When You Take The 'Wit' Out of 'Twit'

It’s that time of my life (again). I haven’t much choice but to scout around for a new job. After two and a half years, I refuse to exhibit the loyalty of the Titanic musicians and sink with my ship. Casabianca I am not.

The recruiters – they call, they email, they discuss notice periods and haggle over salaries. This is followed by calls for interviews.

And thus it was that I found myself in a cab, headed to the office of a well-known company. It wasn't something I was exceedingly keen on, but I figured it would help me get out of the comfortable rut I was stuck in and into the groove of job hunting.

I battled nausea as the cab lurched over potholed roads and the faint stench of diesel and body odour assailed my nostrils. After a bit of a merry-go-round trying to find the office, I crawled out at my destination, rather the worse for wear. A little while later, I was ushered into the office of a VP.

I sat facing the man for a good five minutes as he poked away at his laptop, checked his phone and generally played the part of a busy man. My gaze alternated between the floor, his shining pate and a rusty paper clip atop a stack of glossy booklets. Just as I became certain I was sprouting roots and merging with my chair, the VP looked up at me questioningly. It was almost like he’d forgotten he’d ushered me into his office himself a little while ago.

“Profile?” he asked. Since he was the one who had set up the interview in the first place, one would assume he had my curriculum vitae at the ready. Well, at least one of us was professional. I handed over a copy.

He immersed himself in it for a few more minutes. I returned my attention to the top of his head. “So,” he said, beaming.

“Wait for it. Here comes the first question. It has got to be good after all that perusing,” I thought.

“What does your father do?”

Huh? What? I blinked and resisted an urge to roll my eyes as I answered. Who was he hiring? My father or me?

“And your mother is a housewife?” he presumed. Yes, of course. Because women of the older generation couldn't possibly be anything else? Nothing remotely sexist about that assumption.

After providing information about the occupations of every single member of my family (“boiled egg carrier” is an occupation, by the way) living, deceased, decaying and depraved, I then launched into the nitty-gritty of my current and past jobs.

I became aware of something weaseling into the room bleating, “Saar, saar”. It turned out to be a young employee, cowering behind a sheaf of papers for the VP’s approval. “That is the best member of my team,” said the VP, beaming proudly as the weasel scurried out pinching his throat for some odd reason.

Having established my familial and professional credentials, the VP asked me another very significant question. “Are you married?” “No? Yeah, you don’t look married. Oh, then you can move closer to the office.” When I ruled out the possibility, he proudly proclaimed how he commuted 37 KM each way every day.

About 40 minutes and more inane interview questions and opinions of the 19th century later, it was well past lunch time. I was tired, hungry and more than a little fed up. My query about his company culture evoked an ambiguous “We employ females. But we don’t give preference to females.” We’re called ‘women’, numbskull.

My mind only weakly processed in snatches what I was hearing, barely managing intelligible responses if needed. The lines between my painful reality and comical fantasy blurred:

- “I have been here for three years.”

- “Okay. That’s three years too long.”

- “Are you Karnatikian?”

- “No, I am not a Kannadiga.”

- “Is that what they are called?”

- “Duh. You should call an angry mob ‘nonsense peoples’ just for fun though.”

- “Lots of sports people come from your hometown, no? Do you play sports?”

- “Marbles and tennikoit mostly.”

- “You look like a Kashmiri.”

- “Yeah, people mistake me for Omar Abdullah when I shave.”

- “Do you want to have some lunch? We get lunch here for only Rs 40.”

- “No free lunch?”

- “Write me an article on Bangalore over the last ten years.”

- “Sigh. We’re back in high school.”

I spent the next half hour banging out a really drab essay on a dilapidated keyboard and patchy monitor that appeared to be from ten years ago as well. As I typed, a few alphabet keys leapt off the keyboard and launched themselves fiercely into the air. I printed my essay out, plucked “QWERTY” out of my hair and reluctantly made my way back to the VP’s cabin.

The man cooed over the stupid essay. “This is beautiful! The chairman will love it!” He read it slowly, running a finger across each line. “What is ‘bonhomie’?" I patiently explained. “What is ‘foreboding’?” he ventured again. I surveyed the room for hidden cameras – this HAD to be some sort of a candid camera TV gag.

“What is ‘angst’?” he persisted. “Is it a real word?”

Unfortunately for him, he will never find out. His angst-ridden interviewee had fled the room.

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.

Rape Isn't a Sport

To people who use "rape" to describe a cricket performance:

There is nothing even remotely funny about rape. If you think it is a clever word to describe the utter decimation of a cricket team by another, think again.

You are on Facebook. You are actively vocal about your opinions thanks to its Status Update feature. That makes you tech-savvy and educated. Wait, did I say educated? I take that back. I’ll go with "literate". You are literate enough to voice your opinion about a cricket match, but when you say things like "XYZ raped the ABC team" or "XYZ was gang-raped by 11 men", you prove you are far from educated.

We live in India during a time when no other word is more commonly splashed around in the media than "rape". We have the dubious distinction of nurturing a "rape culture".

