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The Typology and Psychology of WhatsApp Groups


The Typology and Psychology of WhatsApp Groups

I have a love hate relationship with WhatsApp groups. And the choice between love and hate (psychology) is determined entirely by the nature of the group (typology).

The taxonomy of WhatsApp groups are principally as follows:

1.    Genus Familia: One where you are related to the members of the group. These maybe sub classified into Immediate Family (father, mother, siblings), Extended Family (cousins, aunts and uncles) and Maritalis (spouse and in-laws). Immediate and Extended may sometimes be combines. Maritalis, however, might deserve a genus of its own.

2.    Genus Alumnae: One where the group evolves out of having studied in some or the other educational institution – school, college and beyond

3.    Genus Corporatum: One that emerges on account of having worked with an organisation either in the present or the past.  

Each genus exhibits its own set of behaviours and oddities among the members which, have either retained or chased me away from these groups.

Genus Familia – Immediate and/or Extended Family: This is a great way of staying in touch with your near and dear ones. One gets to experience the intense joy of being wished Good Morning and Good Night at various times during your day, as and when the sun rises or sets in the country where your various relatives live. You are in the enviable position of never forgetting anybody’s birthday and you get beautifully designed festival wishes which you then promptly forward to other groups. Of course you might have to deal with the odd uncle in northern Canada who immigrated a generation ago, reprimanding you for your lack of patriotism, if you ever spoke a word against Hinduism (or is it Hindutva?). Depending on whether you lean left or right (well mostly right), you might get into arguments with a numbskull cousin in the US who thinks that Howdy Modi was absolutely the last word in Indo-US foreign relations. Next level really. This might lead to the rest of the Genus Familia turning on you and precipitate your departure from the group. Peace will reign after this exit. But that is another post.

Maritalis is slightly tricky given the sensitivities involved. The behaviours are pretty much the same. But one has to consider carefully what and how one responds to…say a Swarajya Mag article that is presented in the group as the pinnacle of high thinking. The implications of offending an in-law are grave, especially if the dissenter is female. One usually retreats into silence and looks for opportunities to furtively exit the group. Some members of this group are eagerly awaiting when they can exit the group without it being announced as ‘xxx has left’  

Genus Alumnae: Technology has made it possible for us to remain in touch with classmates and buddies with whom we spent our childhood and grew into adulthood, exploring the vastness of the ocean of knowledge and discovering the joys of learning. Except when you realise that some have drowned in the ocean while others have not touched even a drop. The one that drowned aka The Intellectual, will climb the virtual soapbox, delivering a splendid soliloquy every now and then. Often these are met with awkward silences (oh yes! Awkward silences in WhatsApp groups are very much possible), causing said intellectual to get into a loop where it seems as if they are having a debate with themselves. Or there might be a word-off between those known to be adversaries during their student years, with each taking extreme positions and refusing to yield. Any attempt to defuse the situation might cause heads to be bitten off. There is also the possibility of the group hiving off into other groups of more ‘like minded’ members. I speak here chiefly of groups of graduate school alumni. There are school groups as well. But as I have steadfastly refused to join them, I’m unable to comment. Rumour has it that the levels of stupidity one encounters here are unprecedented.

Genus Corporatum: As mentioned, there are two families under this genus. The group of current employment, where you might be in a group of your team or your department. The overt purpose of these groups is to be connected and keep colleagues informed about goings on in one’s industry. But the real purpose is actually to maintain an ongoing process of high quality performance management by keeping your manager (or any manager really), abreast with how wonderful you are at your job with real time data. There is also the additional advantage of stoking some healthy envy…er…competition among your peers.  

The second type of group are those formed to connect with people who we used to work with. This is a risk laden enterprise. Although you may lay down rules and ask that people not waste your time with unnecessary forwards and political statements, nobody actually gives a fig about rules. You meet once again the person who made the lamest jokes at which nobody laughed and realise that they continue to do so. You re-encounter the school boys who never grew up. You re-acquaint yourself with the fake ones, who rose so high that the ground beneath their feet is not visible to them. And you once again gag at those whose sole purpose in life is self aggrandisement. You relive all the reasons which caused you to exit the organisation and decide to stick with the pleasant memories and quit the group.

There is one more emerging genus. The Genus Apartment Complex. I am a recent entrant to this group and do not have sufficient empirical data to be able to theorise about its psychology.

Disclaimer: This is purely a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person or place or WhatsApp group is coincidental.




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Chronicles of a Sari Wearer : The Colour Purple


In the run up to the International Women’s Day this year, a mail popped into my mailbox. HR was inviting us to celebrate the day by (among other stuff) wearing purple. That made perfect sense. Purple is the official color of International Women’s Day, founded more than a century ago after some 15,000 women marched in New York City to demand better working conditions and voting rights.

I was thrown into a quandary. Running through a mental catalogue of my wardrobe, I realized that I did not have any outfit in that colour. Till…wait! There was that gorgeous silk sari that my sister had gifted me for my birthday a year back. Yes. Problem solved. I would wear a sari to work on the designated day.

Now sari wearing plans are easier made than executed. At least for me. It requires meticulous planning, at least 24 hours in advance. The sari has to be matched with the correct blouse and petticoat. And most importantly, the blouse has to fit.

Fit – a tiny three letter word. But with enormous significance when regarded in terms of the commute to work and back and an eight hour work day. It had to show off one’s silhouette perfectly, while also allowing sufficient space to breathe comfortably. Be snug and loose at the same time. A huge ask for an item of clothing, especially for those of us flirting with the wrong side of the body mass index.   

Ever the optimist, I took said sari out of my cupboard, hunted for and found the ‘matching blouse’. Made of the same fabric, it was of recent antiquity, having been stitched just a year and a half ago. So I was pretty sure it would fit in the way that I want it to. Did I try it out to be sure? No. Did I note that the cut was different? No. Did I remember that, unlike my other blouses, it did not have buttons down the front, but a zipper down the side, under my left arm? Of course not.

Imagine my horror then, when, come D-Day, I stepped out of the shower and realized that the blouse could not be worn without assistance. So I hollered for the husband, who, prince among men that he is, stepped up readily to the task. And gave up thirty seconds later.

“The fabric will tear if I pull”

“Hold the ends together and then pull. It won’t tear”

“Turn this side. I need more light. Wait, let me put on my glasses”

Some progress. But there was quite a way to go.

“How long has it been since you stitched this blouse?”

“About a year and a half. Why?”

“You’ve put on weight”

“Do you do this on purpose?! Get some perverse pleasure in pissing me off?”

