1. Park for 30 minutes or more at the “10 seconds alighting – tow away” zone and hold up traffic and pedestrians alike while your 56 pieces of baggage are strewn across the road and walkway.
2. Bump everybody out of the way with your luggage-laden trolley and run over anybody who dares get in your way. A fractured foot or two is no big deal. I mean, if people are flying, why do they need feet?
3. Break your way into the queue at the check-in counter. Of course, you are more important than everybody else and don’t they know who you are?
4. If you really must stand in queue after the vicious protests of those around you, time to open your sandwich which smells like carrion.
5. Press up against the person in front of you – she is bound to appreciate mayo in her hair and the scent of onions on your breath.
6. Argue with the airline personnel about how their weighing scales are wrong. 40kg? What rubbish! Mummy’s IMPORTED kitchen scale only showed 21kg. Check again. Again. Again. Again. IMPORTED scales are never wrong. Again. Again.
7. Continue arguing with the check-in counter staff. God forbid that you leave the spot any time before the wailing infant behind you is ready to graduate from college. Of course, that grand piano is cabin size and qualifies as carry-on baggage. And the pedestal fan? That’s needed for health reasons – you’re asthmatic.
8. Proceed to the security check after telling everybody in no uncertain terms where they can stick it, who your daddy is, how they have no legal daddies, what size and quality of fecal matter they are etc.
9. Repeat Point 3 at the queue at the security check point.
10. Argue loudly with the security personnel over why you must not remove your waist pouch and send it through the screening machine. Everyone must know that you are just back from South Africa and you’re carrying DOLLARS! And GOLD! You’re not one of the bums standing in line who must send their tiddlywinks and Monopoly notes through the scanner.
11. Go in for the security pat-down. Refuse to acknowledge that the bulge in your jeans is really a mobile phone which must be sent through the scanner. Shriek that you, alpha male, feel violated and how the press will be told the gory details of that violation.
12. At the coffee shop, jostle everybody out of the way to get your “braid omlet” and spill your “express-o” on the female thing still wiping mayo out of her hair.
13. In the waiting lounge, place your baggage on the only vacant seat. Your Pustak Mahal plastic bag must be comfortable and takes precedence over the gasping old lady with the oxygen tank.
14. Point and holler at every plane you see taking off and landing. “Plane! Plane!” That’s a rarity in an airport, right - what with all the flying giraffes and Santa sleighs we see on any normal day.
15. Disregard the details of your boarding call. Only seats 1-14 in group one? That’s all right. It is important that you, seat 26, get on that plane first. Don’t they know who you are? Nonsense.
Stay tuned for: How to be a Pest on a Plane.
Showing posts with label How-To-Series. Show all posts
Showing posts with label How-To-Series. Show all posts
Friday, December 9, 2011
Friday, October 7, 2011
How to Tell You Are At A Pretentious Overrated Restaurant
1. There are only rave reviews online. Nobody, save some bitter soul who lost his reservation after showing up “only one hour late”, has anything even average to say about the place.
2. The waiters call the wet tissues presented at the beginning of the meal the restaurant’s “signature touch”.
3. The people seated next to you are creating a commotion over a game of tug-of-war with a roomali roti.
4. The restaurant claims to have authentic Punjabi chefs while the “live kitchen” appears to have been invaded by the Chinese.
5. You have to rescue your cousin who has been wedged between an effusive waiter greeting patrons at the neighbouring table and the back of a chair.
6. The beaming waiter asks you to select any appetizers and drinks on the menu and the conversation goes:
- “What would you like to have? Please order anything at all.”
- “What would you recommend in prawn?”
- “Sorry, we’re all out of prawn.”
- “All right, so get us some beer to start with.”
- “Which beer, sir?”
- “Tuborg?”
- “Sorry, no Tuborg.”
- “Kingfisher?”
- “Sorry, no Kingfisher.” (In the city that is home to Uncle Mallya’s brewery)
7. You settle for a tall glass of Heineken which is promptly garnished with a handful of onions and radish by a clumsy waiter.
8. The restaurant does not have regular tandoori chicken. The waiter recommends a pindi whatchamacallit chicken which is a good example of how a chef can effortlessly reduce a chipper succulent bird to tasteless brown goop.
9. Your cousin is dejectedly pronging bits of fish kebab in his plate after the following exchange:
- “Sir, would you like the fish? Or would you like the fish?”
- “Erm… Lemme think. Shoot, I can’t decide. Oh, well, I think I’ll try the fish.”
- “Sorry, sir, we’re out of fish. I just dropped the fish at your feet.”
- “Ok, then I’ll have the fish.”
- “Very good, sir.”
10. Everyone is clawing their way toward the only tasty thing at dinner – the surprise birthday cake with a single candle.
11. The highlights of the evening are your hungry uncle mistaking the wet tissues for complimentary snacks and your cousin gurgling with happiness because someone spelled her name right on the cake – even if it meant having to squish a little icing on the cake hurriedly to convert a “G” to a “C”.
