Save your things, do!

My most popo, Jane Doe, just returned from a trip to a neighbouring land. And as most most popos do, she shared her experiences. She had some fun moments, she did! Here's one place where I visualise her throwing her head back and laughing out loud.

Blog rolled and flattened

Someone blogrolled me.

I'm horrified. Truly. Horrified, aghast, dismayed, stunned and distressed.

Why, I hear you ask.

Because the someone blogrolled me with a comment that my blog has "campy, cheesy humour".

campy adj. Having deliberately artificial, vulgar, banal, or affectedly humorous qualities or style.

cheesy adj. of very poor quality; flimsy.

So there's my dear blog (I'm quite fond of it) being described as being funny but of very poor quality and humorous in an artificial, vulgar, banal or affected way.

Sigh. Deep sigh.

I'm devastated.

I may never write again.

Nom d'un nom d'un nom

While chatting with a friend today, for some reason, we got onto the topic of names, specifically Mallu names. And we had a good time laughing at the strange logic or lack of it that seizes parents in our part of the world when naming kids.

And it reminded me of the time I was introduced to a bright, and personable young man by a friend. Now, the friend, in general had a stentorian voice, so I was quite puzzled when he mumbled the guy's name under his breath. He went, "Sh..mumblemumblehumhawcough...y Xxxx." How was I supposed to call the guy this totally incomprehensible name? Anyway, I stuck my hand out for a handshake and said, "Fling, Orange Fling, pleased to meet you... ?" (You know, like James Bond introduces himself, "Craig, Daniel Craig." Just like that.) The idea being that he would also say "Xxxx, whatever Xxxx '. Else, I could just see myself on the phone the next day, going "May I please speak to Sh..mumblemumblehumhawcough...y Xxxx?" No luck, though. He just shook my hand and smiled. It was a nice smile, believe me. I would have so liked to figure out what was going on behind that smile. But by then, I was resigned to calling him Mr. Xxxx, the next time we met. And I know as well as the next person that calling someone Mr. Anything, is just not conducive to anything but seriousness. I was so disappointed.

Maybe it was the expression on my face that made him decide to cheer me up. I'll never know. What I do know, is that just as he was leaving, he reached into his pocket, took out his wallet, drew out a visiting card and handed it to me. At that point in time, there was this fad of accepting visiting cards like the Japanese do, with both hands and a deep bow. My bows were never very deep and this time was not an exception. But as I bowed over the card, I took a quick peek at the name, and almost fell over. There in big bold capital letters was his name:

SHITTY XXXX

What, oh what, were his parents thinking when they named him?

From top to bottom

Shain the time traveller, transported me to a different time and a different place. I am now lost in the late 80's ( the decade, not the latitude) wandering through MCC memories. When I escape those, WCC comes floating by. Either way, I end up here.

Okay. This is an MCC story (Oh Lord, thank you for having given me the opportunity to study in a college where I had so many laughs.)

MA III Sem. Subject : The Essay. Activity : Reading aloud. Professor : Long haired professor who impreses all girls (pretty or otherwise) by recounting story of barefoot walk in the Himalayas. As evidence to convince pretty girls, when Guys 1 to 17 laugh and shrug off story as exaggeration, carries in wallet a photograph of self sans sandals standing in (or is it on?) snow on Himalayan slope. Girls always deeply impressed as this gets them better marks. LHP also into intonation, inflexion, and attempts at embarassing prettily blushing girls.

Flashback to previous class: Girl1 (it was always Girl1, I wonder why?) reads. As the bell rings, she has reached sentence two of a paragraph, which is at the top of a page. Class marks spot, and disperses.

Back to incident at hand. Class begins. Girl 1 resumes reading where she had left off. ( Third sentence of Paragraph ).

LHP : Girl1, begin at the beginning of the paragraph.(which is the last line of the previous page.)

Girl 1: But sir, we had reached the top.

LHP (with feeling, yes, with lots of feeling and one very strategic glance at certain portion of Girl1's anatomy) : Yes ma, but I find that I infintely prefer the bottoms.

Girl1: blushes prettily.

P.S. I reiterate. I was not Girl 1.

