak Dance (Click to enlarge)</i></td></tr>
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<i>[Click <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E55dQXdiIms" target="_blank">here </a>for a video of the Kecak dance at Uluwatu. Let me assure you it sounds far better in person.]</i></div>
Basically Blahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03995493281302773762noreply@blogger.com6Bali, Indonesia-8.4095178 115.18891600000006-9.4146568 113.89802250000007 -7.4043788 116.47980950000006tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2124906982785527560.post-6505842520580881912013-11-20T18:48:00.000+05:302014-02-13T16:04:50.789+05:30Why Travolta Can Hang On To His Disco-Dancing Crown<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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When I was a little impressionable doe-eyed girl of six, I found myself jostled along with a running mass of other little impressionable doe-eyed girls of six to the auditorium of my beloved boarding school.<br />
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It was my first week at boarding school and I loved every bit of it. Contrary to popular belief that boarding schools are these hell holes of punishment and torture for naughty little children, I firmly believe that it was the best thing that happened to me. I wouldn't ever wish my childhood were any different. In fact, if more clueless parents would send their misbehaved spawn to boarding schools, this world and those of us who have to live in it would be much improved.</div>
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I digress. So, this was my first week at boarding school and I was excited with the host of new activities being presented. There were fun-filled classes, story-telling sessions, games and sports hours, reading sessions, handwriting and art classes and whatnot. Add to this the routine and discipline. Bells that sounded for everything: waking up, exercise, meals and end of a class. I had a spanking new uniform with shoes that required to be polished every day so that my beaming face reflected in them. My world was alive and exciting. </div>
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Where was I running to? Well, someone had just come in and announced that anybody who was interested in learning dance could make their way to the auditorium. For some reason, my six-year-old brain automatically took this to mean disco dancing. It was the only dance form that I was aware of at the time.</div>
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I could have hugged myself with joy, only, I was too busy running to get ahead of the others so I didn't miss my one opportunity to make my mark in history as the best disco dancer there ever was.</div>
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We assembled in the auditorium. A lady, draped in a bright orange saree and a shocking red sweater that gave me conjunctivitis just looking at it, gave her new recruits the once-over. I noted her carefully oiled hair pulled back in a severe bun held in place with a dozen hair pins and took in her dramatically kohl-lined eyes that failed to distract from her crimson red lips. Something wasn't right. Little me sensed it. </div>
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“Take off your socks and shoes,” she ordered. We complied. My heart was beating quickly, my sense of foreboding quickly dampening my initial enthusiasm. <i>Where were the tight bell-bottoms, the flashy shirts and, most importantly, that shiny disco ball?</i> I eyed the doors. They were shut tight. </div>
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“Now, hands on your hips, bend your knees slightly, keep your heels together and your feet in a V-shape.”<br />
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She fetched what I thought were two drum sticks and began knocking them together, instructing us to stick one foot out at a time. Back. Forward. Sideways. Then she combined this with some hand movements. <i>This was so unlike anything seen in Saturday Night Fever.</i></div>
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“Index finger and thumb together. Over your head. Now out in front of you.” <i>Tha! Thai! Thakka-thai! Giddy-giddy-something-thakka-thai!</i></div>
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I glanced around me. The only ones who looked more ridiculous than I felt were the boys who also thought we were going to learn to D-I-S-C-O or moonwalk at the very least. <i>Surely John Travolta didn't have to go through this sort of humiliation? </i></div>
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Nonetheless, determined not to deprive the world of a future disco dancing star, I pressed on, braving the pinches of the dance teacher each time I goofed up. My little fingers would ball themselves up as I concentrated on the foot movements. Then as I tried to unclench them, my right foot would inadvertently kick the girl in front of me.</div>
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The 30-minute session finally came to an end. Our names were inked into a register. Nobody could back out for the next one year. </div>
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I dreaded these biweekly sessions. Then we were told we’d be performing on stage at the end of the term for our parents who’d be picking us up to go home for the winter holidays. This meant more practice sessions. My arms were numb to the pinching. My dance teacher saw it fit for me to be moved to the front row on stage. I suppose even doting parents deserve some comic relief. </div>
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Babu Sir took over our classes. He was a rotund little man, squashed into a tight woolen sweater and a striped woolen cap. He never danced - only his potbelly did while he barked instructions. Someone, probably in a moment of great weakness, had told the man he could sing. So he’d bellow into a microphone and beat two <i>tablas </i>to accompany our jerky little dance movements. </div>
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D-Day arrived. We were put into some strange silk outfits they called “pavadas” – brocade-ridden blouses and floor-length silk skirts that had been tailored for 10-year-olds. I would have felt foolish, but my dignity had long since made a run for it despite the tightly shut doors. Our faces were doused with powder and lips painted bright red. My unruly mop of hair was slicked back with a jar of coconut oil and adorned with a hairband of jasmine flowers.</div>
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As the curtains rose, I spotted my beaming parents, nudging each other and pointing. A spotlight turned on us and a camera began filming. Babu Sir gave a perfect rendition of what I can only imagine is a moose’s mating call. I made it through the performance, tripping only three times over my ridiculously long skirt that had been rolled up at the waist.</div>
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I look at happy drunks falling over backwards at weddings, losing their dignity along with their shirt buttons, cling to friends as other footloose drunks pummel me at clubs, and dodge enthusiastic bobbing inebriated uncles at other social gatherings. And yet I know the world of dance could have been even worse off.<br />
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My debut dance performance was to be aired on national TV. Luckily, some state leader with an acronym for a name died on the day it was to air and they covered his funeral instead. The sod will never know what a favour he did the world by choosing to die on that day. </div>
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I quit dance classes when I returned to school the next year. And thus it was that the world of disco dancing was deprived of its brightest star and an unchallenged Travolta can afford to rest on his laurels.</div>
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On the brighter side, <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bharata_Natyam" target="_blank">Bharatanatyam </a></i>remains an unsullied art form.<br />
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<i style="background-color: #fce5cd;">[Footnote: <a href="http://kaoticsworkshop.blogspot.in/2013/11/i-remember-i-remember-time-when-i-could.html" target="_blank">Read how KO's grand Bharatanatyam aspirations were brutally quashed</a>.]</i></div>
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Basically Blahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03995493281302773762noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2124906982785527560.post-15945043318806240472013-10-31T12:46:00.000+05:302013-11-15T12:56:39.208+05:30When You Take The 'Wit' Out of 'Twit'<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It’s that time of my life (again). I haven’t much choice but to scout around for a new job. After two and a half years, I refuse to exhibit the loyalty of the Titanic musicians and sink with my ship. Casabianca I am not.</div>
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The recruiters – they call, they email, they discuss notice periods and haggle over salaries. This is followed by calls for interviews.</div>
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And thus it was that I found myself in a cab, headed to the office of a well-known company. It wasn't something I was exceedingly keen on, but I figured it would help me get out of the comfortable rut I was stuck in and into the groove of job hunting.</div>
