Flamenco Season is Here Again!

Flamenco season is here again.

No, I’m not taking up dance lessons. Nor am I planning to fly to Spain to watch blonde-haired Jesus Cortes in action at the Patio Andaluz in Barcelona.

My life is nowhere near half as exciting.

With temperatures spiking, I have been gearing up for the latest season of the Lizards are Coming. It’s not a new horror show on Netflix. More like a live performance. The reptiles will be crawling out of the woodwork, in shades of brown, speckled, black and grey. 

Still, if they stayed put on the walls, I could have tolerated them. Thought of them as installation art on my walls. Jamini Roy. Lizard. Bernard Hoyes. Lizard. You get the drift. But when the damn creatures decide to go all pedestrian, “oooh let’s walk on the floor and all that” -- that’s when the problem starts. One minute, you are walking barefoot to get a drink of water from the kitchen in the middle of the night. Next minute there is a wet ssplishsquidge under your feet. Ughhh. 

The instant Gurgaon starts getting warmer, I steal furtive glances all over the place -- at the bathroom walls, behind the electrical appliances and under the beds. Any sign of movement and the frantic foot-tapping and hand-clapping begins. Instead of castanets, I have armed myself with Hit Spray.

I will do anything to get the damn lizards out of the apartment.

Though while I’m at it, I might as well get myself a red frilly dress and some exotic headgear. Make some money while I do pest control doesn’t seem like a bad idea after all. Oh and don’t worry, I will be careful with the Hit Spray. My eyesight is not that bad.

Tap Tap Tap

Spray Spray Spray

Stop right there
Don't you dare say Olé!

Clean-Up Quandary!

I’ve been thinking a lot about death lately. I’m normally not a melancholic person. But I’ve been writing and reading some really dark stuff so there’s been a cloud hanging over me. That aside, some of this ruminating has been triggered off by a curious thing that happened the other day.

A man I knew briefly (we had exchanged a few emails relating to work and were connected on social media) seems to have died a few years ago and I had no clue. His updates and tweets (possibly auto-generated) had continued over the years. How on earth was I to know? A few days back when I was online on a business networking platform, I noticed an update from him on my newsfeed and beside his name, there was a line mentioning that he had passed on. I couldn’t believe it. I zoomed in and read the fine print again. It wasn’t a mistake. He was dead.

Since then, every time I spot a tweet or an automatic newsletter from his handle, I get a jolt. It’s odd when someone who isn’t around anymore sends you a notification. Gives you a turn, doesn’t it?

That’s when I started thinking. We leave the physical world when we breathe our last. What about the digital world? Do we ever leave it? Our profile, auto tweets and other random things we might have set up for business or pleasure go on forever (giving our friends and acquaintances) the jitters every now and then. 

I mean, imagine if I died and you got a reminder from FB to wish me on my birthday? Or got an automatic newsletter from me with the best news of the day. How would that make you feel? Even if you didn’t actually know me, had never ever laid eyes on me and were only a virtual acquaintance. Even then, it would give you quite a shock, wouldn’t it?

With everyone so protective of their privacy, passwords are not casually bandied about either. So my near and dear ones may not have a clue how to set things right. Not that I’d want them to. It would be the equivalent of going through my clothes and books and giving them away. I couldn’t have them go through the trauma of sorting through my digital rubbish.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the poor man and I hope wherever he is, he is at peace. I wouldn’t have been able to rest knowing I had left such a mess behind for people to clean. My house is bad enough. 

It’s time I cleaned up my digital act. As Queen had famously NOT sung,

Who wants to live forever?

physically or digitally? 

So better now than never! 

Clean up your act today.

Not on your Boat!

I am extremely wary of the sea. That I haven’t inherited my late father's seafaring qualities might have something to do with the fact that my earliest memory of him (and one I remember vividly) was going to see a movie called Poseidon Adventure when I was three. It was about a ship that was overturned by a tidal wave and almost everyone on board perished.

Now my father (whose ship had been run aground by a tidal wave in Hachinohe on the northeast coast of Japan in 1968, he survived by the grace of God) thought it would be a fabulous educational experience for his children. 

It wasn’t. 

It scared the living daylights out of me. And since then, I have kept a respectful distance from the sea. Ships and boats make me quite uneasy. Even slightly queasy.

