First Aid

Growing up with a doctor mom, I took medicine for granted.Since the last couple of years since I have been on my own and the recipient of daily/weekly/monthly small or big injuries (phew..not yet hourly), so when an opportunity to take a two-day first aid certification course came along I pounced at it (and didn’t trip).It was a course set up exclusively for my work place, we were taught all about CPR, bandaging wounds, what to do if you’re hit by lightning, and field surgery. I think my expectations were a little high, especially around the surgery part, because we were only being certified as Level C “first aiders” and not actual medical doctors (I DID learn about being hit by lightning. If it happens, you’re probably toast). I had (and still have) a wicked case of laryngitis, so the introductory part of the session, where we all had to say our names and our first aid background was even more awkward for me than normal. I sounded like a cell phone that was dropping out—luckily, I was sitting with some very nice colleagues who filled in the gaps for me. The instructor—let’s call him Abi— was a very interesting and well-experienced former fire captain, who had some amazing stories to tell about traumatic situations and injuries, the vast majority of which seemed to have happened to his him or his own family and friends. I think my favorite story was how he stabbed a butcher knife completely through his palm getting it out of the dishwasher. Abi had serious bad injury karma, and I was convinced that at least one of our group was NOT going to make it to the weekend. Nevertheless, I took copious notes.At the end of the course we were supposed to administer Heimlich maneuver to a dummy whom I called chuck (any resemblance to Netflix is purely coincidental ) to gain the certificate of “achievement”.I can totally picture this in my head. Imagine, how cool would it be to raise my hand when during my daily commute, the red double deck bus driver asks the question over the intercom "Is there a doctor onboard ?

ooops can’t do it, (8 years of med school vs. 2 half days of first aid course)

OK, Scene 2 : How cool would it be when this question is popped and there is no doctor and the victim’s buddy has a turned into a shade of desperate and I can raise my hand and slow walk (only in my head, I would rush in real life.”Pinky swear”.) from the upper deck as “Heimlich girl”.
So armed with this certificate, I travel everyday keeping the streets of Brighton and Hove safe from me tripping over someone/something.
It’s my turn to give back to society (not just by seeding the torrents)

:)

Snack for a coyote

My knack for being the data whisperer is sadly not preventing the fat cells in my fingers from multiplying. I know this when I fat finger all my texts and am left at the mercy of auto correct. We all know that has led to only clear communication (yeh right!). In fact I tried to draw Zentangles to practice my dexterity but the results are so creative that a 2 year holds a better chance of beating me at them. So perhaps running? This fine Sunday morning,  I chose to run at roadrunner park where we have  demographics ranging from one year taking their first steps to little league to Senior citizens walking to keep themselves in shape.  It’s a big park. The board near the parking lot boasts of covering 14 acres with ponds, baseball fields, tennis courts and just trails for hiking.

I started my pedometer and waded through the sidewalks. I took a couple of rounds around the pond and the ducks in the pond are pretty supportive. They only come in your way when you want to take a break (thank you!!). I crossed an old lady on the walker a couple of times, counted my steps, thought about big bang (the show not the origin of the universe) and weighted for Ryan gosling encouraging voice on my Nike app. Suddenly I got a tap on my shoulder, I turned around to a petite bespectacled 5 ft slightly bent figure who was using a walker to complete her walk. She complimented me on the length of my hair, I smiled in gratitude and then she said something very interesting,
“Every time you ran past me in this hour, all I wanted to do was pull your hair. It’s very tempting.” Duh! Hmmm.

That’s newJ. I took the hint (what if she was not joking??) and decided to change my course. I moved to less populated trail of the park to complete my run. It was just me on the trail as far as I could see. After running for a few minutes I soon realized how wrong my assumption was about solititude. I saw a pair of gleaming eyes in the distance, I assumed it was a dog on a leash with the owner close by, but as I approached closer my worst nightmares were soon coming to realization. A big brown and grey coyote was standing 150 feet away. I paused and thought will I be snack to this coyote? Dibs on oxygen to my brain cells, I immediately took out my phone to call 911. A patented mix of fear and fat fingers lead to me clicking on the flashlight app instead. The flashlight from my phone deterred the coyote. It traced a few steps back. Encouraged, I shone the lights directly in his eyes. The coyote turned around and walked away.