One summer day, many years ago

Circa 1984. Summer vacations. Joyous siblings and cousins filled the house with noise and laughter. Angel mother suggested a day out sight-seeing. for all children, saying , "it's a historic city. go see the historic monuments." And thus, we set out and decided to take a boat ride across the harbour to see the oldest European church in India. And the 400 year old synagogue.

It was a lovely ride. We had lovely companions. Two lovely, really lovely, Aussie men. Large and friendly and carrying umbrellas. We looked a question at the umbrellas and they answered by rolling their eyes at a distant cloud. The third group on the upper deck was a family of four from the neighbouring state. Everyone smiled at everyone else and once off the boat, stuck together in a loosely defined large group.

Of course, it started to rain. And the Aussies, being the usual friendly Aussie types, offered to share their umbrellas with the family. The little girl was fine, she just smiled a big smile and looked up adoringly at her Aussie everytime he spoke to her. The mother - oh dear, was a totally different story. Everytime her Aussie addressed her in his very pronounced drawl, she got a hunted look and about three questions into the rain-walk, started to remind me forcibly of a doe about to flee. The conversation went somewhat like this:

Aussie Q : Dreadful rain, eh?

Scared Doe: Huh? (Looks around fearfully)

Aussie Q: Where are you from?

Scared Doe : HUH? (hitches up saree in readiness to flee)

Aussie Q :(Realising that he had to ask her something that would interest her) So, of all the places you've been to, which is your favourite?

Scared Doe: ( latching on to "favourite" and heaving a sigh of relief that he had finally asked her something she understood) Masala Dosa!

All children : (collapse by road-side laughing)

Aussie Q proceeds to petrify the doe by asking her detailed questions about the location, climate and so on about what he feels must be a truly interesting place.

Love and communication

Shain seems to have set off something with his MCC tag. Here I am now, MCC stories pouring out of me. It's even set the WCC stories flowing.

This one's an MCC story.

MA English First Sem class. A professor on the brink of retirement (one of the best profs ever) was keeping us occupied with a session on intonation. inflexion, expression and so on. Basically, trying to figure out whether we could communicate. He, could. And how!

POTBOR to the class in general : So, let's see, I think each of you should try and start with one sentence. Like so. (And proceeds to look deeply into the eyes of Girl1 while intoning with feeling) You have such pretty eyes.

Girl1 proceeds to blush prettily and cast her eyes down innocently.
Girls2,3&4 giggle.
Girls 5,6 & 7 smile wickedly, planning their sentences in their head. Girls 5,6 & 7 were really good girls. They just liked to be seen to be wicked.
Guys 1 through 17 snigger.

POTBOR to Girl1 : Now you try.

Girl 1: (Looking up at him shyly and innocently, intones with feeling) I love you.

Girls 2through 4 giggle. Uncontrollably.
Girls 5 through 7 gasp like idiots. This, even they would not have thought of.
Guys 1 through 17 sit up and look at Girl1 closely, as if seeing her for the first time.

POTBOR : (managing to control the blush at collar-level moves even closer, drops his voice a notch, and intones. With feeling. Oh yes, that was feeling, all right) Once more, please.

Class bursts out laughing. Girl1 blushes prettily - again - and enjoys all the attention. POTBOR smiles indulgently. And changes topic of lesson. Immediately.

Girl1 is asked out on dates by Guys 1, 5, 8, 14 and 17.

P.S. I was not Girl1.

When profs turn biblical

Scene I: First Sem MA English Literature. The first session of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales.

The class was very quiet and a little apprehensive having been warned many times by the seniors about the brilliant prof who handles the subject. He seemed innocuous enough, as he introduced himself, and we drew a collective deep breath, signifying relief. And then he began:

Chaucer, you will find, he said, is like God's peace. And he picked up the book and started to read. As only three students in that class latched on to the allusion, and since Chaucer, did, for the most part, pass all understanding, there were many hours that semester when we found ourselves wishing for a run-of-the-mill average professor teaching us some run-of-the-mill average text. It was not to be.

There's a reason I loved some of my classes

Scene: BA English Semester III Classroom
English lecturer limps into class after an absence of 4 days.
English lecturer has sprained her ankle.
English lecturer's usual mode of travel is the suburban electric train from Tambaram to Chetpet.
English lecturer is recovering from a fall on the railway platform at Tambaram.
English lecturer explains her absence to the girls with this sentence:
And you know what, Giiiiirlsss, I sprained a tendril!!!!!

