“I have 301 Facebook friends”
“I have had 84 girlfriends…”
“I have had nine and a half relationships…”
Men are full of useless information. They will remember the exact configuration of their first laptop/computer/mobile phone or the exact number of games they won at pool five weeks ago, and the exact sequence of moves that led to it.
Or the exact number of CDs or games they had in their collection until MPs made such discussions obsolete. Or how many Raymond Chandlers they have read and how many Wodehouse novels were set in Blandings and what was Harry Potter’s favourite drink (as if I care).
They will also remember how many people they have beaten up and what was the exact anatomical location of the bruise they had so dextereously planted on the concerned bodies and what time of night it was and how many people were on the street.
Or at what age did they lose their you-know-what and what age did they have their first crush and what age did they buy their Nintendo or smoke their first joint.
Or how many pending friend requests they have on Facebook or how many friends do they actually have on Facebook and how many times have they been poked in the last hour or how many applications have they added.
Or what does an Away jersey mean and exactly what day and hour the next Man U match is on.
Or how many strands of white hair inhabit their beard and what was the age when they found their first strand of white hair.
Or how much beer can they drink in one go or how many times have they duped the cops while under the influence or how many exams they never took, but passed anyway. Or how many times they outwitted their parents, teachers, wardens and pretty much anyone that was the voice of authority when they were growing up.
It’s not that you asked for the aforementioned information, or any pointed question thereof that led to its dispensing. It is not that you are even remotely interested in the subject or have proffered an equivalent bit of information from a remotely connected subject or object on your part. But there, it’s yours to have anyway, take it or leave it.
But ask them what was their first memory of anger or jealousy or feeling lost, and they don’t have a clue. Ask them when was the last time they cleaned their ceiling fan or DVD player and they look at you in perplexity. Ask them if they remember their best friends’s birthday, and they stare at you sheepishly.
Beats me…
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Moolah rues
It never ends. Just when you thought that you had your life sorted—got your wardrobe organized, renewed your gym membership, trained the cook how not to cook, spayed and trained the cats to the extent that cats can be trained, learnt to agree to disagree with the beau, figured out that he is indeed the man for you, got your parents to finally understand what you do for a living, eliminated extraneous people from your life— along comes a bummer.
Yes, who else, but from your HR department. The subject on the mail says ‘Important –Income tax declaration by Jan 15’
The point of submitting the declaration being—how not to allow the company or the government to swallow the money you think you are making—in short, how to have your money and eat it too.
Now I am pretty good with money, (at least I thought so) – I have separate files for car, credit card, X bank, Y bank, Form 16, bonds and investments, insurance policies..phew! I pay my bills on time and I have no debts. But even someone like me has kittens when I get a mail like this.
I spent my entire weekly off-day trying to find an insurance policy and a PPF challan that would get me that grand exemption. After I suitably psyched the mother and the CA, and was going through my carton of files (yes, my paperwork currently resides in a carton) I wondered: How much am I really worth? Try as I might, I didn’t arrive at an answer.
Does any one, any one out there know to the nearest thousand how much money you really have? Please send me an email, and I will worship you for the rest of my life.
Okay, there are some units which your mother bought for you when you were 14. There are some FDs somewhere. There are those frightening infrastructure bonds which you bought because someone said “Buy, buy…and keep…” There is an LIC policy you bought 15 years ago because your uncle’s brother-in-law’s niece was an agent. There are the mutual funds you bought just because it was cool at some point. And last, but not the least—there are your assorted salaries.
My point is, do you really know what it all adds up to? Who is computing all those figures? You stare at your crumbling PPF passbook and wonder if they are really compounding your interest. And if not, how will you know? You try to remember when exactly did you buy that National Saving Certificate and when will that exact moment be when your money will double. What if they forget to tell you that? And when you get a dividend cheque of Rs 1796, why do you jump up with joy as if you’ve won a lottery?
Can you ever tell from your bank statement whether your opening and closing balance are indeed correct? I can’t. Do you know how to decode your salary slip? I don’t even know what my actual salary is, as my salary slip, which comes protected with password etal leaves me befuddled every month by its alarming inconsistency.
Needless to say, I went to bed harried and woke up with a start. I am convinced I need a houseboy/girl who will tell me on a monthly basis just how much money I have, so I can plan my retirement.