Ha ..Fat fingers to the rescue.

Adrenalin filled; I did not know what to do?

Should I runback which might reduce the fat in my fingers that’s what I started for but then it was the fat fingers that saved me. Decisions..Decisions..Guess being a klutz has its own perks. I ran back to the park entrance and realized this was destiny. After all this was the roadrunner park, I was bound to run into the coyote. Finally they caught up.

Beep bEEp.

Why do I blog?

I love to blog though ironically the frequency of blog posts on this site is may not be the best indicator of my passion. Let me share with you a little secret, I may be pretending to listen to you as I nod and my eyes glaze but if you throw in few buzz words like “Blog”, you have my attention. The word blog makes me focus the lens of my DSLR brain in manual settings and waits patiently to capture what you are saying.  Being on the listening side of the phone for tooooooooo long my sister finally asked me yesterday why do I blog? Hmm… To answer that I need to write a blog. The answer my friends and readers lies wrapped in the following paragraph.
Twenty years and few months back when I was 8 years old and my sister who has seen 365x4 years less of sunlight than me on this planet were tucked blissfully in our room. My sister Sakshi has a different version of the story but since this is my blog let me tell you what “really happened” that afternoon.
We were playing superheroes. We had the bed sheets tied to our necks as capes and we towered high above our bunk beds looking down at the neatly lined teddies and dolls on the floor of our bedroom waiting to be rescued from the evils clutches of the Invisible force.
I wanted to be the first when I saw that a bullet was coming Sakshi’s way and I pushed her only to save her life a heroic act for which I am yet to be thanked. The push resulted in Sakshi flying down from the bunk bed on the floor on all her four’s.
I nervously peered down, her overactive tear glands were ready to open the dam gates in her eyes, her face was a shade of fuchsia and her lips threatened to wake my parents. My parents who had lied down for a nap after a very long week and the only thing they had asked me to do was to take care of my sister and keep her safe. Well that did not go very well. Then at that exact moment my “creative” mind had dibs on the blood flow and I turned to Sakshi and said “Did you see that? You landed as Tinkerbelle. Only Tinkerbelle lands on all fours”. My poor sister had emotions conflicting on her face where she was in a dilemma of whether she should cry wolf which would ultimately lead to some kind of medication (eeyuckkhh) or be proud that she was Tinkerbelle, There was nothing more than Sakshi wanted to be in the world than to be Tinkerbelle. So Sakshi hobbled up with all the grace of Tinkerbelle but with a broken arm and climbed back on bed.

As in the 32 syllable Valmiki’s Ramayana, the Truth had again defeated evil. The truth that I love my sister (and myself) over the evil of being reprimanded for my actions at that moment had won. So I blog so that I can share the beads of wisdom that I have gathered and hopefully inspire you to be evil to your siblings.

PS: Sakshi still secretly adores Tinkerbelle and was overjoyed to see her at Disneyworld Florida, She might not admit to it but that was the only time during the Disney parade when she did not focus on the Turkey Leg in her hand.

Hello Kitty

“Grrr—chrrr-grrr"

Chainsaw searing through the bush below my window woke me up on Saturday, not the lullaby one hopes for in the wee hours. A sound that disproved my bed sheet theory. A theory that states that

“One in state of rest or unrest cannot just get up from the 3600 thread count Egyptian cotton bed set, you have to peel yourself like a really old stubborn sticker that only comes out in tattered parts stuck on your favorite table”.

