If you truly want to raise the bar of a relationship, move. I don’t mean move on, or move ahead or even move in. But move, as in move some place together. And start all over again.
Moving house is a great way to measure your thresholds for each other, to test each other’s adversity barometer (it is stressful to fit your life in boxes and then painstakingly set it up all over again), to figure out how much of him and how much of you do you really want in a space that is ‘us’. It’s also a great way to reinvent space. And since part of that space has you in the continuum, it means reinventing you.
You finally think you are all sorted with one husband, one child, two cats and plenty of zest. But every time you move, you are accosted by carpenters who tell what you should do and how you should live. Or that you have too much stuff, too little wall. Or sofawalas who have issues with your sense of aesthetic and the right-side-up. Or a Persian cat who wanders into your life, knowing fully well that you are not into breeds, and attempts a full-on seduction, and succeeds, and you are frantically texting your husband to check if you can adopt another (cat).
A new flat is like a new relationship. There is a level of familiarity, and yes, there is love, but there is also intrigue. Nooks and crevices you haven’t explored. Surfaces you haven’t touched. Parts you haven’t felt or smelt.
And so..
Suddenly, you could be kissing the evening sun instead of the sharp morning one. Or gazing at a mango tree instead of a concrete jungle. Or taking the stairs instead of a posh elevator that talks to you.
There are other benefits of moving:
• Sort files, clothes, books, photos that you always meant to, but never did.
• Finally get rid of letters, photos of exes.
• It’s also a great way to shed excess baggage. I don’t only mean it in the you-can-now-clear-the-clutter and donate your excesses, but you now finally don’t have to deal with people, noises, creatures who came as a package deal with your ex-apartment
• Redefine your space. Claim a corner that’s all yours, a shelf, a cupboard, a balcony, a view.
The Cancerian husband is averse to change while the Gemini in me celebrates it. Before our impending move, he spent days gazing at familiar piles of wires, controllers, the works coated in dust grime sighing that it will not be the same anymore.
So I made a deal with him. Made the new flat an excuse to buy us something I know meant a lot to him. So that it becomes a metaphor for happy change, rather than a melancholy one as is wont to be for someone like him who ordinarily starts flapping if I so much as move his seating arrangement by an inch.
So there. He gets his 42 inch LCD, and I get to do up a house all over again. It’s a win-win.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Cook cook hota hai
I have a cook. She’s incredibly bad. She meets the brief though, as the only thing I asked her before hiring was, “Do you know how to cook?”
Now we all know that knowing ‘how to cook’ doth not a cook make. But she puts something edible-looking on the table and absolves me of the dirty work (peeling, chopping, stirring, frying, mixing, grinding...yawn).
The husband has his moments, but they seldom surface in the kitchen, apart from ordering more Bisleri or kitchen towels or knives or wine openers or pepper mills... you get the drift.As far as ‘what do we do for dinner?’ goes, he has just one solution. Cheese burst pizzas from Domino's. And though I frequently delegate a bit of chopping here and there to him, it takes so much supervising that I’d rather do it on my own.
The ‘cook’ has no issues with auto-piloting daal, roti, sabzi, salad/soup on a daily basis and has a pleasant demeanour (and we all know how much that is worth) so it works for me. At least that’s what I thought.
Now I am a good cook (okay, modesty doesn’t look good on me) and one might wonder why I would deploy the services of someone (and less than mediocre at that) for something that I do incredibly well. It’s simple. Cooking consumes a huge amount of creative energy, and when you are trying to write and raise an infant, it just gets in the way. Too much distraction. Too much passion. Too addictive.
So I decided for a while to lower my benchmarks and just eat what she put on the table. It worked for a few weeks, and then I found my way back to the place where I feel like a goddess.
I started with trying to salvage a section of what she made. Now the problem with food is, you can’t delete, you can only add. So, although ‘less is more’ is my culinary philosophy, I end up doing the exact opposite for the sake of palate sanity. Like adding lemon to balance fieriness, or jaggery to offset tartiness.