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I battled nausea as the cab lurched over potholed roads and the faint stench of diesel and body odour assailed my nostrils. After a bit of a merry-go-round trying to find the office, I crawled out at my destination, rather the worse for wear. A little while later, I was ushered into the office of a VP.</div>
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I sat facing the man for a good five minutes as he poked away at his laptop, checked his phone and generally played the part of a busy man. My gaze alternated between the floor, his shining pate and a rusty paper clip atop a stack of glossy booklets. Just as I became certain I was sprouting roots and merging with my chair, the VP looked up at me questioningly. It was almost like he’d forgotten he’d ushered me into his office himself a little while ago.</div>
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“Profile?” he asked. Since he was the one who had set up the interview in the first place, one would assume he had my curriculum vitae at the ready. Well, at least one of us was professional. I handed over a copy.<br />
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He immersed himself in it for a few more minutes. I returned my attention to the top of his head. “So,” he said, beaming.</div>
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“Wait for it. Here comes the first question. It has got to be good after all that perusing,” I thought.</div>
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“What does your father do?”</div>
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Huh? What? I blinked and resisted an urge to roll my eyes as I answered.<i> Who was he hiring? My father or me?</i></div>
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“And your mother is a housewife?” he presumed. <i>Yes, of course. Because women of the older generation couldn't possibly be anything else? Nothing remotely sexist about that assumption.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After providing information about the occupations of every single member of my family (<a href="http://a-saltedpeanut.blogspot.in/2011/01/blahs-must-be-crazy.html" target="_blank">“boiled egg carrier” is an occupation, by the way</a>) living, deceased, decaying and depraved, I then launched into the nitty-gritty of my current and past jobs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I became aware of something weaseling into the room bleating, “Saar, saar”. It turned out to be a young employee, cowering behind a sheaf of papers for the VP’s approval. “That is the best member of my team,” said the VP, beaming proudly as the weasel scurried out pinching his throat for some odd reason.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Having established my familial and professional credentials, the VP asked me another very significant question. “Are you married?” “No? Yeah, you don’t look married. Oh, then you can move closer to the office.” When I ruled out the possibility, he proudly proclaimed how he commuted 37 KM each way every day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
About 40 minutes and more inane interview questions and opinions of the 19th century later, it was well past lunch time. I was tired, hungry and more than a little fed up. My query about his company culture evoked an ambiguous “We employ females. But we don’t give preference to females.” <i>We’re called ‘women’, numbskull.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mind only weakly processed in snatches what I was hearing, barely managing intelligible responses if needed. The lines between my painful reality and comical fantasy blurred:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- “I have been here for three years.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- <i>“Okay. That’s three years too long.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- “Are you Karnatikian?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- <i>“No, I am not a Kannadiga.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- “Is that what they are called?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- <i>“Duh. You should call an angry mob ‘nonsense peoples’ just for fun though.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- “Lots of sports people come from your hometown, no? Do you play sports?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
-<i> “Marbles and tennikoit mostly.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- “You look like a Kashmiri.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- <i>“Yeah, people mistake me for Omar Abdullah when I shave.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- “Do you want to have some lunch? We get lunch here for only Rs 40.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- <i>“No free lunch?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- “Write me an article on Bangalore over the last ten years.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- <i>“Sigh. We’re back in high school.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I spent the next half hour banging out a really drab essay on a dilapidated keyboard and patchy monitor that appeared to be from ten years ago as well. As I typed, a few alphabet keys leapt off the keyboard and launched themselves fiercely into the air. I printed my essay out, plucked “QWERTY” out of my hair and reluctantly made my way back to the VP’s cabin.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The man cooed over the stupid essay. “This is beautiful! The chairman will love it!” He read it slowly, running a finger across each line. “What is ‘bonhomie’?" I patiently explained. “What is ‘foreboding’?” he ventured again. I surveyed the room for hidden cameras – this HAD to be some sort of a candid camera TV gag.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What is ‘angst’?” he persisted. “Is it a real word?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unfortunately for him, he will never find out. His angst-ridden interviewee had fled the room.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Basically Blahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03995493281302773762noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2124906982785527560.post-52173566896831562052013-09-12T15:00:00.000+05:302013-09-12T16:10:38.471+05:30Fore! There was a Blah on a Bicycle<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, for the few of you who are keeping tabs, I survived my
first tryst with a bicycle after well over a decade. (Read about my pre-ride jitters <a href="http://a-saltedpeanut.blogspot.in/2013/08/ive-signed-up-to-lose-my-dignity.html" target="_blank">here</a>.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The <a href="http://www.baliecocycling.com/cycling-tour/" target="_blank">eco-cycling tour company</a> turned up at the resort right
on time. A smiling guide, who introduced himself as “Weda”, bundled me off into
a waiting van filled with around ten other people. As we drove off toward Mount
Batur, I felt slightly queasy, wondering what horrors lay ahead of me. <a href="http://a-saltedpeanut.blogspot.in/2013/08/ive-signed-up-to-lose-my-dignity.html" target="_blank">Those sludgy rice fields. Those shouting children.</a> Why couldn't this be a wooden pony
ride in an amusement park? Nobody has to get hurt there.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://kaoticsworkshop.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">KO</a>’s words rang in my ears. “We always have to do something
foolish in public. Go forth and make me proud”, she’d said. (And yet, she’d
turn down the job of a rodeo clown in a jiffy? That doesn't add up.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a typical Indonesian breakfast at a resort that gave
us a good view of Mount Batur and the lake around it, we bundled into the van
once more to make our way to the starting point. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the way, Weda gave us a bunch of instructions. “Do not
press only the front brake”, he said, and then went on to describe in painful
detail the story of a cyclist who had tried to take a picture on her camera
while cycling and then pressed the front brake. She had, apparently, flown over
the handlebars and broken her wrist. She had to have been a special kind of
stupid. Or American. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Weda went on to warn us that this was not the Tour de France
– no racing. He needn't have bothered. My normally competitive spirit was
drowning under nervousness-induced bile and sticky rice pudding from breakfast.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At our next stop, we were shown around a coffee/spice
plantation, savoured various kinds of coffee and Indonesian fruit and gawked at
civets kept in captivity to produce the very expensive “kopi luwak”. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We then walked over to choose our bikes. I surveyed the lot
with trepidation before a white bike, looking somewhat worse for wear, was
thrust at me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everyone else mounted confidently and trundled around the starting
area like they were born to ride. I clambered on and made my way onto the
tarred road, feeling dozens of eyes boring into my back as I teetered about
like a drunken bear on a circus unicycle. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was hardly any traffic on these roads that cut through
lush green rice fields and little villages dotted with Balinese family temples.