I sprung up to figure what the ruckus was about. A tiny kitten had got stuck on the Paolo Verde tree which stands next to my balcony and a fire truck was here to its rescue.

An interesting scene unfolded in front my now alert eyes. The owner of the misplaced kitten was standing in a corner ready to break into sobs any moment. Three unruffled 6ft fireman stood next took her and took little notice and continued to look at the fourth fireman who was trying to trim the hedges so that he could place his ladder to reach the kitten.

I am not a fan of kittens but this one was particularly ugly. It had no fur on its body and was pink and skinny, to me it looked like a skinny pink rotisserie chicken with beady eyes and pointy ears.

Eucck.

I was ready to step back in my room when I heard someone shout “Watch out”. 

I turned around and found that the fireman was near my balcony and had spooked the kitten. The horrendous creature was now leaping (read flying at 35 mph) towards me. I was in a dilemma, should I deflect it like a volleyball or try to catch it in mid air ?

 I did neither, I dropped it.

Letting go of all her inhibitions, the owner shrieked, am sure now waking people around the block. The cat lay still near my feet not moving. The tables had now turned. I was suddenly the evil one responsible for the cat’s unfortunate situation.

The fireman leaning on my balcony witnessed the sea of horror emotions on my face and grinned.

I stood frozen as the fireman stepped on my balcony and lifted the cat up, he rubbed the ears and pressed on the kitten’s chest, the kitten opened its eyes. Thank god for 9 lives of the cat. I am sure this one was 9/9.

I wasn’t sure who was more relived the owner of the kitten on finding the kitten back in her arms or me that I was not witness to a cat kill.

Alas somebody did climb my balcony, not my Romeo with flowers but a bulky stranger holding a near dead cat.

Back to my bed. Happy thoughts. 

Only Happy thoughts.  

whether Weather

Suddenly it's summer. Just the other day we were sitting shivering indoors, bundled up in sweaters, room heaters blazing, wondering if it mightn't be warmer if we crammed ourselves into the fridge.

And now, before you can say 'heatstroke', the mercury is rising, the woollies have been packed away, and the AC’s are in full swing. And everyone is moaning and groaning about how hot the days already are and how much hotter they're going to get, and how they just can't stand the heat, and how winters are so much better when it's nice and cool.
These are the same people — and i include myself — who till a few days ago were whining and cribbing about how cold and horrid it was, and all you felt like doing was staying huddled in bed under a nice warm quilt, and couldn't wait for it to get warmer.
And as summer advances and it gets hotter and hotter, and then hotter still, so that you sit indoors with a glass of cold cucumber water by your side, dripping sweat and wondering if it mightn't be cooler if you were to switch on the oven and shove yourself into it, you ask yourself when , oh when, will the blessed monsoon come and the rain cool things down a bit, or will El Nino — whoever the heck he is — play spoilsport and leave us gasping and panting in this dreadful heat.
And finally the monsoon will come — yah boo to El Nino —and the rain will come pouring down, and streets will get flooded as they do every year, and there'll be endless traffic jams, and no one will be able to get to work, or to school, or to anywhere on time, and everyone will say when, oh when, will this awful rain stop which is ruining crops all over the country.
What would we do if we didn't have weather to talk about? How hot it is, how cold it is, how wet it is, how dry it is, and so on and on and on?
In an age of increasingly sharp political, social and cultural differences, the weather remains just about the only safe subject to talk about without getting into a heated argument — or worse — with someone or the other who takes a point of view diametrically opposed to yours.
As a subject for polite conversation, politics has become a distinct no-no. Because while you might be an ardent democrat , or a supporter of Seahawks , the person you're talking to could turn out to be a Osho admirer and the next thing you know is that the fur and fists start flying.
The same thing goes for that other grand passion of Indians — cricket, particularly of the IPL variety. Was that last match fixed or not fixed? Is such-and-such in cahoots with bookies or isn't he? Nope, cricket has become an explosive minefield where not only angels but even fools fear to tread.
Movies ? What about movies as a safe topic of conversation? You never know. The movie you say you loved might be one that some group or other is up in arms about and wants banned for hurting religious/community/cultural sentiments and before you know what's what, you find yourself being punched in the face.
No one's going to punch you in the face for saying how hot it is when it's hot. Or how cold it is when it's cold. Or how rainy when it's raining. Thank God for weather. For without it we'd literally be at a loss for words and have nothing to converse about. Or, in this case, to write about. =)

