Embarrassments happen to me on an hourly basis. When embarrassments happen in the company of strangers, in most cases, you could attempt to save face by putting on a nonchalant expression as if to say “This is no big embarrassment, I infact intended it this way”, whereas there is no scope for such maneuvering when embarrassments happen in the company of friends and family. Could embarrassing situations turn out to be potentially dangerous? They could, as I found out on a family outing.

My sister visits us from the US every year, and when she does, we hit our familiar sightseeing circuits in Bangalore like Lalbagh, Bannerghatta National Park, etc. Nowadays, we choose destinations based on my niece’s age and choices. This year’s demand was to see Bannerghatta, so that was where we went to. There is a general perception in my family that I am very careless (not entirely uncalled for, in my opinion, but which I nevertheless, for ego-sake, fight tooth and nail). Simple incidents like dropping a pencil are enough to trigger this off (“You are very kher-less”, Dad thunders. “Tch-tch”, mother goes. Sis giggles in a way that only gals can, ripping off the shreds of self-respect that I am clinging to). This trip was a spectacular demonstration of my carelessness, and provided much mirth to everybody involved, except me and the other party involved.

Strolling around the park, the other men-folk had their hands full carrying essential items like bags of chips, biscuits, “etc”. The girl-folk ran off to point out the animals and giggle some more. The women-folk were engrossed in issues of their own. So the niece was left in my care, and we strolled around contentedly, hand-in-hand. I am usually a quiet person, and so is the three-year-old left in my care. So we strolled around the animal cages, just watching the animals and birds, not talking much. She would sometimes run ahead for a closer look at the animals, then come back, take my hand, and off we would go. Over time, unbeknownst to any of us, my niece and I were separated from the group.

A little while later, I grew conscious of many people watching us as we strolled through the exhibits. The holiday crowd was most families around Bangalore. Women briefly glanced at us before averting their eyes, while the men looked at us with a snigger. I sniggered back, wondering what was wrong in walking a three-year-old kid around animal cages. The sniggers and averted eyes followed us around. At long last, I saw our group at a distance, and hurried us along towards the family.

They were grinning too. Hey wait a minute, who was that holding on to my sister’s hand? Was that my niece?? I turned to my left side to see who was holding on to my hand, and horror of horrors, it was a girl of seventeen-eighteenish!! It all came flooding to me in a minute – I had taken some random person’s hand and strolled on, without realizing that I had separated from my niece. The kid had found her way back to her mom, while I cavorted through the zoo with a stranger on my arm. What’s worse, the girl realized what had happened only when I jerked my arm away in shock and confusion. Instant reaction – she started weeping. It fell to my mom and sis to comfort her, while dad had to calm down her livid father who had arrived at the scene.

And I stood there red-faced, unable to say a word. And just as things were calming down, I heard a lady whisper to her friend “The boy and girl are lovers. They came to the park to roam in each others’ company, and now their parents have caught them together”. Oh no, the ignominy. I am careless.

Ever since I took my driving test, Abhi has been badgering me to write a post on my experiences. I seriously doubt that the request comes from a genuine desire to know, but here goes, all the same.

Dad had made it amply clear to me that I would graduate from washing the car to driving it, only once I turned 18 AND gotten atleast a learner's license. Eager to take him up on his word, I went to the RTO on the day I turned eighteen and applied for the learner's license. I had to produce every document like my birth certificate, telephone bill, water bill, ration card, passport, SSLC marks card, PUC admission letters and what not. I had taken along my grandmother's birth certificate too, but very surprisingly they didn't ask for it. Finally, I was ushered into a room to take the written test. The written test had impossible traffic situations like smiling traffic policemen, BMTC buses driving on the correct side of the road, pedestrians crossing at zebra crossings and green signal lights. There should have been a fourth option that said iv) Hahaha. Then I would have flunked the test. I finished the test and handed it over to a person who looked like Mr. T. N. Seshan, who informed me that I could now drive, but only with a person who was licensed to kill, sorry drive, on Indian roads.

I had a queer way of driving back then. I never used to know when to change gears, and used to rely on Dad to tell me. Therefore, when I went back for my driving test in 30 days, I took Dad along too. Fortunately, Dad was allowed to come with us on the test. I changed gears whenever Dad coughed, therefore, save the examiner thinking Dad had tuberculosis or something, no other damage was done. The final phase of the test was reversing the vehicle inside the Yeshwantpur market. I saw fleeting images of fruit and vegetable vendors leaping out of my way and yellow musambis flying into the air(as seen in the rearview mirror), Dad coughing like a chronic smoker(signalling me to apply the brakes before the car was fully wrecked) and the examiner shouting and flailing his arms to ward off certain death. Need I tell you what the outcome of the test was?