After much tugging and pulling, the zipper finally slid into place. And left me feeling like a swaddled baby. Barely able to breathe.

Further conversation ensues with the husband.

“I can barely breathe”

“Yeah. Risky”

“What?”

“Better carry a spare blouse with you”

“And how do you suppose I’m going to take it off without assistance?”

“So what do we do now?”

“Help me get it off!”

More tugging and pulling ensues, till I’m finally free of the torturous blouse. Oxygen floods my lungs. I start breathing again.

“What will you do now? You’re supposed to wear purple”

“Well I like breathing and staying alive”

I finally settle on a blue top and beige trousers and take myself off to work.

When a colleague points out that my outfit isn’t exactly purple, I snap “Well, its purple adjacent!”

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It’s Not About The Movie, Silly

This one is for the ladies. How many times have you been stuck, not doing anything, simply because you had nobody to do it with? Now now! Don't get funny ideas. I'm talking about all those times, when you wanted to travel to some far off place for a vacation, eat at the new restaurant serving Moroccan food, or simply go for a movie...but couldn't because your friend or significant other couldn't or didnt want to join you. And you simply didn't have the guts or gumption to go it yourself. 'Log kya kahenge' was perhaps uppermost in your mind. 

I faced a similar situation during my days as a single woman in Ahmedabad. I love watching movies. But lack of a friends circle kept me from the movie halls. Till I decided 'what the hell. I'm living alone. What's the big deal about watching a movie alone?' People thought I was weird and crazy. Single woman going alone to watch a movie! But it was a wonderfully liberating experience. To do something one liked to do without being dependent on anyone.  

It looks like I'm not alone anymore. There are more free thinking women like me. I'd like to introduce you to one such. My good friend Ipsita. A superwoman who juggles many roles successfully - professional par excellence, full time mom and of course a shoulder to cry on when the need arises. Among her many talents are those of writing. She has amazing clarity of thought, superb articulation and impressive command over the English language. 

So here's my first guest post by Ipsita. 


It’s not about the movie, silly

To be fair, Deepak, my husband takes me to a movie about ninety percent of the times that I want to. He peacefully works on his blackberry whether it is Kahani or Barfi, occasionally quipping gems like Agent Vinod should have been titled Travel Agent Vinod! I sometimes suspect that he enjoys two interrupted hours with the love of his life, blackberry.

Yet, my decision to go and watch English Vinglish alone elicited strange responses from within me that questioned the basic foundation of marriage and the idea of companionship.

Jaadoo, my seven year old son, had told me in no uncertain terms that movies gave him headaches. Deepak was in some strange part of the world, that I thought only Herge’ would be interested in as a nice setting for a Tintin adventure. I do not have too many friends and my best friend was preoccupied. So, I decided to go for the movie alone. I don’t know if that was the only option or the most obvious one.

I got ready and went to the theatre for the 10 a.m. show, timing it in a way that Jaadoo’s routine was not disturbed. As I drove through Road no 2, Banjara Hills, I caught a glimpse of fellow carwalas- serious, business like, no nonsense. Many appeared to be deeply engaged in serious conversation in their empty cars - bluetooth of course ! Unlike me, they all had a sense, well ok, a look of purpose in their demeanour.  I felt a little, (borrowing from Punjabi) ‘wela’ - one who has nothing to do. Whatever the statistics have to say about unemployment rates in India, not too many people are so jobless as to watch a morning show on a weekday.…but I felt happy and free and I how loved that feeling.

At the theatre, it was a smooth run, first in the short queue, easily available tickets. No surprise there. Lazily picked up a cup of cappuccino.  My fellow movie watchers could be broadly classified into three categories - college types making the most of their new found independence of bunking classes and giving a damn; lovers who sought two hours of privacy and comfort; housewives, kitty party types who kept gushing over Sridevi’s saree  and commenting on her botox.  In this crowd, I was neither here nor there. But it did not matter, really.

This feeling- that ‘it really does not matter’ was so liberating. When I first thought about it, this innocuous idea was met with resistance from strings in my own head that got pulled in various directions. I had grown up ‘knowing’ that eating fuchkas (golgapps, panipuri) and watching movies –cannot be done alone. Given this, does this state of ‘having to watch a movie alone’ have deeper implications?  Does it symbolise an assertion of independence. Or does it mean that I have given up on the idea of finding companionship? Does it mean that I am lonely, forlorn? Something inside me tells me, Easy, Madam,  Easy, remember the ad from the 80s?

Well, the answer is a both Yes and No. Finally and fundamentally, we are all on our own. Depending on others, however close, for happiness is an invitation to disappointment. Making others responsible or rather accountable for our happiness is just not fair. Why weigh them down with our expectations? In this particular case, why hold on to reluctant companionship by dragging a tired and an unwilling family to a theatre.  

Finally, ‘movie alone’ was an experience in guilt-free self-indulging. Not having to think - is the child getting tired? Is the husband getting bored?  And it was quite liberating - glances trying to ascertain if it was a case of ‘boyfriend not turning up’ - notwithstanding.

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Days And Nights Of Nightie

About ten days ago, I had put the following update as my FB status: "I find a most peculiar practice in Chennai - women wearing their nighties all over the place - from strolling around the apartment complex to supermarkets. I understand it maybe on grounds of comfort clothing - but nightie? really?!!"

The numerous comments that followed that update made me realise that not only is this a pan Indian phenomenon, it has crossed Indian borders into Bangladesh and even gone as far as the U.S.of A! Women across Mumbai, Bangalore, Bhopal, Ahmedabad, Lucknow, Kanpur...all seem to favour the nightie as their preferred item of clothing.

Need to pop downstairs quickly to buy veggies from the the bhajiwala? No sweat! Just throw on some lipstick to brighten your face and run down in your nightie. Surprised? Don't be! I'm told that women in Bhopal do it all the time.

In Bangalore? Not sure if you're nightie shows you up in good light? Set your mind at rest. Just grab your bath towel and drape it over your shoulder and you're all set for a visit to the local super market.


Expecting guests for lunch and don't know what to wear? Relax. Throw on your nightie - a casual and welcoming look if any. Draw the line at appearing in front of guests in the clothes you wore last night? There is a remedy. Bathe and exchange that nightie for a fresh one. You would be emulating our sisters in Bangladesh and Kerala.

Want to step out for an evening stroll with your better half? No problem, put on your nightie and set off. If its good enough for the women of Sunnyvale, USA, its good enough for us desis!

