Up the Ante!

Its quite the norm that wives don't like what the husbands like. Its also norm-ish that wives hate those who like what the husbands also like. It's hence only possible that my wife doesnt like ants, one bit. I love sweets. Ants love sweets and she hates both of us and that fact that I sometimes benevolently share some of my sweet crumbs in the little town square (or in our world - small vitrified tile) of the ant colony that has been quietly building up in our current home.

These ants, however are quite unwieldy in the manner they are going about building their lives around us (or rather about adjusting their urges while we are living amidst them). There is this washing machine drain outlet which seems to froth a load of fly ants every week and they all come out spreading through the rooms like "the irritating dog lifting the trunk" stickers that you see in the city's small cars.

For temporary reprieve, we buy mortein ant sprays with the pointy spray hose which leaks in a way that soils your fingers. Some finer aspects like me rubbing those fingers against my wife's soap to kill the smell, dont deserve a mention here. This blog doesnt carry that class. But it does make sense not to reveal much in a way to damage our congenial-ish relationship at home ( of which I am the only contributor).

In the first few days of our (now almost 3000 years old, it feels like) marriage, she fought with me (with tears, hands thumping carefully against soft bed) for the fact that the ants are raiding our kitchen. Given such troubled adolescence in the life of our marriage, nowadays I dont get into controversial positions like "Veeduna Erumbu Laam Iruka thaan seyyum" ("If there is house, there would be ants"). Its a mystery however why ants are so prevalent in Indian homes and we dont find them anywhere else in the (developed) world.

Nowadays I just play along cursing the ants, architecture, hygiene conditions and all in between in a carefully coordinated chorus, when my wife does the prima donna singing a string of abuses against the ants. I however havent still come to terms with her merciless punching of ants with thumb. Apart from being cruel, I know that the same thumb goes into her mouth while she tries to pull the imaginary peeled skin (a habit that's as disgusting as sweaty cricketers hugging each other after a match win).

Now that our daugther has become more active with her crawling behind anything moving (including ants), I wont be surprised if my wife ups the ante by inventing a birth control sweet crumb for ants.

The ascent of (the legend) - Part 1

The Legend - The last 2 words in the title gets replaced with "Ashwin". Silly, you thought I am so preposterous to call myself a legend? Anyway, this post is about the first day of my mini europe tour after the disappointing business class travel (read the previous post & comment, if you havent already).

When I touched down @ Deutschland (that's how complicated they make 'Germany' sound, back there), I did not have much to figure out. My cognitive sense had reset its expectation to encounter only german in all signboards and instead started looking for desi/paki cab drivers. Without much ado, I pulled into a car driven by a Schwabian (significance of this word, in the following paragraphs) driver and reached the hotel.

The lady at the reception (also the owner of this family owned hotel) was not of Paris Hilton lineage but good nevertheless. I did not have to use one of my lines to charm her. Her husband, a 7 ft old Schwabian and his dog appeared in quick succession without much smile on their face. I decided to wind up my attractiveness and behave like normal uncool Indian (read, amit sharma/venkat kommireddy/sukumar vallarasu/dilip jha).

While they did say that its a cozy family hotel, the details didn't elaborate much about the lack of shower gel tubes (which I generally take back home) or shampoos or hair dryer (apparently very important said a blonde colleague later). The awkwardly polygonal room looked more like a cellar than a room (with its post war airconditioning conveyors and all that). I could not really shower my angst with choicest of words like "mediocre", "claustrophobic" or "pathetic accouterments" as the only language they know is German and their English fluency stops where "Hi..How are you" stops. I had to still vent my disappointment with a curt "Room.Bad". It delivered a lot less punch than "High performance. Delivered" of Accenture. I later realized that the bewildered smile of the hotel owner had to do with the fact that 'Room.Bad' meant 'Room.Bath' in German and he had thought that I was asking for the bathroom which was indeed attached to the room. Oh, the un-intended third-worldly image I wore that moment!

Apparently in Schwbia (which is as German as it gets), they spend the saturdays buying grocery and the sundays at the church. Thats how cool the place is and anything that dint fit into this definition was given a miss (including serving food for the guests at the restaurant). Instead they served a rather big map in easily understandable german, printed in 8 font about how to navigate the city in the metro lines. After parasiting with a bad smelling german couple through the ticket booking & train ride episodes, I found salvation a.k.a country burger @ BurgerKing. Thus was made that day.

