That Time I was Forced to Kiss an Old Man (I was 6)

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. 

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. 

We’d heard the tales. Anything could happen during these parties. Things could get pretty wild. 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. 

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.

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. 

“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. 

“We will not let you go until you kiss HIM!” they reiterated and pointed behind me. Surprised, for I thought I was alone in the cave, I spun around in my chair and noticed HIM for the first time. 

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.

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. 

“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.  

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. 

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. 

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.

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.

Happy Halloween!

A Post For My Favourite Uncle: Of Banana Peels & Dog Poop

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.  

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. 

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. 

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. 

“Bangalore really stinks, doesn’t it?” said Uncle A. “In fact, I can smell something shitty right now.” 

I agreed and shot a disgusted look out the open windows even as I battled an awful feeling of laughter bubbling up inside me. 

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!”

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. 

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.

At this point, Cousin U had caught on and began to laugh, as did everyone else in the room. 

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?

Mind Your Pees And Chews

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. 

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.

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?

The rot extends even further than the cell phone.

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. 

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. 

The extent to which basic decency has eroded is appalling. 

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.

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').  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. 

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?

Shamelessness.

People, just stop it already. Stop with the bad manners, the screen gazing, the crudeness, the opportunistic selfishness. And the public flatulence.

That's all.

Please.

Thank you.

Thou Shalt Never Say No To Me

(Or The Lost Art of Accepting ‘No’ For An Answer)

My phone beeped. A text message.

“Blah! What plans 2nite?!!!”

“Dinner”, I tapped back.

“Cancel it! We’re meeting XYZ.”

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.

Digging my cloven hooves in, I typed back: "No."

My phone beeped again. "Do it."

I didn't bother further.

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?

'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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Since when did it become okay to think that your plans must take precedence and override somebody else’s prior appointments?

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.

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:

“You may strategically place your wonderful lips upon my posterior and kiss it repeatedly!” (Barnabas Collins in Dark Shadows)

Other Tongue Blues

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”.

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.

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.

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.

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.

An ex, an Englishman, was awestruck that I spoke as fluently as I did.

“Your vocabulary is even better than mine,” he exclaimed rather patronizingly.

“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.”

“Well, yeah,” he acknowledged, “but, you know, you’re Indian.”

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?”

Say, how do you tell someone to fuck off in smoke signals? Or should I just tom-tom that on my Indian drum?

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?

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 I dared voice my protest (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.

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.

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 “White is Right” policy 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 words of Indian origin. 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 "chai" and "kaapi" and hailing our PM's humble origins as a "chai wallah".

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.

I’m all for preserving ancient languages and all that, but when you shove your mother tongue down my throat, I gag. In English.

Words Unspoken

"In the world of diplomacy, some things are better left unsaid." Luckily, I can blog them.

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. (I have whined about this before. *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.

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.

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:

"You're shallow."

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.

"People hesitate to approach you."

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?

"You hate our parties."

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!

"There’s no such thing as a 50-50 relationship. It’s 60-40 at best. Women must compromise 200%." 

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.

"Your blog has no journalistic excellence."

That’s why it's a blog, not The Wall Street Journal. Duh.

"You suck."

Yeah, you’re right. Glad we can agree on something.

Okay, so that last one I might have actually said. And it isn't even clever. Sigh. Yep, I suck.

Here a Quack, There a Quack

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.

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.

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…

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 where 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.

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 perils 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.

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 non compos mentis individuals to “counsel”. There must have been a mark on my front door for I entertained a fair number of these dubiously certified shrinks.

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.

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?”

I had to bite my tongue to stop from hollering, “Because I am? Ha!” The sarcasm would have been wasted. (Rapport building – 0, defensiveness building– 1). 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. 

What Is This Platonic Nonsense?

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

I remember being asked why I hadn't hooked up with my friend Krazy Frog. 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 KO 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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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?"

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.

Why Travolta Can Hang On To His Disco-Dancing Crown

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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. 

“Take off your socks and shoes,” she ordered. We complied. My heart was beating quickly, my sense of foreboding quickly dampening my initial enthusiasm. Where were the tight bell-bottoms, the flashy shirts and, most importantly, that shiny disco ball? I eyed the doors. They were shut tight. 

“Now, hands on your hips, bend your knees slightly, keep your heels together and your feet in a V-shape.”

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. This was so unlike anything seen in Saturday Night Fever.

“Index finger and thumb together. Over your head. Now out in front of you.” Tha! Thai! Thakka-thai! Giddy-giddy-something-thakka-thai!

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. Surely John Travolta didn't have to go through this sort of humiliation? 

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.

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. 

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. 

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 tablas to accompany our jerky little dance movements. 

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

On the brighter side, Bharatanatyam remains an unsullied art form.

[Footnote: Read how KO's grand Bharatanatyam aspirations were brutally quashed.]

Fore! There was a Blah on a Bicycle

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 here.)

The eco-cycling tour company 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. Those sludgy rice fields. Those shouting children. Why couldn't this be a wooden pony ride in an amusement park? Nobody has to get hurt there.

KO’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.)

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.

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.

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.

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”.

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.

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.

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.

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?)

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

Pictures for those who grumble I do not splash any on Facebook

I’ve Signed Up to Lose My Dignity

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 BC or some other virtuous individual goes tumbling down instead.

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.

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.

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.

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 KO 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 Thailand.

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?

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.)

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 Indian tourist we all dislike so much. 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.

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.

It doesn’t look good, people. Stay tuned for post-trip updates where I’ll lick the wounds of my smarting ego.