The Day I Turned Ninety

Saturday, November 26, 2011 will always remain etched in my memory as a historic occasion, a day to remember and revere as I try to live out the remainder of my days painfully. I aged dramatically that day and it reminded me of The Last Crusade, where the bad guy drinks from the wrong cup and turns into an aged, shriveled skeleton in a matter of seconds.

It was a really bad decision to play a professional cricket match with no practice.

I used to play a lot of cricket as a kid. Played for the school and college teams and garnered a bit of pro experience here and there. I wasn’t a great cricketer, but I wasn’t too bad either. I could hold my own against the real professionals. But, its been an awfully long time since I’ve played competitive, professional cricket, and I’ve been woefully out of touch and practice. I have put on a few extra kilos around the middle and I don’t move as quickly as I used to. I had completely forgotten what a grueling ordeal it is to be out on a cricket field on a hot and humid day for six hours.

As I started with my warm-up stretches in the morning, I wondered whether the exercises had become tougher over the past few years. I soon realized that my body was resisting it after being accustomed to comfortable couches and soft beds. I forced myself to finish the work-out and to my horror, found out that the match had already started, that my team was batting first and that I was to bat at Number 3. For those who are uninitiated into the sport of cricket, if you’re third in the batting order, then you go out to bat as soon as the first wicket falls.

I padded up in a hurry, went out to bat when the first wicket fell and was clean bowled first ball. I didn’t seem to notice the ball zooming past my bat and my sluggish head was still trying to decide what to do about it, while I made the long walk back to the pavilion.

When it was our turn to field, I shuttled from one end of the field to the other after each over and by the time we were halfway through, I was ready to drop dead. I prayed for a natural disaster to disrupt the match, I prayed for the opposition to knock off the runs quickly and I prayed for an excuse that would allow me to get off the field with a feigned ‘injury’.

By the end of the day, after we had lost spectacularly, my feet were beyond pain and I had to remove my shoes and carry them with me as I hopped painfully into a cab to come back home. My entire body was one big bruise. I ached in places I didn’t know could ache. Muscles that I didn’t know I had, hurt each time I did something trivial. It was painful for me to spray deodorant on myself because my finger hurt when I squeezed the can.

The whole of yesterday was spent in recuperating at home, in bed, with timely cups of hot tea.

Saturday, November 26, 2011. The day I stopped being twenty-eight.

The day I turned ninety.

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Dental Plaque And The Sugar Doughnut

I’m sure this has happened to everyone. There no point pretending that I’m the only person in the whole wide world this sort of incident has happened to.

There I was, innocently biting into my (tenth) gulab jamun while watching Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen on my laptop, when a shooting pain in my teeth forced me to drop the bowl of thick sugar syrup all over my bare legs. Nothing fell on my the laptop (which is in perfect working condition Apar, don’t worry) thankfully, and I spent the rest of the morning cleaning the room and myself. Only later did I realize that my teeth need checked my a dentist.

So, that evening, I walked over to a nearby clinic and got an appointment for later the same evening. Ignoring the bad sentence construction, I walked in at the appointed hour and sat on a plush couch, reading a copy of the latest Outlook and getting rapidly bored.

I must have dozed off because the receptionist shook me vigorously and told me that the doctor was ready for me. In my groggy state, I yawned and mumbled, “Finally. Thank you,” when she slapped me hard. I was stunned. I held my cheek where she’s slapped me and said, “What did you say??”

Now, a normal human being would’ve asked this before slapping someone, but she was, I guessed correctly, a rare find.

“I said ‘Finally, thank you’ ” I told her angrily, still clutching my face.

“Oh!” she said, eyes widened in shock and apology. “I thought you said ‘Fuck you’. You mumbled so I couldn’t hear properly! I’m sorry! I’m really sorry!”