It struck me that salvaging someone’s cooking as opposed to cooking from scratch is the difference between marriage and motherhood. When you marry a man, there are all these ingredients that have been there before you. Mothers. Fathers. Sisters. Brothers. Good girlfriends. Weird girlfriends. Good friends. Weird friends. Randoms. More randoms. And they have done stuff to the man you married. Like stirred when he had to be left alone. Or left to char when required to stir. Or fried when he had to be sautéed. Or boiled when he had to be steamed. The result? A recipe that still needs to be worked upon.
With motherhood, it’s easy. You do what comes instinctively to you, you add the ingredients you think work, you mash some, steam some, sing some, hum some, and more often than not, the result is exactly what you want it to be.
I still have a good 18-20 years before another woman has issues with my work in progress.Bon Appetit!
Now we all know that knowing ‘how to cook’ doth not a cook make. But she puts something edible-looking on the table and absolves me of the dirty work (peeling, chopping, stirring, frying, mixing, grinding...yawn).
The husband has his moments, but they seldom surface in the kitchen, apart from ordering more Bisleri or kitchen towels or knives or wine openers or pepper mills... you get the drift.As far as ‘what do we do for dinner?’ goes, he has just one solution. Cheese burst pizzas from Domino's. And though I frequently delegate a bit of chopping here and there to him, it takes so much supervising that I’d rather do it on my own.
The ‘cook’ has no issues with auto-piloting daal, roti, sabzi, salad/soup on a daily basis and has a pleasant demeanour (and we all know how much that is worth) so it works for me. At least that’s what I thought.
Now I am a good cook (okay, modesty doesn’t look good on me) and one might wonder why I would deploy the services of someone (and less than mediocre at that) for something that I do incredibly well. It’s simple. Cooking consumes a huge amount of creative energy, and when you are trying to write and raise an infant, it just gets in the way. Too much distraction. Too much passion. Too addictive.
So I decided for a while to lower my benchmarks and just eat what she put on the table. It worked for a few weeks, and then I found my way back to the place where I feel like a goddess.
I started with trying to salvage a section of what she made. Now the problem with food is, you can’t delete, you can only add. So, although ‘less is more’ is my culinary philosophy, I end up doing the exact opposite for the sake of palate sanity. Like adding lemon to balance fieriness, or jaggery to offset tartiness.
It struck me that salvaging someone’s cooking as opposed to cooking from scratch is the difference between marriage and motherhood. When you marry a man, there are all these ingredients that have been there before you. Mothers. Fathers. Sisters. Brothers. Good girlfriends. Weird girlfriends. Good friends. Weird friends. Randoms. More randoms. And they have done stuff to the man you married. Like stirred when he had to be left alone. Or left to char when required to stir. Or fried when he had to be sautéed. Or boiled when he had to be steamed. The result? A recipe that still needs to be worked upon.
With motherhood, it’s easy. You do what comes instinctively to you, you add the ingredients you think work, you mash some, steam some, sing some, hum some, and more often than not, the result is exactly what you want it to be.
I still have a good 18-20 years before another woman has issues with my work in progress.Bon Appetit!
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Fever pitch
When it comes to being sick, I feel as though I am a cat while the husband is a dog (apart from a hundred other instances when I feel the same way). When I am sick, I retreat. I am best left alone, need no TLC or cuddling or whining or hot soup to be served in bed. Like a cat. But then, cats always like to be left alone, unless they are my current twosome who think they are dogs and give you routine pedicures and hair spas. But more about the aberrations later.
Okay, I am a terribly independent person, who usually lives in a universe that demands an abnormal amount of social niceties, all of which I happily abandon when I am sick and just be the anti-social me and do as I please.
Like a) Not talk to anyone. b) Curl up with a book and not talk to anyone. c) Keep eating and drinking and not talk to anyone. d)Not answer the phone and not make a single phone call and thus, not talk to anyone.
Not that I like being sick or that I fall sick often. I don’t. But when I do, it’s a very private affair.But whatever I do to camouflage, the mother, chirpy and intuitive cutlet No. 1 usually finds out from the inflection of my voice. “Are you sick..?”
Groan! Now she will ask for the gory details.
The husband is not so intuitive. Unless you are swathed in bandages or your face is obviously disfigured or your leg is in a plaster and you are hobbling to the loo, he would assume (naturally) that everything is okay.