But I have a pre-condition: he/she should not ask me for a single piece of paper after they have taken over my portfolio and my carton of files. All I will deign to do is sign. Interested candidates may please send me your resumes.
Yes, who else, but from your HR department. The subject on the mail says ‘Important –Income tax declaration by Jan 15’
The point of submitting the declaration being—how not to allow the company or the government to swallow the money you think you are making—in short, how to have your money and eat it too.
Now I am pretty good with money, (at least I thought so) – I have separate files for car, credit card, X bank, Y bank, Form 16, bonds and investments, insurance policies..phew! I pay my bills on time and I have no debts. But even someone like me has kittens when I get a mail like this.
I spent my entire weekly off-day trying to find an insurance policy and a PPF challan that would get me that grand exemption. After I suitably psyched the mother and the CA, and was going through my carton of files (yes, my paperwork currently resides in a carton) I wondered: How much am I really worth? Try as I might, I didn’t arrive at an answer.
Does any one, any one out there know to the nearest thousand how much money you really have? Please send me an email, and I will worship you for the rest of my life.
Okay, there are some units which your mother bought for you when you were 14. There are some FDs somewhere. There are those frightening infrastructure bonds which you bought because someone said “Buy, buy…and keep…” There is an LIC policy you bought 15 years ago because your uncle’s brother-in-law’s niece was an agent. There are the mutual funds you bought just because it was cool at some point. And last, but not the least—there are your assorted salaries.
My point is, do you really know what it all adds up to? Who is computing all those figures? You stare at your crumbling PPF passbook and wonder if they are really compounding your interest. And if not, how will you know? You try to remember when exactly did you buy that National Saving Certificate and when will that exact moment be when your money will double. What if they forget to tell you that? And when you get a dividend cheque of Rs 1796, why do you jump up with joy as if you’ve won a lottery?
Can you ever tell from your bank statement whether your opening and closing balance are indeed correct? I can’t. Do you know how to decode your salary slip? I don’t even know what my actual salary is, as my salary slip, which comes protected with password etal leaves me befuddled every month by its alarming inconsistency.
Needless to say, I went to bed harried and woke up with a start. I am convinced I need a houseboy/girl who will tell me on a monthly basis just how much money I have, so I can plan my retirement.
But I have a pre-condition: he/she should not ask me for a single piece of paper after they have taken over my portfolio and my carton of files. All I will deign to do is sign. Interested candidates may please send me your resumes.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Gymbaroos
Ever since my homeopath told me I have a D3 situation and my bones need to work out more, else I will have to eat beef soup, I have been fantasizing about a gym. More so since my yoga class is more closed than open—they are closed for all the Jayantis, and Poornimas and Christmas and New Years’. Looks like they have more of a life than I do…
After a long hunt, I finally found a gym that looked and smelt right and was a run away from the house. At first glance, it looked professional (never mind a name like Fizzique) which means people spent more time working out and less socializing. Also, the music was not Himesh Reshammiya and there were no stinky carpets, no treadmill fights and there was plenty of sunshine. And the gym instructors looked like they worked out. This is it, I thought.
Day one and two went pretty okay. On day three I met girl-who-wants-to-know-too-much as I entered. She asked me six questions in 30 seconds. I replied to two. Now, I am terribly preoccupied with how-to-avoid-her and that is causing much stress.
But slowly I realised that a gym is a gym is a gym. And basically, there are different types of people who comprise its ecosystem:
• There are those who look great in their clothes but want to look good naked.
• There are those who don’t look good in their clothes and want to look good in their clothes (naked is a far dream)
• There are those who spend three hours and do not look left or right or make eye contact. Yes, these are the true body-obsessed. And you know what? They don’t even check their biceps every three minutes. Me thinks these are the types who believe in the means and not the end.
• There are those who check their mobile phones every 20 seconds, just to make sure they haven’t got that ‘missed call’ from someone they always obsessed about.
• There are the girl brigades who descend in threes and spend more time in the locker room discussing men problems and how they don’t give a damn and are going to give it all to their abs.
• There is the solitary female who spends more time checking her highlights and whether her bra strap is coordinated with her singlet. And whether her hair has just the right amount of bounce as she burns calories on the cross bar.
