Salt, Lemon, and Lime Time!!!

I love a good earworm. Don’t you? Thought I’d bring them here instead of just on FB because until they’re out of my head, Delhi, be warned: You. Will. Be. Afflicted.

Don’t Cough Out Loud

Or Mr. T’s gonna give you “Ramdev Tea.” The horrific image that evokes should scare away any of your bugs, so I guess it does work…. in a sort of stick-your-head-in-the-sand kind of way.

Mr. T and his wife have taken me in as one of their own. That means my illnesses are their responsibility. It also means that when one is ill, one does everything possible to cover it up. Severely blocked nose? No, it’s just an experiment on the actual utility of the letter M. Itchy throat all night? Smother it with all those pillows you bought (that “some people” said you wouldn’t need. Ha!) or just hope that the end comes softly and swiftly.

When I was in Bangalore a couple of weeks ago, they called everyday: “Your family misses you, but there’s an uncle and aunty here who miss you too.” *melt* #faith in humanity restored

 

No, No… It Wasn’t Like That

It seems like the only way I add new posts is by addendums, retractions, and now a corrigendum.

[I was informed of a few concerned phone calls. Chill maadi.]

No, that was not a good few days. However, believe me when I say there was no actual villain in that story save for the disappointment that comes with “it might have been.” Now I will show you how good I am at celebrity PR.

*ahem*

The story was brought to an end by a mutual decision made to benefit all the parties involved. While the parties are deeply saddened by the doodoo they got themselves into, the parting has been nonacrimonious and respectful. While both parties would have appreciated privacy at this difficult time, one party (namely, self) felt the need to announce it due to above-mentioned disappointment that was eating them up. This does not mean that said party was not party to the parting of both parties.

Party.

The word makes no sense to me anymore.

Delhi Spank Numero Uno: Woosy [Wussie]

[Edit: I knew that word didn't look right. Dammit!]

As they are wont to do, horrible, gut-wrenching (and I mean hara-kiried piles of tripe and sweetbreads on the pavement) things happen to me.

I received my first true Delhi spank recently. To know what it feels like, here’s an experiment you can try at home.

1. Take your preferred hand and make a fist.

2. Shove it through your belly button.

3. Reach up into your chest cavity.

4. Locate your cardiac muscle/organ.

5. Make sure you have a firm hold on said organ.

6. Now yank it out through your belly button and then watch it slowly beat in your hand.

If it doesn’t hurt, you’re doing it wrong.

As with everyone in history who has had to deal with the spanks of life at one time or another, I went crying to my mommy.

Me: Mommy, I don’t want to try doing this anymore. It’s just so hard to wake up in the morning. The pavements of the two Greater Kailashes are pockmarked with my thoracic and abdominal innards, and now I am hollow. My bones are cold, and I am hollow. Everything around me is a reminder of what I don’t have anymore. I wanna come home and be a nuisance to you once again.

Mommy: Stop being such a woosy [wussie]. Suck it up, and sit your ass there. I don’t have place for woosies [wussies] in this house.

Me: K.

That about summarizes it.

So what would have been one of the closing posts of this blog (because I was all ready to put a one-way ticket to Bangalore in hand) was foiled by an uncomfortable dressing down. Apparently, being one of the family of Speck entails that one not be a woosy [wussie].

In conclusion: I might not be a woosy [wussie]….I think. Maybe I’m not adopted after all.

You Had Me at Hello: Addendum

Ok, I have to. I just have to.

It took quite a lot of plumbing of the depths of my reserves of decorum to not title this post “You Had Me at Hello: Pudendum.” (teehee) As is obvious, that reservoir is quite shallow.

Anyhoo, after my little ode-lee-hi-hoo to Delhi, I find myself typing this post from Bangalore. Not that anyone is likely to see much of me before I hop onto my return flight, but yeah…..

I don’t really have anything to say…was just looking for an excuse to use that title.

K, bye!

 

 

You Had Me at Hello

“Give it three months,” he said, “and you’ll never want to leave.”

My grandfather’s in St. Johns right now, in the CCU. Well, he was in the CCU but had to be moved out for causing a ruckus. Yelling at doctors and student doctors that they are educated people and should know (what?) better apparently does not go down well with them…or the other patients in the department whose blood pressure has to remain stable.

But he was right. Learn this lesson, kids. My grandfather is always right. He told me that I had to give Delhi just three months. I didn’t need three. It had me at hello.

I was back in Bangalore for a few days around Christmas for the most surreal feeling I’d experienced the whole year. It was like I’d never left—like I’d woken up in my bed after a regular day and would begin another regular day—but it didn’t envelope me. I was at a pit stop and my house was now my parent’s house.

Growing up I always told myself that I should end up living in an ancient city. It would have to be Damascus, Istanbul, Athens, Rome, Lisbon, or London. I didn’t look closer to home or further east because, well, I grew up with Occident-centric media and that was my prime reference point. And now look where I’ve landed up.