On the other hand, he is the type that announces “I am sick” at least 47 times a day the day he as much as has a sore throat or a fever. (Now the M. Pharm in me is appalled at how ignorant people generally are about fever in that it’s the response to a disease and not the disease in itself. Thanks to the poor sods, doctors can have exotic vacations every year)
HE: I am sick.
ME: So eat, sleep, do nothing.
HE: My throat hurts.
ME: So drink lots of fluids, eat, sleep.
HE: Does beer count?
ME: No.
HE: But I have a Man U match and I do want to have a beer to celebrate.
ME: So have a beer.
HE: But I have fever.
ME: So don’t have a beer.
HE: I also have cramps and I feel like I am going to give birth to Danny De Vito.
(Now, speaking lightly about childbirth to someone who has recently given birth is not in supreme taste, but when people are sick, they do strange things.)
ME: So do whatever you want.
HE: I am sick. Please speak nicely to me.
Of all the vows we take when we get married, the one which refers to being there for each other “in sickness or in health” is probably the trickiest (whatever language you took it in). Among all things that tell people apart, what you are when you are sick is a deal breaker. So if you haven’t had your vows yet, it’s time to rewrite them.
P.S. Turns out, getting wrecked on Holi was what did it for the husband, and not the antibiotics and the trying to be a good boy (and failing miserably).
Okay, I am a terribly independent person, who usually lives in a universe that demands an abnormal amount of social niceties, all of which I happily abandon when I am sick and just be the anti-social me and do as I please.
Like a) Not talk to anyone. b) Curl up with a book and not talk to anyone. c) Keep eating and drinking and not talk to anyone. d)Not answer the phone and not make a single phone call and thus, not talk to anyone.
Not that I like being sick or that I fall sick often. I don’t. But when I do, it’s a very private affair.But whatever I do to camouflage, the mother, chirpy and intuitive cutlet No. 1 usually finds out from the inflection of my voice. “Are you sick..?”
Groan! Now she will ask for the gory details.
The husband is not so intuitive. Unless you are swathed in bandages or your face is obviously disfigured or your leg is in a plaster and you are hobbling to the loo, he would assume (naturally) that everything is okay.
On the other hand, he is the type that announces “I am sick” at least 47 times a day the day he as much as has a sore throat or a fever. (Now the M. Pharm in me is appalled at how ignorant people generally are about fever in that it’s the response to a disease and not the disease in itself. Thanks to the poor sods, doctors can have exotic vacations every year)
HE: I am sick.
ME: So eat, sleep, do nothing.
HE: My throat hurts.
ME: So drink lots of fluids, eat, sleep.
HE: Does beer count?
ME: No.
HE: But I have a Man U match and I do want to have a beer to celebrate.
ME: So have a beer.
HE: But I have fever.
ME: So don’t have a beer.
HE: I also have cramps and I feel like I am going to give birth to Danny De Vito.
(Now, speaking lightly about childbirth to someone who has recently given birth is not in supreme taste, but when people are sick, they do strange things.)
ME: So do whatever you want.
HE: I am sick. Please speak nicely to me.
Of all the vows we take when we get married, the one which refers to being there for each other “in sickness or in health” is probably the trickiest (whatever language you took it in). Among all things that tell people apart, what you are when you are sick is a deal breaker. So if you haven’t had your vows yet, it’s time to rewrite them.
P.S. Turns out, getting wrecked on Holi was what did it for the husband, and not the antibiotics and the trying to be a good boy (and failing miserably).
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
It's a wine-wine
To those who are lost in the labyrinths of the dating game, I’d say, get some sun. Throw in some wine, some music, and watch it all unfold. Or better still, go to the Sulafest (thanks to rationed outdoorsy escapades for the Bombayite) and do it all.
Unlike say, a rock concert, a club night (where you can see/hear nothing), or a brunch (where people are focused on heaping their plates or downing their drinks) , things like the Sulafest are a flea market for singletons. You can drink some, mingle some, flirt some, and move on — space, oxygen and members of the opposite sex are unlimited. You can lie on the grass, say a lot, or say nothing, and it would be okay. When you are drinking wine, it is not treated like you are actually drinking, so no one will hold the too-many-drinks-down against you.
So there I was this weekend with the husband and the infant in tow (no point waiting in treating him to the good life, we figured).