This is the same English lecturer who explained to us that Samuel Johnson suffered from a dreadful disfiguring disease which caused him to have lumps all over his face. The lecture ended when she said:
Oh, I just can't get the name of that disease,what was it called? Oh yes, I remember now, Giiiirlssss, Samuel Johnson suffered from a dreadful disease called the scrotum.

And while I'm on this subject, let me not forget the time she got really agitated at what she called our unruly behaviour and threatened us:
Girlssss, now you are making me upset and while I do not like scolding my students, if you go on like this, I will be forced to castrate you.

Believe me, we adored the lady.

P.S. It should have been tendon, scrofula and castigate.

When it rained on the equipment

Everyman tagged the rest of us MCCians for a post on our alma mater. I thought about doing this. Again and again. I had a lot of fun at MCC (everyone does), but I just couldn't pin it down to any specific incident(s). Or so I thought at first. But slowly, the memories came rolling back. And oh, how I giggled to myself, reminiscing about one incident and another, and then another.
Like most old colleges with large campuses, half the fun of studying at MCC was staying on campus. There was always something to do, and something or someone to laugh at. For us resident women students, the main source of our merriment was the WARDEN. I realise now that she must have been in her mid sixties, but at that time, we thought of her as closer to eighty. As far as possible, she stayed out of our hair, and we stayed out of hers. We would attend prayers and clap along while she sang, and she would watch us play badminton, volleyball and wall tennis (smashing tennis balls against the hostel wall) and once in a way encourage us with 'good shot' and 'well played'. As you can see, for the most part, it was a peaceable association. Of course, we laughed at her little foibles and follies, but never to her face. Or at least, never until that fateful night when she decided to lecture all of us on the care of the hostel sports equipment. The immediate provocation for said lecture was that it had rained and all of the sports equipment, having been left outside, had been ruined.
I'll attempt to reproduce her speech and memory permitting, I promise to stay as true to the original as possible.

" Girls, I am very very pained. Really very painful behaviour. All of you. You are all grown women and it is a shame that you have not learned how to handle equipment carefully. Cocks and balls must be handled with care. You think you can just like that find cocks and balls to play with? It is not like the Halls. The men students have lot of equipment. The college has taken great care so that women students also have equipment to play with. So you must treat the equipment with care.
You know what has happened? It has rained last night. And you know what happens to equipment when it is left in the rain? It is ruined. Look at this (waving a shuttlecock - definitely destroyed by the rain - in the air very vigorously) - What use is a cock when it has become stiff? And look at these balls (pointing to a pile of wet and totally ruined tennis balls), they have absorbed the water and are swollen and slippery. Balls must be dry. You will not be able to play with wet balls.
We will have to get new equipment. And I will tell the Principal that all the girls have promised me that you will handle the cocks and balls with care always. Do you promise, girls? "

We never figured out whether she was a total innocent or very very wicked. Personally, I go with 'innocent'.

Shain, thank you so much for that tag. Yes, I did enjoy MCC.

Jurassic bathroom

I just realised (mostly because a lot of people who know me and to my eternal surprise, still love me, called me up and yelled - "TEN things and you didn't mention that you almost got us arrested for child abuse?"), that I should have mentioned that I am mortally scared, terrified, petrified, horrified and frightened of all things reptilian. I can stand to be in the same room as lizards, as long as they're at the other corner of the room, where I can keep an eye on them. I shudder when garden lizards and salamanders cross my path. Snakes have me running for the trees. I'm not even getting on to the subject of crocodiles and alligators. I can't watch movies which are shot on or around rivers because I'm always dreading a huge ugly crocodile lumbering out of the water. But just like a moth is drawn to a flame, I watched all the Jurassic park movies and Godzilla. It is now part of the family&friends lore that I didn't sleep for weeks after each of these and when I did start sleeping, my dreams had me sobbing through the night. I am not proud of this. I generally tend to keep this a deep dark secret. And I will shortly close this blog and start an anonymous blog so that certain unnamed people (much as I love them and am grateful that they still love me), cannot force me by blackmail to reveal certain so-called-truths on my blog.