Rape culture does not just begin and end with the men who think that women are mere objects for them to violate. Rape culture includes the society that encourages it. A society that is insensitive to the plight of thousands of women and young girls who are brutalized.

That society includes you. You who so callously bandies around words like "rape" and "gang rape" to describe a cricket performance.

Think about the young woman who was gang raped by six men on a bus, who screamed for help even as the brutes gouged out her innards with an iron rod. Think about a five-year-old girl who lies in a hospital, traumatized after being gang raped by two men – men who did things so terrible to her tiny body, it makes me sick to even mention here. Think about the six-year-old girl who was found in a public toilet, raped and left for dead, her throat slit.

That is RAPE. Is that what you equate with the blistering knock of Chris Gayle? Is that the word you want to use to describe the complete annihilation of PWI or RCB?

Are you that insensitive? Or is it simply apathy? Are you so smug and content in the belief that it couldn't happen to you or to someone you love? That rape only happens to someone else – some nameless faceless stranger whose ordeal earns her a two-column piece on the front page, an hour’s debate on the 9:00 news and a candle light vigil at the India Gate.

What if (God forbid) it did happen to you or someone close to you? Would you still use "rape" or "gang rape" to describe a spectacular performance?

Open the dictionary. You will find it to be a wonderful book. There are words like "decimate", "obliterate", "annihilate", "drubbing", "defeat", "vanquish", "expunge" and more. Or is your brain, much like your petty insensitive mind, so tiny that it can only grasp completely inappropriate four-letter words?

A Flock Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

While filling out a form recently, I stopped short when I came to the column titled “Who to contact in an emergency”. This was a tough one. I pursed my lips, quite stumped. Pen still poised, I considered my options.

Let’s see, there’s family. Obviously. That’s what most people put down. People who don’t belong to the Blah family, that is. Let me elaborate.

One evening, Cousin Binky, the blood relative I call my mother and I were peaceably watching TV together. All of a sudden, a swarm of bees swooped in. There were hundreds, crawling in through the half-open windows and thronging around the light bulbs. My mother is highly allergic to bee stings. So I quickly bundled her into a bedroom. Just so we’re clear: I was more afraid she’d swallow a bunch of bees as she stood squealing, “Aiyeeee! Bees! Oh! Oh! Bees! Ahhh!” than actually getting stung. 

I then shut all the doors and windows and switched off all the lights in the house, save one. The bees now hummed over to the single light, sounding like the starting grid of a Formula 1 Grand Prix. 

“Quick, Binky, grab the insect repellant!” 

I looked over at Binky. Binky was running all right. She was grabbing all right. Only, she was grabbing a long green banana from the fruit bowl. Close on her heels was my excited dog, thrilled at the sudden action around the house, trying to nip her bottom. 

That sort of response clearly ruled out Binky as my emergency contact. My mother, too. I mean, if her open-mouthed reaction to the bees hasn’t convinced you, consider the evening of the exploding water heater. 

There was a loud “boom” followed by an angry hissing of steam. My mother, evidently displaying complete and utter faith in my clairvoyant abilities, kept screaming, “What is it? What is it?” even when we were three rooms away and unsure what the noise was.

Besides, my mother has a warped sense of what constitutes an emergency. Her recent panicky phone call to me went this way:

- "Thoo Ja!"
- "What?"
- "Thoo Ja! The cow has got warts on her teats!"

- "Eww! Ma, I’m eating!"
- "It’s the name of the homeopathic medicine the vet recommended."

- "Ahh-ha!"

- "No! Thuja!"

- "Okay."

  

Then, there’s my father and his belief that WD40 is a panacea for all ills. For the above-mentioned wart-on-teats problem, for instance, he’d recommend WD40. My brother Scion? In his world, he claims birds deposit checkered pajamas on his balcony in the middle of the night. Is that really someone one should risk putting on as an “emergency contact”?

I then considered my close friends. 

KO! KO is a gem in an emergency. When BC’s parked car began rolling down a slope, she yelled out to KO to “pull the handbrake”. KO leapt into the car and brought it to a quick stop. There was just one tiny problem with her modus operandi though. Our girl leapt into the car and pressed the FOOT brake with her HAND. Trust KO to bring a bit of Hollywood stunt action to everyday life.

Bin? Bin has a history of confronting possible watermelon thieves with a bottle of Barcardi Breezer, and, most recently, inadvertently walked off with a wannabe cult leader’s bedroom slippers. Bin IS an emergency herself. 

Krook? MW? Krazy Frog? Krook has a tendency to declare, “Don’t worry! I will find your marbles!” under duress. MW’s idea of a travel first-aid kit is hemorrhoid cream, a steel spring and a ring. Krazy Frog very reassuringly says, “No worries! I’ll call you in 5, okay?” and disappears for the next 5 months. 

With a sigh, I realised I had little choice. I quickly filled in a name and number and handed in the form, fervently praying that I would never face an emergency situation. So, whose name did I put in? I'm going to have to leave you guessing about that one.