Down On My Knees

Chicken pox kept me away from school for a month. I was only 6 then and I remember hating it. I'd always been a healthy kid. It felt like I was being punished for never having fallen sick and I was making up for the all earlier years in one shot. I hated missing school more than anything else.

Decades later, the chicken pox had relegated to dark corners of my mind. While I sympathized with others who fell sick or got injured, I stayed away from anything remotely requiring medical attention. How I managed it is beyond me but I took it for granted. I had abused my body with junk food, no food, erratic workouts for years and all I needed to fix myself up was 2 days in bed, recharging. It is amazing how self-healing the human body is.

Cut to 2012.

It all started with a back-ache that I ignored for as long as I could. It was just sleeping on the couch. Or maybe the bad posture at work. It was going to be fine. I just needed to stop doing those things. I would. It went on this way until I landed flat on my back, on the carpet one fine Sunday morning, unable to perform normal physical activities like getting up, sitting or standing without my back complaining. With much reluctance and driven by panic, I saw a doctor. "Weak muscles", he rued. He was happy to prescribe medicines but I brushed it off saying I wouldn't do it if I didn't have to. He wrote me a letter to get a core strength assessment by a physio and handed me a sheet detailing some stretches I could do, to strengthen the lower back muscles.

Once I started the stretches and the back was beginning to feel OK, I forgot all about the doctor and his physio recommendation. I ignored the niggly sensation in my knees for weeks and waved off the protests during my Krav Maga kicks. I continued to ignore it even after I started to feel like I was going to buckle whenever I walked. I should have at least hooked up to the internet to see if it needed attention but I didn't. I was in denial. It was going to be ok. That was until I carried a heavy bag and walked for about 3 kilometres one evening, while on holidays. Soon, the happy vacation turned into a series of stretches, ice-packs, ultrasound and I was pretty much under house-arrest.

By now I had been suffering all sorts of aches for 2 months and I was aware of my weak muscles. The least I could offer my body was a little rest. For someone who has mis-treated the body for over 30 years, it was a concept hard to grasp. Two weeks into the treatment, throwing all caution to the wind, I headed back overseas and started work. Over the next 2 weeks, I was brought down by my knees once again. It was back to square one. Ice-packs, taped knees, ultrasound, rest. The works. Serves me right for not doing the "rest" thing the first time around. Lesson learned. Right?

I'm just back from another horribly expensive physio session (that my insurance barely covers) and feeling better. All thanks to the massage, ultra-sound and knee-taping (ugh) by my Kiwi physio, who told me she had her first physio appointment at the age of 8. The restlessness that comes with feeling slightly more mobile is back. I want to be out and about, doing all the things I would normally be doing. The only thing that is stopping me from caving in, is knowing how crippled I have been over the weekend... after I had started to walk a little just the week before.

The chicken pox phase jumps to the forefront, from the dark hollows of my mind. It's like a headless villain stepping out of the shadows, in a long black cape. Yet again, is this life making me pay for the score and something years of good health I have had? It's been over 3 months since the first signs of the weak muscles appeared and started giving me grief. I can't wait to feel "normal" again!

I feel exactly like I did when I was 6 years old. I was forced to stay in the bedroom so I would not spread the germs around, only being allowed to get out if I needed to use the bathroom. Mum brought me food and water but I was kept away from the outside world. This time, I'm older and the room is a house, but the feeling is all the same. I am counting down minutes to get back to the outside world... to run and to dance... to kick some groin in Krav class... and to grab that elusive P3 patch... and do all those crazy things on my list...

Bring In The New

The company was replacing an old piece of machinery with not a new piece of the same machine but a whole new deal. It meant that the staff who knew the operations of the current machine had to start at the beginning of the learning curve when the new one comes in. Needless to say, there was a fair amount of resistance to the change. The management won the argument, if there ever was one, and the shipment arrived at the door one fine morning.

As production had to go on, the old working systems were kept running while the new one was being installed. It took twice as much space to run the factory this way and slightly more expensive but the deal had been signed. The traders from the supplier's factory arrived with boxes of the various parts of equipment, expecting help from us to configure it according to our needs. Some experienced workers were yanked off the floor to assist with setting up the system. The less experienced staff were left fiddling with running the operations of the shop.

The old men did not want to leave their familiar environment and the young boys, excited about the new toy, were not allowed anywhere near it. "You lack the skills to help with the fitting", they were told. Hanging about the older rusty tools made the young crowd restless while their counterparts poking around with the mass of shiny metal parts upstairs were wavering. For a while, everyone on both floors was an unhappy person. Everyone felt like an apprentice.