One thing that stood out was hundreds of sweet-somethings wearing little-nothings that, in the city could be voted tarty, but in the hot Nasik sun could pass off as something-I-wore-because-the-heat-is-killing me.
And then I realised, you could get away with anything here, and this is true for men and women. Men can get away with being grunge, dressing down or being OTT, having bad hair days, losing footwear, smoking up behind hedges, living on a liquid diet for 48 hours, grumbling there’s no beer at a wine festival, being nonchalant, aloof or over-familiar.
Women can be coy, mysterious, slutty or smart. And a lot can happen over wine (never mind if stomping doesn’t look as good here as it does in France). For instance:
You’ve had so much Satori that you are being a slut (and I must agree with Paul Giamatti’s views on merlot in Sideways)
You can’t remember if you spoke to guy with cute butt, so you ask his name for the third time, because you are Chenin blanc-ed out!
You are happy as a bird for no particular reason and giggling away like a hyena, or whatever animal that comes close to it, and you blame it all on the Shiraz
Midway through the evening you decide that you no longer have to hang out with the guy you came with, because, you are so red and he is so white.
You begin to you question whether, in your search for coupledom, you may have passed the gentle Pinots for the aggressive Cabernet men.
You think getting a tarot card read would not be a syndrome exclusive to singletons afflicted-by-coupledom syndrome. Never mind if it was rather dear at Rs 100 per question, and no, questions could not be combined (so you couldn’t ask, “Will I go to Cappadocia on my honeymoon with X after I get that Y job?”)
You could flash your changed relationship status, either through your just-acquired ring/squeeze, and just giggle, Aishwarya-like.
About the grapes and the music, well, frankly my dear, I didn’t give a damn.
Unlike say, a rock concert, a club night (where you can see/hear nothing), or a brunch (where people are focused on heaping their plates or downing their drinks) , things like the Sulafest are a flea market for singletons. You can drink some, mingle some, flirt some, and move on — space, oxygen and members of the opposite sex are unlimited. You can lie on the grass, say a lot, or say nothing, and it would be okay. When you are drinking wine, it is not treated like you are actually drinking, so no one will hold the too-many-drinks-down against you.
So there I was this weekend with the husband and the infant in tow (no point waiting in treating him to the good life, we figured).
One thing that stood out was hundreds of sweet-somethings wearing little-nothings that, in the city could be voted tarty, but in the hot Nasik sun could pass off as something-I-wore-because-the-heat-is-killing me.
And then I realised, you could get away with anything here, and this is true for men and women. Men can get away with being grunge, dressing down or being OTT, having bad hair days, losing footwear, smoking up behind hedges, living on a liquid diet for 48 hours, grumbling there’s no beer at a wine festival, being nonchalant, aloof or over-familiar.
Women can be coy, mysterious, slutty or smart. And a lot can happen over wine (never mind if stomping doesn’t look as good here as it does in France). For instance:
You’ve had so much Satori that you are being a slut (and I must agree with Paul Giamatti’s views on merlot in Sideways)
You can’t remember if you spoke to guy with cute butt, so you ask his name for the third time, because you are Chenin blanc-ed out!
You are happy as a bird for no particular reason and giggling away like a hyena, or whatever animal that comes close to it, and you blame it all on the Shiraz
Midway through the evening you decide that you no longer have to hang out with the guy you came with, because, you are so red and he is so white.
You begin to you question whether, in your search for coupledom, you may have passed the gentle Pinots for the aggressive Cabernet men.
You think getting a tarot card read would not be a syndrome exclusive to singletons afflicted-by-coupledom syndrome. Never mind if it was rather dear at Rs 100 per question, and no, questions could not be combined (so you couldn’t ask, “Will I go to Cappadocia on my honeymoon with X after I get that Y job?”)
You could flash your changed relationship status, either through your just-acquired ring/squeeze, and just giggle, Aishwarya-like.
About the grapes and the music, well, frankly my dear, I didn’t give a damn.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Arm candy
Now that I’m in possession of an infant, I am constantly looking at things anew. One of them is how people engage with a baby at social outings and what it says about them. I was surprised to find that on an average, the men seem more eager to pick up the baby than the women. I wondered why.