Just as I had eased into a rhythm, gaining enough confidence to survey the
landscape around me and enjoy the chill breeze in my face, it was time to stop
and visit a Balinese village and see bamboo weavers at work. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of the Americans in the group was clearly displeased at
the prospect of visiting a village. She scowled and declared “I am not a
tourist. I am a traveler.” Clearly, the thought of renting a bicycle and
exploring the place on her own had not occurred to her. Clearly, the word
“Tour” on the bicycling tour brochure had escaped her. She was surly throughout
the tour and remained the only unpleasant person in the group. I chuckled to
myself as she gingerly navigated her way through a stinking pigsty in the
middle of the village. We’d noticed she’d refused to touch anything in the van
– not even closing the door behind her. (Oh, the horrors of visiting a "third-world" country, eh?)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once back on our bikes, we set off again in single file.
That is when the first of the infamous waving children I had dreaded appeared
to greet us. I managed to nod at some. And then, to my horror, another group swarmed
forth, gleefully running toward us, hands thrust out for a high five. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d like to think that these kids were perceptive. I’d like
to think they saw the consternation on my face and left me well alone as I
grimaced and weaved away from them for their general safety. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two roads diverged in a wood and I took the one that Weda
said was easier. That left me with three genial Australian women and Weda. We
bonded over our common knee ailments, each of us describing in excruciating
detail how our joints could dislodge themselves at will. The rest, including a
flying Dutchman and somebody pushing 80, opted for the tough route. When they
appeared at lunch later, mouths agape, collapsing in a heap of crimson faces
and aching limbs, I knew we’d made the smarter choice. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After stuffing ourselves silly with typical Indonesian fare,
we trudged back to the van. I felt tired, but happy and a tad triumphant. I
have shied away from strenuous physical activity for a while after my knee
injury, but this 25km ride has restored some confidence in my abilities. Hell,
I’m sure I can zip-line to Mars or pogo-stick-it with some roos in the Aussie
outback now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We made our way back to town, chattering away with each
other. All except the surly American woman. She scowled and poked her head out
of the window the whole time. Whether this had anything to do with her being
seated next to an Indian, I can’t say for sure. But I’d like to think so. She
probably went back home and bathed in industrial-strength disinfectant.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijdNLQTnEGLzv5pK0j82APc_14lSD9anriTcel4ZCgFxn0OTAZPbCfjwD1x89vTiwaWoUd8we9NCAyZQS8RZR6ZAIkuzzNmP7NNKAPRA8BM1pHKFY4hmtmBMse9e4u7xyCMFMtQ7Hrpsc/s1600/Cycling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijdNLQTnEGLzv5pK0j82APc_14lSD9anriTcel4ZCgFxn0OTAZPbCfjwD1x89vTiwaWoUd8we9NCAyZQS8RZR6ZAIkuzzNmP7NNKAPRA8BM1pHKFY4hmtmBMse9e4u7xyCMFMtQ7Hrpsc/s320/Cycling.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pictures for those who grumble I do not splash any on Facebook</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Basically Blahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03995493281302773762noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2124906982785527560.post-19141516944379498432013-08-05T15:26:00.000+05:302013-09-12T15:01:20.175+05:30I’ve Signed Up to Lose My Dignity<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have always suspected that I have some sort of subconscious death wish. I am a cautious person normally. Like I always make someone walk ahead of me on Bangalore’s dodgy pavements. That way, when they fall through a loose pavement slab and are waist-deep in an icky drain, I can still get across to the other side by stepping on their heads. Shocking, you say? Yes, my nimbleness usually gets that sort of a reaction. I say “I hope I don’t fall” just before a flight of stairs, jinxing things just so that <a href="http://a-saltedpeanut.blogspot.in/p/mustard-mayo.html" target="_blank">BC </a>or some other virtuous individual goes tumbling down instead.<br />
<br />
This subconscious suicidal tendency, however, raises its ugly head quite often, catching me completely unawares. I have had a few near-fatal experiences. All as undignified as they come. <br />
<br />
One evening, I was standing on the median of a busy street along with my colleague Apooo, waiting to cross the road. As a wave of traffic approached, I suddenly lurched forward and went, arms and legs flailing, onto the road. Fortunately, for me, motorists were more benevolent back then than they are now. They stopped while I quickly picked myself up and scurried sheepishly across while Apooo looked at me completely bewildered. I have no explanation for why I careened forward like that. I did not lose my balance. I did not trip. My subconscious probably convinced me it would be fun to throw myself out in thick traffic to really liven things up. <br />
<br />
On a visit to the hills I call home, I was walking up a steep slushy path. As I gloated over my perceived mountain goat-like surefootedness in such terrain, I suddenly found I couldn’t take a step further. I couldn’t bring my left leg forward to take a step. It remained stubbornly rooted to its perch on a bit of rock. Then I heard a sharp crack above me and in a second, a very large and heavy jackfruit landed right in front of me. As I surveyed the sticky, squishy mess all over my right foot, it occurred to me that had that jackfruit landed on my head, I would have died. A terribly undignified death. Why I had chosen that path when the alternative route was easier and much less risky, I will never know. <br />
<br />
Coupled with a subconscious that wishes a painful, undignified death, I seem to have some sort of secret penchant for public displays of foolishness. I mulled over that after <a href="http://kaoticsworkshop.blogspot.in/" target="_blank">KO </a>and I successfully kayaked ourselves under a wooden pier and had to be extricated by an amused guide while other kayakers hooted with laughter and propelled themselves expertly through the mangroves of <a href="http://a-saltedpeanut.blogspot.in/2011/10/tidbits-from-thailand.html" target="_blank">Thailand</a>.<br />
<br />
As I pack my bags for Bali, I wonder what I am getting myself into. I’ve signed up for an eco-cycling tour. Nothing wrong or obtuse about that, you say? Well, consider that I haven’t sat on a bicycle since I was 16. Which would also be okay if I was riding on, say, an aircraft runway. And did I mention I have an iffy knee? <br />