In time, people accepted their roles grudgingly and the noise from the two systems banging about became the way of life. Occasionally, one of the newbies downstairs would be called upstairs, to move something here or explain something there and they would go back. The couple of times I went upstairs, I came down charged up.

The big machine came with a lot of little attachments on the side. None of it was free but, for some reason, the management had decided that it would be useful to buy the extra stuff too. As they were fitted, which was rather quick, they were brought downstairs to start operations. They came with the promise to function without any hitches, hence not in need of much attention. In reality, that was not the case and before long, we were juggling too many things on our floor. The people that were upstairs were not coming back.

One day, the area I was working in got called to bring a box back from upstairs. It was acknowledged that it would be heavy and clunky but also came with the promise of easy maintenance and a possible upgrade. We were sceptical but also eager to see what it was like.

The first thing we learned, upon opening the box, was that it was not going to plug into our existing set-up. It had to sit by the side and drone on by itself. Considering that we merely had to keep an eye on it to make sure it was picking up the right materials and thrashing out the stuff that we could sell, we were not too concerned.

The next morning, two technicians and two negotiators were sent to acquire the working knowledge of the new box from the suppliers. The surprises never seemed to end. The training was much harder than we anticipated. As one of our trainers constantly repeated, the devil was in the details. There were more details than we could assimilate each day. While the sellers knew their product very well, they had no idea about what we were doing. Trying to understand their apparatus in our environment was a Herculean task, made harder by the differences between the two parties. We spoke different languages and lived in different cultures. Not literally, of course, but it might as well have been.

We flung balls at them from all sides and they batted as best as they could. A few words were exchanged in frustration, when things didn't go very well. Eventually, the handover was complete and we went back to our respective offices. The new machine was placed in a little corner, eating away resources and churning out objects that we never had time to look at. The marketing guys would pick it up and sort it out. Many days went by before any one of us had a chance to see what was going on there.

This morning, the thing started to splutter and cough, all of us crowded around it, adding our two pennies worth of knowledge from the handover. None of us knew exactly what to do. Within the next couple of hours, shit hit the fan and everyone was yelling at each other. Some bright kids ran to the store to bring the operations manuals. This is just the beginning.

Too Much Of A Good Thing

As I kid, I remember coming home from a day of play and telling my mum about it. I used to tell her about the friends I made and the fun I had with the friends I already have. That still happens. It seemed like the most natural thing to me, until now. I go out, make my friends, come home and tell my parents about them. What is unusual about that? Right? 

I have been hanging about with a few friends with kids, lately. Incidentally, all of them have 1 boy each, aged between 4 to 8 years old. It has been interesting to see how each one raises their kid. Differently. Some of them are admirable, some make you wonder if you ought to give them a piece of advice. I don't anyway. I do not have kids, I do not even know how to handle little boys. I am the last person that should be advising someone on how to raise their offspring. I am pretty sure they would feel the same way, if I made an attempt to supply them with my words of wisdom. So, I keep quiet and observe in the background. Sometimes I grit my teeth, suck in a deep breath and turn my head away to stop myself from being a know-it-all. There was a little voice that had been nagging me for a while. I just did not know what it was about, until this morning. One of the said friends put up a Facebook status about being proud of her son for getting ready by himself in anticipation of meeting his friend. 

Off late, a number of my friends on Facebook seem to have had babies and my wall is inundated with screaming mums proud of anything their little ones do - from burping to pooping to proud mums who can change nappies. It's been driving me nuts. So much so that I've considered un-friending the whole bunch at some point or the other. Who knows if I might turn into one of them at some point? I'm not that now and I'm mildly annoyed that I have to put up with those updates constantly! Coming back to the friend whose son was getting ready to meet his friend. I realized that these parents seem to plan their weekends around their kids. I mean, I knew that before and I have found it overbearing at times, even though I could understand that they had to do things their children would enjoy too. What hit me today was the knowledge that they were, in effect, planning how their young ones should spend their time. They would make plans and expect the little fellas to get excited about it. Of course they know what the kids want and they know what is good for the kids, so it is not wrong. Only, sometimes it can stretch too far. 