A friend suggested that since parenting is more a thing of equal partnership among men and women — unlike another era, when men contributed the sperm and the women more or less did all the work — the men might seem to be more at ease in displaying prowess.
But that didn’t explain the single men who were all keen on their new arm candy. The last time we did a brunch, at least four single men were all rapt attention for the infant, chose to hover around him, pet him or carry him, and of course, pose for photos with him.
And then I realised what it did for them. It certainly pitched them higher in the eligibility gradient. It made them look good. It had the I-am-not-afraid-to-speak-my-feelings-or-show-that-I-am-vulnerable kind of vibe. It made women look at them differently.
In an era of Facebook profile pictures — usually chosen to reveal your current state of mind — a picture of a single man with a baby seems to say, “I am not afraid of commitment,” or simply, “I am ready.”
It seemed slightly trickier for women.
If she is single and looking, she could be thinking one of two things: The first is, “If I go all gooey on this baby thing, he might think I am putting pressure.” So she seems cool, nonchalant.
The second is, “If he still hasn’t seen my nurturing side, now is the chance to show it.” So she is effusive, all over, and very demonstrative.
On the other hand, if she is single and not looking, she doesn’t care what the men think, so she takes to the baby as she would a cat or dog (provided she is an animal person)
The rather large-hearted husband felt that since the men were more likely to get the picking up of the baby right and not the harder stuff, they would just do what comes easy. Also, it’s visually more documented, and the men are suckers for that. The women, he said, would not do the obvious, but could be trusted with the harder stuff.
I think if you are trying to get a grip on relationship status in a roomful of ambivalent men and women, just throw a baby in and watch the changing dynamic.
When a single man picks up a baby, the women are thinking, “Hmm.. this looks like a good sperm to invest in.”
The men are thinking, “Hmmm.... he’s got the female eyeballs now. Clever.”
As for me, I am thinking, the more people that offer to carry the infant, the less I have to carry him, so be my guest.
A friend suggested that since parenting is more a thing of equal partnership among men and women — unlike another era, when men contributed the sperm and the women more or less did all the work — the men might seem to be more at ease in displaying prowess.
But that didn’t explain the single men who were all keen on their new arm candy. The last time we did a brunch, at least four single men were all rapt attention for the infant, chose to hover around him, pet him or carry him, and of course, pose for photos with him.
And then I realised what it did for them. It certainly pitched them higher in the eligibility gradient. It made them look good. It had the I-am-not-afraid-to-speak-my-feelings-or-show-that-I-am-vulnerable kind of vibe. It made women look at them differently.
In an era of Facebook profile pictures — usually chosen to reveal your current state of mind — a picture of a single man with a baby seems to say, “I am not afraid of commitment,” or simply, “I am ready.”
It seemed slightly trickier for women.
If she is single and looking, she could be thinking one of two things: The first is, “If I go all gooey on this baby thing, he might think I am putting pressure.” So she seems cool, nonchalant.
The second is, “If he still hasn’t seen my nurturing side, now is the chance to show it.” So she is effusive, all over, and very demonstrative.
On the other hand, if she is single and not looking, she doesn’t care what the men think, so she takes to the baby as she would a cat or dog (provided she is an animal person)
The rather large-hearted husband felt that since the men were more likely to get the picking up of the baby right and not the harder stuff, they would just do what comes easy. Also, it’s visually more documented, and the men are suckers for that. The women, he said, would not do the obvious, but could be trusted with the harder stuff.
I think if you are trying to get a grip on relationship status in a roomful of ambivalent men and women, just throw a baby in and watch the changing dynamic.
When a single man picks up a baby, the women are thinking, “Hmm.. this looks like a good sperm to invest in.”
The men are thinking, “Hmmm.... he’s got the female eyeballs now. Clever.”
As for me, I am thinking, the more people that offer to carry the infant, the less I have to carry him, so be my guest.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
To grey or not to grey
Yes, I have been greying, and have decided not to do anything about it. The mother is concerned, the aunts curious, the friends sceptical, the husband surprisingly cool. Most men and women seem to have an opinion about it, which they don’t express, but I can see it in their eyes. “She is ageing,” they seem to say. Of the two who did tell me they approved, the man said, “It does justice to you.” The woman said, “I am proud that you have let your greys be. It reflects your individuality.”