12. Everyone agrees that the best thing on the menu was the logo.
Bottomline: Jiggs Kalra needs an alternate career. I am done with pretentious restaurants. Give me some real food, please. Preferably on a plate, thank you very much.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
A Sense of Humerus
Hospitals have a strange, twisted sense of humour. I was reminded of this (yet again). It appears to be the Year of Hospitals for my family. After my dad’s tryst with the medical fraternity, it is now my mum’s turn.
My mum has always been quite adventurous. When Scion and I were kids, she’d spend a good amount of time with us climbing peach trees, catching tadpoles from the pond, touching touch-me-nots, collecting ants for my ant stations and whatnot. Age has done nothing to slow her down.
So, she claims she was “walking down a steep path”. I suspect she was playing hopscotch. Whatever the truth may be, she is now in a cast, nursing a fractured ankle. (Note: I would normally say fractured “fibula”, but NG got the old knickers in a bunch when I once said someone fractured an “ulna” – apparently, “normal people” use the word “arm” when referring to such things.)
Since medical facilities are quite pathetic in the boonies we call home – where eight large whiskeys are called anesthesia, brandy is a cure for rheumatism (also erectile dysfunction, incontinence etc) and three large rums give the power of x-ray vision – Mum is now literally putting her foot up in the city.
Mum, or Dr Quack, decided that she had completely healed in three weeks. To ascertain this belief (and put our arguments to rest), we walked into a hospital to consult a real orthopaedic doctor. “Go straight and take a left” they told us at the front desk.
Here’s how they really should have given directions:
“Walk straight down the corridor. Then you have a choice. You can either hobble down a flight of stairs that has a railing for support on one side only or you can slippery slide down the steep wheelchair ramp. If you happen to be in a wheelchair, you can burn rubber down the ramp before either crashing headlong into a water cooler, a plastic basin and some chairs strategically placed right at the end of the ramp.
If you choose to veer off the ramp before you reach the end, you have no choice but to tumble off the side and free fall for about three feet. In the process, you could damage your femur, tibia, fibula and/or your humerus, scapula, radius, ulna and others. But hey! No worries, you can crawl right into the doc’s room on your bruised patellas and phalanges!”
As if this wasn’t enough, there was a swinging gate that divided the outpatient and inpatient areas outside the doc’s office. When opened wide, the gate would rebound so quickly, I noticed more than one unsuspecting person being winded with a swift whack to the solar plexus or stumbling forward with a sure shot to the gluteus maximus.
The technician in the x-ray room only made life more interesting. He patted a table that was about five feet above the ground and told my one-legged mother to “climb up”. He's lucky she had only the one working leg. It saved him a quick kick in his special place. I forgave him though. Constant exposure to those x-rays must have had some adverse impact on the few grey cells bumming around in his cranium.
In fact, I forgave them all. In fact, I have a new found respect for them. After all, we are all born ignorant. It takes hard work to remain stupid.
My mum has always been quite adventurous. When Scion and I were kids, she’d spend a good amount of time with us climbing peach trees, catching tadpoles from the pond, touching touch-me-nots, collecting ants for my ant stations and whatnot. Age has done nothing to slow her down.
So, she claims she was “walking down a steep path”. I suspect she was playing hopscotch. Whatever the truth may be, she is now in a cast, nursing a fractured ankle. (Note: I would normally say fractured “fibula”, but NG got the old knickers in a bunch when I once said someone fractured an “ulna” – apparently, “normal people” use the word “arm” when referring to such things.)
Since medical facilities are quite pathetic in the boonies we call home – where eight large whiskeys are called anesthesia, brandy is a cure for rheumatism (also erectile dysfunction, incontinence etc) and three large rums give the power of x-ray vision – Mum is now literally putting her foot up in the city.
Mum, or Dr Quack, decided that she had completely healed in three weeks. To ascertain this belief (and put our arguments to rest), we walked into a hospital to consult a real orthopaedic doctor. “Go straight and take a left” they told us at the front desk.
Here’s how they really should have given directions:
“Walk straight down the corridor. Then you have a choice. You can either hobble down a flight of stairs that has a railing for support on one side only or you can slippery slide down the steep wheelchair ramp. If you happen to be in a wheelchair, you can burn rubber down the ramp before either crashing headlong into a water cooler, a plastic basin and some chairs strategically placed right at the end of the ramp.
If you choose to veer off the ramp before you reach the end, you have no choice but to tumble off the side and free fall for about three feet. In the process, you could damage your femur, tibia, fibula and/or your humerus, scapula, radius, ulna and others. But hey! No worries, you can crawl right into the doc’s room on your bruised patellas and phalanges!”
As if this wasn’t enough, there was a swinging gate that divided the outpatient and inpatient areas outside the doc’s office. When opened wide, the gate would rebound so quickly, I noticed more than one unsuspecting person being winded with a swift whack to the solar plexus or stumbling forward with a sure shot to the gluteus maximus.
The technician in the x-ray room only made life more interesting. He patted a table that was about five feet above the ground and told my one-legged mother to “climb up”. He's lucky she had only the one working leg. It saved him a quick kick in his special place. I forgave him though. Constant exposure to those x-rays must have had some adverse impact on the few grey cells bumming around in his cranium.