So you see, the nightie is really a versatile item of clothing.There is no need to turn up your nose or point the finger of scorn at women who wear this wonderful garment, even in the most unexpected of places. In fact, let us join them and make it a movement. Let us demand that nightie be included as part of the dress code in offices. Team a well washed nightie with hawaii chappals, and watch your confidence soar. I'm sure you can 'climb every mountain and cross every stream' - but be sure to hitch up that nightie to your ankle lest it get wet or trip you up!!

PS: This post is written in jest. No disrespect is meant to those who wear nighties. I believe and advocate that women should wear what they like and feel comfortable in. I'm an inveterate nightie wearer myself - although I have not yet found the courage to wear them in the public domain.




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What's In A Name?

While on the subject of animals, ever paid attention to the sort of names we give our pets? My friend once told me that naming must be done very carefully since the namee takes on the qualities of the name. Of course, she was speaking about humans. But I suppose the logic can apply to pets also. Looking around my immediate circle, I came across some very interesting names. I'll start with my own pet.

We had a dog. Or rather, he had us. Arrived one day as a pup from the litter of the colony mongrel and decided to stay. He was very cute - copper colour with intelligent eyes. We didn't want any 'phoren' name and nixed suggestions of Jimmy and Tommy. After trying on some names for size, like Mr. India, we settled on Sher Khan. But our fellow did not really live up to such a grand name. He was content to forage in the neighbourhood dumpster and ignore strangers when they walked into our home uninvited. In course of time, the name got shortened to Sheru.He was much more a Sheru than a Sher Khan. For eg. a Sher Khan would have simply roared at his owners and made them open the gate. Sheru on the other hand, would dig furiously in the garden, perhaps attempting to tunnel his way under the compound wall to freedom.

My husband is an animal lover and had a dog and a cat. He also had some visiting friends in the form of a garden lizard and a cow.

The dog, Scamp, was a cross between a Labrador and a Daschund (how on earth did tha happen?!) He was named in honour of the Disney character Scamp, the scion of a pedigreed mother and a mongrel father. I have never met Scamp coz he scampered off to the happy hunting grounds before I entered R's life. But seems he was not such a good tempered fellow. Barked a lot and bestowed his good graces only on my father-in-law. Did the name Scamp have anything to do with this?

The cat was named Mahabali. A unique cat name, made even more unique by the fact that Mahabali was a girl. My niece giggles when she hears this name. "how can you call a cat that? Cats are not known for Strength!'. A good point. But perhaps cats have more than physical strength. And don't forget their nine lives. That would make their cumulative strength impressive.

The garden lizard was called 'Sori' (meaning Itch in Tamil) so called on account of its scales. Not very clear to me, but R says when you have some skin problem, you get itchy and the skin flakes off. Sori would come very day to a specific spot on the wall to sun itself. A creature of habit this one.

And of course, Daisy The Cow. A comely bovine that would amble over everyday for a snack. I howled with laughter when I heard the name. Imagine a cow named Daisy in Mylapore, the Brahminical stronghold of Chennai city?!! Rather ironical. In days of yore, people 'lost caste' if they went overseas and had to be purified by drinking (or was it bathing in) 'go moothra' or cow urine. The same purifying cow now bears an English name!! Not to forget that the same Mylapore Brahmins mostly straddle two worlds these days - one leg planted firmly on the hallowed grounds of Mylapore/Mandavali and the other arching over to Silicon Valley. All the 'go moothras' of Chennai cannot purify them now!!

So what's the story behind the name your pet carries?

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Born Again

Being a Hindu, I'm programmed to believe in the concept of rebirth. Apart from that, it gives me solace to think that if things did not work out for me in this life, they will in another. I'm a staunch believer in second chances - even (or is it especially) when they transcend lives.

So if I was to be reborn, what would I want to be born as? Not that these choices are in our hands really. But I like to think about it - especially when I'm dead beat or flying around getting work done and trying to race against time.

If I had a chance at rebirth, I think I'd like to be born as a water buffalo.You think thats funny? The two others that I mentioned it to this last week also thought it was hilarious.

But if you think about it carefully, its really a very good choice for a harried, always-on-my-feet, woman-of-the-21st-century, slave to time like me.

The Bubalus bubalis is a noble creature. In my opinion, it is the epitome of relaxation and thoughtfulness, bordering Nirvana. Just picture it, sitting in muddy water, black hide glistening in the sun, swishing flies with its tail, chewing the cud and contemplating, with half open eyes, the world as it whizzes past. Now contrast this picture with the daily routine of any working woman. Wake up to the sound of an alarm, rush about preparing breakfast, lunch, braving traffic and getting to work on time in a photo finish. Then there is the roller coaster ride of dealing with work issues for at least 8 hours. And if you're a mom, then you can multiply this entire effort by two.

Don't you feel jealous? Wouldn't you want to be this animal? What does the world expect from a buffalo really? Practically nothing. Ok, maybe a couple of litres of rich milk a day. Permit a human to tug at your privates a couple of times a day. Ok, maybe thats a tad undignified. Let the passing bird sit on your broad back and pick worms off your skin. Thats as symbiotic a relationship as any! Oh and ignore the many insults and curses that use you as a reference point - In Hindi: Kala akshar bhains barabar (to indicate ignorance) or bhains ke aagey been bajana (to indicate that you have no appreciation of finer things). In Tamil: 'Yerumamaadu!' - a curse to indicate girth and immovability, usually uttered in jam packed buses and trains.

That apart, there's really nothing to complain about now is there? Its a life of self actualisation.

www.cartoonstock.com
Yes, I'd like to be reborn as a water buffalo. With curly horns - as opposed to the long straight ones. A bit of vanity maybe, but I think the curly ones look cuter!

So tell me, if you had the chance to be reborn, what would you want to be born as? Leave your thoughts in the comment box. And feel free to tag others on this topic if you like. Do let me know if you do, so I could also read it.

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Epilogue: Notes From Agra


After the tour of the Agra Fort, we opted for an early lunch. By 1pm we were done and not sure what to do next. The Taj Mahal was our final destination before we headed back to the railway station to board our return train at 6.30pm. Even if we pored over every nook and cranny at the Taj, we were sure it would not take 5 hours. How to kill time?

Enter Babloo, our taxi driver.

'Would you like to see the Mini Taj?' he asked us.

That piqued our interest. First Baby Taj, now Mini Taj? How many Tajs were there?

'Well actually madam, the real Taj is open only from 6am to 6pm. The Mini Taj can be viewed at anytime. Especially at night, during rainy season etc'. Made sense. Where was this midget doppelganger?

'Over at the Meena Bazar' said Babloo. That sounded very romantic. I immediately had visions of quaint shops and cobbled streets selling lovely trinkets....all the Mughal stereotypes I had seen in Bollywood films rushed into my mind.