For everything that’s god-awfully ugly in this city, there is something that makes me well up with its beauty. For all the bleeding me dry financially that living here demands, there are the things like having a ruin or an ancient temple or mosque or palace or fort or serai or house or just air laden thick with history and a past all walking distance from anywhere I might be standing. While I still have so much to see (and marvel at or criticize) of the contemporary city and the ridonkulous consumerism of it (which can just suck you in unless you barricade yourself against it), the real pull I feel towards it does not cost a thing. Ok, that’s not exactly true. It’ll cost the price of the commute, the price of the book or notebook and pen I carry, and maybe a small entry fee. Give me a sun-lit spot in a random ruin and I’ll be set for the afternoon.

Sheep in the Big City

Which reminds me: I have to watch this series again. I love Sheep!

So, yeah, to address the frilly pink elephant in the room, I disappear a lot. Yes?

What may be the reasons for that?

(a)    I forgot my password.

(b)   I got caught up in a Tortoisian whirlwind.

(c)    I was sapped of inclination and time.

(d)   I was in Bangalore for a while.

(e)    I am a flake.

(f)    This blog got even more popular than I thought, and people at the office happened upon it, and I felt violated (though why that should bother me when I put it out for people to read in the first place confuses me too).

(g)    I am a loner who needs to get away from “it all” now and then or I go mad with all the stimuli.

You can choose any one of the above and you would be right.

But the point is, I be back and I be brimming with observation and information.

Happy New Year, everyone!

Seasonal Affective Disorder

…or the one in which we start whining about how we cannot deal with cold and no one around is helping when they say it’s only going to get worse. I’m a delicate tropical flower, you guys!!!

…or the one in which we whine about work.

…or the one in which we confess that a section of Dilli peeps are batshit crazy and scare the aforementioned batshit out of us.

Since it provides a reason for a long leave of absence, let’s start with the second chapter of this three-part miniseries.

Disclaimer: I may be whiny, but I love the weather during the day right now. Later November in Delhi is like early March in Bangalore. My favorite type of weather with torrential downpours coming a close second.

The Universe, it seems, does not want me to have a well-rounded life. All the quirks, irreverencies, and boo-boo making of the management at work used to be adorable and quite ignorable. Well, not anymore! My beach towel of efficiency now lies in a drippy heap around my ankles while my bathing suit of schedules to keep is only half a boob on (I predict that this metaphor is going to go viral…or not). I’m just sick and tired of trying. Not in general, but just here. I’ve got no problems with encountering a whole new set of issues and nincompoops, just not these same ones over and over and over again.

And why is this lament blog worthy? Because I’m losing the will (ok, inclination) to explore, observe, and continue writing this blog because of the energy siphoned out of me at a job I don’t care about anymore.

The only thing that makes me drag myself to work everyday now is the fact that the Tortoise works there too.

Stay tuned for Part Un (I Wish I Had a River) and Part III (The Crazy Batshit Dark Night Rises)

Nightwing

Winter approacheth and there’s a sweet smell in the air. It’s a soft smell that tastes of ice apples. Been asking everyone what it is, and have received variations of the same response, but I like Mr. T’s the best. He calls the tree Nightwing.

Now if you google “Nightwing” you’ll only get references to the DC Comics. As far as I can tell, no plant is so named. There is the Nightshade family, which conjures up a darker beauty, but “Nightwing” I think works well here.

Mr. T took me to see the tree in the garden. This house has no outside lights, so the garden is either lit by the moon at night or is shrouded in pitch black. On that day, the moon was out and the tree’s white flowers were glowing. The phrase “otherworldly beauty” is so apt here, it gives me goosebumps—it makes me feel like I live on the border of Lothlorien. “Only in Lothlorien will you find the Nightwing tree, my child,” I will say, because from now I will be known as Gandalfina. (I suspect that standing under the tree and inhaling too hard can cause psychedelic psyde effects )

I’ve been out and about, as usual, and have generally returned home indolent. There could have been about 10 posts between this and the last, but no. They, sadly, are never to be. I’ll try for a pointed summary here, though.

1. Mehrauli!!! After weeks of squealing at the sight of the bus with the Mehrauli board, the Tortoise took me there and it was beautiful. If you ever loved History, put yo hands up!

2. Mandarin Express @ the PVR Anupam Complex in Saket: Booo! You suck!

3. Golconda Bowl @ Hauz Khas Village: Booo! You suck, too! I suspect that soda bicarb is used to keep the food fresh because I got so bloated. So bloated, in fact, that I was sincerely hoping instead of gas it was an alien baby that would soon burst through my stomach and give me sweet relief.

4. Real Steel; In Time; The Immortals: In order—So so;; Are you kidding me? Every sentence had the words “time,” “hours,” “years.” Every sentence;; Awesome, but not 300 awesome.

5. Mamogoto @ Khan Market: I like you. I like you very much. Let’s make friendships.

6. The Chocolate Room @ the PVR Anupam Complex in Saket: I vote you one of the best places in which to waste time and get fat.