In fact, I forgave them all. In fact, I have a new found respect for them. After all, we are all born ignorant. It takes hard work to remain stupid.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
How To Be A Moron At The Movies
1. Cut the queue at the ticket counter. (Silly queue-following people have nothing better to do for fun but stand and stare at the back of peoples’ heads, apparently.)
2. Enter the theatre late. Grope your fellow moviegoers inappropriately to help you find your seat in the darkened hall.
3. Stomp on feet while you sidle your way through the row of seats, lose your balance and hang your ample behind precariously over the lap of someone already seated. (This creates quite the dilemma in their minds - do I just yell in alarm or grab on, shove and hope for the best?)
4. Blab loudly with your companion about something totally unrelated to the movie (because everyone paid good money to come to the theatre to listen to your wildly exciting description of your balcony in Delhi.)
5. Keep your cellphone ringer on and entertain more calls than a 24/7 call centre handles in a year.
6. Begin a slanging match with anyone who dares to shush you. (Everyone needs to hear what an expansive arsenal of expletives you possess.)
7. Take your own sweet time ordering enough food for a small African nation at the snack counter. Then create a scene because you haven’t the money to pay for it and insist that the staff try several credit, debit and other bits of plastic to cover the bill.
8. Mourn loudly to your companion that the popcorn “back home in the States” is so much better than here - they don’t scrounge on the butter etc. (Your American Eagle Outfitter t-shirt will convince everyone you are the real deal even though your Paragon rubber chappals might raise some doubt.)
9. Start a popcorn fight with your companions. Make sure you drench everybody, including complete strangers, with your aerated cola.
10. Once your store of popcorn ammo is exhausted, poke around for more everywhere you can think of, including under the bottom of your neighbour. (What better excuse to cop a good feel, eh?)
11. Bring in a whole brood of babbling, whining children who do not comprehend the language in the first place. (Nothing aggravates fellow moviegoers more than having a 90-minute film translated word-for-word into some vernacular dialect.)
12. Ensure that the aforementioned children carry with them one or more of the following items which can be liberally applied onto fellow moviegoers: Bubble-blowing solution, sticky chewing gum retained on grubby fingers, snot-laden tissue etc.
13. If the film goes off due to a technical glitch, remain seated and do nothing yourself, but ensure that you keep yelling, “Hey, somebody tell them! Somebody do something. Why is everybody just sitting?”
14. If you choose to do something about it yourself, stand up, turn toward the projection room and clap your hands – because the equipment is probably clap-activated, right?
15. Place your cup of gooey chocolate mousse on the next seat just as your neighbour is seating himself/herself down.
16. Apologise profusely and offer the now squashed remains of the mousse to placate your highly upset neighbour.
17. Remove your shoes and rest your toe-jammy feet on the seat in front of you.
18. Squat down in the middle of the exit stairwell, placing your precious helmet next to you, mindless of the stream of people almost tripping over you. If the movie did not have enough action, someone tumbling down the stairs in real life should satisfy everybody’s bloodlust.
2. Enter the theatre late. Grope your fellow moviegoers inappropriately to help you find your seat in the darkened hall.
3. Stomp on feet while you sidle your way through the row of seats, lose your balance and hang your ample behind precariously over the lap of someone already seated. (This creates quite the dilemma in their minds - do I just yell in alarm or grab on, shove and hope for the best?)
4. Blab loudly with your companion about something totally unrelated to the movie (because everyone paid good money to come to the theatre to listen to your wildly exciting description of your balcony in Delhi.)
5. Keep your cellphone ringer on and entertain more calls than a 24/7 call centre handles in a year.
6. Begin a slanging match with anyone who dares to shush you. (Everyone needs to hear what an expansive arsenal of expletives you possess.)
7. Take your own sweet time ordering enough food for a small African nation at the snack counter. Then create a scene because you haven’t the money to pay for it and insist that the staff try several credit, debit and other bits of plastic to cover the bill.
8. Mourn loudly to your companion that the popcorn “back home in the States” is so much better than here - they don’t scrounge on the butter etc. (Your American Eagle Outfitter t-shirt will convince everyone you are the real deal even though your Paragon rubber chappals might raise some doubt.)
9. Start a popcorn fight with your companions. Make sure you drench everybody, including complete strangers, with your aerated cola.
10. Once your store of popcorn ammo is exhausted, poke around for more everywhere you can think of, including under the bottom of your neighbour. (What better excuse to cop a good feel, eh?)
11. Bring in a whole brood of babbling, whining children who do not comprehend the language in the first place. (Nothing aggravates fellow moviegoers more than having a 90-minute film translated word-for-word into some vernacular dialect.)
12. Ensure that the aforementioned children carry with them one or more of the following items which can be liberally applied onto fellow moviegoers: Bubble-blowing solution, sticky chewing gum retained on grubby fingers, snot-laden tissue etc.
13. If the film goes off due to a technical glitch, remain seated and do nothing yourself, but ensure that you keep yelling, “Hey, somebody tell them! Somebody do something. Why is everybody just sitting?”
14. If you choose to do something about it yourself, stand up, turn toward the projection room and clap your hands – because the equipment is probably clap-activated, right?