'Ok. Lets go'

A while later, Babloo brought the taxi to a halt in a small, dirty quadrangle with dotted with small shops and spare parts of vehicles strewn about.

'What are we doing here?' we asked.

'Madam, this is Meena Bazar. You go there, you can see the Mini Taj. I don't take any commission or anything. If you like anything, you can also buy it.' The sign above the shop over yonder read 'Gangotri: U.P.Handloom'. A gentleman emerged and beckoned us in.

With the dawning realisation that we stood at the precipice of a con job, we moved cautiously towards the shop. There was really very little else we could do. The gentleman beamed at us and ushered us in.

'We came to see the Mini Taj' we said feeling more idiotic by the minute. Nodding, the man proceeded to shut the shop door. He pointed at the glass cupboard that stood behind us. As we turned, he turned off all the lights and then turned on the cupboard lights.

As we stood transfixed, red, blue, green lights started dancing from inside the belly of a four feet high white marble replica of the Taj Mahal.

'People from all over the world come to see the Taj Mahal. This Taj Mahal is made of 10kgs of marble (I don't remember. It could have been more), was made by 20 sculptors (again, I could be wrong), took 7 months to make and costs 6 lakhs. It is made of pure white marble. See the light coming from inside? Fake white marble is opaque. Real white marble is translucent and glows when light from inside. This is the Mini Taj'.

As the shop lights came back on, we picked our jaws off the floor and looked apprehensively at the shop guy. What next?

'Please come over here sister' he said, leading us to the merchandise displayed at the opposite side. 'What would you like to see? Saris? Bedsheets, footwear? We have saris made of jute, banana fibre and crush proof silk'

As if under a spell, we moved towards to the other side where the man proceeded to show us sari after sari despite our entreaties that we were not interested in seeing or buying anything. But he was determined. 'How about seeing some bedsheets then? We have some very good ones. We have a unique product which is made right here in Agra by the inmates of the Agra Jail -the 'Mosquito Repellent Bedsheets'.

Here is where we made a grave error. S, whose home had a mosquito problem, showed a faint interest. Determined salesman that he was, the shop guy latched on to this smidgen of interest. Out came the sheets in bright yellow and red/brown floral patterns. And I don't know how it came about, but S ended up purchasing two bedsheets.

I wandered away from that counter towards the footwear section. Having witnessed the sale of the bedsheets, the salesman here pounced on me hoping to sell me footwear. He showed me some chappals and said that the leather was so good that it repelled insects, bugs and lizards. I suppose he thought that if mosquitoes worked on one sucker, insects and bugs might work on another. But he went too far with the lizards. Even I didn't buy that.

S had buyer's regret written all over her as we stepped out of the shop. 'I don't like these sheets! They're so loud and ugly!'. I simply collapsed in shrieks of laughter. Were there ever two bigger idiots than us this side of the Vindhyas?(considering we lived on one side and were visiting the other, I think we had the subcontinent pretty much covered)

I have since recounted this episode to several people. It gets funnier with each telling. Its been three months since our trip. Time enough to test the world famous, cost effective and eco friendly mosquito repelling sheets. S says that they work. But then she would wouldn't she?!

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Snippets From The Week


The whole country is rejoicing at India's victory in the World Cup semi-final. Why? Coz we beat Pakistan! Emotions really run high when India plays Pakistan. Facebook messages ran amok with jubilation when India won. "Chak de India" and "Yippee!" and "Go Dhoni's Dashers! Go!". It seemed as if the World Cup had been won already!

Except one message which read "Take that for 26/11 and more". I thought it was in poor taste. People did ask the person not to spread hate. But he/she was unrepentant. Will winning a cricket match assuage the hurt and set right all that has gone wrong between our two nations? I always believed that games and culture can actually build bridges and bring people together. Let a game remain a game and let sportsmanship prevail.

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Some days back, when I went over to my sister's place, my 13 year old niece invited me to stay over for a 'girl's sleepover' since her dad was touring. I said I couldn't since I have a husband at home and needed to get back. She didn't reply but I guess it did not go down well with her.

My sister later reported that my niece had a complaint. She said, "I think Chitti likes R uncle (the husband) more than me. She's not loyal to me anymore!". My poor baby! I went over the same day and ragged her about it. Each has their own place and is irreplaceable!

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On Thursday, we were busy with a team meeting, when 5 men in white khadi shirts and vesti barged into our office. Addressing my boss, the oldest of the lot said: "Saar...Ai yam the Congress blah blah committee chairman. Ai yam ye vury honourable man"....

The fellows had come asking for money and assured us that they would 'stand by us'. My boss sat them down, had a nice chat about sundry things and refused the money. Smilingly he said what was in effect 'Do your worst. I'm not giving one naya paisa'. The fellows had to go on their way.

When I narrated the incident at home, my concerned husband retorted:"Better be careful. What if they throw acid at you?!"

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We hang our washed clothes to dry on the open terrace of our apartment block. Everybody does. Each flat has been assigned two lines where they can hang their clothes. The down side is that clothes get stolen on a regular basis. I have so far lost one rajai (which I had hung out to air) and two lovely handloom dupattas. Today I discovered that two more items are missing. A T-shirt and capris which are well washed and soft and which I love wearing at home.

If there is something that I detest, it is a thief. Only the lowest scumbag would take something for which they have not worked and which is not theirs. Really!

P.S.: Did I go overboard with the pictures folks?

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Ghosts of Valentines Past



With Valentine's Day just around the corner, I've been reminiscing about love and relationships. Not to say that I've had much of a chequered past. I was your basic wall flower with friends who were streets ahead of me in the 'attracting-the-opposite-sex' department. I did give away my heart on a modest scale though.


The very first time it happened,I must have been around 10 years old, when I first set eyes on Rahul Gandhi. It was at Indira Gandhi's funeral - no I wasn't present in person, I saw it on TV and promptly lost my heart! He was C-U-T-E! And having grown to manhood now, he has totally fulfilled the promise of beauty seen in childhood. I was pretty sure I would grow up and marry him one day. Fate would surely find a way to throw us in each other's paths. But then I got busy with school, studies, friends and extra curricular activities and poor Rahul was put on the back burner.

Years later, I was all ready to fall in love again. Considering Fate had taken Rahul Gandhi far out of my reach by then, I had no choice but to look closer to home. So I handed over my eager heart to the next handsome face. And what a handsome face it was! Only problem was the handsome face didn't really notice me. So I proceeded to do some really idiotic stuff - like writing a love letter - which I regretted writing immediately after I posted it (or did I send it by courier? I forget). I was relieved when there was total silence at the receiving end. But my friends would have none of this 'Silence' nonsense.