<br />
I am going to be cycling through narrow paths across slushy rice fields. They say happy, excited children come running out to wave and shout hello. (Running out of their houses, I mean, not the rice fields – that would make them those Stephen-King-Children-of-the-Corn freaks.)<br />
<br />
As if navigating treacherous paddy drains isn’t challenging enough, I also have to avoid running over some jubilant children. If I refuse to wave back for fear of taking my hands off the handlebars, I will be that rude, unfriendly <a href="http://a-saltedpeanut.blogspot.in/2012/07/to-all-travellers-ive-loathed-before.html" target="_blank">Indian tourist we all dislike so much</a>. If I try waving back, I’ll lose control and run them over. I will be labeled a serial child killer. Given my open dislike of young humans, nobody is going to believe it was an accident. I could end up in jail. <br />
<br />
My chance to hold onto even a shred of dignity looks very, very bleak. As I see it, eco-friendly and child-friendly would mean allowing me to be thrown over the bicycle handlebars, face first into warm, icky mud. Goodbye, Dignity, Self-Respect and, of course, Vanity.<br />
<br />
It doesn’t look good, people. Stay tuned for post-trip updates where I’ll lick the wounds of my smarting ego.</div>
Basically Blahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03995493281302773762noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2124906982785527560.post-81304145688301871372013-04-28T10:01:00.001+05:302013-04-28T10:01:16.246+05:30Rape Isn't a Sport<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
To people who use "rape" to describe a cricket performance:<br />
<br />
There is nothing even remotely funny about rape. If you think it is a clever word to describe the utter decimation of a cricket team by another, think again.<br />
<br />
You are on Facebook. You are actively vocal about your opinions thanks to its Status Update feature. That makes you tech-savvy and educated. Wait, did I say educated? I take that back. I’ll go with "literate". You are literate enough to voice your opinion about a cricket match, but when you say things like "XYZ raped the ABC team" or "XYZ was gang-raped by 11 men", you prove you are far from educated.<br />
<br />
We live in India during a time when no other word is more commonly splashed around in the media than "rape". We have the dubious distinction of nurturing a "rape culture".<br />
<br />
Rape culture does not just begin and end with the men who think that women are mere objects for them to violate. Rape culture includes the society that encourages it. A society that is insensitive to the plight of thousands of women and young girls who are brutalized.<br />
<br />
That society includes you. You who so callously bandies around words like "rape" and "gang rape" to describe a cricket performance.<br />
<br />
Think about the young woman who was gang raped by six men on a bus, who screamed for help even as the brutes gouged out her innards with an iron rod. Think about a five-year-old girl who lies in a hospital, traumatized after being gang raped by two men – men who did things so terrible to her tiny body, it makes me sick to even mention here. Think about the six-year-old girl who was found in a public toilet, raped and left for dead, her throat slit.<br />
<br />
That is RAPE. Is that what you equate with the blistering knock of Chris Gayle? Is that the word you want to use to describe the complete annihilation of PWI or RCB?<br />
<br />
Are you that insensitive? Or is it simply apathy? Are you so smug and content in the belief that it couldn't happen to you or to someone you love? That rape only happens to someone else – some nameless faceless stranger whose ordeal earns her a two-column piece on the front page, an hour’s debate on the 9:00 news and a candle light vigil at the India Gate.<br />
<br />
What if (God forbid) it did happen to you or someone close to you? Would you still use "rape" or "gang rape" to describe a spectacular performance?<br />
<br />
Open the dictionary. You will find it to be a wonderful book. There are words like "decimate", "obliterate", "annihilate", "drubbing", "defeat", "vanquish", "expunge" and more. Or is your brain, much like your petty insensitive mind, so tiny that it can only grasp completely inappropriate four-letter words?<br />
</div>
Basically Blahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03995493281302773762noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2124906982785527560.post-57829232896912215482013-03-31T16:32:00.000+05:302013-04-09T20:24:44.662+05:30A Flock Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
While filling out a form recently, I stopped short when I
came to the column titled “Who to contact in an emergency”. This was a tough
one. I pursed my lips, quite stumped. Pen still poised, I considered my
options.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let’s see, there’s family. Obviously. That’s what most
people put down. People who don’t belong to <a href="http://a-saltedpeanut.blogspot.in/2011/01/blahs-must-be-crazy.html" target="_blank">the Blah family</a>, that is. Let me
elaborate.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One evening, Cousin Binky, the blood relative I call my
mother and I were peaceably watching TV together. All of a sudden, a swarm of
bees swooped in. There were hundreds, crawling in through the half-open windows
and thronging around the light bulbs. My mother is highly allergic to bee
stings. So I quickly bundled her into a bedroom. Just so we’re clear: I was
more afraid she’d swallow a bunch of bees as she stood squealing, “Aiyeeee!
Bees! Oh! Oh! Bees! Ahhh!” than actually getting stung. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I then shut all the doors and windows and switched off all
the lights in the house, save one. The bees now hummed over to the single
light, sounding like the starting grid of a Formula 1 Grand Prix. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Quick, Binky, grab the insect repellant!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked over at Binky. Binky was running all right. She was
grabbing all right. Only, she was grabbing a long green banana from the fruit
bowl. Close on her heels was my excited dog, thrilled at the sudden action
around the house, trying to nip her bottom. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That sort of response clearly ruled out Binky as my
emergency contact. My mother, too. I mean, if her open-mouthed reaction to the
bees hasn’t convinced you, consider the evening of the exploding water heater. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a loud “boom” followed by an angry hissing of steam.