I subsequently passed the four-wheeler test, then went in for the two-wheeler test. The examiner had no doubts about wanting to accompany me on the ride. He told me to ride up to a certain point, make a U-turn and come back. I went up to the circle, signalled and turned perfectly, and came back. I was so euphoric that my eyes were totally clouded by tears. Due to this temporary loss of vision, I completely missed the RTO building entrance and went to the next building, wondering where the examiner and other applicants had disappeared suddenly. Disqualified for missing the target. My friends, watching the test from vantage positions outside the RTO, fell off their perches laughing at the sight.

For my California driving license test, I was forced to learn a 200-page booklet by-heart. Here everything is played by the book, by numbers. They even specify blood alcohol levels that designate you drunk or not drunk(We operate differently in India, right? If your father wears white khadi, gold bracelets and knows a lot of people in high places, then you're not drunk. Alternatively, if you are stopped near Windsor Manor, made to blow into a policeman's face, and the policeman falls down in a faint from the alcohol fumes, then you will be charged for drunken driving. I see some of you smiling..). There's absolutely no humor in the exam paper either. In India, for example, we have questions like:
6) You are driving in your car and you spot a cow near a zebra crossing. According to traffic rules,
a) You have to politely wait until the cow has crossed the road.
b) The cow has to let you cross first, since you have a car and the cow does not.
c) The cow cannot cross at zebra crossings; cows can cross only at cow crossings.
which send you guffawing, startling all the other test-takers and T. N. Seshan look-alikes. 

In the US, all the questions are serious. For example, questions like:
2) You want to make a left turn at an upcoming intersection. You must
a) Put on your left turn indicators.
b) Put on your right turn indicators.
c) Put on your headlights.
make you sweat in the middle of a California afternoon. Thus, it was no mean feat that I managed to scrape through the test.

The driving test was very formal(an atmosphere that I am unaccustomed to, and which I particularly detest). My time-tested techniques like making eye-contact and smiling met with cold, blank stares. Other than accidentally sounding the horn(causing the entire neighborhood to jump up in surprise) and forgetting to change the gear from reverse to drive after parallel parking(causing the car to shoot backward and scare the wits out of a dog-walker and the examiner), there were no major mishaps. Not exactly flying colors, but I still managed to get through the test. I'd prefer Indian driving tests any day.

Lastly, I'll leave you with a little anecdote about how Abhi gave his two-wheeler test. With two years of rich illegal driving experience under his belt, Abhi appeared at the RTO one morning, bright and overconfident. Since the bike offered no guarantee of starting again if switched off, I was deputed to guard the bike while the other guys and girls positioned themselves at vantage points along the route to cheer him on. Tests started, and in a while, it was our hero's turn to show off his riding skills. Donning his leather jacket and helmet(like an overdressed Bollywood villain), Abhi set off with an overconfident smile. According to eyewitnesses, less than a minute had elapsed before our candidate disturbed a pack of dogs squabbling over some scraps of food. Assuming that he was a new dog in the fray, the pack turned on him in a trice. What a sight it was to see our knight rider roaring full speed toward the RTO, a pack of mongrels snapping at his upraised heels. Though he broke all the traffic rules possible within a 200-yard route, the kind inspector decided to grant a license to the lucky bugger. Maybe there was a comedy quota(like sports quota) for licenses that I didn't know of.

Yesterday was yet another of those cross-country trips. Thankfully, this time, I don't need to rush back. Whopper of a 24-week vacation, complete with a thrilled niece, chechi, chettan and parents. So it was in that jolly mood that I got on to the flight yesterday. Nothing could dampen my spirits. There was the jolly old lady ahead of me in the boarding line who kept dropping her carry-on on my foot. Each time I smiled at her. To my credit. I smiled at the racist flight attendant(she smiled only at white Americans. I am neither white nor American. Duh. As if I care). I picked out a row that had a plug-point underneath, so I could use the lappy. White Americans grouped me with the Afro Americans, and the Afro Americans grouped me with the Mexicans(bloody immigrant, they must be thinking). Gujarati belles grouped me with lecherous bachelors. In short, the seat next to me was empty. Out came the lappy and off came the shoes. I was going to enjoy this flight. Sadly, no material for a blog post(Nowadays I scan every situation for potential post material. Is this an incurable condition, doctor?).