When I went out to play, the most my mum did was to make sure I was wearing shoes and she knew where I was headed. I would play with my friends, in the playground, in the park, side-alleys... I could play whatever I wanted. I would come home muddied, scratched and dirtied, mum would help me wash up. I made my own friends, I played whatever game we chose. I was free to live out my childhood discovering things and doing fun stuff. These kids have their parents chart out their day. The parents decide how much fun they can have. Their friends are the ones their parents will go out with. That is, their parents' friends' children. "If mum decides to take me to Seaworld today, that is my fun day". No doubt it is fun. Only, they have never stopped to think if that is what they want to do today. Mum and dad don't ask either. Even if they did, the young fella probably wouldn't say no because he probably doesn't know his options or that he has any. 

Somehow, this whole thing feels so sad. The kids have never gone out to play without either the parents or their teachers chaperoning them. They probably won't until they grow into teenagers, when suddenly their new-found freedom is going to emerge from the inside in a burst. I may be wrong about that. Still, I liked the idea of just going out to play with my friends, without my parents watching over me and making sure I play right.  

I went to a friend's son's school the other day, to watch his performance. Before his son went on stage, a group of tiny-tots performed a little song and dance routine. When we did that in school, we would practice for days on end and then perform on stage. Sometimes we remembered all the moves and did the right thing. Sometimes we forgot. Some of us were born stars, some of us were nervous. Whatever it was, we did what we did. On this occasion, I saw a teacher kneeling in front of the stage and doing the moves that the children were copying. All eyes on the stage, were on her. I'm sure they have practised before. It looked good that all the children seemed to be able to do the moves, some well, some not so well. It saddened me, however, that they were all watching the teacher and copying her. There is too much emphasis on the end product looking good, rather than letting the children free to do what they have practised, on stage, as well as they can remember it. There is not enough emphasis on the children actually knowing what they were doing. No tests, just keep reading your books. No exams till the age of 10. Maybe I got the age wrong but that is not the point. How sad is that they refuse to tell children about failure?

A colleague with 3 boys between the ages of 5 to 15 once said to me that the system was ridiculous. No matter how badly they performed, they were told that they were good, so as to not hurt them. Even bad news was sugar-coated. He said it was pathetic that they had to soften the blow and hide the children from the concept of failure. This is not real life, he insisted. I could not help but agree with him.

In my growing years, I have met parents who have swung the other way and put too much pressure on their children to do well, emphasised far too much on failure. That is another extreme. Even so, I think I would rather know that I could do better when I haven't done well than watch a teacher perform and copy her steps, step off the stage to be told I was amazing and live the lie.

Came Here To Write But Ended Up Whinging Instead

I am so over strangers telling me what to do with my life, through the stupid monitors I peer into twenty million times a day! 

My Gmail crashed 5 times during an email that might have otherwise finished in 5 minutes. The Chrome help page says I should disable my anti-virus and do a few things before I turn it back on, to fix the issue. I'll be damned if I stay connected to the vast world of viruses and malware out there, without protection!

Facebook thinks I need more friends. So, I have these random strangers flung at me each time I go to the Wall for my news feed. Off late, they even show me events that my friends are attending, with an option to RSVP. I nearly RSVP'd, in the affirmative, to one before I realized it was a private party!

I logged into Blogger to write about something. My memory fails me now. I got distracted into ranting because there was this on top of the home page

You should occasionally check the comments in your spam inbox. 

Sure, why not? Why don't you also tell me what to wear today and whether I should have eggs for breakfast this morning? I don't care for spam and if I ever find out you're putting valid comments into my Spam folder, I will come after you!

I'm told by Shelfari that I haven't read enough books this year. Yes, I know I haven't been reading much! Where do I find the time to read? I mean, seriously, between work and social life, I barely manage to read a few lines on my commute. On nights that I'm drunk, only 1 trip on the train allows for reading because the return trip is a fight to stay awake long enough to get off at the right train station!

Twitter's been nagging me to check out their 'Activity' tab where I can view tweets & re-tweets from my followers and those that I follow. What else is Twitter if it is not that? Aren't I already doing that? Stop creating different views of the same thing! More importantly, stop haranguing me to check them out!

I could go on but what is the point? I've lost a brilliant idea to write a blog. The moment of creativity has flown, thanks to the interference from the monsters of the Internet-world. Even my coffee has turned cold. It's just one of those days... 