My mother, evidently displaying complete and utter faith in my clairvoyant
abilities, kept screaming, “What is it? What is it?” even when we were three
rooms away and unsure what the noise was.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Besides, my mother has a warped sense of what constitutes an
emergency. Her recent panicky phone call to me went this way:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- "Thoo Ja!"<br />
- "What?" <br />
- "Thoo Ja! The cow has got warts on her teats!"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- "Eww! Ma, I’m eating!"<br />
- "It’s the name of the homeopathic medicine the vet recommended."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- "Ahh-ha!"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- "No! Thuja!"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- "Okay." </div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, there’s my father and his belief that <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/WD-40" target="_blank">WD40</a> is a panacea
for all ills. For the above-mentioned wart-on-teats problem, for instance, he’d
recommend WD40. My brother Scion? In his world, he claims birds deposit checkered pajamas on his balcony in the middle of the night. Is that really someone one
should risk putting on as an “emergency contact”?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I then considered my close friends. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://kaoticsworkshop.blogspot.in/" target="_blank">KO</a>! KO is a gem in an emergency. When BC’s parked car began
rolling down a slope, she yelled out to KO to “pull the handbrake”. KO leapt
into the car and brought it to a quick stop. There was just one tiny problem with her
modus operandi though. Our girl leapt into the car and pressed the FOOT brake with
her HAND. Trust KO to bring a bit of Hollywood stunt action to everyday life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bin? Bin has a history of confronting possible watermelon
thieves with a bottle of Barcardi Breezer, and, most recently, inadvertently walked
off with a wannabe cult leader’s bedroom slippers. Bin IS an emergency herself. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Krook? MW? Krazy Frog? Krook has a tendency to declare, “Don’t
worry! I will find your marbles!” under duress. MW’s idea of a travel first-aid kit is hemorrhoid cream, a steel spring and a ring. Krazy Frog very
reassuringly says, “No worries! I’ll call you in 5, okay?” and disappears for
the next 5 months. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With a sigh, I realised I had little choice. I quickly filled in a name and number and handed in the form, fervently praying that I would never face an emergency situation. So, whose name did I put in? I'm going to have to leave you guessing about that one.</div>
</div>
Basically Blahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03995493281302773762noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2124906982785527560.post-83096491219058466552013-02-10T16:14:00.000+05:302013-02-27T13:28:19.592+05:30A Vow of Zero Tolerance<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I was <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eve_teasing" target="_blank">eveteased </a>today. As I made my way along the pavement
to the grocery store, a man walked past me and in a low tone leeringly mumbled,
“looking nice, looking good”.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now here’s how I’ve dealt with eveteasing in the past: If it
was a remark or a comment, I’d just shrug it off and ignore it, choosing to
walk on and avoid a scene. However, if I was touched or groped, I’d turn around
and let the person have it – verbally and physically. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lately, I’ve changed. The <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2012_Delhi_gang_rape_case" target="_blank">horrific incident in Delhi</a> and the furor that followed has everything to do with it. We Indian women are too meek, too submissive, too tolerant. Why was I
tolerating a remark? Eveteasing is eveteasing in ANY form – no matter how seemingly innocuous a
comment, a look, a gesture or a touch. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why must we tolerate it at all?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This morning, something inside me snapped. I wheeled around
as the man walked by and called out, “What did you say? Repeat it!” He ignored
me and quickened his pace as I turned around and began following him. As I
began catching up, he quickly ran across the road and reached the pavement on
the opposite side. I kept pace with him
on my side of the road, keeping out of sight behind a line of parked cars. He
had now slowed to a walk, thinking I’d given up and gone. I quickly ran across
the road and confronted him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He started babbling apologies as soon as I had him cornered.
Initially, he said, “I was not talking to you.” “Then who?” I demanded at the
top of my voice. “There was nobody there. Were you talking to the cars? The
wall? The pavement? Where should I take you? The mental asylum or the police
station?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He resorted to apologising again. But I was not going to let
him off lightly. I was livid. My voice kept rising as I yelled at him, telling
him he would get five years in jail if I filed a complaint (I’m not even sure
that’s true, but hey, nobody’s going to debate with a furious woman). As he
switched to Kannada, I decided I’d hit him where it hurt – his pride. “Oh, to evetease you speak English and now you speak Kannada? Do you
Kannadiga men have no respect for women? This is what your culture teaches you?”
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"You have goddesses - Durga, Kali, Lakshmi. And yet you have no respect for women?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A little crowd was gathering. A car with a couple had
stopped. A guy asked what had happened. The eveteaser was
now quite rattled. He kept pinching his throat and pleading and apologising. “You
are the same type of people as the Delhi rapists! Get down on your knees! On
your knees!” I screamed. I kept screaming louder and louder until he actually
complied. There he was, on his knees, apologising. “You open your mouth to one
more woman and see what happens to you,” I shrieked before resorting to a bunch
of cuss words I would not like to defile my blog space with. And with that, I
walked away.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can only hope that this public shaming will make him think
twice before he disrespects another woman. My only regret is that I wasn’t
carrying my cellphone to take a picture of the groveling lowlife.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is my appeal to all you women out there. Enough is