In the seat pocket in front of me, there was a small booklet that explained what to do in case of emergencies. The illustration was hilarious. There was a strip showing what to do in case the flight crashed over mountains. Once the plane crashes, smiling air hostesses will tell you what to do. Smiling passengers near the emergency row will remove the emergency door, and smiling passengers are expected to get out of the aircraft. Everybody smiling. A happy ending huh? The same thing goes for water landings. You smilingly don your life jacket, rip out your seat cushion, and wait in line to exit the aircraft. After ensuring that everybody has gotten off, the plane will sink. And instead of waiting for the sharks to come and get you, you smilingly swim about in your bright orange life jacket. Until some smiling ship crew come by to pluck you from the water.

Smirking, I put down the booklet and settled down to watch an old Malayalam movie on the lappy. One of the revolutionary movies from Mollywood. This is the earliest movie that I remember, in which the villain is not killed by a combination of multiple gunshots and several stabs with a kitchen knife(the villain, in fact, gets to live). I just love watching these old Indian movies. Makes me laugh until my sides hurt.

In this one, the heroine is a Mallu pop singer. Ever heard of Mallus singing pop? Hahaha. All the "pop" songs were remixed Malayalam devotional songs. Especially pulluvan paattu(songs sung by a particular tribe whose traditional occupation is to appease the snake God Nagaraja). In a fit of rage, a supporting actor says so to the "pop" singer herself. In line with the script, she took it very coolly. I would have eaten him up.

The hero has not one, but many shades of negativity. As in so many other movies, in this one too, the hero is armed with supernatural powers. The script-writer is on a roll, getting the hero to outwit a dozen national security agencies and a couple of international intelligence organizations. I didn't know CBI provides security to Mallu pop singers. Eye opener for me.

Apparently all cars in Kerala are parked unlocked, with the keys in the ignition. Full tank of petrol. Maybe it's a law for all car owners to carry spare fake number plates in the trunk. The hero never has a problem stealing a car and travelling across states. Auto drivers are well-behaved, and the auto fares are always in denominations of Rs. 10, 20, 50, 100, 500, 1000 or 5000(The first auto driver is always ready to go where the actor wants to go. All actors just alight from the auto, pay and walk away without worrying about change. Bangaloreans are allowed a laugh here).

Fight scenes are excellent. The villains patiently wait in a line behind the camera until the hero is ready to deal with them. Four villains at a time(what do you think? The hero has only 2 hands and 2 legs). The goons are all obese, coconut oil-covered and menacing, but that doesn't deter the hero from throwing them into the air at regular intervals. Four of them piled one on top of the other don't hurt the hero, but a perfunctory slap by the hero opens up wounds on these goons' faces. From which magenta-coloured blood flows copiously. When most of the work is done, a single jeep-load of policemen arrive, sirens screaming(like some of your managers, huh? wink wink). 10 policemen alight from the jeep to herd the 9 goons into the vehicle. The Inspector personally commends the hero's actions(stopping short of the President's Bravery medal. I don't know why), and then all 19 people leave in a single jeep(Lugging 9 obese goons and 10 petite policemen, it can still be driven like a Himalayan rally vehicle. Rounding corners on two wheels and splashing water). All vehicles in the movie have screeching brakes. Somebody should talk to the guys in sound effects. Stopping vehicles sounded like neighing horses being reined in in the middle of a 160 km/hr gallop.

Climax scene was no less funny. The hero is holed up in a house, with policemen surrounding the house with assault rifles. At regular intervals, the hero comes out on to the balcony to threaten the policemen with a puny  revolver that has 6 bullets. All the policemen run for cover. Ultimately, the police commissioner realizes that the pop singer is his only hope(The mike is mightier than the sword? Sorry, bad joke), and brings her to the hero's hideout. As the heroine walks towards the house singing a soft song, policemen slow march behind her(the way they march when the Prime Minister is inspecting the guard of honour). Throw in some little children dressed in white, holding candles(I remember they made me do this when I was 5 yrs old, for a Christmas play in school. The baby Jesus was just born. The wax melted and fell on my hand and I ran off the stage screaming. Mary and Joseph were rolling on the floor laughing, while the 3 wise men were shouting for the stage hand to bring down the curtains. The crowd was in splits). While the hero is captivated by the song, the policemen overpower him and disarm him of the revolver and supernatural powers.