• There is the ipod maniac who will be tricked into doing any number of reps or sets, because he is too zoned out and uses the gym as an excuse to download more music.
• There are those who work out with such manic obsession—teeth clenched, face contorted, eyes shut—that you think they will have a seizure any minute
• There are those who inherited some great gym gear and want to show it off
• There are those who come to scope the scene out and find out which cross bars and treadmills have the best scoring potential.
• There are those who do not have a full-length mirror at home and are over-awed
• And then there are those like me who make the most out of having to gym for a therapeutic reason—they use it as a forum to generate material for their column
After a long hunt, I finally found a gym that looked and smelt right and was a run away from the house. At first glance, it looked professional (never mind a name like Fizzique) which means people spent more time working out and less socializing. Also, the music was not Himesh Reshammiya and there were no stinky carpets, no treadmill fights and there was plenty of sunshine. And the gym instructors looked like they worked out. This is it, I thought.
Day one and two went pretty okay. On day three I met girl-who-wants-to-know-too-much as I entered. She asked me six questions in 30 seconds. I replied to two. Now, I am terribly preoccupied with how-to-avoid-her and that is causing much stress.
But slowly I realised that a gym is a gym is a gym. And basically, there are different types of people who comprise its ecosystem:
• There are those who look great in their clothes but want to look good naked.
• There are those who don’t look good in their clothes and want to look good in their clothes (naked is a far dream)
• There are those who spend three hours and do not look left or right or make eye contact. Yes, these are the true body-obsessed. And you know what? They don’t even check their biceps every three minutes. Me thinks these are the types who believe in the means and not the end.
• There are those who check their mobile phones every 20 seconds, just to make sure they haven’t got that ‘missed call’ from someone they always obsessed about.
• There are the girl brigades who descend in threes and spend more time in the locker room discussing men problems and how they don’t give a damn and are going to give it all to their abs.
• There is the solitary female who spends more time checking her highlights and whether her bra strap is coordinated with her singlet. And whether her hair has just the right amount of bounce as she burns calories on the cross bar.
• There is the ipod maniac who will be tricked into doing any number of reps or sets, because he is too zoned out and uses the gym as an excuse to download more music.
• There are those who work out with such manic obsession—teeth clenched, face contorted, eyes shut—that you think they will have a seizure any minute
• There are those who inherited some great gym gear and want to show it off
• There are those who come to scope the scene out and find out which cross bars and treadmills have the best scoring potential.
• There are those who do not have a full-length mirror at home and are over-awed
• And then there are those like me who make the most out of having to gym for a therapeutic reason—they use it as a forum to generate material for their column
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Return to innocence
At the end of a particularly rotten day, nothing helps more than a good cry. It helped that I chose a movie to do it over and my best friend to do it with. So it didn’t matter that we chose single screen over multiplex. It didn’t matter that we had to buy tickets from a sandwichwallah at a 200% premium (they were still cheaper than what I’d pay at a sterile multiplex). It didn’t matter that the décor was kitsch, the elevators missing, and that there were grotesque planetary delights for murals. It didn’t matter that we had to buy Bobby chips and Saiganga water. It didn’t matter that ‘upper stall’ was all we could manage and the alleged 'back row' seats turned out to be the fifth row from the front.
What mattered was that the tears were real, and they came gushing. What mattered was that the crowd was cheering a little boy trying to paint as much as they were the entry of a really famous Khan. What mattered was that the whistles, the claps, the standing ovation, the wet handkerchieves - was all spontaneous. What mattered was that nobody in the theatre was afraid to cry. Yes, the movie was Taare Zameen Par. And I went home happy-sad after a really good cry.
***
This Saturday afternoon, I turned into a consummate voyeur— sipping my Rose, listening to English music on radio (yes it’s back on one station at least) and staring at the thriving ecosystem outside my window. There is Ismail the squirrel, Abdullah the crow, Ganpat the pigeon, Swamy, the parrot. It should be mentioned that the names are collective, ie all squirrels are called Ismail..and so on… There are also various ornithological marvels who I don’t know the names or taxonomies of. And before I get assaulted by communities for hurting their sentiments, let me say that the names were spontaneous and had no hidden agenda.