enough. Let’s have zero tolerance towards eveteasing or molestation in any
form. No matter how trivial you think it is. Nothing is trivial. Shout. Scream. Make a
scene. Shame them. If the only way to make them respect you is by instilling
fear, then so be it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And decent men out there: Take a strong stand. Stand up for a woman in distress. Don't stand around and gawk or turn a blind eye as she takes a stand and fights for what is essentially her birthright: a life of dignity, safety and freedom.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nip it in the bud. Eveteasers today are potential rapists
tomorrow. By confronting these disgusting creeps, you are making our world a safer, better place for other women – one eveteaser at a time. It’s a tiny drop in the
ocean, but it is a start. If my actions today make that man avoid teasing one
other woman in the coming week (I highly doubt it would have cured him of his
filthy behaviour), then I’ve made a difference. Hardly a dent in the wider spectrum
of things, but a teeny tiny difference still.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 17px;">“Kindly adjust maadi” may be the maxim in Bangalore. But no more. I’m done being kind. I’m done adjusting. The only thing I am going to adjust now is the sickening attitude of eveteasers. Who’s with me?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-size: 15px; line-height: 17px;"><b>UPDATE</b>: On Saturday, 23rd February, I encountered yet another eveteaser. The young man sang out as he passed by me. I kicked up a ruckus again - following him while I screamed and brandished an umbrella in his face. When I asked him to kneel down, for some reason (most likely the language barrier), he thought I meant sit-ups! So a few amused passersby and I watched in silence as he did about four or five sit-ups before I walked away. "Very good! Even I do the same thing!" a girl called out to me. I certainly hope she does. She and a couple of million other Indian women. </span></span></div>
</div>
Basically Blahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03995493281302773762noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2124906982785527560.post-84548238454008155242013-01-19T13:58:00.001+05:302013-01-19T13:58:23.626+05:30First One Out is a Rotten Egg<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The email read:<br />
<br /><i>“Dear Ms Blah,<br />We sincerely apologise for the incident. Could you please date the rotten egg? We can then take measures to see that such incidents do not happen in future.”</i><br />
<br />Umm…. I’ve only ever dated rotten eggs. If there’s a rotten egg out there, he’s got my number.<br />
<br />Oh, hang on. They meant a rotten egg quite literally. My mind drifted back to my recently concluded African safari. (I will tell you more about the actual safari in a separate post. This post is dedicated to the aforementioned rotten egg.)<br />
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
It was the penultimate day of the safari. Our safari party settled down to lunch at the designated picnic area at <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tarangire_National_Park" target="_blank">Tarangire National Park</a>. I opened my lunch box and was immediately besieged by an adorable squirrel and several bold Superb Starlings.<br />
<br />SK opened his lunch box, and everyone and everything in the vicinity dived for cover. While filling our lunch boxes at the camp in the morning, I had most wisely opted not to pick up a hard-boiled egg. SK was quite clearly not so prudent.<br />
<br />As it turned out, the egg was in an advanced stage of putrefaction. <br />
<br /><i>Code Red, everybody, we have a decomposing egg. I repeat. We have a stinky decomposing egg.</i><br />
<br />The trouble with decomposing eggs is that-- Well, actually, there are plenty of troubles that come with rotten eggs as we soon found out.<br />
<br />For one, there’s the sheer bile-evoking stench. And now, we were faced with a dilemma none of us had faced before in our lives.<br />
<br />We had to dispose of this decomposing egg during a safari in an African national park where disposing of trash of any sort is strictly forbidden. <br />
<br />They don’t provide trash bins in the designated picnic areas as that would pose a problem for the animals that forage around in the vicinity. You take your trash back with you.<br />
<br />So, we had this egg on our hands now. Lovingly wrapped in a paper serviette that did nothing to mask the horrible smell. <br />
<br />Have you seen a squirrel gag? No? Just try offering it a putrid egg. The giraffes we’d been watching, idling by the river, had galloped away. The elephants were no doubt packing their trunks for an emergency evacuation back to Kenya.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
To put it in an egg shell: Houston, we have a problem. How do we get rid of this egg?<br />
<br />“Giggling is not the answer!” I was admonished. “I’m sorry,” I sputtered, “but it’s the vapours from that egg.”<br />
<br />A giggling woman and a fetid egg do not make for good company and I soon found myself alone, warily regarding the pestilent egg. <br />
<br /><i>* Thunk, thunk, thunk *</i><br />
<br />I wheeled around. SK was right in the centre of the picnic area, digging a hole with the heel of his boot, quite oblivious to the curious stares of other safari goers. SK was part of my safari party. I did not want to be considered mad by association.<br />
<br />“What are you doing?” I called out in horror, “The toilet is the other way”. <br />
<br />“Digging a hole. I’m going to bury that egg,” he shot back.<br />
<br />“In the middle of the picnic ground?” I hissed. <br />
<br />“Then what do you suggest we do with it?”<br />
<br />“I don’t know. It’s your egg. Of all the eggs, who asked you to pick that one?”<br />
<br />
Clearly, this egg was sowing some seeds of serious discord. We gingerly tossed the egg back into an empty lunch carton and placed it on the front seat of our safari Land Cruiser. Rotten eggs always ride shotgun.<br />
<br /><a href="http://www.rasafaris.com/" target="_blank">Emmanuel</a>, our driver/guide, was normally very cheerful and chatty. But within five minutes of having sat in the vehicle, he was strangely mum and perturbed.<br />
<br />He stopped the vehicle abruptly. “Spotted something?” we asked looking out at nothing. Emmanuel grunted. Then he deftly opened the lunch box, picked up the offensive egg and flung it into the depths of tall green elephant grass. “The smell was terrible,” he announced, his good mood now restored. “Ay, Pumba!” he chuckled, pointing at an unfortunate warthog that was fleeing the now egg-infested area.<br />
