A Birthday `Massage'

My daughter recently turned 21. A milestone birthday so it was extra special. But she was away at university so I decided to send her a cake. After much deliberation a decadent chocolatey cake with the works was selected. It had to feed some 40-50 of her friends. And the warden, guards and helpers. I selected the delivery date, filled out the address, paid for it with my card and it was done. I shut the laptop with a satisfied smile. 

A few seconds later, an unfamiliar number flashed on my phone. Normally I don’t pick up calls from strange numbers. There are all manner of scams floating around but something told me it might be the cake shop. So I swiped it and said hello hesitantly.
 
“Madam, do you want a massage?” the voice on the other end of the line said.
 
“How dare you!” I bristled with rage. I get my fair share of dating and massage service adverts but a phone call seemed downright audacious. 
 
I couldn’t bang the phone down (it’s a new phone and I can’t risk damaging it) so I disconnected and flung the phone down angrily on my bed.
 
A few seconds later, the same number flashed again. I picked it up intending to scream blue murder.
 
“Madam, the line got disconnected. Do you want a massage on your cake or not?”
 
How on earth did the man know I had ordered a cake? They say someone is always listening but this was taking the conspiracy theory too far.
 
“What do you mean?” I croaked in fear.
 
“You just ordered a cake from our shop Madamji,” the voice offered cheerfully. “Do you want a massage on that?”
 
This wasn’t a dodgy dark web operation at all. Just the man from the cake shop who wanted to know if I wanted a special “message” on the cake. In my hurry to get things done, I had forgotten to write a message for the birthday girl.
 
“I don’t want a massage on the cake, thank you very much, but you can write Happy Birthday Precious,” I said, trying to blot out images of a cake fuelled massage orgy from my head.
 
My daughter got her cake and her message. 
 
And I put my imagination to rest.

A Sobering Thought

Pic courtesy: Herge

I have a drinking problem. And no, it’s not the sort of problem you are thinking of. 

The other day at a party, the host preened in front of his well-stocked bar and asked what I’d like to drink. When I told him that I’d like a Coca Cola (regular not diet), his eyebrows all but disappeared to the back of his head. To give company to his hairline I suppose. To make it worse, the hostess came charging at me like an angry bull who had been red flagged. “What do you mean, you will have a soft drink? We have plenty of alcohol,” she emphasized on the word soft and threw a pointed glance at the array of bottles lining the bar shelf.
 
At which point I mumbled that I didn’t drink. And prepared myself for the tedious exchange that would inevitably follow. The host with the disappearing eyebrows proceeded to mansplain that it was a good idea to have a drink so that I could enjoy myself. Besides, he made the best cocktails in town. He wagged a drink umbrella threateningly at me to demonstrate his point. The hostess glowered silently making me slightly nervous. You see it was her smoky eye makeup. It made her look less like Kristen Stewart and more like Valak the Nun. 
 
Obviously I stood my ground and weakly demanded my Coca Cola which I received with a generous serving of resentment on the side. The proceedings went rapidly south after that and I had to invent an excuse and leave in a hurry.
 
Over the years, I’ve found myself in pretty awkward situations having to explain why I don’t drink and how my social life is not amiss because I don’t consume alcohol. It’s not that I’ve never touched alcohol. I’ve had drinks now and then from the time I was a teenager but I’ve been sober for years. I find that liquor adds no value to my life. I don’t like the way I feel after I consumed a few drinks. Liquor slows me down. I prefer to be sharp and clear-headed when I am out with friends and I don’t need the fuzziness that intoxicants bring. I’m happy with good food, music and company. But It’s an entirely personal decision and I don’t ever find myself craving a drink ever. 
 
But stuck in a city where everyone and his uncle consumes liquor by the gallon, where there are more liquor stores than schools, I find myself having to defend my decision to stay sober with annoying regularity. All my friends drink and every party I go to, I find myself in a situation where the reactions range from shock to plain and simple disbelief. I feel like an outcast, a deviant. It is downright tiresome. 
 
I’m not asking why you drink, why do you need to know why I don’t? Both are perfectly valid choices aren’t they?
 
Unfortunately these days, being sober is regarded as an oddity. Especially in Gurgaon where the liquor industry is booming, sales are increasing by the minute and if that wasn’t bad enough -- the government now wants companies to allow their employees to drink during office hours. So there’s an off chance that I might be offered a drink at the workspace as well!
 