Business class is like novice's first experience with ***

I was as excited as I was when I had *** first, when I knew I was going to fly business class. (Censor Notes: Being a father of a girl child brings with it, such responsibilities..uff!). As with ***, it surely was not bad but not as hyped and envied by many. There were a few surprises, few things to figure out, a couple of things to get used to, at least one thing to learn by watching others do (in this case, realtime) and then there were interruptions. There were occasional curious first-timers reluctantly asking for some advice, without realizing that I am a novice myself.

Since the last time my ticket read 'First class' and made a complete fool of myself by walking into the lounge (and later realizing that I am booked for economy), I treaded carefully without showing any airs of business class traveler. I respected the sweaty smelling co-passenger like my own brethren, walked with no abnormal upward elevation of chest and din't quite stare in random directions with 37 degree tilt, unique to snobbish & "I-dint-know-cattle-class-still-exists" travelers.

Only when the male (how boring) executive in the counter offered me a business class lounge coupon, did I even realize how upmarket my fake-Christian Audiger t-shirt and tester sample boss perfume are. I couldnt really elevate my chest upwards or stare in an alternate space fashion, as the immigration queue was quite like how it would be if they had announced free H1B visa for anyone named as Venkatesa Prasad. I dint hence risk any unusual postures, fearing the mob running me down before I realize the luxury I just am being bequeathed with.

There was then an embarrassing moment with a customer company employee, flying economy class joined me in the waiting area, devising a solution for the queue problem, when boarding is announced. I had to politely participate in the operations research problem, while not thumping my chest about my belonging to elite class. The feeling did not last quite long, when I realized that the priority boarding itself has a queue of fellow-elites (which included Kamal hassan, I am told). I did not see him because of the 37 degree tilt I could practice for the first time in a fairly less populated area.

I did not take the newspapers from the entrance (as I assumed that I would get a copy of Conde Nast Traveler). I had the choice of reading the air sickness instruction or the fake deals on fake brands that they sold online. I instead decided to focus on the inflight media entertainment which had some german music, german films and german shows (all of which are as enjoyable as watching ETV Bangla). So then I decided to focus on other forms of entertainment like starring uncomfortably and yet within the harassment limits tolerated by air hostesses (only till I spotted the missing tooth in the otherwise good looking air hostess). With all usual comforts not living up to standards (of mine), my attention went to the seat. The seats were pretty big but not as plush as thought them to be. There were about 43 ways to move the 10 buttons that controlled the seat position. By the time I figured out the most comfortable position the flight was on the landing path. There was a memory button that knew exactly where my ponch protrudes and hence the next time I fly, all I need to do it click that memory button and I would have a custom seat (if no one takes that seat till then).

There were also a few unnecessary rabbit holes located deep inside the armrest which I found a use for. I threw the pickle packet into it. There wont be any need for another enterprising traveler to worry about what to use it for. That pickle will become fossil there. My contribution to preserving lime pickle eating south indian heritage.

The food was pretty average, considering I expected it to be as authentic as it can get, mid-air. There was macro-waved oothapam and idly with some poorly made upma (which all hardly qualify to be gourmet food). Emirates have a better meal plan even in economy class, hands down! Before I could gulp down the disappointment about food, I realized from my neighbor's angst that they dont come and cover you with blankets & kiss a good night, as they show in promo clips. You are on your own, with that.

Come on! What was the whole thing about flying business class? Oh then, I wrote this post & I learnt how to set the seat position preference for the next flight. Lets see if it breaks even on my return flight.

Impressions from a muddled class neighborhood

Its been exactly..hmm..well, its been approximately a month and a half since I posted anything here. The exactification urge got consumed by the laziness of a(nother of those 300 consecutive) work-less afternoons.

It seems like my leave of absence from the blog hasn’t been that attention grabbing. Kalmadi jokes are still dropping onto my inbox; Obama shows no hint of expectation that he surely has for my posts and hasn’t yet planned to drop by to ask “enapa aachu?”, when he visits India in November; Chennai seems to be obsessed with PrabhuDeva-Nayanthara couplings. So I guess, it doesn’t matter if I don’t write here. “Fowks are gaetting raedy” for Endhiran busily.