Imagine my horror when I receive a gaudily designed whatsapp invite to a Titanic-themed Valentine's Day party in the condominium from my neighbour Mrs X a few days back. Once my eyes were able to focus on the rest of the card (after being temporarily blinded by the shining red hearts that filled up my mobile screen), I noticed a picture of Rose and Jack, hands spread out on the deck of the ship. The text said: enjoy a special evening with your loved one, dancing the night away on board the Titanic. Charges: Rs 500 plus taxes for dinner. A sumptuous fare of kali dal, paneer, chicken tikkas and biryani will be served. Booze unlimited.

Now, I am not sure why anyone would want to spend Valentine's Day on board an ill-fated boat that sank in the icy waters of the North Atlantic. That isn't remotely romantic, it is a recipe for disaster. I certainly wasn't going to. 

So I sent a polite message saying I was busy.

It should have ended there but the woman just wouldn’t take no for an answer. She sent me a message back saying “Why you are being anti-social?” She wrote that I should come with the hubby. He would enjoy it. They would be playing songs like Gallan Goodiyaan from Dil Dhadakne Do (a number I really love) and there was going to be red vaalvet cake for dessert.

Woman, even if you fly down Leonardo DiCaprio all the way from the US, I still wouldn’t go! No amount of chicken tikka and red vaalvet is going to convince me. I will listen to Gallan Goodiyan on YouTube and do a little jig at home. Perhaps if my father hadn’t taken me to see Poseidon Adventure all those years ago, I might have turned out differently.

So no, thank you. I'll pass.

In fact, the only boat I’m likely to set foot on is an ark should the world come to an end.

The End.

The Aquaman in my Life!

I have an Aquaman in my life but he is nothing like Jason Momoa. So, if you are thinking tall, hot bod and a heart-stopping grin, I’d have to disappoint you. 

My Aquaman is rake-thin and goes by the name of Roopesssss with an extra hiss at the end.  Like Arthur Curry, he is a man of few words. “Madamji, Roopesssss this side” is enough to make me swoon. His superhero costume is not shiny green and gold. It’s a rather tame pale blue shirt paired with navy blue trousers. And instead of the trident, he carries a black backpack that holds all manner of magical bits and bobs and rides a black Scooty. A seahorse couldn’t deal with Gurugram’s potholes and given the current political situation, a trident-carrying man might get frowned on.

Hold on a minute, I can see you frowning. I know what you are thinking.

You want to know what his superpower is, don’t you?

Well I’ll give you a hint. It has something to do with water! What else would it be? Duh.

There is a blue-and-white box suspended from the wall of my kitchen. That box contains the lifeline of my household. Every morning, the box spills out sparkling clean water, free of germs and sludge accompanied by the opening bars of Für Elise. We collect that water into bottles neatly lined up on the counter and drink it. It helps us stay healthy. Thanks to the magical box, we are not plagued by the runs. In fact most days we feel so fine, we can go for a run ourselves (Whether we do or not in reality is another matter altogether).

One night all the springs of the great deep burst forth, and the floodgates of the heavens were opened. I thought the Lord had finally sent the floods to wipe from the face of the earth the human race he had created. I cursed my luck (and my laziness) in dilly dallying with the ark. But then I realised that it wasn’t the Lord’s wrath but the pipes in my kitchen that had burst. Day and night, I pleaded with the plumber to repair the pipes so that we could put away our scuba diving gear. But the poor fellow would stare at me helplessly like a lost Nemo. Glub. Glub. Glub. That was all he could say. Till Aquaman came to the rescue and wielded his magic spanner. “The machine has malfunctioned Madamji,” he said. 

The box’s wrath turned out to be worse than the Lord’s.

Since then, twice a year, Aquaman emerges from where it is that he emerges from and makes sure the box is working properly and his minions are not plagued by floods or tsunamis. He vanquishes germs, kicks out the dirt and once more, there is peace in the Kingdom of Pure Water.

Then, he makes me sign on a pink slip that says service has been completed satisfactorily and jets off into the sunset amidst clouds of black smoke. I must remind him to get a PUC certificate next time he visits or his toxic seahorse .. erm ... scooty will be confiscated. The Gurugram traffic police are very strict. No allowances for superheros. 