The Story Of A Highway, Rain, Car Crash and A Happy Child

Watching your car hurtling down the road, straight into the back of a stopped car, is a nightmare. For a few seconds, it is like being on a giant Ferris wheel, as the your cage plunges downward. You're plummeting towards the capsule in front of you and there's the adrenalin rush but in some brave corner of your mind, you know you won't hit it. Only, in the case of a real car on a real highway, when you're speeding at 90kph, you actually hit the car in front of you, causing serious damage. You watch yourself rushing into the target and the crash itself takes only a split second. You can barely remember the instant of contact. Then you watch the back of the car in front dent and crack, in the moments following the impact. 

Seconds later you realise that your car has stopped too. It suddenly registers that, with the hit, you haven't really displaced the other car. It probably wasn't that bad, eh? 

What is the first thing that comes to your mind? Impossible to remember. Thoughts have flitted past and fluttered about like shards off a grenade, in those couple of minutes. Some come back, a lot do not. Your first reaction is to get out of the car. Then, you look over to see those getting out of the other car. Was the only damage you did, to the car, when you rear-ended them? It had not occured to you until then that it might have been otherwise. Why? You did not see anything. Nor hear anything. The car had not moved. The mind rests knowing it was not worse. Until you see the driver of the hit car open the rear door and get his baby out. A baby! In the back seat! This cannot be happening!

You rush forward to check if he is okay. The little one is crying. There are no visible injuries, he might be shaken. There's no saying that nothing is wrong yet. What about whiplash? Or something else? He did cry, didn't he? He did feel the impact, didn't he? It is of no consequence that, after crying for about 15 minutes, little Michael seems alright. He is excited by the big red fire-truck of Emergency Services, with lights flashing. He is thrilled to bits when the guys in their fireman uniforms give him a stack of stickers and goodies. When the first ambulance arrives minutes later, with more lights flashing, he jumps in his father's arms in glee. While the paramedics try to talk to him and find out how he felt, he keeps pointing towards the second ambulance that is pulling in. As far as he is concerned see it, it is a grand party. He is enjoying every second of it... the flashing lights, the big trucks, the men all dressed up in uniforms, the attention he is getting. You cannot help but smile at his sweet innocence. He is going to be alright. He is one hell of a kid, isn't he?

The minutes spent waiting for the towing trucks, the emergency services, the ambulance and the numerous questions, calling the car hire agency... it seems endless. It is a real slow hour after all is over that the cops finally arrive. A good couple of hours and half since the accident. Then, another hour of gruelling questions targeted at the driver who rear-ended the car. It does not matter that the car stopped bang in the middle lane of a speeding highway. The car behind should maintain enough distance to stop without hitting, is the argument. Fair enough, you think. 

Fifty kilometres away from the destination, over an hour's drive away from the starting point, standing in the rain, on a highway. Quite a scene. All you have is a few smokes, the towing guys for conversation, stressed parents, grand-mom and little Michael for company. Once the trucks started leaving, it is the rain and slush which excites the kiddo. He jumps on the wet grass, splashing the muddy water and grime over himself, laughing and clapping with joy. In the harrowing minutes that pass, playing with Michael is a little joy, of those hours, to be cherished later. 

You give him little stones to throw in the dirty water and you are his best friend now. It keeps him from jumping into the water for a while. He manages to mess up his clothes, anyway. When his mum tries to distract him with a book and pen, he runs to his new playmate who gave him a choccie some time ago. It is enough for him to trust the stranger, who draws a cat in his book, which he watches with wide eyes. He is overjoyed and asks for it again and again. He takes the pen from his new friend and tries to draw circles in the book. Then he gives up, not disappointed but happy for you to draw some more cats for him. Such a little thing seems to give him so much happiness. He settles down on the road and refuses to go home when his parents call him. He wants to watch his buddy draw pathetic little figures in his tiny notebook. The blessing that innocence is cannot be described!

His dad carries him back to the car, crying and screaming, because he wants to play, not go home. He doesn't want to leave his friends. He likes the rain, the mud, the stones and everything that is here, not back home.

A longer wait follows as the policeman, with the strong accent, goes about his interrogation of the errant driver. The friendly towing guys readily agree to drop everyone off at the Caboolture train station. It is not too far from here (Morayfield, the site of the events), they say. Soon, the first truck takes off with 2 people, while the other one would take the remaining two. It's a good hour before the latter arrive in the towing truck, with the rental car that was also battered in the front. 

Hours from when it all first started, numerous questions, notes, recording, signatures and a ticket later it is finally over! 

It is too late to continue the onward journey, heading home is the only option. The long train journey, filled with conversations of cricket, footy, tennis, badminton and other accidents, ends in a curry lunch at the only Indian restaurant that is open at 5PM on a weekend. 