In the conclusive scene, all the supporting actors are crying. The hero apologizes to the heroine. The heroine apologizes to the hero's mother. The villains apologize to the supporting actors. The supporting actors apologize to the hero's uncle. The hero's uncle apologizes to the hero's friends, who break the chain by apologizing to everybody in the room. Apologize for what? I don't have a darn clue.

By the time the movie was over, the plane was already lining up for final approach into San Diego. Yay, my vacations are just beginning. Am going to have a lot of fun.

Stay safe, stay happy and come back to the blog often. Ciao.

The yarn factory is decked in black again. I don't like this at all. My friends running away from me one by one.

God's will is one thing, your will is another. God's will you could do nothing about, but your will, well, that's something we all could have done something about.

Here you leave us to ponder over the times we all spent together; painful memories with jagged ends.

Ever the comedian, you revelled in making us laugh unto tears; but here your final act leaves us confused and deeply hurt.

You shared your joy and fun with your friends, yet you chose not to share the pain.

Whatever troubled you so much as to run away from this beautiful world, I hope it's troubling you no longer.

We'll remember you forever.

God Bless.

I swear to God we need to have more of these days. No, I didn't mean we need Mother's day every month. You know, in addition to Father's day, brother's day and all that, we need to have more days like younger sister's day, elder cousin sister's day, neighbour's married sister's younger child's day, and well, you get the drift. Then I would not have to wander the blogosphere searching for inspiration to write a post. Or deliberately put myself in avoidable situations, in the (sometimes) vain hope that it will yield a blog story. All I would need to do is ask Google who we are honoring today, and then write a post on them. Voila, a post is done!! Nevertheless, instead of wistfully thinking of things that aren't here yet, let's make the most of what we have - Mother's day 2009.

It's still the eve of Mother's day in the part of the earth where I now live. For once in my life, I'm not late in wishing Mom(thanks to Sleeping Devil's reminder!!). Mother's day is not mother's day, 8000 miles away from your mother. But I will adjust by sending Mother's day wishes to Amma's representative in the US, my sister. Will she go into fits of rage when I do that!! Ha ha ha. The most I can do without sounding somber is to pen down some memories from past Mother's days. Read on, gentle readers, it's better than not posting at all, aye?

My earliest memory of Mother's day is of April 10th in 1989(No, I didn't get the date wrong. Keep reading). We were in school(Last day of school before vacations set our souls free). Well, we were all sitting around like blind men in a Multiplex, not knowing why there were no rhymes today, and why they weren't letting us go home. Turned out somebody in the school was planning a surprise for our class teacher. In walked her son in a crisp white Naval uniform. He had come to wish his mother, since he would be out at sea in May. He had got flowers for her and cookies and chocolates for all of us. Oh the plight of our teacher. From docile young kittens, we went to marauding beasts, fighting for the goodies!! I think I also knocked off his naval seaman's cap while lunging for a chocolate. I'm sure, like me, she wouldn't forget that day(but maybe for conflicting reasons).

Cut scene to a Mother's day some 2-3 years later. Sis had finally heeded the call of the world to replicate Western traditions at home(She was sometimes so rigid that we sometimes celebrated English festivals in a way that would put England to shame. For example, we hung out our well-decorated Christmas star long before chaste orthodox Christians even contemplated the idea. And took down the star somewhere in September or October after Christmas). Anyway, she heard of Mother's day somewhere and decided we would celebrate it at home. She recruited( conscripted would be a better word) me into her scheme. Long before Mom returned from her evening walk, we decked up the dining hall, made up some delicacies and got some gifts for Mom(the money for which I pilfered from Mom's piggy bank) and waited with bating breath(I was waiting with a slurping tongue. Surely Mom wouldn't eat up all those delicacies herself, no?). Mom came, we surprised her, and boy, was she surprised. She flew into a rage. Sis got an earful for wasting money when Dad was struggling hard to earn for us. I escaped, partly because I was the younger child, and partly due to the fact that I had disappeared from the crime scene when Mom's face started turning crimson.

Another memory of Mother's day is the one we set up for my colleague's Mom. It was the summer after Mom's mom had passed away, and I didn't have the heart to remind mom and sadden her. So I didn't go home that weekend, instead I teamed up with my colleagues to wish our colleague's mom. The girls planned and timed it down to the last detail(like when the streamers and balloons should enter the house, etc). Guys are usually not good at this - they lose focus after a couple of days and then end up celebrating something else. So, on the big day, we gathered at our colleague's home and laboured hard at the cooking, cleaning, etc(aunty kept the house like a museum, so I volunteered to clean. All I had to do was drink coffee at regular intervals). Everything ready. Phone rings. Aunty calling from crowded Kankanadi railway station. Our mentally retarded colleague had booked Aunty's ticket to their native place that day and dutifully forgotten all about it. We ate all the food ourselves(which would have happened anyways), burst the balloons, and went home. Aunty came home a few days later and cleaned up the mess. She won't forget that Mother's day in a hurry.