Leaving her in the subservient state, I walked into the dentist’s room. He was sitting in the center of the room on a stool, placed in front of a horrifying dentist’s chair, which had all the evil accouterments one usually associates with the murderous, villainous doctors in horror movies – gleaming silver instruments that were sharp enough to rip someone’s brains out through their noses. I gulped and stood there.

He saw me clutching my face and said, “Hurts, does it?”

“What?” I said, confused, and realized that I was still holding my face. I quickly put my hand down and said, “No no, your receptionist slapped me just now.”

He didn’t seem surprised. “Third one today,” he said resignedly. “I ought to fire her. Anyway, take a seat, please,” he said pointing to the torture chair. I looked strangely at him and sat down. He said, “Okay, let me see…” and shined a flashlight into my mouth and peered around. I could see the bright overhead light and the dentist’s masked silhouette as he assessed my dental strength.

“There’s some plaque,” he said. “I’ll get my associate to do something about it,” and he walked out, leaving me in the chair, mouth open, with a torture device sticking out of it. I twirled my thumb and waited until a short, stocky woman came in and started poking around in my mouth with a metal device that hurt like hell.

Five minutes later, it was all over and she announced, “We’ve removed the plaque. That’ll be 1200 bucks.”

So, I paid up and walked out and I couldn’t help but feel that I’d been cheated out of something. As soon as I stepped out, I saw the brilliance of the dentist’s business plan – his clinic was right next to a bakery! I could see breads and cakes and doughnuts calling out to me from within and cursing my weak will, I went in and bought a fresh sugar doughnut and bit into it. Just as I was about to wipe the sugar crumbs off my face, the short, stocky woman dentist walked into the same bakery, bought some sweets and gave me a knowing smile and walked out.

“Bastards,” I said to myself as I walked back home, enjoying my doughnut.

PS: For updates on Simran’s sales and how I’m handling my mini rise to fame, please click here.

How To Kill Your Landlord

After having a major fight with my conscience last night about whether to move out of the zoo I’m living in, I slept fitfully, trying out different options to hunt down and kill the rats that were wreaking havoc in the house. It’s not healthy in the first place. So, my instinct is to get the hell out. But slowly, the realization dawned on me that these rats were super-advanced than their dumb cousins in Bangalore.

They had evolved from being scavengers to being fine-diners; they hardly touched any of the rat poison pellets I’d left for them around the house. That’s when I made the decision to leave them be and focus instead on hunting down and killing my landlord.

My landlord is a stupid ninety-year-old fucker, who thinks he’s still young enough to drive a car by himself and lift a huge slab of granite all by himself. In hindsight, I think I should’ve let him do those things and let nature take its own course. But waiting for the elusive heart-attack takes a lot of patience, more than what I have.

So, I decided to take down two birds pests with one stone and came up with a brilliant scheme, worthy of a jail sentence just for the thought. Here’s how the four-step scheme works:

  1. Buy a rabid dog.
  2. Get the rabid dog to bite the old fucker.
  3. Get the rat to bite the rabid old fucker.
  4. Attend two funerals.

I was so pleased with myself that I went in search of a rabid dog this morning. The hunt is still on. I wonder why I keep having flashes of Hannibal in my head.

So, as you can see, I’ve been busy with matters of life and death, which is why I’ve been so inactive online. I hate myself for not having the time to respond to the comments and not having time to read any other blogs.

And I also realized that this is a great money-making scheme. If any of you want to kill your landlord, then get in touch with me. I charge by the hour.

PS: I’m not a professional killer-for-hire. I only kill landlords who are stupid fuckers. If you want me to kill anyone else, then I’m not interested.

PPS: If any law enforcement personnel are reading this post and raising their eyebrows and planning to come and arrest me, then I have two words for you fuckers – “Eat Doh-nuts!”

The World’s Best Statement Of Purpose!

I must confess that I wrote this for a friend three years ago, after a particularly frustrating year of helping her apply for schools in the US of A. As you can imagine, she hasn’t spoken to me since.

STATEMENT OF PURPOSE

“Ignorance is Bliss..”