15. Place your cup of gooey chocolate mousse on the next seat just as your neighbour is seating himself/herself down.
16. Apologise profusely and offer the now squashed remains of the mousse to placate your highly upset neighbour.
17. Remove your shoes and rest your toe-jammy feet on the seat in front of you.
18. Squat down in the middle of the exit stairwell, placing your precious helmet next to you, mindless of the stream of people almost tripping over you. If the movie did not have enough action, someone tumbling down the stairs in real life should satisfy everybody’s bloodlust.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Gimme a Brake!
Musings at a Bangalore Traffic Signal
1. One spends roughly 35% of one’s life in Bangalore waiting at a traffic signal.
2. The signal turns red to green and back at least three times before it is finally your turn to cross over. Cyclists, pushcarts and pedestrians wait until you are crossing the intersection before attempting to kill themselves under your wheels.
3. Eunuchs badger women to divulge the brand of cosmetics or methods of makeup they use. Whatever happened to the good old clapping, demands for money, threats of nudity and blessings (debatable) of a 100 male children?
4. You develop symptoms of repetitive strain injury from shaking your head and flapping away enthusiastic offers to sell you non-motorised Segways, plastic apples with waving leaves, silver mobike minis that dance on their haunches and other such things that the sellers insist are absolutely vital to producing those 100 male heirs those vain eunuchs deprived you of.
5. An argument between two motorists always holds everybody up. The altercation invariably involves plenty of head shaking, finger pointing and spitting by those actually involved as well as plenty of general standing around, lectures on the use of local language while arguing and scratching of private parts by a larger number of uninvolved persons.
6. No expletive is more infuriating to the local populace than “nonsense” (pronounced "naansense" or "naanshense"). Fs and Bs are passé. The exchange usually goes:
- (Thoo, bleddy) Nonsense!
- What nonsense?! You nonsense!
- What nonsense?! You big nonsense?!
- You so big nonsense!
And so on.
7. While waiting for pedestrians to cross over, you spend your time crouching below the steering wheel anxiously asking your puzzled co-passenger, “Is he gone yet?” Bangalore is a city where the six-degrees-of-separation theory holds true and the would-be-glad-to-avoid-every-fifth-person theory holds even truer. The first row of traffic at a pedestrian crossing would appear, to the uninitiated, to have several driverless cars.
8. The traffic cop thinks a shake of the fist and casting aspersions upon a signal jumper's lineage is sufficient. He would rather save his energy for doing a poor Fred Astaire imitation in the middle of the road to try and stop suspected drunk drivers after 11.30pm.
9. Dark tints on one’s window are an open invitation to chronic nose pickers to pass their time at a traffic signal showing you - up, close and personal - what they do best.
10. Women on two-wheelers take utmost care to completely shield their faces from the sun, pollution and leering male creatures in other vehicles. The same care is, however (and, most times, unfortunately), not extended to their cheeky derrieres.
1. One spends roughly 35% of one’s life in Bangalore waiting at a traffic signal.
2. The signal turns red to green and back at least three times before it is finally your turn to cross over. Cyclists, pushcarts and pedestrians wait until you are crossing the intersection before attempting to kill themselves under your wheels.
3. Eunuchs badger women to divulge the brand of cosmetics or methods of makeup they use. Whatever happened to the good old clapping, demands for money, threats of nudity and blessings (debatable) of a 100 male children?
4. You develop symptoms of repetitive strain injury from shaking your head and flapping away enthusiastic offers to sell you non-motorised Segways, plastic apples with waving leaves, silver mobike minis that dance on their haunches and other such things that the sellers insist are absolutely vital to producing those 100 male heirs those vain eunuchs deprived you of.
5. An argument between two motorists always holds everybody up. The altercation invariably involves plenty of head shaking, finger pointing and spitting by those actually involved as well as plenty of general standing around, lectures on the use of local language while arguing and scratching of private parts by a larger number of uninvolved persons.
6. No expletive is more infuriating to the local populace than “nonsense” (pronounced "naansense" or "naanshense"). Fs and Bs are passé. The exchange usually goes:
- (Thoo, bleddy) Nonsense!
- What nonsense?! You nonsense!
- What nonsense?! You big nonsense?!
- You so big nonsense!
And so on.
7. While waiting for pedestrians to cross over, you spend your time crouching below the steering wheel anxiously asking your puzzled co-passenger, “Is he gone yet?” Bangalore is a city where the six-degrees-of-separation theory holds true and the would-be-glad-to-avoid-every-fifth-person theory holds even truer. The first row of traffic at a pedestrian crossing would appear, to the uninitiated, to have several driverless cars.
8. The traffic cop thinks a shake of the fist and casting aspersions upon a signal jumper's lineage is sufficient. He would rather save his energy for doing a poor Fred Astaire imitation in the middle of the road to try and stop suspected drunk drivers after 11.30pm.
9. Dark tints on one’s window are an open invitation to chronic nose pickers to pass their time at a traffic signal showing you - up, close and personal - what they do best.
10. Women on two-wheelers take utmost care to completely shield their faces from the sun, pollution and leering male creatures in other vehicles. The same care is, however (and, most times, unfortunately), not extended to their cheeky derrieres.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
The Art of Giving Unsolicited Advice
1. One must be above the age of 30 to be eligible to impart so-called pearls of wisdom. If not 30, then one must be at least three years older than chosen advisee.