Well, these are all that came to mind at the mention of Mother's day. One thing is for sure, I'll call up home tonight and wish mom. And that card to Sis, I'm sending it right now. Muahahaha.

Here's wishing all the Moms of the world a very happy mother's day!! Ciao.

A friend(hereafter referred to as P) asked me to write a story for a cause. "Maaaaaan", she said in that southie-displaced-in-the-north-cluelessly accent, "for once do something good". She has given up a lucrative career in the Philips-Siemens-LG-etc-world to further the cause of eradicating child labour. They do this by helping young children get adopted by humane families who give them a good education and three meals a day. And loads of parental love(Of course there was this family who "adopted" a young girl and then made her do all the menial chores. The organization intervened in time, the girl has since been rescued and lives with a loving NRI family, and the earlier couple safely locked up as the government's guests). Their work is so hard, so tough and so noble that it commands respect and admiration from the rest of us. They are assured of a centrally air-conditioned duplex flat in heaven. I told her so in as many words, but she growled over the phone. "Stop joking, Sree. You make fun of everything under the sun!!" Now why does everybody think I'm trying to be funny! After a barrage of indignant protests, she agreed to calm down(agreed to calm down. She was not yet calm), but in return for some help to the organization. "Anything", I said, mentally beseeching Lord Vighneshwara to raise some obstacle in her thought process, and Lord Anjaneya to give me strength to carry out her commands(just in case Lord Vighneshwara decided to ignore me). "Write a story", she suggested, "in support of the child adoption cause. That way the cause will get some publicity". "Ok", said I, "the theme is child adoption, so can you give me some adoption stories or experiences that I could build up on?" "No", she rejoined most helpfully, "I cannot reveal such information to outsiders".

So in the middle of final exams weeks, in the midst of a raging flu(I will keep mentioning my flu until I get enough sympathy from readers), I went to my creativity corner(the corner I go to, to type out my blog posts), put on my thinking cap(figuratively) and sat down to write a story. Somebody very very close to me is adopted, so with his(Hahaha. You thought it was a girl, right? Hey no no no, I'm not that either!!) permission, I set out to base the story on his experiences. I had to cut out the truthful parts of the story in order to introduce drama and suspense. And voila, the story was ready. Here was the story that would propel me to writers' fame and glory, make readers cry and wail, and ensure that every homeless child is adopted and child labour existed only in history. 

Just one small problem. I sent the story across to P and waited with bated breath for her to come online and read it. She came, dutifully said hello, and said "Hey I'm reading the story now. Wait". She called me in a few minutes. "Sree Sree", she said. Deathly silence followed. Tension was palpable(Like when one has applied to American universities for a Masters and awaiting decisions. All those who can relate, raise your hands. Yes, I see a few hands). More silence(stop worrying about the phone bill, folks. She uses a VoIP phone). And then she broke the silence. "Sree, you better go back to writing about tsunamis and typhoons and earthquakes. I will find somebody else to do this". "Hey tell me na what's wrong, we can fix this up". "No Sree, tumse yeh nahin hoga". "Come on, P. Tell me what's wrong. Just to know". 

And then came the torrent of words. What do I know about child adoption? Do I think it's all dramatic and filled with action? Do I think child adoption happens only after earthquakes and tsunamis? And did I even think of writing about child labour, even though she harped on it thousand and one times(in her southie-displaced-in-the-north-cluelessly accent)? She knew that "You were stupid, but not to this level". And all that.

:(

I have since re-written the story and sent it across to her. Cut down on theatrics. No sentiments and gruesome situations. Hope and love springs up from every paragraph. Let's see what P has to so say about this one. If she clears this one, I'll post it soon enough. And then let's further the cause.