Statement of PurposeThe above statement is true in my case. I have absolutely no knowledge or skill. I don’t even know why I am writing this. All I know is that I was forced to study right from my first grade onwards, and after 22 long years, I finished my ten-year-schooling. I’ve heard that your university is the least respected, and the one with the least academic requirements, and so, here I am, applying to you.

The drive to study life sciences was instilled in me by one of my uncles, who, during his fourth rape session with me, warned me about the dangers of HIV and AIDS. This left a huge impact on my ten-year-old mind. And all our subsequent rape sessions have been with protection, and I was always eager to know more.

If people call you a jerk ten times, does it actually mean that you’re a jerk? I don’t think so. Because I’ve been called a jerk a million times, and I still don’t think I am a jerk. The best part of accepting me in your university would be that I will not interfere with the amazing research going on there. I will stay away from all the professors and let them carry on with their great work. I particularly liked the research going on about why the cock crows only in the morning. I have a few theories about this which I would be happy to share with you, for a stipend of course. Knowledge doesn’t come free, you see.

Anyway, I am looking forward to working with you people and I hope you grant me admission. I will be invaluable to the university as a perfect scapegoat. I am great as a partner, especially for the male population in the university and they can dip their cookie in my coffee (Wink! Wink! Know what I mean??) whenever they want.

Thank you,
A poor, misinformed girl from somewhere.

Image Courtesy: Kaaledge.com

Return Of The Yo-Yo: The Yellow School Bus :)

Three interesting things happened yesterday, which forced me to come out of my forced hibernation and write a post, in order to enlighten the world about the interesting things that happened yesterday. By the way, I’ve been experimenting with redundancy in my sentences, and I think it’s working quite well.

1. The Yellow School Bus:

school-bus1:30 in the afternoon, melting under the unusually hot sun in the middle of Bangalore, sitting hunched up in a tiny auto with two other people, afraid to move for fear of falling out of the ridiculous excuse for a motor vehicle, and wondering when the horror would end. We were on our way to a meeting and the ride would normally take 40 minutes. But yesterday, we stuck behind a yellow school bus for most of the journey, and took us close to 90 minutes to reach. Once we reached, we had to resort to acrobatic stunts (that would’ve made the Russian gymnastic team from the last Olympics Games proud) to get out.

I didn’t give it much thought at that time, mainly because I was too busy setting my spine in order, but then, as the day wore on, I realized it was something ominous.

2. The Yellow School Bus:

school-bus5:15 in the evening, stuffed into a small white cab, driving back to office after the tremendously long and boring meeting, and wondering when the horror would end. The ride back to office usually takes just 30 minutes because of the general lack of traffic in that direction. But yesterday, we were stuck behind a yellow school bus for most of the way, and it took us more than an hour to get back.

I was beginning to think something was up. I glanced up at the sky and heard the faint hint of laughter fading away. Was the yo-yo trend coming back? I shuddered and ran into the safety of my cubicle.

3. The Yellow School Bus:

school-bus9:30 in the night, loud music blaring through my ear plugs, I was riding my rickety bike back home. the roads were surprisingly devoid of traffic last night and I was beginning to think that I’d make it back home well before the usual one-and-a-half hours it takes me. But then, I got stuck behind three yellow school buses that were rolling gently in the middle of the narrow road, leaving me with no chance to overtake them. I didn’t bother honking. I resigned to my fate and thankfully for the heavy music, I did not hear the cacophonous laughter up above.

Open Question: Am I ‘down-to-earth’ if I give up my suit and tie for tattered jeans and T-shirts and fly to the next town in a helicopter?

I’m Neither Gay Nor Sexually Frustrated!