So whatever Aishwarya Rai may have to say, I’m not covering my greys, even though I’m “worth it.”
It’s not random, it’s not a statement. I actually did the math.
Today you’ll colour because you are just 30 and don’t have a boyfriend, and want to look good in photos.
Tomorrow you’ll colour because your boyfriend/husband shouldn’t start making eyes at other ‘younger’ women. Also, you want to look good with him in photos.
A few years from now, you’ll colour because you don’t want to be in PTA meetings where other mothers look younger than you.
And then, you’ll colour because you want your child to think you are hot.
Soon you’ll be 50 or 60 and still be colouring because now, you can’t stop. The transition is just too drastic and scary.
Okay, I know that when you are 70, it will make you look 65. Point is, how does it help?
When I was in this dilemma of “to colour or not to colour,” I performed a little experiment. I sent out a mail to 10 girlfriends, carefully picked as they represented a sample of women who held their own, who called a spade a spade, who were achievers in some way.
I got three replies: One said since she started greying in her twenties, she had no choice but to colour, and now it’s just a habit. Another said that somehow grey didn’t suit her complexion. The third said she didn’t want to announce her age yet to the world, but when she is finally okay with ageing, she will let the greys grow out. Till then, why not colour?
The seven who didn’t reply suggested to me that they were uncomfortable discussing this.
At my wedding, a few decidedly 60 plus uncles and aunts came with shocking black manes — wattles, eye-bags, wrinkles notwithstanding. Did it make them look younger? No. It sure made them look weird, though. So the problem is not whether to start, but in not being able to stop, I figured.
Recently I ran into a male anchor friend, reasonably good-looking in a George-Clooney-salt-and- pepper kind of way, and his mane was coloured too, (although the roots were showing, and that’s a bigger problem with men). His explanation: “It looks better on TV”
The thing with ageing is that unless you can control it at every level – botox, tummy tucks, colour, face lifts, hair transplant, you name it — it just doesn’t work. Because then you just look like unfinished business. It is cooler to just look your age.
So whatever Aishwarya Rai may have to say, I’m not covering my greys, even though I’m “worth it.”
It’s not random, it’s not a statement. I actually did the math.
Today you’ll colour because you are just 30 and don’t have a boyfriend, and want to look good in photos.
Tomorrow you’ll colour because your boyfriend/husband shouldn’t start making eyes at other ‘younger’ women. Also, you want to look good with him in photos.
A few years from now, you’ll colour because you don’t want to be in PTA meetings where other mothers look younger than you.
And then, you’ll colour because you want your child to think you are hot.
Soon you’ll be 50 or 60 and still be colouring because now, you can’t stop. The transition is just too drastic and scary.
Okay, I know that when you are 70, it will make you look 65. Point is, how does it help?
When I was in this dilemma of “to colour or not to colour,” I performed a little experiment. I sent out a mail to 10 girlfriends, carefully picked as they represented a sample of women who held their own, who called a spade a spade, who were achievers in some way.
I got three replies: One said since she started greying in her twenties, she had no choice but to colour, and now it’s just a habit. Another said that somehow grey didn’t suit her complexion. The third said she didn’t want to announce her age yet to the world, but when she is finally okay with ageing, she will let the greys grow out. Till then, why not colour?
The seven who didn’t reply suggested to me that they were uncomfortable discussing this.
At my wedding, a few decidedly 60 plus uncles and aunts came with shocking black manes — wattles, eye-bags, wrinkles notwithstanding. Did it make them look younger? No. It sure made them look weird, though. So the problem is not whether to start, but in not being able to stop, I figured.
Recently I ran into a male anchor friend, reasonably good-looking in a George-Clooney-salt-and- pepper kind of way, and his mane was coloured too, (although the roots were showing, and that’s a bigger problem with men). His explanation: “It looks better on TV”
The thing with ageing is that unless you can control it at every level – botox, tummy tucks, colour, face lifts, hair transplant, you name it — it just doesn’t work. Because then you just look like unfinished business. It is cooler to just look your age.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Comfort in numbers
Research is a weird thing. As long as you have numbers and statistics, you can practically report anything and get away with it. For instance, you can publish a study on the fact that 90% of the people who dig their noses begin from the right nostril and then move on to the left when they are satiated, unless, of course, they are left-handed.