On the sidelines, a faithful reader(sensible_girl@*****.com) wants to know why most of my friends(and doctor!!) are female. There's no reason why. It just happens to be so. More importantly, I don't write about my guy friends, so how would you know. This question reminds me of a particularly harrowing two months last year. There was this friend of mine who went and told my parents that I was in love with a girl, and was planning to elope with her soon(which, I don't have to tell you, was a lie. A girl loving me? Oh please). Dad and Mom went ballistic. Dad asked me the same question then - "Why are most of your friends female?" What do I say!! The two months until I left for the US were hell. Things got so bad that I ultimately had to beg Dad to screen my calls. Dad tried his utmost to keep me safe. He questioned every female caller(he already knew the ones who called on the home phone) meticulously(The credit-card-seller girls were questioned so thoroughly that they started wondering whether Dad was in the sell-credit-cards-over-the-phone-to-random-people business himself). Mom was so worried that she was even planning to get me married off("so that he would settle down with one girl", but the plan, as you know, never took off). So, sensible_girl, the answer is - I have friends of both kinds. Ok? That's all for now.

Stay cool, hot summer month ahead. Ciao.

Exams are on, it's raining cats and dogs outside, and I've grown tired of both. Been a dreary week with projects, presentations and exams, and we are not done with the week yet(or rather, the week is not done with me yet). Sigh. And yet, I find the time to blog and tell-all. How, you ask? Well, I looked at the blog after a long time, and it looked so forlorn, like a neglected(No, not that one. How would I know?), so, like a neglected parent(My parents always feel neglected and go into mini-depressions when I have exams. Mini-depressions. Like mini idlis or mini meals). I felt so guilty that the hit counter was zooming along even when I had not posted anything worthwhile for a long time. So I was on my weekly blog-idea hunt, when a couple of medical officers dropped into school to educate us about the swine flu(We don't use the s-word on this blog, so we say H1N1 flu). Aha, I thought. This time I didn't have to look far for inspiration. I just had to twist and turn whatever these good gentlemen said, change some text into italics, parenthesize, and we're done!! Little did I know what was in store.

I think one of those officers had the swine, sorry, H1N1 flu himself, for I started feeling a bit woozy soon after they had left. Hacking cough and a baaaad headache followed, and so, for the safety and health of those around me, I decided to go to the health center. Now the whole health center idea here is very funny. The center is located a long mile away from campus, therefore, if you are ill, please wait until you're strong enough to walk to the health center, and then when you get there, you will have the best possible medical care. Wisecracks notwithstanding, I dragged myself to the health center, showed them my ID cards, and sank down thankfully onto the couch. Back in India, I used to call up my doctor(a highly gifted school senior), tell her the symptoms, and she used to send across the medicines. Of course, she would also call back in a couple of hours to check whether I was still alive. A typical conversation would be like this:

Me: "Hey Doc"
She: "Hey Dumbo"
Me: "Dumbo yourself. Listen I need some advice"
She: "Left hand or right?"
Me: "Not fractured hands, re. I think I'm coming down with something bad. Need some medicines"
She: "Ok, tell me the symptoms"
Me: "Headache, feeling exhausted, high body temperature, cold and I'm spitting blood"
She: "Ok, are your pupils dilated?"(She's quintessentially cool. That statement about spitting blood didn't affect her at all)
I stare at the mirror with the phone cradled on one shoulder.
Me: "No, I don't think they are"
She: "Well, even if they were, you wouldn't know"
Me: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
She: "Bend forward and let your neck loose"
Me: Ok.(Loud noise as I tumble from my chair. Curses and threats follow)
She: "Ok, you can sit up now. Did you feel anything heavy in your forehead or behind your nose?"
Me: "Yes"
She: Ok, I'll send you some medicines. Take them, take rest, and you should be just fine"
Me: "Okie, thanks"

(After two hours)
She: "Hey Dumbo."
Me: "Hey Doc. What goes?"
She: "Nothing, just checking. Tc, Bye."
Me: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Sigh. I miss those days of innocence.

Here, the diagnostic process is more thorough, long-drawn, and psychology-oriented. But prone to gaffes, as we shall see. After registering at the front-desk, I was sitting and chatting with two friends who had accompanied me to the health center. I was bragging about how I had written that I had flu, in order to ensure prompt attention. A group of people walked out of an office and called my name. One of my friends raised his hand, presumably to say that he was with me. Before any of us could say another word, they had put him on a wheelchair, put a gauze mask on him, and wheeled him away to a diagnostics room. The entire party returned in a minute, the friend all flushed and upset, and the doctor party sheepishly grinning. Quick and efficient, but inaccurate. This time around, they correctly identified me, even looked at my ID card, and wheeled me in. Everybody was masked and gloved. Except me. Left me feeling like I was highly radioactive or something. They took a blood sample from me and then left me alone. Just imagine. Alone in a HUGE room, draped in a white sheet, lying under a pool of light. I, of course, used the time to catch a few winks. I woke up to someone gently shaking me. The light was off, the gown had vanished, and so had the masks and gloves. There was only one doctor.