There is no place like home, no person like a spouse and no activity like a warm shower to get over the events of the day. And a good 12 hours of sleep.

The Ayodhya Verdict

I heard the verdict on the long-standing Ayodhya issue. It was pathetic, if nothing else. No offence but why did it take this long to say something I could have said right back then? On the surface it sounds like a reasonable decision. Except that, it is not. 

If Hindus and Muslims could live in harmony, sharing the same ground, why have they not already? Maybe most Hindus and Muslims do not really care if they had to share the ground. They can live in harmony. There are certain sections of troublemakers who needed the issue to thrive because it served their selfish interests. How is this verdict going to address that? In my view, the core of the problem has been less religion and more politics. Mud-slinging and buying vote-banks, in the name of Ayodhya, has been a norm at every major political event. It has been nurtured by some of our leaders, to increase the bulge in their pockets. Why will they accept this verdict now? Of course, they will not go out and protest against the verdict. Does that mean they like it?

Taking advantage of the hype of the issue, a few objects of media have dug up the history of the issue. Apparently, this is not just a two-decade old issue, as most of us know it. It dates back centuries. One version I read said the start of the story is way back in the 11th century when Lord Rama was born in Ayodhya. There was a temple built in his honour, which was later demolished by a Mughal Emperor, who built a masjid there. A good 300 years later, that was demolished by a group of party workers and politicians led by L K Advani. A long, painful 20 years later, a verdict is given that Hindus and Muslims should share the land equally. And the 3rd party. Like a friend of mine tweeted, how do you divide 1 by 3 and get a whole number? Does each party get 0.333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333% of land?

Here are a few excerpts from people's views collected by the TOI group.  

Hindus are happy that the court has said they can have the land, they cannot see why they need to share it with the Muslims...

"The court has accepted historical facts and ruled on the basis of facts," said Nritya Gopal Das, president of the Shri Ram Janmabhoomi Nyas, the chief body in Ayodhya working towards the building of a temple on the site. "Every Hindu already knew in his heart that Ram lived here. Now the court has ruled that this is true," Das added. 

"When the court has ruled this is where Ram was born, what is the meaning of a one-third share for Muslims? The whole area is Ram's and we will go in appeal to the SC against the one-third given to the Sunni Waqf Board," Das said.

The Muslims cannot see why the Hindus need to be given any part of the land at all...

"Does all this mean that it was okay to tear down the Babri mosque? Why is the court deciding matters thousands of years old but ignoring matters 20 years old," asked 24-year-old Ashraf Ali (name changed on request), a resident of Ayodhya who works in a printing press in Faizabad.

It has not been accepted silently. The issue lives on. The only thing that has changed is probably the judge who retires today. He had to say something. He earned a good salary on the supposed verdict for a greater part of his career and when he had to leave, he told them to grow up and share it like good children. The saga continues. 

Why Do You Get to Define Morals?

In a discussion about women of the (g)olden days and today, the group supporting the latter spoke of how much bolder and confident women are today. As a counter, one of the guys argued that women were bold and courageous even in the years gone by. He cited an example of how the great Alexander was first defeated by a woman. I cannot help but wonder... if she had not defeated him, would the same guy have spoken of her with such regard? If she had failed, I'm willing to bet anything, the guy would have said (if he had to cite the same example) that women should remain confined to indoors and not try bravery. 

In another point made during the same discussion, one of the men drew a parallel between Beluru shilabalike (the famous stone sculptures of Belur depicting women in various poses) and the girls strutting down M G Road in skimpy attire. It seemed to appall his opponent, who dismissed the comparison by saying, "If you are going to compare Beluru shilabalike with the half-undressed chicks on M G Road, then I have nothing to say to you". Obviously, he has nothing to say. Our defendant said it was just the costume that differs. I  tend to agree, it is just your view that differs. The way you choose to look at it. 

You gawk at the shilabalike with awe because everyone talks about it's awesomeness, even though you may not understand what it is that you are really admiring. Is it the stone art or the visuals that are fantastic? Do you even know? If it is the stone art, then the costumes, or lack of them thereof, should not matter to you. If it is the visuals that you admire, then how is our defendant wrong? Are you just a hypocrite who can stare at a pair of breasts carved in stone and openly claim admiration for it but will ridicule a pair of uncovered legs in real flesh? Hang on, why were you staring at those legs, in the first place if you are such a saint? Do not tell me that when you walk down M G Road, you have these 'skimpily-clad women' jumping in front of you and flashing their stuff. 