'You've got to ask him what his answer is!' Err....wasn't the silence speaking loud enough?

'No. No. Maybe he's feeling shy. Or waiting for you to make the move' I did make a move. I wrote a letter didn't I?!!

Dragging me kicking to the phone booth (those days mobiles were not so common) they forced me to make that call. And naturally, I got the expected answer - Sorry!

'Thank God!' I said to myself, but made a big production out of having having my heart broken.

'I shall never love again'!! Even my friends did not believe that one.

I never had the courage to speak of these things earlier. I guess it made me feel vulnerable. But I can do so now, and smile about it and share it with the world at large. And, as I have been assured by my well meaning friends, my tentative forays into the world of love, were tepid at best. Considering the heartbreak I have seen my friends go through, I must thank God for unanswered prayers. Because that has guided me to my true north!

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Spouse Grouse

Travel sure takes the mickey out of me these days. Over the past ten days, the spouse and I have been traveling on work all over southern India. It has been exhausting to say the least! After a tiring day at Vijayawada, we were set to leave for Vishakapatnam.

Vijaywada has one of the busiest railway stations in India. Thousands of people milling around, trains arriving, trains departing, vendors yelling and us trying to find out which platform our train was arriving on. The porters told us that Falaknuma Express usually comes on platform 6. The train, scheduled to arrive at 21.40 and depart at 21.50 was nowhere in sight. Soon it was 22.00. The train had still not arrived and I was tired, sleepy and irritable.

The spouse however, evinced no such symptoms. In fact, he seemed to delight in the delay and was full of beans, chatting up other passengers waiting for the same train. In between, he even winked saucily at me and made comical faces. Being the congenital wet blanket that I am, I was not amused and glowered back at him. Sauntering to my side he asked: ' Kya hua?' My grunt...er...reply was interrupted by his phone. I hadn't even heard it ring.

"Yes? Speaking. Yes sir. Please tell me." He glanced over at me before speaking once again.

"What? No. I'm sorry. I'm already married. !!!!

That got my attention in a hurry. "WHAT!" I spluttered.

He was grinning broadly. "Gotcha"!!

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The E - Slap

A friend and I were talking about delivering reprimands and homilies over email. It brought back memories of when I was still working full time. I worked as a senior manager and had a lot of email traffic. There were many demands, disguised as 'requests' that came my way. Mostly from headquarters. Now I was known as a bit of a firebrand at the work place. In fact, one one occassion, a colleague even branded me as 'Ms. Thunderbolt'. Naturally, my email communication matched my image. I developed a writing style that came to be known as the 'E-Slap'. A few examples:

If I wrote 'I'm surprised at...' it meant 'I'm pissed off!'. If I wrote ' I'm distressed...' it meant 'I'm enraged!'. If I wrote 'You will agree that...' it meant 'I don't want any arguments'. 'Thanks in advance for doing this' usually meant 'saying no is not acceptable'. And if I was REALLY displeased, then instructions over email would end with '...this is non negotiable'!

I thought I was camouflaging my feelings pretty well behind all those professional sounding words. Little did I realise how transparent I was. At a national level meeting, amidst discussions on e-governance and other 'E' stuff, matters took a humourous turn. A colleauge took my name tag - you know, the clip-on variety. It was cicular in shape. He flipped it over to the blank side and went to work with his pen. A while later, he handed it back to me with a huge smile. It carried the sketch of a hand with 'E-Slap' written across it. When I looked confused, the group broke out laughing. 'Its what you do when you said stinker emails.' they said.

E-Slap?! I didn't take offence. Was rather amused actually. It was an apt description of the way I expressed displeasure through email. Rarely had an appraisal gone by without reference to 'my tone' or 'communication style'.

Its not that I meant to be rude. It was a combination of factors. First, I did not suffer fools gladly. Second, the email represented me. I had to ensure that the words expressed what I FELT. And last - I (unfortunately) had an excellant command over the English language (please excuse my immodesty). All of which converged in a resounding 'E-Slap'!

There was a lighter side to this infamy. People in HQ thought twice before messing with me. Peers, on occassion, appreciated the 'E-Slaps' (naturally not the ones directed at them!). 'You said what we wanted to'. And come to think of it, if they could tease me about it, then they must have realised that my bark was worse than my bite!

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Functions, Tambrahm Ishtyle


The social life of Tambrahms is full of 'functions'. This is the collective noun for an assortment of socio-religious occasions, when one dons expensive saris, jewellery, rubs shoulders with numerous relatives and, most importantly, FEASTS! Life in Chennai over the past fifteen months has been filled with Kalyanams, Shashtiyaptapoortis, Sadabhishekams, Poonals and Punyajanams.

The first thing about Tambrahm events is that they begin early. Very early. It is not unusual for 'muhoortams' to be scheduled as early as 4 AM. When I was getting married, my father made noises about a 6 AM 'muhoortam'. I put my foot down and said nothing earlier than 10 AM would suit me unless he wanted me to fall asleep at my own wedding. Thankfully, I got my way. I suppose he had visions of me pitching forward into the sacred fire!

Back to the 'functions' I mentioned earlier. I am a vetran of at least a dozen. Now I'm not complaining. Attendance at these events means my husband and I don't have to do housework for that day. Besides, I'm a foodie. And the fancy food served at these occassions are a great attraction.

When one arrives, usually around 7 or 8 AM, a steaming hot cup of filter coffee is immediately pressed into your hands. With that, you sink onto the nearest plastic moulded chair and take reconnaissance of the area - or at least whatever you can manage in that sleep deprived state. The filter coffee helps. You're then better placed to critically review the array of pattu saris and gold jewellery worn by 'Maamis' of various age groups. You then catalog them as 'Wow!' , 'Hmmm. But not for her age', or 'how kaatan'(a term best known to alumni of my alma mater. Also known as Ghaati). This pleasant reverie is broken with summons for breakfast. Or as we call it here in Chennai 'Tiffin'.

Tiffin consists of idlli, vadai, pongal, accompanied with coconut chutney and sambar. Sweets are also served. Usually a halwa or kesari. You gobble it up and wash it down with another (disposable) cup of heavenly filter coffee. After this brief repast, you return to the main 'function' venue and commandeer the nearest plastic moulded chair to resume the aforementioned review of kanjeevarams. Occassionally, a known face walks by. You greet them and then reproach them for not having visited your home. They smile and nod and inform you that so-and-so's son has flown down from the U.S. for the occassion. If you know of any 'nalla ponnu' (good girl), do pass on the information. He lives in New Jersey and is in software. Naturally, you think. Thats the template.