I recently read that couples matched on the basics of DNA testing are likely to have better sex. And one which said that dogs who wag their tails on the left side are marginally happier than those that wag their tails to the right side. And believe me, such research is not cheap. Somebody somewhere got a grant sanctioned that allocated huge funds to the same, deployed robots and other hi-tech trappings, not to mention 500 dogs allotted for the study, and obviously, owners to document the learnings.
If I were a cat, I’d say, “Poor sods! Why wag at all? And how totally presumptuous of the human species to assume that the owners had anything to do with the dog’s behaviour.”
Another study says that the heavier your snores are, the more calories you burn. There goes any residual desire in the minds of the pot-bellied and the simply fat to hit the gym or go for that run. “Why work out when I can snore my fat away?”, the men are bound to say.
Such is research. The weirder it is, the better. So it doesn’t really surprise me why not enough research is reported on things that are more relevant, more every day? Like what goes through the minds of people who drive SUVs in the city of Bombay? Or wait till 1 am and seven times the permissible alcohol content in their blood streams so that they can finally drive them at speeds that make them look good, killing a few cops or passersby on the way, if need be?
Because if there had been such research, the likes of “US-returned beautician” Nooria Haveliwala or Puru Raj Kumar or Manu Sharma or our very own Salman Khan could have read it and not spent nights in jail with unpleasant cell-mates, two tubelights, one fan and no mosquito repellants.
Poor Nooria. Had she done this in the US, she would have at least spent the night in a better smelling cell, there would have been a bigger window perhaps, may be even air-conditioning, and definitely no mosquitoes. But then, would her daddy be able to bail her out? I doubt it.
But then, may be no one volunteered to do research on such trivial offences, and may be dogs and cats and moustaches and snores are keeping scientists really busy. Also, ridiculous research is safe, it doesn’t ruffle any feathers and more importantly, makes good copy. Evidently, we all read them and chuckle from time to time. It’s a win-win. Someone is paying for them. Someone gets paid to do them. Others, like us are paying to read them.
I recently read that couples matched on the basics of DNA testing are likely to have better sex. And one which said that dogs who wag their tails on the left side are marginally happier than those that wag their tails to the right side. And believe me, such research is not cheap. Somebody somewhere got a grant sanctioned that allocated huge funds to the same, deployed robots and other hi-tech trappings, not to mention 500 dogs allotted for the study, and obviously, owners to document the learnings.
If I were a cat, I’d say, “Poor sods! Why wag at all? And how totally presumptuous of the human species to assume that the owners had anything to do with the dog’s behaviour.”
Another study says that the heavier your snores are, the more calories you burn. There goes any residual desire in the minds of the pot-bellied and the simply fat to hit the gym or go for that run. “Why work out when I can snore my fat away?”, the men are bound to say.
Such is research. The weirder it is, the better. So it doesn’t really surprise me why not enough research is reported on things that are more relevant, more every day? Like what goes through the minds of people who drive SUVs in the city of Bombay? Or wait till 1 am and seven times the permissible alcohol content in their blood streams so that they can finally drive them at speeds that make them look good, killing a few cops or passersby on the way, if need be?
Because if there had been such research, the likes of “US-returned beautician” Nooria Haveliwala or Puru Raj Kumar or Manu Sharma or our very own Salman Khan could have read it and not spent nights in jail with unpleasant cell-mates, two tubelights, one fan and no mosquito repellants.
Poor Nooria. Had she done this in the US, she would have at least spent the night in a better smelling cell, there would have been a bigger window perhaps, may be even air-conditioning, and definitely no mosquitoes. But then, would her daddy be able to bail her out? I doubt it.
But then, may be no one volunteered to do research on such trivial offences, and may be dogs and cats and moustaches and snores are keeping scientists really busy. Also, ridiculous research is safe, it doesn’t ruffle any feathers and more importantly, makes good copy. Evidently, we all read them and chuckle from time to time. It’s a win-win. Someone is paying for them. Someone gets paid to do them. Others, like us are paying to read them.
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