This phobia of mine affords great entertainment to my family. I have tried hard to gain the respect of my nieces and nephews, but dropping your parcels and running out of a store because you saw a lizard does not generally engender respect. Just the opposite. And as to what the sight of a three year old laughing at you does to you, his wise, kind and altogether wonderful aunt, I leave to your imagination. My mother, the one kind and understanding soul in my life, is the only one who at least tries not to laugh at me. I love her for this. I love her for lots of things, but for this, she will be enshrined among the angels.

She saved me once you know, from a salamander attack. Well, she and my brother (the small big brother) and the maid, and half my father's office staff, and the corporation sweeper, and arbid people who were walking by on the road, and the neighbours, and I really have lost track of how many other people were there.

It all started on one quiet Saturday morning many many many years ago at about 11 a.m., when I drifted out of sleep and into the bathroom. All I was doing was standing by the wash basin with a toothbrush in one hand, and a tube of toothpaste in the other, when I felt the weight of an evil gaze on me. I looked all around, and found nothing. So I put it down to my overactive imagination and turned my attention back to the task at hand. But the feeling just wouldn't go away. So I turned around again. And there at the trap at the head of the drain, stood the scariest salamander I have ever seen (And I have seen quite a few, believe me). For those of you who have not seen salamanders, I have downloaded a sketch.

It was large, with a deep brown black body and a deep red back. And as I stood there petrified ( yes, I did turn to stone), it slowly started to advance towards me, stepping over the grating that it had knocked down in order to get at me. And it was really large. As salamanders go, it was humongous. Do you remember that scene in Godzilla, where they're down in the tunnel with the creature and they're almost caught under it as it lumbers away down the tunnel. Well, that's the kind of stride that it had. At this point, I came to my senses, and with one bound, I had leaped on to the relative safety of the closet. I say relative, because I am sure that if it had stood upon its hind legs, it could have pulled itself on to the closet with ease. While I was getting my balance by grasping the flush tank, I was wondering what the wailing in the background was.

It was only when I heard the pounding on the bathroom door and my mother's agitated voice that I realised the wails were coming from me. And I just couldn't stop. It took about 15 seconds longer for my small big brother to come hurtling down the steps shouting agitatedly. He told me later that he thought I was being murdered. Once he realised that I was not in immediate danger, he tried to figure out how to get me to 1. stop that infernal noise 2. come out of the bathroom 3.behave like a human being. Now, we lived in the house that my grandfather built, and he built houses to last. This meant that bathrooms had doors which could easily have repulsed the barbarian horde. Breaking it down would have meant bringing a battering ram into the house. SBB realised that that only way to get me out of there was to get me to open the door. And that involved my getting down from the closet. I am not going into the details of how my small big brother talked me into quietening the wails into deep shuddering sobs. All I'm telling you is that it took him a long time. All this while our maid was standing by my mother and singing what she thought were soothing songs to quieten the wild beast - me, not the salamander. But since they sounded like funeral hymns, it just didn't help.

It took them a couple of hours, but finally they did rescue me. And as soon as I was out of the bathroom, I bolted out of the house and careened into my father, who had been recalled from one of his work sites (where concreting was in process) and since he had come rushing back because his office had informed him that his darling daughter was being attacked, his first action was to hug me, and then ask me very suspiciously what had happened. I'm not stupid; I know when I'm really in trouble, so I immediately started wailing again, and refused to get back into the house till I was sure the "arana" was dead. It definitely distracted everybody. They now had to kill, or at least catch the salamander. It wasn't as difficult as I thought it would be. Our maid did it with ease, actually. And that's when I went,"but this one is too small, it's not the same one....waaaaiiiiiiillll".

My father, already on a short fuse, gave me a look that would have incinerated a small animal and since even my angel mother had stopped sympathising, I decided it was better to shut up. Of course, for the next few days, until my father forbade the mention of the word 'arana' in his house, I kept muttering under my breath that it had been MUCH bigger.

AND on one Saturday morning three weeks later, the family woke up to the sounds of my screams again. And that's when we figured out why the salamander was so much smaller when the maid caught it. It was no longer pregnant. The cunning creature had laid its eggs in a crevice in the wall. And they had begun hatching. The floor of my room was covered in baby salamanders and there were millions of them. Okay, thousands. Oh okay, hundreds.