The function has progressed. It is nearing 10 AM. You poke the spouse in the ribs and ask 'How much longer?'. For 'lunch' that is. Yes. Tambrahm functions serve lunch that early. 'Let us try to get the first 'pandi'" The very first guests to be served. If you're alert, you maybe be successful. Else, you'll just have to wait in line, hanging over the shoulder of some poor guest, who made it to the first 'pandi', willing him/her to finish their meal at top speed.

As you take your seat for lunch (barely two hours after breakfast), a fresh green banana leaf is laid out in front of you. A tumbler of water is set down beside it. Deeper pockets would serve bottled water. A 500 ml bottle for each guest. You sprinkle water on your leaf, cleaning it in readiness for the food to be served.

The first thing to be served is 'payasam'. Not much. Just a drop to begin the meal on a sweet note. This is followed by a spoonful of 'thayir pachidi' or a salad of sorts mixed in curd. Next comes some sort of fruit salad - banana, grapes, dates in honey. Coming up close behind this are the dry sweet, vadai and aplam (pappad). Next the vegetables are served. Usually an 'usali', aviyal and potato fry. You are now ready for the rice. Steaming hot mounds of it are heaped on your leaf and its is usually good practice to be alert to the quantities. The ghee is spooned over the rice. You mix it with the rice and create a small crater in the mound for the sambar. The sambar flowing down the sides of this makeshift volcano is reminscent of Mount Vesuvius. The 'sambar rice' is followed up with 'More kozhambu' (the Tamil version of Kadi), 'rasam sadam' and 'thayir sadam'. The meal ends with a delectable cup of payasam.

Feeling like a beached whale, you rise slowly from your seat and make for the hand wash. Your hosts stand by and chide you for eating too little. You field the remarks expertly and head for the star of the show - the person/s for whom the celebration has been organised. You meet them, smile, make small talk, mark your attendance and are ready to leave.

On the way out, you pick up the 'vettalai paaku/thamboolam' (beetal leaves and coconut) and the 'bakshanam' (goodies to munch on later) and head for your car. All the while remarking "good food. But its the same fare everywhere no?"

I tell you, there is no pleasing some people!!!

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Diwali Shopping With The Seniors

My parents have come to spend Diwali with us this year. My mother, in her usual over the top style, wanted to buy clothes for all of us. This was immediately followed by an almighty row, instigated by yours truly, on this 'conspicuous consumption' and ostentatious expenditure. All for nothing. My mother dug in her heels and refused to budge. So we left at 2pm for T.Nagar, the epicenter of Chennai's frenzied Diwali shopping.

T.Nagar is a bustling market area in Chennai city - and I use the term 'bustling' conservatively. The area has major sari showrooms, gold shops, home accessories, kitchen wares, vegetable vendors apart from permanent traffic snarls and a sea of humanity weaving through the traffic. I usually get serious panic attacks when I am in the vicinity. Today being Vijaydashmi - one of the most auspicious days of the Hindu calendar, the crowd had increased tenfold.

Enter me, my sister, and my parents, heading for the RmKV showroom, one of the famous sari retailers in the city. Pan to my father, looking astonished at the swelling crowd. 'Are they giving away silk saris free?' he wanted to know, unable to believe the magnitude of the crowd. My mother looked apprehensive since she is not too steady on her feet due to her brittle bones. A crowd is not a good place for her to be in.

So we abandoned RmKV and headed for Sundari Silks, another showroom located a short distance from RmKV. Mercifully it was less crowded. But not so less that we could get attract the attention of a salesman. It was like playing hide and seek. "Excuse me...! Can you please show us saris....excuse me!". When one guy appeared to look interested, we told him our budget. " You have to go over there." He pointed to the other side of the room. My sister snapped " We went there. There is no place to sit. You bring the saris here". And my dad " see...nobody is attending to us here! We should have gone to Rasi or Rangachary's" And me " Appa! Give it a rest no. We have come here, let us see what is there. Stop grumbling." And his usual refrain " I am worried about your mother..." And my mother "Konjam summa irukela!" (will you calm down please)

At last a salesman gave us his full attention. I suppose he got fed up with our squabbling. My sister and I made our choice. And just to confound our mother, we bought her a kajeevaram sari that cost a bomb. "But I don't want such an expensive sari" " We want you to have it. It is our sentiment" Ooooh! It gave me such pleasure to give her dialogue back to her! Since she liked the sari, she gave up protesting after a while.

We crossed the road and went to Murugan Idlli Shop for a snack. Managed to get a table for five persons. And waited interminably for our order of dosas to arrive. My dad, impatient at all times, ate up his chutney while waiting for the dosas to arrive. Then when it became intolerable, he got up and gave an earful to a nearby waiter. "We have been waiting for half and hour. Two people have come and gone at the nearby table. And I have eaten all my chutney!" (the last said in an aggrieved tone).

When the order arrived at last, my dad, wanting to avoid another delay said " Ok. Now get us some bondas" "No bondas on the menu saaar!!" "What?! You told me there were bondas. And now you say there aren't any bondas! What sort of establishment do you run?!" "Aiyyo thatha! He said pongal. Not bonda!" "Did he now? Well I dont want any pongal" said my dad, put out at the loss of bondas.

And then we took an auto home. Surprisingly without a squabble with the auto guy about the fare.

Is mein fight hai, romance hai (saris are romantic), emotion hai...standard outing for the Familie Sundara Rajan.

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Jai Bajrangbali!

This story is actually my sister's. Several years have passed since it took place and there maybe factual inconsistencies.

When my father was still in service, we lived in the railway colony at Lancer Barracks, Secunderabad. A really nice colony. Lots of open spaces, trees, birds and...monkeys. With their habitat being fast destroyed, the poor creatures had no choice but to head for the trees in our colony.

There is one more animal in this story - our dog Sheru. A mongrel who wandered into our home as a pup and adopted us. Sheru was a free spirit. Not for him the slavish devotion to humans seen in other dogs. He came and went as he pleased. Hung around the house in unexpected nooks and crannies and was only mildly apologetic if you went flying across the room because you had tripped over him in some dark corner.

Due to the constant threat of monkey invasion, we had some ground rules in our home. The balcony doors were to be kept shut, if the adjoining room was empty or if its occupant was not armed with a stick. A rule we all adhered to for the most part. The few times that we did not led to some "incidents".