<br />“Another <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ngorongoro_Conservation_Area" target="_blank">Ngorongoro Crater</a> is going to form there. Only we will know what really caused it,” said SK, his good humour returning as well.<br />
<br />As we drove away, I spotted a group of vultures swooping into the area. No doubt a decomposing chicken egg would be a rare treat. <br />
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
<i>“The rotten egg date, as is the case with a lot of rotten egg dates, is easy to remember. December 28th was the only day that we did not spot a single lion.</i><br />
<i><br />Regards,<br />Basically Blah.”</i></div>
Basically Blahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03995493281302773762noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2124906982785527560.post-70233706841890387072013-01-14T16:11:00.000+05:302013-01-17T11:44:30.302+05:30Yawning Tortoise Shelldom Bites<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
Anyone who knows me well would know that nothing rarely excites me more than the prospect of spending time with some little four-legged creatures.<br />
<br />
So on a day-trip to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Changuu" target="_blank">Prison Island</a>, which is about an hour by boat (if you can call that pile of wood a boat) from <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stonetown" target="_blank">Stone Town</a>, I looked forward to visiting the tortoise sanctuary. A boat named “Desire” deposited us on Prison Island.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic2dDnHEGNaXDpfT-YQmkdujiMzRibavS20C8W76dEaLUFeC6pBfsU4TGJ2i4gTtvTy9xwMjfPW4sgHfWfSACb6w3VyaOT0ehhAKOZQwA0SeFkyLBjKsK0uq6lM810_gsZ30B2uYbrDgY/s1600/DSC03052.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="70" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic2dDnHEGNaXDpfT-YQmkdujiMzRibavS20C8W76dEaLUFeC6pBfsU4TGJ2i4gTtvTy9xwMjfPW4sgHfWfSACb6w3VyaOT0ehhAKOZQwA0SeFkyLBjKsK0uq6lM810_gsZ30B2uYbrDgY/s320/DSC03052.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
The beach was lovely – cool cobalt-blue water that gently lapped up to fine creamy sand. However, it was close to noon and the blazing sun was soon burning me to a crisp.<br />
<br />
Prison Island is home to the endangered <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aldabra" target="_blank">Aldabra Giant Tortoise</a>. I entered the tortoise sanctuary and was immediately glad for the cool shade the numerous trees afforded me. I soon forgot about the heat. I was so taken in with the sheer number of these gentle and sociable creatures.<br />
<br />
There were tortoises everywhere – grey lumps that moved lethargically sometimes but remained stationary for the most part. The smaller babies were quickly grabbed for pictures.<br />
<br />
“Do not sit on the tortoise,” a sign announced at the entrance. I could see how people could sit on these great big mounds – either accidentally, mistaking them for a rock, or intentionally because of the novelty.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfFjjNGA5tMLd39pSdtfR1c88uxKtAGioihOZFex4TJAdihjf8nGWtJdVXbjopGHdAOGhl35U-n1t4rDWWzHjME9d70WFlf4OXF2J_evzCKRD9uXGYJ4wgAKVdgBzg1GOoEnk3LGdvrN0/s1600/DSC03001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfFjjNGA5tMLd39pSdtfR1c88uxKtAGioihOZFex4TJAdihjf8nGWtJdVXbjopGHdAOGhl35U-n1t4rDWWzHjME9d70WFlf4OXF2J_evzCKRD9uXGYJ4wgAKVdgBzg1GOoEnk3LGdvrN0/s320/DSC03001.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I sauntered around, curiously watching the tortoises. Some were eating, some were sleeping, some were contemplating moving and a few were copulating (it is breeding season). Their ages were painted on their shells. The old lady of the house is a 189 years old – which is only middle age for these fascinating shelled beings.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoYppczL_ZRD5umk6f0hE1DKkPexfxjkvOXIhnV33zTaa_sHGuIuF2561vRwQu0vvdH38o1sKC32zIzOcxP-dyWAkvWIlxJ-MuPdl1WWQNBfCcJ5Gct2CQ55oRyv4lnKvQvmdRKlTaH9M/s1600/Aldabra+Giant+Tortoise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoYppczL_ZRD5umk6f0hE1DKkPexfxjkvOXIhnV33zTaa_sHGuIuF2561vRwQu0vvdH38o1sKC32zIzOcxP-dyWAkvWIlxJ-MuPdl1WWQNBfCcJ5Gct2CQ55oRyv4lnKvQvmdRKlTaH9M/s320/Aldabra+Giant+Tortoise.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I sat down on a stone bench to rest. I suddenly noticed a 28-year-old tortoise taking a keen interest in me from about six or seven feet away. Did I look like spinach? Did he fancy Chanel's Chance? With a curiously intent expression in his eyes, he moved at an astonishingly rapid pace and made a beeline for me. He plodded up and sniffed my foot before looking up at me.<br />
<br />
We had a moment. A long moment. I was entranced. I patted his head, stroked his neck and tickled his chin. He gazed up at me adoringly and I was mesmerized.<br />
<br />
And then he yawned, his enjoyment evident on his amused crinkled face.<br />
<br />
After a good five minutes or so,as more people gathered around, he slowly moved away, possibly to compare notes with another comrade. The two of them soon seemed engrossed in deep contemplation with their heads banded together.<br />
<br />
As I left, I silently thanked that tortoise for according me such a remarkable moment. True, it was a simple moment. Nondescript even. With a grey and wrinkled tortoise.<br />
<br />
Life gives you many special moments. But how many of those come ensconced in a tortoise shell?<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFmcPVC7ziQE-rDU7Lzw7MkB1fbS6IdWniJf6aN0Sx-OOG-fbqWl_nCt6jPipvUjnZpRRIJnuu-210_gZXjAzTw0sksJo9zXYz2BnqJbBIl_ah6WFRErsNptg-YFFHFxurVRTUuXVBuUU/s1600/DSC03034.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFmcPVC7ziQE-rDU7Lzw7MkB1fbS6IdWniJf6aN0Sx-OOG-fbqWl_nCt6jPipvUjnZpRRIJnuu-210_gZXjAzTw0sksJo9zXYz2BnqJbBIl_ah6WFRErsNptg-YFFHFxurVRTUuXVBuUU/s320/DSC03034.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Basically Blahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03995493281302773762noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2124906982785527560.post-56516860264613473742013-01-11T19:55:00.001+05:302013-01-17T10:48:31.915+05:30Turbulent Tailwinds<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
There were plenty of surprises in store for me at <a href="http://a-saltedpeanut.blogspot.in/2013/01/who-invited-corybantes.html" target="_blank">Zanzibar</a>.<br />
<br />
To begin with, I’d never flown in a Cessna before. As I boarded the plane at the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arusha" target="_blank">Arusha </a>airstrip (it would be pure hyperbole to call it an airport), I found there weren't any seats left.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP6GwUEDnkVq8dF5uyS_h655z6rtdmoS9xUEhG6DJzqXnpfZgw2-KG3ZU35FDnNL5VZlD4q-ILwfJXfgyb9wJOa7hPthbUR1rok19U3JWG6CHI3qu5KtEgqX25n-lm52I78EMTn99zLhs/s1600/DSC02828.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP6GwUEDnkVq8dF5uyS_h655z6rtdmoS9xUEhG6DJzqXnpfZgw2-KG3ZU35FDnNL5VZlD4q-ILwfJXfgyb9wJOa7hPthbUR1rok19U3JWG6CHI3qu5KtEgqX25n-lm52I78EMTn99zLhs/s320/DSC02828.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: #666666;">Refueling and maintenance work in progress</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