Apocalypse Aunty and the Vegetables!

Photo Courtesy: World Wide Web

The vegetable shop was empty. 

Well, almost empty. I could see one lady at the checkout counter getting the vegetables in her plastic basket weighed. My heart skipped a few beats and suddenly, there was an extra spring in my step.

The tiny shop inside our condominium is packed like a can of sardines on most days. Residents, domestic help, nannies, chauffeurs – all of them jostling each other as they eye, poke and pick at the assortment of fruits and vegetables that the truck drops inside the building every morning. It’s a battlefield and one is lucky to get out of there on a busy morning, unscathed.

I hate vegetable shopping. Actually, I hate shopping. Period. I hate walking down aisles looking for things that are either too high up on shelves or not there at all. I hate banging into errant carts and trolleys on the way. I hate waiting at the counter behind people. Hate, hate, hate. You get the drift.

So you will understand the adrenaline rush I felt when I realized that I wouldn’t have to wait. The woman looked as though she was almost done. I couldn’t help but congratulate myself on my superb timing. I hastily threw a few things inside my basket and took my place politely behind her. The young fellow at the counter was holding out the bill.

The woman reached inside her bag for the money and then paused for a heart-stopping moment before reaching behind me to pull out a huge cabbage, narrowly missing my skull in the process.

“How much is the cabbage for?” 

Her shopping was not done evidently. The boy sighed and proceeded to weigh cabbage.

“And spinach? Oh, and how much are you selling the apples for?”

For the next fifteen minutes or so, she kept adding things to her basket. The old bill was discarded and the boy went back to weighing. 

What on earth was she stocking up for?  The Apocalypse? Her basket was overflowing!

My temper had started to flare and my eyelids were twitching like Chief Inspector Dreyfus in the Pink Panther movies.

Now I’ve been working really hard to keep my anger issues in check but this woman at the shop was not helping. Why on earth had she come to the counter without finishing her shopping? I see people doing this all the time in shops and malls and it is really bad etiquette. One of the reasons I hate going out in the first place. The app keeps my blood pressure in check.

I mustered all the self-control I could manage so that I didn’t whack her with my shopping basket. I turned purple with the effort.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, Apocalypse Aunty had finished and I saw her yelling for someone to help her lug her shopping. I heaved a sigh of relief and handed my basket to the chap. Just as he was about to weigh the potatoes, woman comes back and shoves a bundle of coriander leaves under my nose.

“You didn’t add this,” she told the boy accusingly. “You should have given this to me for free.”

The boy shook his head. “I can’t give you that much for free, you’ve taken too much already.” I could tell from his face that he was exhausted.

She gave him a dirty look. “This is not done,” she grumbled. “Well, how much is this much for?” 

He mumbled the amount.

And then she had the gall to ask me. “Are you done with your shopping?”

I would have vaporized her on the spot with my glare. 

She threw a five rupee coin on the counter, dumped the coriander in her bag, ordered her coolie to lift it, held up a floral umbrella and walked off, waddling her butt in the process. A butt I really wanted to kick.

Well I never!

Yikes on a Plane!

photo courtesy: pixabay

Tiny feet were kicking my seat from behind. Annoyingly regular kicks, a couple of seconds interval between each. I pressed back hard against the seat with all my might in a futile bid to stop the kicks. Didn't work. Kick Kick Kick, the demonic feet were at it again.

"Dhruv Beta, stop. You are annoying the aunty in front," I heard a woman's voice from behind me drawl.

The owner of the annoying feet, Dhruv Beta, refused. “Nahi!” he yelled at his mum and continued kicking the back of my seat, more determined than ever.

I gritted my teeth and started counting till ten, staring at the air hostess who had started her flight safety demonstrations in the aisle, further ahead, fixed smile on her pretty face. My face, on the other hand, had turned quite purple and I could feel my blood beginning to boil. Another couple of minutes and I would stick my face in the opening between the seats and glare at the little brat. That should do it. It’s worked before.

I stared at the yellow mask the stewardess was displaying when a sudden movement in front distracted me. From a narrow gap between the seats in front of me, I could see the occupants of the two seats glued together in what looked like a passionate liplock. As I stared at them, mouth hanging open, Dhruv Beta, his kicks, and the flight safety instructions were temporarily forgotten.