My sister was student extraordinaire. She was the teacher's delight - perfect combination of brains and hard work. Watching her go at her books was like watching someone do an aerobic workout! She usually favoured the dining room for studying - the table itself forming the sun around which she orbited.

And so it happened, that one day, she was alone at home and busily flexing her brain muscles. During the course of her circumambulation around the table, she noticed a shadow. Thinking it to be Sheru on one of his home visits, she did not pay much attention to it. The balcony door was, however, open and alas, my sister did not connect the shadow with that fact. It wasn't long before my sister came face to face with our simian visitor.

All hell broke loose. My sister flung down her textbook and sprinted for the front door. Crashing out of the door, she slammed it shut behind her and bolted it, lest the monkey followed her. So now she was safe - outside our house with the monkey locked inside!

My memory fades at this point. I'm not able to remember what followed after that. I think my sister called upon our neighbours for help. As they also had monkey-phobia, I am not sure if the help was forthcoming. It is likely that the monkey lost interest and left the premises - after kicking over a few items of furniture or rummaging in the kitchen. I'm sure my sister can fill us in.

Why did I write about this you ask? Two reasons - we have monkey neighbours at our current residence also and I was reminded about the monkeys of yesteryear through a link in Facebook. Check it out at the community titled 'Marredpally Days' and see the thread on 'Marredpally Monkeys'

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All That Glitter - And It's Not Even Gold!

Last week we were invited for dinner to a distant relative's home. So, armed with a bouquet for the lady of the house, the four of us arrived at the posh M.R.C.Nagar residence of said distant relative. Since I cannot keep saying 'distant relative' all the time, let us name the poor man. Let us call him....Raja.

Raja stood at the gate to welcome us. We exchanged greetings and warm smiles before proceeding inside the house. Being a shy and retiring sort (you're laughing?), I hung back and entered the house last. Only to have my senses (mostly that of sight) assaulted by blinding light. Once my eyes had adjusted to the light, I realised that it was not any supernatural phenomenon. It was the living room. It looked like something out of a crazy Arabian Nights movie.Let me explain.

The largish boudoir...er, living room, had two double sofas and a small divan type with two single seats. All these items of furniture were made of black leather. Sexy you say? There's more! Upon them were thrown, rugs in black and gold. The double sofas had shell shaped cushions, again in-you guessed it-golden colour. Strangely, the cushions did not nestle in the corners of the sofas, but sat perched precariously on the sofa backs, threatening to topple over, but defying gravity by some miracle. The divan, on the other hand, was adorned with heart shaped cushions which were embroidered with red sequins. To achieve a 'cute' effect I suppose. The whole seating arrangement was pulled together by a massive glass center table set over a tiger skin carpet. I have no idea if it was real.

One corner of the room was done up in a jungle theme. It had this large tree trunk with 3 branches. Upon the branches sat a variety of stuffed toys, including a stuffed tiger. Over the "tree" hung a chandelier, only the second in the room. The first and more prominent one hung over the massive glass center table mentioned previously.

Another corner attempted an Oriental theme. There was a huge golden (need you ask!) laughing Buddha. Above it was a marble shelf of sorts, upon which were arranged several more laughing Buddhas in various sizes. All golden of course. Oh! But I stand corrected. There was one which was not golden - not entirely anyway. An Indonesian Buddha made of green glass and wearing golden ornaments. All other spaces which were not covered in gold, leather or sequins had mirrors. You were faced with an image of your bedazzled self every which way you turned.

Polite conversation, in this setting, was a challenge. The room and its adornments were really the only options available, in terms of conversation pieces. So sitting under a large fur lined Japanese fan that hung on the wall, we tried our best. "Where did you buy this trinket" and "It must be a full time job to take care of this house" and the most insincere one " How lovely. You have an artists eye"

My sister-in-law and I were eventually overpowered into silence by this vista. My husband was bewildered by it and kept looking around in slack-jawed wonder. Only my brother-in-law seemed in control - but then he had Dutch courage to fortify him. We also forgot the real reason why we had come. To get fodder for the family gossip mill-on forbidden tales of love, money and live-in relationships.

Disclaimer: All persons, places and shiny objects in this narrative are fictitious. Resemblance to any living person, place or shiny object is for me to know and you to guess!!

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Hit-and-Run Down Memory Lane

It happened on the 7th of May 1998. Two days before my convocation ceremony. I was going to take the afternoon train to Mumbai to attend it. It being a defining moment in my so far uneventful life, I wanted to look spiffy. An ambition seriously impeded by the absence of some crucial toiletry items. So I set off immediately to rectify the error. Er...I went shopping that is.

Shopping required that I cross two main roads - Sarojini Devi and Sardar Patel. Both arterial roads in Hyderabad (my home town)and by definition very busy and chaotic. Add to it the quaint Hyderabadi penchant of never obeying traffic rules...and you have, to be cliched - a recipe for disaster.

The lady was obliging and I negotiated Sarojini Devi Road successfully. Emboldened by my success, I ambled along, under the cool shade of my flower-patterned umbrella, day dreaming about the degree that would soon be mine. But, Sardar Patel, Iron Man that he is, proved more difficult to conquer.

I stepped onto the road and like a good pedestrian, looked first right, then left - or was it first left then right? Whatever be the case, I looked to see that all was clear. Then I moved forward in an attempt to cross the road. I say attempt since I did not, in fact, manage to cross the road. This was mainly because I was ambushed by an elephant.

When I recovered my breath, I saw that it was not an elephant, but a scooter. I also noted that I lay sprawled on the road in an undignified manner and my flower patterned umbrella was blowing down the road. The terrified face of a young man loomed above me. I realised that I had been knocked down by a speed demon, driving on the wrong side of the road in order to get into a bye-lane.

Enraged,I yelled : "Are you crazy?! Cant you see where you are going?" With hindsight I realise, that these were rhetorical questions. It was plain that the answer to the first was yes, and the second was no. I scrambled onto my feet, wincing as a burning pain registered on my right knee. It was bleeding. I saw red (pardon the pun).

Confronting the trembling young man, I resumed my tirade: "What's wrong with you? Which idiot gave you a driving license? Look what you've done! Where is my umbrella!" I spotted it flying past and commanded the boy to fetch it for me. He did so without demur. "What is your name? And don't try to lie to me!" And so it went on.

Finally, when I ran out of steam, the young man stuttered his apologies. I was not in a mood to accept them, beleaguered as I was, by visions of myself hopping across the college lawns, to collect my degree certificate from the chief guest. Naturally, one cannot hope to look spiffy on one foot. Coming out of my tortured visions, I noted that the young man was still carrying on with his apologies. "....anything you say. Anything at all. I'm really sorry".