7. Costa and Mocha, Mocha and Costa @ GK II M-Block and GK I M-Block: Second and third homes, depending on how I tipped people the previous day. Mocha’s Apple Pie shake –> drunken stupor. Costa’s carrot cake –> butter high.

8. The kathi roll shop @ the PVR Anupam Complex in Saket: Simple street kathi rolls. Reminds me of Lazeez in B’lore. What else do you need?

9. Bikanervala @ Gurgaon: I like you, too. You gave me a big dosa. The potato wasn’t exactly what it should have been and the neither was the chutney, but that’s not a problem. You are called “Bikanervala”—not Airlines, Sukh Sagar, Shanti Sagar, Adiga’s, Vishranti, Mavalli Tiffin Room, etc.—you ain’t expected to know. You gave me a big dosa, and that’s all I needed. *smooch* The Gur Rasmalai, though… OMFG! More, please. Must. have. more.

10. The kulfi stand outside Moet’s @ Defence Colony Market: I like you slightly more than I do Mamgoto and Bikanervala. Don’t tell them, though. I have more than enough space in my heart for all of you. And at the rate I’m eating, there’ll be plenty of me to go around

11. Sarojini Nagar: I do not like you. Your charms, they do nothing for me. Why does everything you sell have baubles or sequinned rosettes?

12. The Ambience Mall @ Gurgaon: Motherfathering huge! What did we learn at this super-sized ode to capitalism? We learned that the KFC here, like the KFC on 100 Feet Road, Indiranagar, has the potential to make you sick. We learned that we should not just assume that, because a place is super crowded and there’s a buffet, it will be a reasonable one. We learned that the Tortoise is the shopping equivalent of a hostel warden. Never, since the last time my mother shopped for me, have I tried on so many things, liked them, and then put them back on the rack! After four hours of browsing, I ended up with 4 pieces. This is me we’re talking about. 4 pieces–are you kidding me!?! I foresee my mother and this Tortoise thing having many a field day at my expense.

Back soon. Ta!

Li’l Piece of Sh**

How many opportunities does one get to have a fist fight with a storekeeper? Not that many, right? So when you’re allowed to, you take full advantage of it.

With just a Rs. 5 balance, I needed to recharge my phone. That’s how it all started.

I still use my Bangalore number and am on roaming and will continue to be so until the concept of STD calls is abolished. (As always, I’m inconveniencing myself for the good of the nation.) You’d think I’d have the K’taka rates down pat by now. You’d think it, but you would be wrong. So I made a wild guess of Rs. 202 and received Rs. 1.22 as a refill. I then asked the storekeeper, “What happens now?” And he went, “You pay me.”

Me: But I haven’t got what I paid for.

Him: That’s not my problem.

Me: *Eyebrow up* (I know it’s not his problem. Whatever balance he had would have been deducted from him and I had to sort my stupidity out with Customer Care. I had to pay him. I knew that. But the dismissive way he said it was not his problem pissed me off.)

So the game began.

Me: Give me a second. I’ll just sit here and call Customer Care.

Him: NO, MA’AM! YOU PAY ME FIRST!

Me: Eh?

Him: YOU PAY, THEN SIT! *starts rattling off something in Hindi*

Me: *finding the opening to annoy him some more* Can you repeat that? In English.

Him: *face turns red* *leans forward over the counter to eyeball me* PAY NOW!

Me: Why are you yelling? I’m still here, aren’t I? I haven’t run away with your balance.

Him: YOU PAY NOW OR…

Me: Or what?

Him: *runs along the counter to the flip door, bangs it open, and comes and stands in front of me*

Me: Or what? What’s Vodafone’s Customer Care number? The number I’m calling isn’t working.

Him: I DON’T KNOW. IT’S NOT MY PROBLEM. PAY NOW!

Me: Wait a sec.

Him: *comes in closer*

Me: *standing up so that we’re both at eye level and not my eye to his crotch* What–is–the–Vodafone–Customer–Care–number?

Him: *clenching and unclenching his hands, inflating his nostrils, and bulging his eyes out*

Me: *putting my phone and wallet on the chair behind me and standing up straight again to look back at his grotesque face*

Him: *consternation*

Me: I haven’t yet got what I paid for.

And now I’ll never know what he would have done because another customer came in and he reluctantly went back behind the counter, banging the flip door again.

I put the money on the counter and walked away.

I’m still fascinated by what I saw. Did he get annoyed because this “female” came in and like all females she was clueless? And does yelling at customers ever work? When yelling fails, do threats work? Maybe that’s what so many of us get wrong. There should be more yelling and more threat making in the world. That way, I don’t have to wait for him to make the first move next time before I clock him in the temple like I wanted to. Ah, Decorum, you can be such a pain sometimes.

From now on I’m recharging my phone online thanks to him. See? I am generous enough to acknowledge that he forced me to learn something new. Thanks, mate. May you not be so lucky if we ever meet again.