2. Always be on high alert for any opportunity to begin advising; even if met with mild protestations, suddenly vacant rooms, requests to use the restroom or feigned deafness. Keep in mind that not everybody actually wants advice; but everybody needs advice.
3. No conversation is above being interrupted for your pearls of wisdom. Pick up on snippets of a conversation and take off from there. Nobody dare argue that it is completely out of context. If they do, follow #4 - it unnerves them.
4. Remember, your stance is important. Clutch your left breast (or moob or whatever), tip your chin slightly upward and wax eloquent with your eyelids half closed, nodding emphatically every now and then for effect. Master #4 and the world is your advisee oyster.
5. Left-breast clutching must always be accompanied with the opening line, “As an older and wiser person, I will tell you…” Never shy away from stressing the fact that you are older and hence, automatically wiser.
6. Advisees are stupid people. Period. Never listen to their differing points of view, no matter how logically argued. As an older and, ergo, wiser person, you always know best. It doesn't matter that people may think otherwise. You know best!
7. Persistence pays. Unwilling advisees can be worn down if you keep repeating a line until they pipe down. Raise your voice if you need to. Shout “lalala” and shut your ears if you must. You will and must have your say.
8. Advisees must be treated like complete nincompoops. Smile patronisingly at all they have to say. Chuckle indulgently. It infuriates them, weakening their defences.
9. Everything and everybody is your business. Dispensing free, unsolicited advice has no bounds. There are no jurisdictional limitations on where you can advise people. At home, at the airport, in a public restroom, at the traffic signal, in a supermarket aisle.
10. Try and corner your advisee in a tiny space where escape is difficult. At the water cooler, the copier room with the single exit, the lift. Do not shy away from using an arm or a knee to pin them down. (There's no better listener than someone with a squashed windpipe).
Remember, everything you say IS “advice” because you say so. Sound all-knowing. It is not WHAT you say that matters, but HOW you say it.
Take it from an older and wiser person.
2. Always be on high alert for any opportunity to begin advising; even if met with mild protestations, suddenly vacant rooms, requests to use the restroom or feigned deafness. Keep in mind that not everybody actually wants advice; but everybody needs advice.
3. No conversation is above being interrupted for your pearls of wisdom. Pick up on snippets of a conversation and take off from there. Nobody dare argue that it is completely out of context. If they do, follow #4 - it unnerves them.
4. Remember, your stance is important. Clutch your left breast (or moob or whatever), tip your chin slightly upward and wax eloquent with your eyelids half closed, nodding emphatically every now and then for effect. Master #4 and the world is your advisee oyster.
5. Left-breast clutching must always be accompanied with the opening line, “As an older and wiser person, I will tell you…” Never shy away from stressing the fact that you are older and hence, automatically wiser.
6. Advisees are stupid people. Period. Never listen to their differing points of view, no matter how logically argued. As an older and, ergo, wiser person, you always know best. It doesn't matter that people may think otherwise. You know best!
7. Persistence pays. Unwilling advisees can be worn down if you keep repeating a line until they pipe down. Raise your voice if you need to. Shout “lalala” and shut your ears if you must. You will and must have your say.
8. Advisees must be treated like complete nincompoops. Smile patronisingly at all they have to say. Chuckle indulgently. It infuriates them, weakening their defences.
9. Everything and everybody is your business. Dispensing free, unsolicited advice has no bounds. There are no jurisdictional limitations on where you can advise people. At home, at the airport, in a public restroom, at the traffic signal, in a supermarket aisle.
10. Try and corner your advisee in a tiny space where escape is difficult. At the water cooler, the copier room with the single exit, the lift. Do not shy away from using an arm or a knee to pin them down. (There's no better listener than someone with a squashed windpipe).
Remember, everything you say IS “advice” because you say so. Sound all-knowing. It is not WHAT you say that matters, but HOW you say it.
Take it from an older and wiser person.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Adam’s in Brine
You know you are at a Braying Adams concert when:
1. Someone at the gate offered to pay you to take all his tickets.
2. Tickets were being hawked for a “charitable cause” – the BA Aids Foundation.
3. You spot your dad and his cronies in the crowd.
4. Your dad thinks he spots his dad and his cronies in the crowd.
5. Everybody, including the samosa vendor, the stagehand and the traffic cop, knows every lyric of every song. Everybody except the teenager in the “I Love BA Forever” t-shirt who is pulled onto stage to sing along.
6. There’s a group of screeching Persian-speaking chicks clawing, biting and poking their way through the crowd to get to the edge of the stage.
7. One of the Persian chicks has a clump of your hair, which is possibly still in her mouth.
8. You are standing on one foot because there is no place to put the other one down.
9. Your cousin isn’t even on the ground; she’s hanging onto the collar of the unknown guy in front of her, who is slowly but surely dying of strangulation.
10. You finally find a solid bit of concrete to stand on. Ten minutes later, the guy behind you tells you that you’re standing on his feet.