The situation is so bad that I’m seriously contemplating changing my circle of friends. The best bet for me would be to join an alcoholics anonymous group. That way I will have a group of friends who don’t drink or hold forth on the benefits of consuming liquor. A sobering influence if there was. Can you think of a more perfect arrangement for me?
 
 
 

Cat-astrophe!

The Village is in a state of high alert with news of a couple of leopards having been spotted in some residential areas doing the rounds. Residents have been advised not to go out on foot after dark and some folks (like me) are keeping doors and windows shuttered. Just in case the leopard decides to climb up the drainage pipes to say hello. 

The leopard sightings are the talk of the town with everyone and his काका wondering why the cats are in our space.

If you ask me, I think the cats are unhappy. I mean wouldn't you be? Your phoren cousins are being flown down for a glitzy birthday bash and staycation. There'll be photo ops, cake and some peacocks too. While all you are going to get are boring bugs and slugs from the wilds of Aravalli and a brush with the electric fence. Ouch. 

No wonder you'd come out of the wilderness. And in keeping with your true Indian nature, you would walk right up to where the birthday party is being planned and demand your share of the birthday cake and a selfie with the birthday boy. A leopard padayatra if you will.
 
I hear they are combing DLF Phase 5 for the missing cat (s). I'd say get a helicopter and survey the tops of the trees. The desi cats might be hiding there and once things on the ground cool, they will leap down and march right up the Kartavya Path and demand justice. All well to have roads named after duty but what about duty to the original inhabitants of this place, huh?
 
We go on and on about make in India -- yet we ignore those that are made in India and fawn all over the exotic, phoren ones. I hear a fancy plane that has a cat's face painted on it is going to get them from Africa. And all our desis will get is a painful tranquilliser shot in the butt and a hired tempo back to where they came from. The disgrace. Hrrrumph.
 
Hell hath no greater fury than a scorned cat.

Meow.

The Theory of Unidentified Flying Objects (that could be chapatis)

I was walking inside my condo last evening when something landed on my head with a painful thwack. I rubbed my head in alarm and found (of all things) a chapati. I might have eaten it. It was nearly dinner time and I was feeling nippish. Whoever says no to a free snack? But the unidentified flying chapati had turned brittle with age and it belonged inside a trash can. So I disposed of it and went to sit in the park outside my block of flats where I had a Newton moment.

In hindsight, it could have been a concussion. The top of my head felt sore and I could feel a bump forming. But in that instance, it seemed as though the Universe was providing some sort of insight into why people fling stale chapatis from their towers at unsuspecting people below. So I closed my eyes and listened intently to what it had to say. 

 

When the Universe started talking in Punjabi, I realized something was not right. I opened one eye to find my neighbour, Mrs Malhotra, on the bench next to me.  And she was talking (rather loudly) on the phone with someone. So much for my Newton-esque revelation. 

The woman finished her call, dumped her phone inside her bag and turned to me with a smile. “You got hit by a chapati, no? I noticed the lady in the flat above was feeding the birds.”

 

“Feeding the birds or trying to kill them?” I muttered. “She was flinging the rotis with great force. She could have hurt someone.”

 

“Arrey don’t be silly,” she giggled. “She’s a bird lover. And the birds love her.”

 

“How do you know the birds love her? Would you love someone who served you stale food? Besides, are stale chapatis safe for birds to eat? Why not give them some grains or seeds?” I argued. “If you won’t eat something yourself, why give it to birds and animals?”

I’d seen folks feed stale chapatis to cows on the streets plenty of times. At least they were not flinging food but I couldn’t ignore the traffic snarls that ensued.

 

She shrugged. “The birds don’t have a problem with it."

 

“How would you know? Have you asked their opinion?” I shot back.

 

She got up and walked off in a huff. I smiled to myself. She wouldn’t be lecturing me for a while. Never underestimate the power of a flying chapati. 

 

As for Bird Woman in the flat above, I think I’ll pay her a visit with a prezzie. A CD of an Alfred Hitchcock movie and a tale about the real-life incident at Capitola that inspired the film. 

 

I think I should start a movement to make our birds gluten free again. What do you think?