As I was in my voyeuristic mode, I saw one indeterminate bird, with orange breasts, green plumage and sleek black mouth doing unmentionables to attract the attention of the female of the species. (BNHS, please help..).I suddenly felt a spot of pity—because, despite their drop dead good looks, the male of the species still had to play a hard wooing game. Suddenly I viewed the women birds with new eyes — they seemed to be going for the real stuff — like finding out how resilient is their man, how long can he hold out, how deep is his affection, how superficial are his looks…Go bird, go!
Closer to humanity, I haven’t seen the wooing game in a long time. The two and a half times that I have played cupid were disasters. On the other hand, the men are complaining there are no women and the women complaining there are no men. May be they should all go bird watching. No pun intended.
What mattered was that the tears were real, and they came gushing. What mattered was that the crowd was cheering a little boy trying to paint as much as they were the entry of a really famous Khan. What mattered was that the whistles, the claps, the standing ovation, the wet handkerchieves - was all spontaneous. What mattered was that nobody in the theatre was afraid to cry. Yes, the movie was Taare Zameen Par. And I went home happy-sad after a really good cry.
***
This Saturday afternoon, I turned into a consummate voyeur— sipping my Rose, listening to English music on radio (yes it’s back on one station at least) and staring at the thriving ecosystem outside my window. There is Ismail the squirrel, Abdullah the crow, Ganpat the pigeon, Swamy, the parrot. It should be mentioned that the names are collective, ie all squirrels are called Ismail..and so on… There are also various ornithological marvels who I don’t know the names or taxonomies of. And before I get assaulted by communities for hurting their sentiments, let me say that the names were spontaneous and had no hidden agenda.
As I was in my voyeuristic mode, I saw one indeterminate bird, with orange breasts, green plumage and sleek black mouth doing unmentionables to attract the attention of the female of the species. (BNHS, please help..).I suddenly felt a spot of pity—because, despite their drop dead good looks, the male of the species still had to play a hard wooing game. Suddenly I viewed the women birds with new eyes — they seemed to be going for the real stuff — like finding out how resilient is their man, how long can he hold out, how deep is his affection, how superficial are his looks…Go bird, go!
Closer to humanity, I haven’t seen the wooing game in a long time. The two and a half times that I have played cupid were disasters. On the other hand, the men are complaining there are no women and the women complaining there are no men. May be they should all go bird watching. No pun intended.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
High living, stupid thinking
A few years ago, my poor friend Raju, who makes so claims about turning into a gentleman was denied entry into Rain (of the famous Kareena-Shahid smooch and the Bipasha Basu molestation shoo-sha). I am not even sure if Rain still exists, since I have stopped travelling that far north to socialize. But I still remember that it made Raju feel very despondent and full of disdain for the people who looked him up and down and said, “sorry sir, floaters not allowed.” So off we went to plebian land and bitched about the good life.
My point is, Raju couldn’t hurt a fly, let alone taking on someone at the posh club. What harm could a bald guy who weighs all of 60 kilos, cause in his floaters? I can understand if they were Doc Martens or Caterpillars, as they can pack a mean punch. Unfortunately, Mr. Cerebrally Challenged at the door wasn’t convinced.
Now, I have seen posh men in sharp suits or Versace t-shirts make an utter ass of themselves in high places. I have also seen threesomes emerge out of unisex loos in posh joints. None of these, I am sure, have ever been denied entry, floater or no floater. I believe a tabloid reporter at was denied entry at Bed lounge (yes!)in Bandra because she was in a saree, and then they made a huge song and dance about it…
Closer home, the beau is another person who is always getting into trouble, either for under-dressing (shorts instead of full-lengths ) or overdressing (wearing a hat). He is still working on addressing the Lowest Common Sensibility in dress code, but is taken by surprise every time.
At Poison, which was over flowing with pretty young things one night wearing pretty much nothing, they had an issue with the beau’s shorts which well, just fell short of being trousers. He tried easing them down to prove a point, but it didn’t go well.