Ladies' Night At The Beach
Ladies' Night At The Beach

A long long time ago, Bangalore was known as the clubbers’ paradise. Pubs boasting of imported liquor and clubs boasting of the sexy dance floors and sexier women in skimpy clothes that would promise a lifetime supply of eye-candy. Somewhere along the evolutionary line, things took a turn for the worse and Bangalore became a clubbers’ nightmare – strict curfews at 11:30 in the night, political bastards beating women up for drinking beer, cops taking a sadistic pleasure in accosting unsuspecting drunk drivers and the worst of them all, a steep rise in liquor taxes, ensuring the public that you could get drunk only if you have a salaried bank account. But, Bangalore being Bangalore, swallowed all these, shrugged and said in it’s trademark laid-back attitude, “Shit happens.”

Nowadays, it’s very ironic when someone tells me that Wednesdays are Ladies’ Nights in most clubs in the city, because if this isn’t the heights of hypocrisy, then I don’t know what is. It’s like saying, “We beat up women for drinking and just to keep things fair, once a week, we’ll give them a free drink.”  Ridiculous, right?

Anyhoo, this isn’t a serious post at all. I haven’t lost my marbles and no, I haven’t joined a political party. I haven’t lost my soul and I haven’t slept with the devil. It’s just something I wanted to ponder upon. The main purpose of this post with the scandalous title is to narrate what happened yesterday night, after work, when all I wanted to do was go home and sleep in the comfort of my blue blanket. Three of us decided to get drunk.

I kept insisting that I didn’t want to go a place where there’s Ladies’ Night in effect, because that would mean I’m interrupting all the wonderful women who were enjoying themselves, bathing in the soft glow of green lasers, getting drunk and doing other things that women do when they are drunk. Someone had once told me that only gay men and sexually frustrated men go to pubs on Ladies’ Nights to ogle at women or to feel like one. I know its a twisted logic, but then, I didn’t want to be one of those men. I have never ever gone clubbing on Wednesdays. Till now.

I got royally drunk and reached home at one in the morning and I’m proud of the fact that I didn’t puke. Funny enough, there were more men at the club last night than women. It took me a while to figure out the concept of the free drink coupons and that only I was being asked to pay a cover charge and that as time wore on, all the men started dancing and that it took the women a bit more time to loosen up and join the gay brigade and the sexually frustrated brigade.

So, I’m putting the record straight – I’m neither gay nor sexually frustrated. I have nothing against these two clans and I hope we can live and let live. And let loose a few expletives from time to time.

Oh, I’m so terribly hungover!

Image Courtesy: Bangalore.burrp.com

Matrix Relocated!

There were two pills – a blue one and a red pill. “Take one,” he said, and adjusted his black sunglasses. I couldn’t fathom why he was wearing dark sunglasses inside the already dimly-lit room. He couldn’t see a thing.

“Er, I’m over here pal,” I said, hiding an amused smile.

He turned towards me and used his free hand to raise his glasses. He stuck them over his forehead, looked at me through his blue contact lenses and said, “Don’t keep moving about, dude.”

“But I – “

“Don’t interrupt me!” he said, interrupting me. “Take a pill.”

“Why? What are these pills?” I asked, slightly angered with his tone.

“You are the Round One. We’ve been waiting for you for well over a decade. You will save us from the evil machine creatures that haunt us. One of these pills will enable you to see the truth and help us, and the other will enable you to go back to your boring PR life and your boring blogs and your boring PR life. You decide.”

“You said that already, man,” I said.

“What?”

“My boring PR life…”

“Yeah. I know. Now decide!” he said and held out his hand, on which nestled two innocent pills – one red and blue.

“Tell me something first,” I said. “Why am I the Round One? Is it because I’m fat? Why can’t I be the Chosen One or something cooler?”

“Stop wasting time, Round One! Take a pill and save our lives!” he pleaded.

I took the red pill and swallowed it with a glass of water. I waited. Nothing happened. I looked at him. “Now what?” I asked him.

“You bastard,” he said softly. “You’ve decided to go back to your PR life, Round One. You have damned us all.”

As I woke up, back in my boring life the next day, I decided to reduce some weight. Round One? WTF!