I am amazed by some of the ideas and beliefs people hold about women rubbing shoulders with men, in modern times. I might understand that in somebody from an older generation, they may be set in their opinions, but to hear the same from the younger people is a revelation to me. How can you not see all the development around you? What world do you live in? What is with all the moral-policing? Why are your close-minded notions right? How is that our culture?

On a somewhat unrelated note: Muthalik's rent-a-riot issue is slowly gaining ground. People are discussing it and insisting that the government clamp a ban on the Shri Ram Sene. With the Chief Minister Yediyurappa refusing to impose the ban, Pramod Muthalik seems to be making the most of his new-found ally.

5 Fascinating Minutes

I had a scary ride back home from work, nearly hit a few times (as is normal if you're riding or driving in Namma Bengaluru) and bullied off to a wrong turn on the flyover, bothered by sadistic guys with nothing worthwhile to do with their lives... In short, I spent most part of my ride mentally cursing the traffic around me, people on the streets and anything but enjoying the ride. By the time I reached the gate to our building, I was still fuming and decided to vent on my blog tonight. 

I stopped at the gate, saw the neighbour's kid playing cricket in front of my garage again and felt like kicking his dad for teaching the son such unhealthy habits. He constantly hits my car and one of these days, he'll go home with a broken bat. So, that was my state of mind at 7PM tonight.

And then the sweetest thing happened to me. In the next 5 minutes, the weariness of my entire day and the ride had just slipped off me! I met the cutest kids ever. 

The first one came running to me (call him A, for I'm such a douf that I did not ask their names). Pointing to his head he says, "Aunty, what is this?". "My helmet. Do you want to wear it?", I asked. He is quick to refuse "No!". 

I just start to ask him why when the next kid comes running to me (say, B). "Aunty, what is this?", he's pointing to the back of his palm. I smiled at him and said, "Those are gloves" but did not ask him if he wanted to wear it. Maybe he did not. I did not wish to remove them either.

Kid C comes running and says, "Aunty, I want chocolate!". The smile on my face is plastered. Such adorable kids. "Hmm, you want chocolate, let me check if I have any", I said as I mentally prayed fervently that it was one of those days that I did have a chocolate in my backpack. I remember throwing a bar of Cadbury's Fruit and Nut in my bag a couple of days ago but I was not sure if this was the bag. 

I release my backpack from my shoulders and slide them down, almost to the ground. I'm trying to desperately find the bar of chocolate from underneath the bags in my backpack, containing my work clothes, shoes and papers. Kid B yells, "Aunty, you have a dark blue bag, so nice!". I asked him if his favourite colour was dark blue and he shakes his head, "No, I like light blue". I can't help laughing. 

It was an awfully cute moment. The kids were so enraptured by everything I carried. I fish out the chocolate bar and Kid B screams again, "Aunty, you have chocolate!". His eyes widen and he has excitement written all over his face. It was the most beautiful moment of my day. My week, maybe. Or even this year! Kid C, who had momentarily moved to watch the elder kid play cricket, came running. All the three of them huddled close, eagerly watching as I unwrapped the bar and started breaking chunks off the chocolate.

I gave them each one piece and ate one myself. Not one of them said, "Thank you". When I was a kid, manners were hammered into our heads. I remember my dad dragging me down the stairs to say "Sorry" to the neighbour in the flat below us when I was apparently rude with her. Back then I'd thought I was funny and I had a big ego that would not let me apologize but the fear of dad's hands making contact with my teeny ass compelled me to apologize. 

Coming back to this evening, nobody thanked me. I almost said it aloud and made them thank me. In an impulsive moment, I stopped myself. I did not want to hear them say it. I could see it in their excitement. They did not throw tantrums or ask for more. When I broke off the fourth piece saying, "I also want to eat chocolate", they just watched without a word. I faintly wondered if they thought it was such a waste of good chocolate for an "aunty" to be eating but hey, they were sweet, did not say a word. 

It was such a pleasure to see that one small chunk of chocolate could make each child so happy. They hopped off, after they ate, for I had stuffed the rest of the bar back in my bag. I wondered if I should give them more but I was not sure if their parents would appreciate it. I'm lying. It's just that Fruit & Nut is my favourite, I do not ever want to share it. The kids made me feel like a million bucks, I could not have not shared with them. 