But anyway, I had been vindicated. It had been bigger. MUCH bigger. And I was insufferable for the rest of the day.

"arana" is the malayalam word for salamander.

Steam on a train

Circa 1984. I am seventeen. A WCCite. A hostelite. Confident. Travelling by myself. Very grown up. Full of illusions (should be obvious to anyone reading the previous statement).

She is seventeen. Travelling alone. Naive. Trusting. Travelling alone. Sometimes quite an idiot. Spoilt, protected, youngest daughter. Travelling alone. Travelling alone. Travelling alone. (Thoughts running through my dad's head as he stands on the platform and peers suspiciously at my fellow travellers.)

I have to hand it to him for understanding teenagers (and/or me) pretty well. No lectures on being careful, not talking to strangers, or anything on those lines. Just a casual wave and a 'take care'.

I settle myself in and look around. Hey, pretty cool set of people. One guy, around my age. Hmmmm... nice smile, very nice smile. But hello, why is he smiling at me? Does he know me? Do I know him? Should I smile too? Well, it was such a nice smile and it would have been so rude to ignore it, so I did. Smile, I mean. At the nice smile. That was enough encouragement. He shifted seats immediately and started chatting. Turned out to be from MCC and we turned out to have a lot of common friends. So... good that I smiled back, wasn't it?

Together, we check out the rest of the passengers. Most of them are nice. The guy sitting opposite me makes me kind of uncomfortable, though. He just stares and stares and keeps smiling. Very rude! You don't just smile at some strange girl and make her feel self-conscious. I ignored him. Am good at this cold chilly front thing. Most guys I don't want to talk to get the message in about 2 seconds when hit with just a single below-freezing glare (my dad stopped worrying about me travelling alone after he saw one demonstration of said cold glare). Doesn't work with this one, though. Must be wearing thermal underwear. He keeps smiling and smiling and staring and staring. Makes me really uncomfortable. And just as I am about to turn and ask him what on earth he meant by the staring, he starts to talk.

The staring was preferable to "Hot water is the beginning of modern civilisation. Discuss." No, I am not making it up. I am not exaggerating. This is really what he said. Well, now it's the two of us who stare. And stare. And stare. I don't smile but MCC does. I just stare and think to myself. "Oh God, why me?" The conversation, if you can call it that, continues.

WC ( Weird Chap): My name is Honest Abraham Lincoln. I am from Salem.

WCC (me): (Stare. And stare. Not out of rudeness. Out of shock. Stare.)

MCC: Hi, I'm Martin Luther King.

WCC: (Eyes popping out of head and thinking) Okay, so now that's TWO crazy guys. And I, like an idiot, have started talking to one of them. And he knows my name!. Oh #$%&*!

WCC: ( Piteously looking at other travellers and sending out thought waves) SAVE ME SAVE ME PLEASE SAVE ME!

Other Travellers (OT) blithely unconcerned, continue with their activities - changing into lungies, eating thayir sadam and so on...

WC: What is your name?

WCC: (Cold glare)

WC: Why you will not talk to me? ( pointing an accusing finger at MCC) You were talking to HIM!

MCC: That's because she's my sister-in-law.

WC: Huh?

WCC: HUH?????? (Thinking, worriedly, very worriedly) Maybe I should get off at the next station and catch the bus home BOO HOO!

WC: (Pulling a packet of biscuits out of his pocket) Have one.

WCC: (shaken out of shocked stupor) Thanks, but no!

WC: (Louder) I said HAVE ONE.

MCC: You can't give her biscuits. My brother will not like it.

WCC: (Thinking out loud) His brother? Where did his brother come from?

MCC: (under his breath, to WCC) You idiot. you're my sis-in-law, remember?

WCC: (audible sigh) (under her breath to MCC) You're not nuts?

MCC: (Smiles. Shrugs) Nope, but he definitely is.

WCC: Totally loony.

WC: Why whispering? Say loudly say loudly. We also want to hear.

WCC to MCC: What are we going to do?

MCC to WCC: You are going to climb up to my top berth and stay there.

WCC thinks it over and decides it is a very wise course of action. Gets up from the seat.

WC: (Aggressively) You have not discussed my topic.

WCC: Huh?

WCC says this a lot during this journey, but so would you have done if you had been me.