At Kuki’s in Delhi (of the Kareena-Saif smooch fame), where, after an hour and a half of serious dancing, the man in charge asked him to take his hat off, as it was ‘against the rules.’ There was some serious word-exchange, but I still didn’t get the logic of it…
At the super-colonial and terribly geriartric Delhi gym, where he is a member by ancestry, his T-shirts and sneakers were frowned upon. So we had to go hunting for a shirt and pull out his patent leather shoes. Why? So we could go to the bar and get wasted, yet look extremely elegant…
Recently we were at All Bheja Fry (sorry, All Stir Fry), grabbing a quick wok before we made our way upstairs to Pollys for a birthday surprise. Now, we were dressed to the nines, so no problem on that front. But as he was sampling the first mouthful, we were summoned by the party brigade, and so, asked for a takeaway. The manager mumbled, “Sorry…it is against our policy… no parcel for buffet. You can take soup…that is a-la-carte…”
Okay, I know we are a third world country and all of us, at any given opportunity would parcel food from buffets for our extended family and friends. What I didn’t know was that restaurant policies were like Indian Penal Code, which by the way, seems very flexible to me, as it is forever changing.
And oh yes, all above places are welcome to ban me, as I have had enough of them anyway. And frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn, as Clark Gable would say.
My point is, Raju couldn’t hurt a fly, let alone taking on someone at the posh club. What harm could a bald guy who weighs all of 60 kilos, cause in his floaters? I can understand if they were Doc Martens or Caterpillars, as they can pack a mean punch. Unfortunately, Mr. Cerebrally Challenged at the door wasn’t convinced.
Now, I have seen posh men in sharp suits or Versace t-shirts make an utter ass of themselves in high places. I have also seen threesomes emerge out of unisex loos in posh joints. None of these, I am sure, have ever been denied entry, floater or no floater. I believe a tabloid reporter at was denied entry at Bed lounge (yes!)in Bandra because she was in a saree, and then they made a huge song and dance about it…
Closer home, the beau is another person who is always getting into trouble, either for under-dressing (shorts instead of full-lengths ) or overdressing (wearing a hat). He is still working on addressing the Lowest Common Sensibility in dress code, but is taken by surprise every time.
At Poison, which was over flowing with pretty young things one night wearing pretty much nothing, they had an issue with the beau’s shorts which well, just fell short of being trousers. He tried easing them down to prove a point, but it didn’t go well.
At Kuki’s in Delhi (of the Kareena-Saif smooch fame), where, after an hour and a half of serious dancing, the man in charge asked him to take his hat off, as it was ‘against the rules.’ There was some serious word-exchange, but I still didn’t get the logic of it…
At the super-colonial and terribly geriartric Delhi gym, where he is a member by ancestry, his T-shirts and sneakers were frowned upon. So we had to go hunting for a shirt and pull out his patent leather shoes. Why? So we could go to the bar and get wasted, yet look extremely elegant…
Recently we were at All Bheja Fry (sorry, All Stir Fry), grabbing a quick wok before we made our way upstairs to Pollys for a birthday surprise. Now, we were dressed to the nines, so no problem on that front. But as he was sampling the first mouthful, we were summoned by the party brigade, and so, asked for a takeaway. The manager mumbled, “Sorry…it is against our policy… no parcel for buffet. You can take soup…that is a-la-carte…”
Okay, I know we are a third world country and all of us, at any given opportunity would parcel food from buffets for our extended family and friends. What I didn’t know was that restaurant policies were like Indian Penal Code, which by the way, seems very flexible to me, as it is forever changing.
And oh yes, all above places are welcome to ban me, as I have had enough of them anyway. And frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn, as Clark Gable would say.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Satellite woes
Husband-to-be stopped mid sentence while he was talking to me. As he was staring open mouthed at the television set, I noticed that his Dish TV had gone on the blink. “Why didn’t they phone me, or just send me an sms?” he whined. “They should give me advance notice before doing something so drastic.” He continued whining for the next half hour about how he has been so prompt about recharging, and how technically, he was all sorted till Jan 14, and how they must have made a mistake…..blah..blah..blah… There was a veil of annoyance, anger, depression and deprivation on his face all at once.
I said, “But all you have to do is text or call them or buy a recharge card or whatever it is you do with these things.”
“You don’t understand. There is a Man U match tonight. What will I do now? They will never reactivate it in less than three days. My weekend is doomed.”
“What is wrong with not watching TV for a few days?”…I blurted..
Stunned silence.
I realised as soon as I said it that it was so not the right thing to say. It’s like someone telling me, “What’s wrong with not eating vegetables for a few days?”
Three days later, he is still whining.