I parked my bike, locked it and came home to a warm welcome to another cutie-pie. My baby Lucky. Wagging her tail and rubbing herself against me. Twenty seconds later, she was sniffing at my bag. Mmm, chocolate! So easy to give it to her and watch the happiness wash over her face but I could not, it is poison to her, no matter how much she might love it. Surprisingly, she was as well behaved as the kids downstairs. She did not persist or beg further. 

I met the most delightful kids today! Oh, how I adore them... even when they say the darnest things!

It Happens Only In India

Remember those forwards with pictures of overloaded trucks, scooters carrying a family of 4 or 5, over-crowded buses? The subject line of the emails would say 'It happens only in India'. Here's my contribution to IHOIA.

Good: I saw these kids on my way to work one day. It brought back memories of my school days when I did the same. Double-riding with heavy school bags on my BSA SLR that lasted me nearly 10 years...

Bad: Come elections and there's a sudden surge of love for slum-dwellers. Guys from BBMP a.k.a Brihad Bengaluru Mahanagara Palike (Greater Bangalore Municipality Corporation) parked their bore-well drilling lorry bang in the middle of the road one fine morning. The morning wasn't really 'fine' after that. The men in the neighbourhood came down upon them real hard, quarreling about the parking, quarreling about the drilling and the attitude of the workers and just about everything. Finally, it took the cops to get them out of the way and make peace.

The Case Of The Stolen Wallet

It takes a lot to convince my husband to take me to a movie. Especially a Hindi movie. He hates sitting in the theatre for 3 hours. After 3 weeks of trying, I finally managed to get him to agree to watch 3 IDIOTS with me. Even better? Mum also agreed to come with us for a 7PM show. She never says yes to anything that's past the streetlights hour. I was in an awfully good mood that day.

Having lots my wallet numerous times during my college days - the routine of paying for a bus ticket, leaving it on my lap and walking away - I've grown to be excessively careful. I pulled out a note of 100 Rupees when I went for a snack in the afternoon, inserted the notes in the side pocket of my bag, taking care not to get the wallet out lest I lose it.

Come evening, the husband and mum left home in bro's car (how that happened is a story for another day - our car alarm going off, the punctured tyre, newbie girl driver, etc, etc). I was to meet them in Indiranagar, which is half the way for both of us. Considering that it was traffic hour, I decided that I could easily take a bus and still catch them in time. Faster than walking, slower than an auto (10 times cheaper too).

I wasn't wrong. I got off the bus and met them just as they reached the designated place. Brilliant! The bus ride seemed without much fuss. I got a seat pretty soon. I was holding it in front of me (beware of pick-pockets in crowded buses). I placed it on my lap and proceeded to check my email on my mobile. After frustrated attempts to connect to the internet, I gave up and began to enjoy the view outside. About 5 minutes before it my stop, I headed towards the front door. A minute later, a lady got on to the bus with a baby and I was forced to move the bag behind me. That's all it took! Five minutes for the pick-pocket and three weeks later, I am still under enormous stress!

We reached Lido (where the movie was playing) in the hellish traffic, where mum and I got off while the husband went ahead to park the car. I opened my bag to get out my credit card. No sign of my wallet! Oh hell! My new wallet, my favourite, my expensive Xmas gift. A beautiful brown wallet with the perfect number of compartments, well-placed, an awesome antique-metal coloured ring in the centre. My debit and credit cards, my Crossword card (paid 220 bucks and still not got my replacement), my Driving License (still haven't been able to get a replacement... expected cost - 1100 bucks) and about twelve hundred rupees. I never carry so much money... took money from the ATM the previous day for the car service, the thief got lucky!

I still haven't been able to lodge a police complaint. The cops at the Jeevan Bhima Nagar police station refused to register a complaint because it was not within their jurisdiction, asked me to go to the Indiranagar police station. The cops at the Indiranagar police station insisted I get a letter from the bank that I had indeed had a card in my name that had been blocked. The bank would give me a letter for the debit card but nothing for the credit card. They asked me to call the customer care. I called the customer care and they want me to go to the branch. Finally, after numerous calls and providing one of the 5 or 6 agents I spoke with, my entire "personal details" and yelling at her, I managed to have a request placed for my debit card replacement. A week later, the PIN has arrived, still no sign of card. The credit card, on the other hand, I can do nothing about. They have delinked it from my account, blocked it, won't let me cancel it or get a replacement - all because I cannot remember the incorrect PIN number they have registered against my address. Hell! However, they have no problems sending me a bill for a thousand bucks today. Hell again!