“Co-pilot’s seat!” said the usher cheerfully and led me out and up to the front where he strapped me into the co-pilot’s seat. The pilot clambered in shortly, sneezing and sniffling into a handkerchief. “I’m sorry, I have a terrible cold,” he said. “If you have any bad feelings, just hold onto this,” he added, gesturing toward the top of the dashboard. I wasn't having any “bad feelings” until I spotted a “how to fly” manual perched between our seats.<br />
<br />
As we took off, I battled the near-sickening thrill in my tummy – like the feeling you get sitting in the front seat of a roller coaster just before it rolls off the peak. “Expect some turbulence,” said the Captain. “Don’t worry,” he assured me, noticing I was gripping my armrest quite tightly, “The plane won’t fall down. It will only float in the wind.” <br />
<br />
<i>Gee, that’s reassuring. Thanks much, you Xanax in human form!</i><br />
<br />
What he did not warn his anxious passengers and amateur “co-pilot” about was flatulence.<br />
<br />
We reached cruising altitude. I was more comfortable now - gazing around me, examining the dials and controls with interest. That’s when I smelt something. “There’s a rank odour around,” I thought, wondering if I were imagining it. Oh, no. It was real. Very real. Phew-whee! Somebody had had a lot of beans for lunch!<br />
<br />
There was some serious chemical warfare on at 1257 metres above sea level. My mind raced.<br />
<br />
<i>Will oxygen masks drop down in front of us gagging people? Did they stash sick bags under the co-pilot’s seat? How do I alert air-traffic control about this serious assault on the olfactory senses? Dear God, I am going to pass out.</i><br />
<br />
The Captain seemed unperturbed.<br />
<br />
<i>Yes, ladies and gentlemen. We seem to have identified our gaseous perpetrator. It is your very own pilot. Fasten your seatbelts and brace for flatulence.</i><br />
<br />
I struggled to keep my face impassive.<br />
<br />
<i>I hope to God it really is the pilot. What if it isn't? What if it’s the big German built like a war tank behind me? Or could it be his dodgy-looking Indian neighbour sleeping with his mouth slightly open? Yeah, quite likely. Luke Skyfarter.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Oh, sweet mother of God! What if everyone thinks it is me?</i><br />
<br />
I cursed. The Captain looked up from scribbling in his flight logs. He casually leaned forward and pulled a lever labelled “Vent”. Fresh air rushed in. My lungs sang hallelujah even as the clouds in front of us parted in alarm.<br />
<br />
The Captain showed me how to identify other airplanes in and around our flight path by looking at a screen. I watched it with keen interest while he went back to compiling his flight logs or doing his grocery lists or whatever.<br />
<br />
He then leaned back in his seat, put his arms behind his head and closed his eyes. I glanced behind at the other passengers. Their looks of alarm mirrored mine.<br />
<br />
I then noticed a little dot on the umm… flight radar thingy. It was headed straight for us.<br />
<br />
<i>Should I alert him? Is that why he showed me how it worked? So that he could nap while I kept watch? Urrrgh! I hope there’s a parachute under my seat.</i> <i>If only I hadn't mocked cuckoo <a href="http://kaoticsworkshop.blogspot.in/" target="_blank">KO</a>'s flight simulation Google doc.</i><br />
<br />
The Captain awoke. He studied the flight radar a moment and then radioed the ATC. The dot was quickly closing the gap between us. My heart began to pound.<br />
<br />
<i>My travel insurance covers repatriation of remains. Nothing remains in a midair collision. </i><br />
<br />
The Captain shook his head, still staring at the radar. The dot was still approaching. Head-on. We looked out. And there, clearly visible in the sunny blue afternoon sky, was a plane. Still barreling straight at us. The same flight path. The same altitude.<br />
<br />
“What is he doing? Crazy fellow!” the Captain mumbled, radioing ATC again. I just leaned back with thoughts bouncing around in my head like kids on a trampoline.<br />
<br />
<i>I’m too young to die. I haven’t seen Spain yet. Who will look after my dogs? I might get my chance to skydive now. At least that would be off my bucket list. I am going to kick the bucket. Because of a “crazy fellow”.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
The plane ahead quickly veered to our right and there was a collective sigh of relief from our plane as it passed.<br />
<br />
“If he hadn't moved, we would have…” said the Captain, ending his sentence by dramatically clapping both his hands together. "Crazy fellow."<br />
<br />
<i>Bad feelings. Clutch the dashboard. </i><br />
<br />
And with that, he resumed scribbling in his notebook.<br />
<br />
I have never been so glad to feel the ground under my feet as I shakily clambered out of the plane when we landed safely in Zanzibar.<br />
<br />
The only person I thanked before my Creator was the Captain. He simply waved me off and went back to writing in his notebook. Just another day, another dollar as far as he was concerned.<br />
<br />
<i>Crazy fellow.</i> <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinY4FX_pckSJqNwUMw2KzsGRTda6aS2ilBYfIPNwgkPBNKI11qIjR4dWppKAwfjEDUV0HnaxCRsDYxpIAgsslrUDzcBTvK2oQI23kH08k78UEhHekqBW8cPdOH7syo8e9bL3vXUYOmFd4/s1600/Zanair+Cessna+Flight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinY4FX_pckSJqNwUMw2KzsGRTda6aS2ilBYfIPNwgkPBNKI11qIjR4dWppKAwfjEDUV0HnaxCRsDYxpIAgsslrUDzcBTvK2oQI23kH08k78UEhHekqBW8cPdOH7syo8e9bL3vXUYOmFd4/s320/Zanair+Cessna+Flight.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;"><i>That's me with the heroic albeit somewhat flatulent Captain in the background</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqYrSHH9w1udYW8U4C-9R0e_sOMvTrbRTG1w7dBtN2nL8Q65W5ufRM2emsty5_EN-DitYTI-TqyXnQTheDC7CKLK1_kckjXitgwaXz76g0p7S_HI6DEnRo3ws-BMy_I4jndzNwm8AwwRo/s1600/DSC02829.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqYrSHH9w1udYW8U4C-9R0e_sOMvTrbRTG1w7dBtN2nL8Q65W5ufRM2emsty5_EN-DitYTI-TqyXnQTheDC7CKLK1_kckjXitgwaXz76g0p7S_HI6DEnRo3ws-BMy_I4jndzNwm8AwwRo/s320/DSC02829.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: #666666;">"Departure lounge" at Arusha Airport, Tanzania</span></i></td></tr>
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Basically Blahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03995493281302773762noreply@blogger.com5