11. Mr Concrete-Blocks-For-Feet decides to tell you where he’s from, says you look familiar and then asks whether you would like to sit on his shoulders.
12. There’s a middle-aged rotund drunk jumping up and down and dancing when people barely have place to stand.
13. People are playing pass-the-parcel with the middle-aged rotund drunk, steadily shoving him out of the crowd.
14. People are pointing and laughing at a woman who looks like she’s been in labour for 72 hours but who is really just on the verge of fainting.
15. You can tell firsthand that the guy pressed up behind you has chosen today, of all days, to go commando.
16. You are so tightly squashed against the person in front of you, there’s no way you couldn’t have lost a cupsize.
17. While leaving, you have to scramble over the middle-aged rotund drunk now lying face down on the ground with a Pepsi billboard thrown over him.
18. You leave the concert venue looking like you’ve been dragged backward through a hedge, drenched in perspiration that is not your own, vowing never to attend another BA concert.
19. Someone at the gate is still trying to pay people to take his tickets.
20. You stay up all night with your cousin discussing people at the concert rather than the actual performance itself.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Laws of Revulsion
Excerpts from “Every Indian guy’s secret guide to impressing a woman”
1. Stare. Stare. Stare. (Creepiness is irresistible)
2. Talk at the top of your voice. Be brash, rude and crude. (Gentlemen prefer blondes and genteel women prefer Attila the Hun)
3. Sit with your legs splayed apart, tapping one foot in a slightly epileptic gesture. (Nothing screams “come hither” louder than a rampant display of sexual frustration)
4. Send her a note through the waiter so that she is blown away by your ability to scrawl like a four-year old and form sentences like you’re six. (It could bring out her maternal instinct, increasing your chances)
5. Walk up to her, plonk your glass of beer in front of her and squat on your haunches. Then rock back and forth on your heels while you compose your thoughts. (There is something irresistibly sexy about this particular simian-like stance)
6. Do the “cool dude” dance which involves alternatively clutching at your family jewels and revving a pretend motorcycle. (Smooth movements vertically are indicative of smooth moves horizontally)
7. Imbibe so much alcohol so as to crash into her on the dance floor sending her grappling at her girlfriend for support like a desperate lesbian. (Nothing like a little girl-on-girl to get a party started)
8. Send her a text or an email that reads “Hai” (spelt exactly like that) and for added effect use the clawing “Dear”. (Imagine hearing her say, “You had me at ‘hai’” a la Jerry Maguire)
9. Be an “ass wipe” at the gym. Literally. Leave rivulets of sweat on a workout bench. When the woman, looking to use it after you, asks for it to be cleaned up, wipe the perspiration off with your bottom. (Don’t forget to laugh raucously at your cute innovativeness)
10. Ogle at the print on her t-shirt and say “Nice” very appreciatively. When she looks at you all aghast, quickly remark, “No, I meant your tee.” Then add, “Not that THEY are not nice…” before scuttling to safety. (No bigger turn-on than the scent of desperation)
1. Stare. Stare. Stare. (Creepiness is irresistible)
2. Talk at the top of your voice. Be brash, rude and crude. (Gentlemen prefer blondes and genteel women prefer Attila the Hun)
3. Sit with your legs splayed apart, tapping one foot in a slightly epileptic gesture. (Nothing screams “come hither” louder than a rampant display of sexual frustration)
4. Send her a note through the waiter so that she is blown away by your ability to scrawl like a four-year old and form sentences like you’re six. (It could bring out her maternal instinct, increasing your chances)
5. Walk up to her, plonk your glass of beer in front of her and squat on your haunches. Then rock back and forth on your heels while you compose your thoughts. (There is something irresistibly sexy about this particular simian-like stance)
6. Do the “cool dude” dance which involves alternatively clutching at your family jewels and revving a pretend motorcycle. (Smooth movements vertically are indicative of smooth moves horizontally)
7. Imbibe so much alcohol so as to crash into her on the dance floor sending her grappling at her girlfriend for support like a desperate lesbian. (Nothing like a little girl-on-girl to get a party started)
8. Send her a text or an email that reads “Hai” (spelt exactly like that) and for added effect use the clawing “Dear”. (Imagine hearing her say, “You had me at ‘hai’” a la Jerry Maguire)
9. Be an “ass wipe” at the gym. Literally. Leave rivulets of sweat on a workout bench. When the woman, looking to use it after you, asks for it to be cleaned up, wipe the perspiration off with your bottom. (Don’t forget to laugh raucously at your cute innovativeness)
10. Ogle at the print on her t-shirt and say “Nice” very appreciatively. When she looks at you all aghast, quickly remark, “No, I meant your tee.” Then add, “Not that THEY are not nice…” before scuttling to safety. (No bigger turn-on than the scent of desperation)
Thursday, December 23, 2010
How to Lose a Girl in 10 Seconds
1.Fart in the middle of that soulful dialogue about her beautiful eyes on a quiet, moonlit evening on the beach. Such sound effects are sure to break up the mood.
2.Dribble while chewing your food open-mouthed. She probably has a dog back home who does the same thing - but then, he still gets to share her bed at night because he looks cuter even while slobbering all over the floor.
