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

Knock Knock!

There’s a good reason why KO’s blog is called “Kaotic Workshop”. Where KO goes, chaos is apt to follow. Not that KO is not a good egg. She’s the best there is, but she ought to come with a hazard warning taped to her bottom.

So, thus it was that another mundane chinwag with the aforementioned blessed damosel triggered a rather bizarre experiment of sorts. Well, the International Man of Mystery had a lot to do with it as well (I said I would give credit where it is due, didn’t I?)

At the end of a 30-minute conversation with KO, I had been sufficiently egged on to send out a simple text message saying “Knock! Knock!” to a random lot of people from my phone book. Within seconds, minutes and an hour, I had my various responses:

"Who’s there?" - 60%

"Howdy dudee" and other forms of greeting - 20%

"How you doing?" (Including details of how the respondent was doing and where they were doing it at) - 10%

Promises to call soon (and reasons as to why they could not talk at the moment) - 10%

Variations in spelling of “who’s/who is” - 30%

I must add here that KO refuses to let me lecture here on the right spelling and grammar citing the “flexibility of text messaging language”.

When no response was received to the “Who’s there?”, 50% of the target group followed up. Apparently, (as Pest ranted on about), it is sacrilege to not carry a knock-knock joke forward once one has set it in motion.

The more colourful follow-ups included 10% cussing with a “Wtf?!” and another 10% suggesting that perhaps I had sent the text message to a wrong number?

30% of my target group tried calling me to no avail, while 10% texted me asking if I was all right.

The aforementioned Wtf-ers also suffered a breakdown of their vehicles within seconds of cursing me. If you spotted a crazed man, who has allowed prosperity - and a lot of it- go to his waist, herding vehicles away from his stranded car last night, that was the Pest.

Terror #1, who must learn to stay off the sauce, sent a follow-up which read, “Nobody here said the man who isn't there”.

Our (foregone) conclusion? I am in touch with all the right people. I dare say that if I had used people from the Chicken Shit series and other vile beings (black)listed on my phone, the results would have been different.

My thanks to the following people (in no particular order):
- My unsuspecting target group - For the 100% entertainment you provided.
- International Man of Mystery - For inspiring the chain of events with your “timely” response, which took all of five hours.
- KO - For inciting chaos as usual.

To all those who now want to hunt me down and kill me: Why knock when you can ring?

Vote for this budding writer

The things I have to do for friends and the things friends make me do just because I have a blog!

This is a request to all you readers out there: Please go on over to www.storywala.com. Click on "Authors" and vote for Author Number 41 - Ajay Kuruvila with a story titled "Drugs, A Girl And A Scam".

If he wins, I get his gratitude for life, which must be displayed in the form of cash and/or alcohol.

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.

The War Against Wassup

“Wassup?”

Or other variations of that irritating word.

Nothing can be more annoying than that single word popping up on my cellphone. Is it a greeting? An expression of concern for my well-being, perhaps?

For the most part, it appears to be a handy substitute for all those who have trouble making any semblance of decent conversation – and there are plenty of that sort out there as I’m beginning to find out all over again.

“I would like to lynch the next person who sends me that singularly most annoying word again as a text message”, I cribbed to Terror#1 this afternoon. “What is with the word anyway? What is one expected to say in response?”, I spat.

Terror#1, who often shares my sentiments on a lot of things like this – blame it on our “hilly-billy” backgrounds (as BC puts it) – reasoned that it probably stemmed from people being in AIESEC, where it is supposedly a way of greeting. He then went on to explain that since the word is used in Budweiser advertisements, the “Wassupers” were probably hoping to star in the brewer’s next commercial. I suspect Terror#1 might have had one too many Buds to come up with that explanation!

I would even venture that one’s usage of “wassup” is a keen indicator of one’s social prowess. Take for instance the little episode the other day as BC and I shared a couple of laughs and a chinwag over some fruity cocktails and chicken wings.

Well into the pleasant evening (pleasant up to that point at least, eh, BC?), a waiter came up and looking rather apologetic told me, “Ma’am, your bill has been paid already”. “What?”, I asked feeling rather stupid. “That guy at the bar insisted on paying the bill”, the waiter replied sheepishly as BC and I exchanged slightly alarmed but flummoxed glances.

“Can we reverse that?”, we pleaded, sneaking a peek at our benevolent benefactor, who leaned against the bar watching us expressionlessly. The waiter shook his head, his face mirroring our confusion and angst. I considered giving him an earful for not having checked with us before being a total pushover and acceding to the man’s demand.

My inner bitch grappled with my inner goody-two-shoes – should we ignore the bill payer or go over and say thank you? The Pushover brought us a note from the guy, who continued eyeing us uncertainly. The note said something to the effect of “Could I join you guys? I only want some conversation.” We gave it the once-over, noting the bad handwriting, awkward sentence construction but decent grammar and perfect spelling. We nodded our approval to the Pushover, who then plonked another chair next to BC and not me. Was I ever glad! (Guess who was in line for a fat tip that night?)

For the next what-seemed-to-be-eternity, our benefactor waxed on about social media and made some polite chit-chat – the major part of which I refused to contribute to, opting instead to feign deafness as the music was “too loud”. In doing so, I put BC in a spot – she took it upon herself to act as an interpreter of sorts until I told her to give it up. Each time he asked me something, I would signal “Loud music, I cannot hear! Forget it!” BC has yet to forgive me but loves me still, bless her good little heart.

To his credit, Social Media Bloke was decent and had played his cards well up until then – our basic courteousness compelling us to give the man and his near-monologue on social media a patient listen. We are nice like that. It could have continued to be that way. However, he made one catastrophic mistake – he sent us both a few text messages with that singularly annoying word – “Wassup”.

Almost needless to say, Social Media Bloke has never seen or heard from us since. Yes, my inner bitch won – and after some wrestling with her conscience, so did BC’s.

Death to all Wassupers is all I can say at this point – and no prizes for guessing what their one-word epitaph will read.