I did think of asking him to drive me to the shops and back. Perhaps it would not be quite the thing to be chauffeured by the person who brought you close to death's door. "Well, then you better drop me home".

What happened at the convocation you ask? I managed pretty well I must say. A combination of painkillers and sympathy from friends and family. I gave 'swan like glide' a whole new meaning!!

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Three Cheers for Indlish!


Part of my job requires that I review and edit reports. A task which, over the past few years, has become a source of mirth and entertainment. Just like teachers relish howlers their students give them in exams. I delight in the faux pas that I have come across during my 11 year professional life. If you view them from a creative and humourous point of view, they have certainly made the tedious task of reviewing reports bearable.

Indian languages are phonetic in nature. What you hear is what you write. Enunciation has unique regional flavours, marked by mother tongue. So the East Indian would have trouble saying 'vacation' simply because the syllable 'va' is absent in their lexicon. The best you would get (with due apologies) is a 'Bhay-kay-shun'.

So here is a tongue-in-cheek collection of words, terms, concepts recounted with the deepest affection, for those that have written (created?) them, for the purpose of your enjoyment.

Here's something from the report of a drought project. Ever heard of 'vermin compost'? Normally known as 'vermi-compost' and refering to the conversion of organic waste into fertile soil by the noble gesture of earthworms. Perhaps here it has a more sinister meaning - perhaps destructive, annoying rats and cockroaches. Or maybe the product of a mind that moves faster than the hand over the keyboard.

There is a clarion call for Bread Improvement I understand. The stuff they sell in supermarkets these days is atrocious. Daylight robbery! Before you get on the soapbox, the nearest Gujarati will hasten to clarify that this could perhaps be a reference to the need for Breed Improvement - you know of livestock?

Then of course, there are the assorted tap recorders, leddies, and redeemed spellings ( I will not even attempt to explain this one).

But the crowning glory is rather adult in nature. I've heard of Acid rain, Purple Rain but Erotic Rain? For the ignorant, it refers to pattern of rainfall in semi arid areas. Leave your guess in a comment box.

With love to those that propogate Indlish!

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MAY DAY!

My trips to Delhi really provide so much material for my blogs! Here's a new one. I was flying back to Chennai on JetLite last night. And of course, whenever I fly, the powers that be decide to have some fun at my expense. So we were experiencing bad weather and turbulence and the captain had to order everybody, including the crew to return to their seats and belt up. Being a nervous flyer at the best of times, I was not happy. As I sat, gripping the arm rests and praying hard, a new thought struck me - why was it so noisy? Air plane rides are never silent, tranquil experiences I admit. But the sound levels were unnaturally high. My anxiety levels soared.

When the turbulence subsided (momentarily I must add), I asked a passing flight attendant: 'Why is there so much noise?'. He looked surprised. 'What noise?' 'That! Cant you hear it?' I said on a hysterical note. ' Its the sound of the engines ma'am. Dont worry'. I gulped. ' Hope everything is ok?' 'Yes ma'am. Everything is fine'.

A while later, the captain addressed the passengers:'Good evening ladies and gentlemen......this aircraft weighs 79 tonnes and is of the top grade in its line....I believe some guests have expressed concern over the noise levels.....this engine is more powerful than others and that is why it may seem a little noisier....blah blah'....

'Some guests'? That was clearly me! And what did he mean 'more powerful' - didn't they fit engines as per the need of the aircraft? You didn't put round pegs in square holes did you? More powerful my eye! I bet they were trying to hide the fact that they were fighting to prevent the aircraft from plummeting to earth. I was going to die for sure. I started praying again - this time a bit louder - so God could hear me over the roar of the engine.

A short while later, the aircraft made a smooth landing at Chennai airport. As I de-planed, the flight attendant grinned wickedly at me. 'All ok?' he asked. I smiled back sheepishly.

What can I say? If God had meant for humans to fly, He would have given us wings!

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Storming the last male bastion

It is only befitting that I should enter this blog post today, the 8th of March. Sisters, I have stormed the last male bastion! Indeed, I have crossed the threshold of the gents toilet. It happened entirely by accident. Like Newton sitting under the apple tree, like whats-his-name putting the whatchamacallit in a dish and forgetting all about it and ending up discovering penicillin. Nothing premeditated about it. Just destiny - pure, wonderful and path breaking.

I was at Delhi airport, awaiting departure call. A colleague was on the phone and I was engrossed in a serious discussion. Soon my flight was announced. Hurriedly, I rang off and made towards the toilet as was my usual practice before boarding a flight. Absently, I noted the sign saying 'Toilets -->' There were two doors with indications above them. The door on the right noted ' Gents'. So I turned towards the door on the left and walked briskly in.

There were three people inside. A sardar leaning over the wash basin, a long haired man combing his hair out and another who by this time had blurred in my vision. Registering this sight, I uttered a horrified gasp - matched only by three similar gasps from the three male occupants of the lavatory. Without further ado, I turned on my heel and marched out, taking time to see that the sign above the door on the left also said 'Gents toilet'.

I finally located what I was looking for after carefully double checking that it was indeed the ladies toilet. A few minutes later, as I was heading back towards the gate, I pondered over the incident. I wondered if there was a diaspora of women who have the unique distinction of having seen the interior of a gents toilet? How could I reach out to them?

That brings me back full circle - a blog post on Women's Day, celebrating the storming of this last male bastion!

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Mutual dislike & farewells

Ever notice how people always say such nice things at farewell parties? Even if its for a person who's guts you hate, - you try to say something nice. Perhaps all ill feeling melts away at the sight of the flowers, chocolates and other snacks?


I attended a farewell party today for a person who was leaving us. Suffice to say that our dislike of each other is entirely mutual.

So there I was, faced with some nice grub - sweets, masala vada, cauliflower bajji, onion pakoda - and there he was, my latest bête noire...it was like the Tom & Jerry show - an angel, halo and all on one shoulder and the devil, tail and pitchfork on the other.

" Thank you for your dedicated services to our organisation. It was a pleasure knowing and working with you" - Are you kidding me?! More like:" Thanks for leaving! Dont know how an imbecile like you made it through the portals of our agency"

" We have all learned so much from you" Yeah! Like not responding to emails and saying I never received it. Some problem with the network perhaps!

" You have set standards for excellance that we can only aspire to" - Stop! I'm already shaking with uncontrollable laughter.

In the end, I didnt say anything. Stuffed my face with the delicious snacks and nodded along as others said all the nice things. After all, what goes around, comes around....I want people to say nice things at MY farewell party!




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