MCC: (laughs out loud) I'll discuss your topic at the next station. In fact, I'll give you a demonstration on the platform.

WC: (very interested) Really?

MCC: Really.

One OT who had by then been listening to the exchange : Sounds interesting. Can I join the discussion?

WC: Yes yes of course, anyone can.

MCC to WCC: You can't.

WCC: I wouldn't dream of it.

WC to WCC: Which college do you study in?

WCC: (caught off guard blurts out) WCC.

MCC to WCC: ARE YOU CRAZY?

WC: (with a smug smile) I know you girls. That means you are in Stella Maris.

MCC: You are very intelligent. (under his breath to WCC) Top berth. Now.

WCC very meekly climbs up and stays there for the remainder of the journey.

MCC, one OT, and a couple of OTs whom he invites for the discussion, discuss 'hot water' with WC in great detail.The rest of the journey is uneventful.

MCC goes on to become one of my greatest friends and still bails me out of trouble in a pinch.

Travels of the pretty pink suitcases - Part One

I should title this 'How to miss a connection and lose your luggage - Fly Qantas!!' but have decided that since whenever they actually managed to fly us, they did a good job, and looked after us pretty well even when they stranded us in Sydney, I shall treat them with some amount of kindness. Not much, mind you, just a little bit; those of you who know me, put it down to the Christmas spirit of giving or in this case, forgiving, floating around in the air and those of you who don't know me; why I'm the kindest, most forgiving soul in the universe anyways, what does a missed flight - or two - matter?

I've had a pretty good time so far. Wednesday was spent in Mumbai with a close friend. We did some shopping, some eating, some sleeping and a lot of chatting. Just the way to begin a great holiday. By Wednesday evening, I was at the airport, where my cuz and travel companion was waiting. Now, he's this seasoned international traveler - you wouldn't say it to see him, he looks just barely out of his teens and has this wide-eyed innocent look - but seasoned he is and that's good for a novice like me.

Let's see, where did we start off - oh yes, at the Qantas counter where the girl looked at his ticket and tried desperately to pronounce his name (the usual tongue-twisting Syrian Christian family name), gave up and addressed him as Mr. zzzzzzzz. The same place where I checked in my pretty pink suitcase. The pretty pink tote-bag travelled with me as hand baggage. The girl at the counter did put us through the third degree, asking us if we were carrying any plants, food, medicines or cosmetics. Well, I had medicine and cuz had toothpaste so we were both warned that these may be thrown out when we arrived in Australia. Didn't sound like too much of a problem; my medicines were accompanied by a prescription and what's a toothpaste after all?

So, pretty pink tote in hand, I landed up at the immigration counter. First major obstacle : My passport had less than 6 months validity and the officer looked me up and down and asked me 'What to do? What to do?' I looked at him with this pathetic 'oh god what to do' look and cuz looked at him with his 'wide-eyed innocent abroad' look and the guy decided that we were a waste of his time, so he allowed us to go.

Our flight was an hour and a half late so we killed time and a couple of beers and then found out there was another half hour to go. Yeah, realised that we would miss our Sydney-Melbourne connection anyway. Decided not to worry about it until we were actually there. Both of us turned out to be ardent Jet Airways fans and discovered that Qantas does not measure up in any way to that fantastic set of people. The flight was okay, though they did run out chicken and we ended up having rice and peas and paneer for dinner. Ugh!! Was way too hungry to do anything but eat it, so I did, but I can tell you I was not too happy about it. I slept, fitfully and woke up feeling kind of zonked. I had also woken up at night to parade up and down the aisles and wiggled my toes and rotated my ankles to keep DVT at bay. But it was a twelve-hour flight after all, and even with all of this, my ankles were slightly swollen - it had me worried for a while.

Sydney Airport took care of that problem. After we disembarked, it was one long unending walk. Seriously, anyone coming to Australia better be fit or register as an invalid and ask for a wheel chair. They make you walk miles to get from one counter to the next. We breezed through Australian customs and quarantine - I didn't lose my medicines and cuz didn't lose his toothpaste.

Okay, it's about 1 p.m. (Tasmanian time) and I am now too sleepy to keep going. Our day in Sydney and how we finally reached Devonport, Tasmania, will be covered in the next post.

You guys have a good-oh day!