3.Pick up the bill at the restaurant and then pass it over to her as soon as she offers to pay or split it - without even the semblance of an argument or something about going dutch. Pick your nose before doing this. Worse, DRIFT (Dig, Roll, Inspect, Flick, Taste)
4.Ride your fancy motorcycle in a stance not unlike a woman giving birth.
5.Stare at her cleavage. When confronted about it, tell her you were just admiring her dolphin pendant (which was actually a flower, but then, who can really tell the difference, eh?) or worse, say, “Tell your b**bs to stop staring at my eyes”.
6.Borrow money from her on your first date. Never return it or say a word about it - even on the off-chance there might be a third or fourth date.
7.Confess that you really cannot remember her name from the previous slightly drunken night when you asked her for her number at the club.
8.Unload on her the heart-breaking story about your ex-girlfriend who was an absolute b!*&# because she wouldn’t put out.
9.On your very first date, suggest names for the several children you plan on having with her.
10.Share with her material on your as-yet unwritten book titled “A Million Lovable Facts About My Mom”.
With creative inputs from Terror #1 (especially on points 3 and 5) as well as others, who wish to remain anonymous for fear of winning the ongoing “Who Dated The Biggest Dingleberry” competition.
If you liked this, you will definitely like fellow-blogger Bhumika's take on Ball Breaking
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
The Non-Oestrogenic Existence
Surviving more than a quarter of a century as a female in India** has given me a fairly strong sense of what I would like to do if I am reincarnated as an Indian man. Those with no sense of humour (which often goes hand-in-hand with poor comprehension skills) would be well advised to stop reading right now.
At the risk of being a veritable rabble-rouser, here goes (in no particular order):
1. Scratch and dig at every part of my anatomy that itches in public (this would also reassure me that everything I was born with hasn’t fallen off in some freak accident)
2. Urinate on every public wall, tree and milestone I see (the more public viewers, the better because it pays to advertise, you know)
3. Similarly, flaunt the tightest pair of speedos I can find on the beach, strategically positioning myself in front of sun-bathing women who are otherwise distracted by other male forms in boxers (because if you’ve got it or not, you have got to flaunt it)
4. Leer at, pinch, grope, rub and/or fondle every slightly desirable female form I encounter on a public street (because that is what women are on this planet for)
5. Do exactly as my daddy says (because my daddy’s the strongest, greatest and most importantly, male)
6. Use every opportunity as a platform to advertise my manhood (because I might secretly doubt it myself). For eg.:
- Get me the choco latte…because I am a man.
- Move your car out of the way, damn woman driver, man coming through!
7. Declare the kitchen out of bounds for a man with the cliché “a man’s place is not in the kitchen” (because a freak accident could damage what I was blessed to be born with)
8. Order all women who might have had the misfortune of crossing paths with me, voluntarily or involuntarily, to do my every biding - be it in terms of food, beverage, household chores, bedroom chores and so forth (because women will always be lower than pond scum)
9. Dispense advice rather freely that relationships can only work if women “suppress their personalities” and make “200% of the effort” (because a man making even some semblance of that effort would be tantamount to castration)
10. I. Me. Myself.
Acknowledgments:
- Terror#1 - for suggesting that I blog this
- IMM - for making me aware of the existence of an “International Men's Day”
- All the related and non-related men in my life, including the ones who’ve come and stayed (and shown me that there are endearing exceptions to the aforementioned) as well as those who have exited (graciously or otherwise)
**No racist or anti-national sentiments here. This is the only country and race I am qualified enough to comment upon.
If you liked this, you will definitely like fellow-blogger Bhumika's take on Ball Breaking
Monday, October 18, 2010
How to Tell You Are a Nosy Busybody
Here’s a quick quiz to tell if you belong to that aggravating tribe that suffers from the chronic inability to mind their own business.
Situation #1: There’s a clearly 18-year-old girl standing at the bus stop sporting rings on her toes. You:
A. Think she has pretty feet and that it’s probably time you got a pedicure yourself.
B. Ask her whether she is married. When she says she isn’t, you scowl and look accusingly at her ringed toes.
(+ 10 if you lecture her on how only married women in India must wear toe rings)
#2: There’s a garden party on at your neighbour’s house. You:
A. Peek over the wall, wonder what the occasion is but say no more.
B. Hang your head over the wall, supply minute-by-minute updates on who is at the party, what is being served, what style of clothing is being flaunted and so on
(+10 if you telephone your neighbour to ask what is going on and shamelessly wangle an invite for you, your family, your son’s classmate’s ailing grandmother, her incontinent cousin etc)
#3: Your colleague opens up her lunch box. You spy cheese and deep-fried goodies. You:
A. Say “Oh, yum!” and go back to your “feast” comprising of two peas and a carrot.
B. Give her a lecture on what a terrible diet she has, the effects of cholesterol, the advantages of eating two peas and a carrot.
(+10 if you supply a calorie count for each item in her lunch box, +2000 if you call her fat, +3000 if you aren’t exactly a poster child for health & fitness yourself)
#4: You hear that a couple has gotten a divorce recently. You:
A. Go “tsk, tsk”, make some expression of sympathy and shrug it off with a “C’est la vie. It is probably better this way.”