But there are certainly things that happen around me which are worth tweeting about (even if you wont retweet). Here are some of those “world this week” beats:

• The old government office uncle with GRT bag, that walks his way to office, who I have labeled as “Khaadhim” has either retired or died of mosquito bite. He gets his label from the convex-ly shaped ear lobes that look like two dish antennae placed upside down.

• The 3 seater couch that I bought 3 months back, broke when a 97 kg aunt of mine sat on it. Since then the supply chain of the nearby furniture shop has been inundated with death threats from yours faithfully. The threats have followed the below mentioned path, to give you some idea of my villan-thanam:

Ondiyamman street fake furniture shop --> Slightly larger, suburb based regional party councilor’s furniture distribution shop --> Delhi based importer of cheap Indonesian furniture a.k.a aggarwal furniture peoples --> Aungwar Yongsin Chi snake oil company, china --> Some random firewood seller in rural china

A yellow category terror alert has been sounded in 2^nd cross street, devi karumari amman nagar, where I can be seen raising hell, every evening.

• Our maid Mrs.Gaja has become richer by a 3-year old open-to-air, perforated and water resistant, slightly stained and smelly dust bin, after she enterprisingly advised us to get rid of unwanted things. She also met with partial success. One dustbin still went hiding into our crowded bedroom closet (based on my stern warning against charitable acts, to my mother and wife)

• I successfully thwarted a covert attempt by a gang of apartment owners & secretary, to fix us as the reason for drying river beds in the state in general and our apartment complex sump, in particular. When pure logic doesn’t win, you could use complex sentences like “ I am totally & completely in consonance if you opine that we shall all co-work on a federated approach towards sharing utilities. Until such logic prevails, I shall not take the onus and responsibility for scarcity of water”. As I can observe from my windows (of non-technical lineage), my tank gets water from neighbors, as they find it to be a better approach to retain their dignity than to lose it in front of me, trying to answer back in Toefl-ian English.

• Successfully migrated to a pay-per-wash payment mechanism with my watchman-cum-car cleaner, who kept coming with innovative excuses for not cleaning the car. The last straw was when he said “It’s a hot day and if he splashes cold water on the car, the metal would shrink and cause less legroom issues in a hatchback car”.

• There is of course one thing, that has continued to be an unresolved simmering conflict, much like stone pelting in Kashmir. My housekari is not quiet happy with the game mechanics I use to encourage my mom on her awesome ability to make south Indian breakfasts and encourage her (housekari) for similar endowments with north Indian cooking abilities, which all result in three different fresh meals through the day. She says “You cant have it so well worked out, everyday”.

The world’s not going to be different, the coming week. Oh well..it could be. As I dot across a few European nations, I shall remember to bring perspectives from the other side where napkin-based methods are considered cleaner.

Pleasure car

In the 80's, in my village when a car drives in, it still had only 4 wheels, but at least 20 tiny legs running behind to catch up the spectacle of a marvel. A person getting off of an ambassador car was nothing less than an astronaut (well, even if he just paid for the ride instead of being the owner). Do we ever say Buzz Aldrin, "Hey you orange suited, high jumper! Its after all your company's space craft that you are travelling in & heck it doesnt even give 10Kms/liter of rocket fuel!" A car even if it was a non-a/c ambassador of 1950 make, was still a car!

In fact, the men and women who got out of those cars faked an immense level of butt- tiredness, of having to sit in the plush back seats. They got out of the cars through the crevice between the door and the seat, in luxurious laid-backness, that invited instant deep breaths of the have-not hosts. Ladies let their slipping sarees slip for a little more and gents let the crumpled hair be that for a little more, all in the way of subtle communication that it was "a helluva ride".

It din't matter that the window panes were not tinted, nor did it matter that A/c was not an afforable indulgence. They came in a car and that established their pedigree for another two generations. I have heard sons of 70's say even today ''Engappa andha gaalathlaye car otinaar..morris minor" (Our dad drove a car in those old days. Morris Minor).

The rider always loved every minute of the experience. He put his arm around the half drawn window pane, signalling the precarious cycle rider that "its his car and hence he can hug it that way".

Some thought themselves to be kings and demanded a place in the co-rider's headrest to extend the arm around the other one's neck. It was their way to feel being seated in a throne. Some gently car'essing the curves of the door from within the car, throwing all security norms to the air. I'm sure some them got horny by the ride. That was the love for the car.