Smack. Muahh. Groans. Oh Baby, Janoo Panoo.

At the outset, let me tell you, the scene wasn’t particularly pleasant to look at. They were hardly Jamie Dornan and Dakota Johnson. And Fifty Shades isn’t even my favourite movie!

These two were in their sixties, the lady with an unpleasant scowl and brightly hennaed hair, piled high on her scalp. I had noticed her earlier being quite rude with the flight attendants when we were boarding the airplane. The man was wearing a jet black toupee. Tufts of white and orange hair peeked out from the side of his head not covered by the hair piece. He looked like Rocky Raccoon from the cartoon strip. For the next couple of minutes, I couldn’t help but stare as they went at each other in that cramped space. It was getting quite steamy. Much like a C grade South Indian soft porn film.

Yikes.

Wait a minute. Was I forgetting something? Or Someone?

I suddenly remembered I had company! I stared guiltily at the teen in the seat next to me, panic stricken for a heart stopping moment. Had she seen the action in front? Didn’t look like it. She was bent over her iPad, curls all over the place, glued to the Subway Surfers game on the screen, blissfully oblivious to the action in the front and back. Thank heavens for technology. At least, at this very moment, I thought to myself.

Dhruv Beta had started kicking again. I looked out of the window and realised that we were in mid-air and I hadn’t even noticed due to Mr and Mrs Grey in front of me.

I was determined not to stare, eyes fixed on my Kindle for the entire duration of the two-hour flight. But it was very hard, let me tell you. Between Dhruv Beta’s kicks and the passion being served up front, I was between a rock and a hard place. When refreshments were being offered, I heard Mrs Grey yell at the stewardess loudly “Hello! I want a lemon tea. Get me some nimboo at once!”

I sighed.

There should be a code of conduct for people travelling on board airplanes. Annoying passengers who need instructions on how to behave. Our plane could have done with a Romeo squad, much like a security inspector, to keep the amorous uncles and aunties in check. I hear they are quite strict about these things in cities such as Dubai. And more recently, Uttar Pradesh.

As for Dhruv Beta …. I’m not in favour of corporal punishment ... but spanking might help!

Killing me but not softly!

A plate of prawn tempura rolls had just arrived at the table. I was ravenous and couldn’t wait to tuck in. I had kept my bowl of dipping sauce ready and had reached for a roll when a strange sound reached my ears. It sounded as though a cat had been run over and was dying a slow, painful death. I dropped the tempura in alarm and pricked my ears. A cat inside the restaurant? 

It seemed unlikely. Even if the creature had managed to sneak in, tempted by the smell of food, who was causing it bodily harm? I looked around, over the heads of my fellow diners to see if I could spot the aggrieved feline. I couldn’t see it anywhere. No one around me seemed the least bit bothered. They were either stuffing their faces or talking with one another. It was Saturday evening and people were clearly in a mood to unwind. Not even a tiny shred of concern for the cat.

I felt annoyed. This wasn’t right. Perhaps I should have a word with the manager. I pushed my chair back and got ready to take up cudgels on behalf of the cat, probably lying injured somewhere, the poor kitty. 

That’s when I heard the sound again. Only this time, the cat had managed to string a few words together.

“Kiiiiiiilllling meeeeee softly

 oohhhhhhhh ohhhhhhhh ohhhhhhh

With his song,

 ooohhhh ooooh oooooh”

Realisation dawned. It wasn’t a hurt cat. It was a singing cat … erm .. human.

That’s when I saw him, over the bobbing heads. A young boy with a guitar in front of a microphone. The restaurant had hired him to provide live music. Caterwauling actually. That was his voice. No one was hurting animals. On second thought, perhaps a cat might have sounded better.

“Strumming my pain with his fingers

 oooooh ooooh oooh”

I winced. My temples throbbed. I could feel the start of a headache. All of a sudden, the tempura roll didn’t seem appetising anymore. I just wanted to get away from the boy, his voice and the guitar.

The fellow was killing me with his song. And he wasn’t even being particularly soft. Rather he was loud and tone-deaf.

Now I'm all for supporting young, musical talent but some youngsters clearly need to be discouraged from pursuing a career in music. 

Sushi-Smushi. I’m calling for the cheque!