B. Exhaust every contact you might have to find out what went wrong, speculating over “obvious reasons” like did he cheat, was she “too dominating”, was it the in-laws?
(+10 if you are judgmental enough to say how frivolous youngsters these days are for walking out of a marriage without suffering it through for the rest of their lives unlike the good old days)
#5: There’s a couple stranded on the road; the guy busy changing a flat tyre: You:
A. Offer to lend a helping hand or go “Tsk, tsk” and carry on.
B. Stand around scratching your arse, offering advice on the best way to do things or sniggering at the stranded duo.
(+10 if you ogle the female occupants of the car and +200 if you then scratch other parts of your anatomy)
#6: You see a car stopped next to a toppled scooter. You:
A. Wonder what happened but carry on since it really isn’t any of your business.
B. Stop, gape and automatically assume the lady driver knocked the scooter over.
(+10 if you give the driver, whom you instantly presume must be guilty, a lecture on the cardinal sin of not knowing the local language.)
#7: You’re regularly checking on my blog because you:
A. Think it’s a decent read or “time pass”
B. Think it’s the best way to keep tabs on yours truly, providing you enough dirt for your next gossip session with the rest of your group of jobless busybodies
(+10 if you have texted/Facebooked/emailed me asking who/what I was referring to.)
#8: You’re reading this post and thinking:
A. Haha! Right on! You tell ‘em, girl!
B. Oh, my god, is the b*t** referring to me?
(+10 if you’re thinking “I wonder who she is referring to? Let me text/Facebook/email her and see.”)
Scoring:
Mostly As: You are one of a dying breed. It would be lovely to catch up over a cup of coffee some time. Text/Facebook/email me.
Mostly Bs: As BC says, you are appallingly “downmarket”. Remember to carve that on your epitaph before hurling yourself before the nearest speeding bus and doing us all one big favour.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Down To Bra Stacks
They’re right up there on my “Yech! Hate it” list along with lizards, queue cutters and people who say “I am looking forward FOR”……
Who?
The salesgirls in lingerie shops. Indian lingerie shops at least.
I’ll tell you this: we Indian women are a disadvantaged lot when it comes to undergarments. The number of brands available - limited. The sizes, colours and styles - limited. Sales personnel knowledge on the subject - limited.
After an SOS from KO, who needed just the right kind of bra to go with some newly acquired dresses, I accompanied her to just about every lingerie store on Bangalore’s Commercial Street. While the search was quite fruitless for the most part, the attitude - or more pertinently, ineptitude - of the sales personnel really got our goat.
At the end of the ordeal, I had a thing or ten to tell lingerie sales women:
1. Do not judge your customer and throw her holier-than-thou looks; as if she is morally less upright than yourself for not having asked to see your cloth-bag-cum-emergency-parachute range of brassieres that would put her rosary-counting great grandma to shame, opting instead for racier numbers
2. You will never be an expert judge of size. Period.
3. If you don’t have it, don’t put posters of it up on the wall and then nod forlornly when asked for it
4. Do not assume that everyone needs a white bra; not all women like to shroud what nature gave them in Indian mourning attire
5. Not every customer is Winona Ryder; if you are convinced that all lingerie tryouts are guaranteed shoplifts, put those bar code thingies on the undergarments instead of shouting across the floor, “Madam, where is your bra?”
6. Finally, “Multiplay” is a line of multi-way bras (from Enamor), new on the market; do not act like we’re nincompoops who walked into a lingerie store asking for contraception
Interestingly, we found exactly what we were looking for in a little section of Arihant Plaza… ably guided by… a man.
Who?
The salesgirls in lingerie shops. Indian lingerie shops at least.
I’ll tell you this: we Indian women are a disadvantaged lot when it comes to undergarments. The number of brands available - limited. The sizes, colours and styles - limited. Sales personnel knowledge on the subject - limited.
After an SOS from KO, who needed just the right kind of bra to go with some newly acquired dresses, I accompanied her to just about every lingerie store on Bangalore’s Commercial Street. While the search was quite fruitless for the most part, the attitude - or more pertinently, ineptitude - of the sales personnel really got our goat.
At the end of the ordeal, I had a thing or ten to tell lingerie sales women:
1. Do not judge your customer and throw her holier-than-thou looks; as if she is morally less upright than yourself for not having asked to see your cloth-bag-cum-emergency-parachute range of brassieres that would put her rosary-counting great grandma to shame, opting instead for racier numbers
2. You will never be an expert judge of size. Period.
3. If you don’t have it, don’t put posters of it up on the wall and then nod forlornly when asked for it
4. Do not assume that everyone needs a white bra; not all women like to shroud what nature gave them in Indian mourning attire
5. Not every customer is Winona Ryder; if you are convinced that all lingerie tryouts are guaranteed shoplifts, put those bar code thingies on the undergarments instead of shouting across the floor, “Madam, where is your bra?”
6. Finally, “Multiplay” is a line of multi-way bras (from Enamor), new on the market; do not act like we’re nincompoops who walked into a lingerie store asking for contraception
Interestingly, we found exactly what we were looking for in a little section of Arihant Plaza… ably guided by… a man.
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