Faulty vibrations in an idling car were symbols of power. Sandal paste smeared all over, was just necessary to keep the gods by their side. Dried lemons hanging in the front had to be there to keep the evil away. My neighbors even squeezed the lime under the tires everyday for the first three years. They gave up after their first car and after I once told them in front of a used car sales guy "Mama, you're car and lemon, synonymous!".

It's a lot of fun these days to see my dad in his fully air-conditioned car. With no hald-drawn windows, no vel (spear) in the front, no lemon danglings and no children to follow the ride, his car rides hardly are as eventful as in those 'pleasure cars'

Tagged for Gender Bender

Joshi Mukard tagged me. Purba started it all through this!

So here is my gender-bender list:

1. I love wearing pink. In fact I have a pink t-shirt, light pink shirt, pink and golden flowery patterned shirt (which I wore for my engagement). I even sponsored a pink jatti for the pink chaddi campaign against Mutalik.(see the spelling difference. I am a proud south indian who maintains that its jatti)

2. I have a high SPF sunscreen (Tropica), Body Lotion (Bvlgari), Body spray (Bath n Body works), Skin cream (Nivea), Perfume (cK and Boss), Deo (Adidas and Brut), Hair gel (L'Oreal), Hand wash (Bath n Body Works), Aroma therapy hand cream (Bath n Body Works). I use each for a different occassion. My wife uses Pears soap (and none of the above or its female equivalents). No. No one asks me the age of each of these. Sigh! Some of these were gifts for my marriage!

3. I have scented pot pourri for the car and the closet

4. I could make all south indian and most north indian side dishes and can effortlessly slip into a cookery conversation with women double my age. I sulk about washing vessels (like them).

5. I cannot stand the smell of booze and cigarette

6. I have 8 pairs of shoes

7. There are times I've gone to a dress showroom only to return back buying nothing. I am that picky

Tagging sriram, revs (she better start writing soon!)!

A sunday

I am not chronicling a dramatic outburst of an ordinary citizen like they did in the movie - A wednesday. But my story of this sunday is by no means less consequential and in fact, is one that any bored and forced bachelor would go through.

It was about 5 pm and the crowd-delivered loads of semi drying faecal matter would decide to emit organic fragrance across our apartment complex and by the time I tuned my nose to sense the early wave it was already late. I quickly shut down the windows (IT Folks: Windows also means a non-software contraption that you find in your homes, if you relate to surroundings anymore) and was debating (alone) if I need to cook or eat out. It was easy to leave the house to suffer alone in the stench, while I could taste food in a better environ.

Driving several kilometers to find a nice restaturant is environmentally insensitive decision and also considering the racial slurs that waiters throw on single visitors that try to occupy four-chaired dining tables, I decided that a snack in a kay-yendhi bahvan (street food) would be better.

After a few not-so parlimentary opinions openly voiced about dys-functional apartment secaratary and his approach of idiocity as apartment governance policy, I drove to the nearby market, half-salivating for the corn-filled soup. Alas, it was not be. The guy wasn't there.So I had to settle for Anandha bhavan.

After elbowing my way to the counter which is manned by a stare emitting male species, I quickly muttered "Our bonda, Oru sev puri" before that species turned its head down without acknowledging my plea. Before I could fathom the insult, it handed over 3 pieces of papers which had started to float in the air before I could collect them.

Elbowing my way again to another counter where they mix 4 drops of sweat every 2 minutes with pre-made chaat and other snacks, I again pleaded for attention. It was quiet a satisfaction having completed my endeavor to not just handover the sev puri bill but also to stake my preference to not have sweet in it (sweat is not optional). One sweaty bihari male ordered me to get out (apparently it meant that bonda shall be collected outside).

Negotiating my way across rice eating over-sized middle aged tamil men and their equally blessed accompaniments, I presented myself to the bonda counter. They were frying both bonda and flies (the latter using Pest-o-Flash and they generally try not to serve it). I did prevail when the bonda fri..err reluctantly agreed to give me one more serving of chutney.

After a balancing act of two plates in two hands, I roamed around the tables several times (after facing hostile single women who felt that my presence across the table will mysteriously make them pregnant) and finally found a table with just one fellow battered male bachelor.

At this point, the taste of the snacks dint matter. I just had to finish them before another high-carb laden machine could crush me under her weight.

Organic faecal stink is no better alternative but isnt emotionally abusive after all!