Okay, so I am marrying a TV junkie. He loves his TV so much that he never has the heart to turn it off. He could leave it on even when he went out, as it saves the trouble of turning it off and on every time. If he had his way, he would have a television in every room, including the bathroom, lest he missed something when he went into his reluctant showers.
I remember, one of the first romantic things he ever said to me was… “Hey, you want to pick your favourite program so we can watch it together?”
My choices were Travel and Living and Animal Planet.
He never asked me that question again.
I still have to get back to him on whether I would like a TV in the kitchen, so I could watch TV while I am “stirring something,” or “reaching out for the spice rack” or “cleaning broccoli”.
Ahem. I see domestic tension already.
Which is why a psychologist once said that the television is like the third person in the relationship. But then they say, you never marry someone with the intention of changing them.
***
The father is the master and commander of Tata Sky (and he does go jhinga-la-la over it). However, it irks him that he still hasn’t been able to eliminate the yellow envelope thingee from the top of the screen. It’s like being punished despite doing your homework or wearing your uniform ironed. The mother is of little help in the scheme of things as she has just learnt how to use the mobile phone, and it will be a while before she graduates to interactive TV guides.
As for me, life goes on, channel or no channel. Give me a book, some music or a free wall to do my asanas any day.
I said, “But all you have to do is text or call them or buy a recharge card or whatever it is you do with these things.”
“You don’t understand. There is a Man U match tonight. What will I do now? They will never reactivate it in less than three days. My weekend is doomed.”
“What is wrong with not watching TV for a few days?”…I blurted..
Stunned silence.
I realised as soon as I said it that it was so not the right thing to say. It’s like someone telling me, “What’s wrong with not eating vegetables for a few days?”
Three days later, he is still whining.
Okay, so I am marrying a TV junkie. He loves his TV so much that he never has the heart to turn it off. He could leave it on even when he went out, as it saves the trouble of turning it off and on every time. If he had his way, he would have a television in every room, including the bathroom, lest he missed something when he went into his reluctant showers.
I remember, one of the first romantic things he ever said to me was… “Hey, you want to pick your favourite program so we can watch it together?”
My choices were Travel and Living and Animal Planet.
He never asked me that question again.
I still have to get back to him on whether I would like a TV in the kitchen, so I could watch TV while I am “stirring something,” or “reaching out for the spice rack” or “cleaning broccoli”.
Ahem. I see domestic tension already.
Which is why a psychologist once said that the television is like the third person in the relationship. But then they say, you never marry someone with the intention of changing them.
***
The father is the master and commander of Tata Sky (and he does go jhinga-la-la over it). However, it irks him that he still hasn’t been able to eliminate the yellow envelope thingee from the top of the screen. It’s like being punished despite doing your homework or wearing your uniform ironed. The mother is of little help in the scheme of things as she has just learnt how to use the mobile phone, and it will be a while before she graduates to interactive TV guides.
As for me, life goes on, channel or no channel. Give me a book, some music or a free wall to do my asanas any day.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Oh, for a handyman
Handymen should be handy. That, in my opinion should be their biggest qualification. Whether or not they are good at their job is debatable. I mean how much can go wrong with fixing a nail or mending a fuse?
Sadly, my good karma days seem to be over with Lord Vamne. He is the complete antithesis of the handyman. First of all, he is more elusive than Gautam Singhania, who one can only interview mid-air on a chopper, even though he is partying every night.
Lord Vamne loves the chase. He doesn’t take my calls, but once in a while, he does send an sms in chaste English, which sounds like a mechanized voice mail. You know, the kind that says, “I am sorry, I am unable to take your call, but I will call you back shortly.
Now, I am a guy’s girl. In the sense that I am incredibly good at getting things done, and although I would love to sound like a helpless damsel in distress who says, “Honey, how are we doing to do this? Can you do something? I really need that nail on the wall…?" I have tried that voice and it doesn’t look good on me.
So I do the stuff that I am good at. Track down local contacts. Talk to random people on the road. Suss out the watchman to see how enterprising he can get for a few extra bucks. The weirdest thing is, all roads led to Vamne, as if it were a conspiracy. So instead of ousting him, which was my original plan, I had to be “nice to him” as advised by one and all.