As luck would have it, I also had my office meal card in the wallet (never do that but that fateful day...). After about 5 emails, 2 phone calls and a week and half, I finally have my meal card.

I am yet to lodge a police complaint (wonder how much it will "cost me" to get an FIR), yet to get a duplicate driving license, yet to do something about the credit card and above all, yet to get over the loss of my wallet with all it's belongings. All because of one inconsiderate woman who took less than 5 minutes to grow rich, probably trash all the stuff I'm trying so hard to get together!

3 Idiots - Five Point Someone?

Chetan Bhagat, Aamir Khan, Vidhu Vinod Chopra and '3 Idiots'. They have been behaving like 3 Idiots ever since the release of the movie, as if that's a way of advertising the movie itself. The controversy of who should get the credit appears to be getting uglier each day.

Chetan Bhagat insists that he was not given enough credit for the movie. According to him, the movie is based on his book upto 70% and his name only appears at the end of the credits ("after the asssistants", etc) as author of the book 'Five Point Someone' whereas he was promised that his name would appear among the "big actor and actresses" right at the top. He also has a problem with the movie-makers claiming that the movie is "loosely based" on his book with only 2-5% similarity and the rest of the script is original, with Abhijat Joshi credited for the script.

Those part of the movie claim that Bhagat has been given his due credit, as promised ("exactly as in the contract") and maintain that the script is largely original. Really? How can something be 'original' if it was "loosely based" on a book. I have read the book but do not remember enough details to make a comparison. In fact, I have not even watched the movie (still hoping I can... sigh). However, as Bhagat points out and so have numerous readers, TV channels and newspapers, there seem to be a fair number of instances that are a straight rip-off from the book.

I'm not really trying to take sides here but going by the support Bhagat is getting from his readers who, I think are the best judges, it seems rather lame that the producers of the movie are spending large amounts of money and time in press conferences, threats of going to court and fighting him in public. As Chetan says, the best way to know the truth is "read the book & watch the movie". I religiously watch all of Aamir Khan's movies and I have read all of Chetan Bhagat's books. Someone like me doesn't need to be prompted. I am sure there are a lot of people out there like me. It's quite clear that the entire hungama is a gimmick to make more people "read the book & watch the movie"

As I already tweeted yesterday, I'm inclined to agree with Pritish Nandi's take on this issue. It is a typical AK method of trying to notch up sales for the book and increase viewership for the movie. I'm not sure it is really necessary, though. Aamir Khan's movies need no other publicity than the fact that they are his. Add to that, his unique methods of marketing them (remember the staff at PVR Cinemas in Mumbai with the Ghajini hair-cut, last year?) and he's got a winner. In fact, didn't 3 Idiots make a whooping 7 crores in just the first 3 days of it's release? Five Point Someone is already a pretty popular book and Chetan Bhagat markets his book pretty well. The hype he created for his latest book '2 States' was no mean task. Millions of copies of his books have been sold and still are. So, why are they behaving like idiots? Simple enough answer, eh? The movie is called 3 Idiots. Surprise surprise!

Khan is definitely trying to keep the excitement for the movie alive for a few more weeks. The movie has been selling at an exorbitant price of 350 bucks per ticket on weekends and cinemas are still running houseful. Clearly, the ruse is working. He's brilliant, no doubt. When it's Aamir Khan, no publicity is bad publicity. By making Bhagat the victim, the latter retains his fan-following. Everybody wins.

Obviously, there will be no court case, although they have been threatening about it. Why have they not done it already? Whereas the papers have been reporting Chetan's stand on the threat as being ready to face whatever comes because he has the support of his fans, that is not what I saw on TV last night. At the threat, Bhagat simply said that he merely noted in his blog about being hurt by the attitude of the makers of the movie and he did not really care so much for the credit. It seemed like he was not up and ready for a fight in court but was rather resigned to accept it if it happened. Either he is a bad actor (on the premise that this is a publicity stunt) or he is just giving interviews because he opened his big mouth in the first place.

Chetan's latest tweet says that he is tired of the interviews around this issue and would stop after the next two, which he has already committed to. It reeks of Aamir Khan's style. He stays mum throughout the making of the movie, lets the producers start promoting the movie towards the date of it's release and then makes his media appearance just around the time of release. Then he goes quiet and lets the dust he raised, settle. In the meanwhile, the gullible audience has grown poorer by the rupee while he laughs his way to the bank and so do the producers.