Doc: "Hmmmm"
Me: "Hmmm?"
Doc: "Hi Shszzzrijeethth. Is that how you pronounce your name?"
Me: "Yeah that's fine"
Doc: "Ok. We ran a few tests on the blood sample and found that there is nothing wrong!! Aren't you relieved?"
Me: "So what is wrong? Why am I feeling tired and feverish?"
Doc: "First, let me ask you a few questions. Do you stay with your parents or siblings?"
Me: "No"
Doc: "So you stay with your partner?"
Me: "No. I stay with friends"
Doc: "Do you have a troubled romantic relationship?"
Me: "^$#*(@#"
Doc: "Strained relationships with flatmates?"
Me: "No"
Doc: "Strained relationship with family?"
Me: "No"
Doc: "What did you have for breakfast?"
Me: "Cereal"
Doc: "How is your academic work going on?"
Me: "Good"
Doc: "Do you have any financial problems?"
Me: "No"
Doc: "Ok, this looks like is a case of seasonal flu. I will fill out a prescription for you. Take rest, and you should be just fine"

So, avoid strained romantic relationships, strained family relations, have cereals for breakfast, maintain your grades and plan finances well if you want to avoid swine flu. Sorry, infection by the H1N1 virus.

So, let me take rest and study for my exams while you guys run along and have a nice (rest of the) week. In my absence, please keep the blog alive, by appropriate activities in the comments section.

Stay healthy and I'll see you in just a few days. Ciao.

The time has come to shake off the sombreness of the past week. The dark template is out. Until I finally get myself to sit down AND work on designing a new template, I have decided to keep rotating through blogger's offerings. I like this template because it doesn't make a long post look like an intricately carved pillar. Yes, until I get tired of this one and say "I want something that makes my posts look like an intricately carved pillar". The next post is shaping up nicely, but sadly, very little time to work on it(finals week is here, and studies and work weighing heavily on my time). Stay tuned, I should get bored of studies in a while.

God be with ye all.

The change in the template is temporary. Yes, I know black is the color of mourning, and that is precisely the reason behind the new color. I never imagined I would do something like this on The Yarn Factory ever. But then, acts of God, as always, know no questions. This is the least I can do by way of paying a tribute to a dear dear friend.

Why, was 24 years justifiable enough to snuff out a young life?
Why this life, when I would have gladly given mine in return?
If it was for this, why did she come into contact with me after 15 long years?

Many many such angry questions well up from the depths of my heart, but I have lost the voice to ask them. You know why? Because, Acts of God know no questions. Because we mortals are too powerless to question His divine intelligence.

Vini, you live on forever in our hearts and thoughts. Right in this beautiful world that you so loved. Right in the midst of the people you so loved. We will never miss your song of life, because it rings forever in our hearts and souls.

May God keep you forever in His loving care. Rest, dear friend. In peace.

For me, elections in India have always been happy times. During school and college days, elections were eagerly awaited for the holiday on the day of election, another on the day of counting, and yet another for some other reason. When I was working, if the elections did not give me a long weekend, I would take off all the days in between the holiday and the weekend, and go on a jaunt with my friends, where it was not raining, snowing or voting, and the sun was shining bright. This time around, the talk of elections is making me all wistful.