On an auspicious day, after many prayers and breaking coconuts, Lord Vamne finally descended, with his coterie of two assistants. Now, in my book, this is so not cool. The point of being a handyman is “do it yourself”, not strut around, ordering your assistants to do the job. The result? I have two crooked frames, one spice-rack that is reminiscent of the Leaning tower of Pisa, and a gas regulator that has been fiddled with and rejected.
How could this happen to me, the queen of handymen?
Flashback to Mukeshbhai, the local electrician cum plumber cum mason cum packer cum loader cum blackmarketeer at the local single screen theatre. He called me saab, and I got a kick out of that. Then there was Lakkibhai, who was a tad too dandy to be handyman, but all it took was one sniff at the object of repair, and he would say “Ho jayega. Koi vanda nahi…”. Or even Singh chacha who organized everything from cook cum maid to raddiwala to cornershop telephone number to takeway menus to carpenter.
My mother has an electrical shop aptly called Moonlight who does bodyshopping as a side business. Depending on the nature of the assignment—from fixing a lamp to the sink in the bathroom, to the curtain rod, he would send different men, all of whom were called Shabbir. My mother went terribly batty figuring which Shabbir she had spoken to the last time, and it caused much stress.
So I went to a technical institute for boys run by a convent, asking if they had crash courses in “everything that can go wrong with a house and how to fix it”. I wanted to learn how to fix a car, the tap, the fuse and just about anything that needs fixing. The Brother in charge stared at me as if I were a lunatic. I tried explaining to him that “self help was the best help,” etc, hoping to strike a chord in churchspeak, but he was further amused, and laughed me off as a girl who knew too much.
So handymen it will be…
Sadly, my good karma days seem to be over with Lord Vamne. He is the complete antithesis of the handyman. First of all, he is more elusive than Gautam Singhania, who one can only interview mid-air on a chopper, even though he is partying every night.
Lord Vamne loves the chase. He doesn’t take my calls, but once in a while, he does send an sms in chaste English, which sounds like a mechanized voice mail. You know, the kind that says, “I am sorry, I am unable to take your call, but I will call you back shortly.
Now, I am a guy’s girl. In the sense that I am incredibly good at getting things done, and although I would love to sound like a helpless damsel in distress who says, “Honey, how are we doing to do this? Can you do something? I really need that nail on the wall…?" I have tried that voice and it doesn’t look good on me.
So I do the stuff that I am good at. Track down local contacts. Talk to random people on the road. Suss out the watchman to see how enterprising he can get for a few extra bucks. The weirdest thing is, all roads led to Vamne, as if it were a conspiracy. So instead of ousting him, which was my original plan, I had to be “nice to him” as advised by one and all.
On an auspicious day, after many prayers and breaking coconuts, Lord Vamne finally descended, with his coterie of two assistants. Now, in my book, this is so not cool. The point of being a handyman is “do it yourself”, not strut around, ordering your assistants to do the job. The result? I have two crooked frames, one spice-rack that is reminiscent of the Leaning tower of Pisa, and a gas regulator that has been fiddled with and rejected.
How could this happen to me, the queen of handymen?
Flashback to Mukeshbhai, the local electrician cum plumber cum mason cum packer cum loader cum blackmarketeer at the local single screen theatre. He called me saab, and I got a kick out of that. Then there was Lakkibhai, who was a tad too dandy to be handyman, but all it took was one sniff at the object of repair, and he would say “Ho jayega. Koi vanda nahi…”. Or even Singh chacha who organized everything from cook cum maid to raddiwala to cornershop telephone number to takeway menus to carpenter.
My mother has an electrical shop aptly called Moonlight who does bodyshopping as a side business. Depending on the nature of the assignment—from fixing a lamp to the sink in the bathroom, to the curtain rod, he would send different men, all of whom were called Shabbir. My mother went terribly batty figuring which Shabbir she had spoken to the last time, and it caused much stress.
So I went to a technical institute for boys run by a convent, asking if they had crash courses in “everything that can go wrong with a house and how to fix it”. I wanted to learn how to fix a car, the tap, the fuse and just about anything that needs fixing. The Brother in charge stared at me as if I were a lunatic. I tried explaining to him that “self help was the best help,” etc, hoping to strike a chord in churchspeak, but he was further amused, and laughed me off as a girl who knew too much.
So handymen it will be…
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