The other day, I was talking to Mahesh about the upcoming elections in India, and Karnataka in particular. No no, not the politics part of it. He was just telling me about how, without a long weekend, he was going to be stuck in Bangalore on a holiday. That set me thinking(though I don't look like it, I'm perfectly capable of thinking, thank you) - this was going to be the first election I'm going to miss since I turned 18. Democracy has danced a few times since my 18th birthday, and I have been proud to exercise my vote and participate in nation building. Even though the real reason was to have my index finger marked with a glob of unerasable ink. On a side note, I wonder what if the government had mandated that the marking should be on the middle finger, rather than the index finger? Hahaha. Can you imagine a line of voters going up to the electoral officer with their middle fingers raised? Would have served them right too - for screwing up my Voter ID cards(Yes, I said cards. I have two of them. Both with different names). The names were so off mark that I can't remember what was really printed on them(How do they type out these names?), but I do remember a few situations associated with the voter cards. One day, Dad had just come in from work. We were standing near the gate, chatting. A middle-aged man with broken spectacles approached us. He had some cards in his hand. He said something which both Dad and me did not understand. I was trying to place the language, but Dad had already decided that it was Gujarati(Why Gujarati? Makes for another post) and said "Illa illa. Mundhe(I know the "h" sound is unnecessary here. I put it there, lest readers pronounce it like I used to refer to a particularly irritating classmate) hogu. Shanivaara baa"(meaning "Don't beg here. Go on ahead. Come on Saturday" - since, on Saturdays, we are extra charitable to escape the malefic gaze of Shani). "Illa saar", the poor man protested, "nimma voter-id card bandhide"(No Sir, I have just brought your voter-id cards). That was no Gujarati - the poor man was trying to pronounce what was written on the cards as our names. My sister's name, however was printed correctly. But not her photo. Any guesses why? Correct. She was not in India, and she had never applied for a card. The next time we got our cards was a few months down the line. Dad, Mom and me were relaxing at home after lunch. Knock on the door. Mom opened the door. The smart guy standing outside handed her three cards with a flourish "Amma, nimma voter-id cards"(Ma'am, your voter-id cards). Mom took one look at the cards and handed it back to the guy saying "Nammadalla. Pakkada maneyavaradu irbeku"(Not ours. Must be the neighbours'). Smart guy glances at the cards and says "Illa Amma. Idhu Neevu"(No Ma'am, this is you) showing her a seemingly deranged woman captured on photo just before she killed the photographer(Reminds me of an examination during my engineering days. We, from Information Science, sat alongside students from Electrical engineering. VTU's plan to foil copying. Bah. It was our examination in Data Communication. The invigilator handed out the question papers. It was, what we called, a "bomb" paper. Most of us were rendered speechless, and kept staring at the paper. One of my classmates stood up and handed his question paper back to the invigilator telling him that he had handed us the Electrical paper by mistake. As we were sighing sighs of relief, the invigilator, with a sly smile, said "No. Read the subject code carefully, not the questions. It's your paper only". It was.) Amma hurried away to hide her card before Dad or me could get to it(I think this is the real reason why Amma does not vote. The photo must be too much of an embarrassment). Scratching his chin, Dad contemplated his card which had a photo like a mug-shot. Dad made an agreement with smart guy that he would accept the card if smart guy could guarantee that it was really his. Smart guy, of course, guaranteed (The irony. The cards were meant to prove our identities to the authorities. Here the authorities had to prove our identities to us). I gasped when I saw my card. There were some sort of bubbles all over my face. Only my eyes and hair were intact. "Problem with lamination machine, Saar" said smart guy. But of course, these gaffes were just waiting to happen, given the conditions at the offices where they issued these cards.

Dad, mom and me had gone together to apply and pose for photographs for the voter-id cards. First to go was Dad. They found his name, scrawled it on a slate and made him hold it while posing for the photograph. Seeing this, Mom and me burst out in laughter. Explains why Dad's mug-shot came out apt for a title like The Smiling Criminal. Mom sat down next, determined not to laugh. I was too busy searching for my name in the list, and I missed making her smile. I think the extra effort to keep a straight face did her in. As for me - when the official said "Look cemera(camera), Saar", I started searching for a digicam to grin into, not realizing that a webcam was capturing my face at that instant. From the id-card, I found out sadly, that I was squinting elsewhere, searching furiously for the elusive digicam. Sigh. These always happened in the run-up to the elections.

The actual election days were no less fun. People with multiple identities roamed the place. Like this aunty who had come to the polling booth armed with no less than four voter-id cards. The names were all shot and sent to hell, the photos were all of people she had never seen before in her life. The poor lady was not asking much, only to be identified by her address, from atleast one of the id cards. What next, age? My fate was better - I chose the card with the better photo and set out to exercise my vote. Exercise, I did - walking from one booth to another, since my name did not figure in any of the lists. Finally, I spotted the name that was written on my card in a polling booth, which, I suspect, was in another constituency. I voted without further ado and fulfilled my civic duty. These are lots more of such instances, but I think I'll leave that for another post.

Hey, by the way, this post was intended only in light humour - I am not aiming to deride the democratic process in any way. I am a proud member of the world's largest democracy, and I will have it no other way. This was, as I said, just for laughs.

Until next time, stay enormously happy. Just like me.

Ciao.

Me..

Aspiring computer scientist. Aspiring writer. Aspiring Nat Geo traveler. Aspiring musician. Aspiring pilot. Aspiring chef. Yes, I'm constantly growing up.

Hits..

Friends of this blog

Copyright 2009 - The Yarn Factory

Blogspot Theme designed by: Ray Creations, Ray Hosting.