Sample Taxonomy of Tax evaders

Wheeling-dealing politicians don’t generally have much time for literature, or even for popular pulp fiction which might be described as litter-ature. But it’s possible that today’s scamsters could take a page or two out of William Shakespeare’s book. Or, more specifically, his book of accounts regarding his commercial dealings.
According to a recent study conducted by a team of literary historians, the Bard of Avon was, measure for measure, one of the most adept tax evaders and blackmarketeers of his times. Describing the patron saint of English literature as a “ruthless businessman who did all he could to avoid taxes, maximize profits at others’ expense and exploit the vulnerable, while also writing plays about their plight to entertain them”, the study narrates how over a 15-year period the poet-playwright amassed a fortune by hoarding and selling food grains at “inflated prices to neighbors and local tradesmen”. Though once prosecuted for his illegal activities, he managed to get himself off the hook and went on to retire in 1613 as the “largest property owner in his hometown of Stratford-upon-Avon”.
The politicians whose pro-common man rhetoric often masks their underhand dealings might find an affinity with the dramatist who duped his audiences by deftly lightening their purses even as he held them spellbound by his verbal virtuosity that convinced everyone that everything was as you like it and that all’s well that ends well.
Indeed, inspired by the study which, unintentionally, draws a parallel between the Elizabethan playwright and those who script the political scenario of 21st century, academics could open up a new line of inquiry as to the real identity of the man known to posterity as William Shakespeare.
From time to time, various attempts have been made to prove that the poems and plays attributed to Shakespeare were actually penned by someone else altogether. The list of surrogate Shakespeares includes the philosopher Francis Bacon and the contemporary dramatist Christopher Marlowe. Bardolators – as Shakespeare fans are called – have pooh-poohed such claims as a tempest in a teacup, and a comedy of errors, if not a midsummer night’s dream
All this squealing but I still have to file my taxes. Sigh!!
Oh No ! Wait I have 4 more days .
Procrastination – Thy name is ....

Thy name

On 8th March, 2013, I became a proud “bua“/Aunt (my cousin gave birth to a really pretty angel) .I popped the question in high pitched excited tone the day she was born “What do we call her  ?" I was asked for suggestions and I did my homework and here are my 2 cents (Rs 4 in INR) :

When Juliet said “What's in a name ? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet." Shakespeare was definitely deluded!!
As I dig through Wikipedia entries, I realize increasingly, parents are giving their children unconventional, made-up names which are not linked to any specific language or cultural tradition and could belong to any part of a cosmopolitan planet. Saddle a little kid with a name like Subharnarekha and likely as not she'll grow up and emigrate to Antarctica, or Adelaide, or Kotakinabalu, where everyone, starting with herself, will call her Subs for short, and also for long.
No, made-up names, which sound good and are easy to pronounce in any language you like, including Esperanto, are definitely a yes-yes, as distinct from a no-no. The name that identifies you should be like your fingerprint: exclusively yours and yours alone, as individualistic and un-interchangeable as you know yourself to be.
A made-up name doesn't carry unnecessary and sometimes inconvenient baggage. A child named after a well-known politician, say, might well be embarrassed in later life to be the namesake of a politician caught out in a major scam or scandal, as well-known politicians seem increasingly likely to be.
History has a way of turning heroes into villains. Unlike an Adolf, or a Stalin, or a Mao, made-up names don't run the risk of one day turning out to be politically incorrect. Free of the burden of history, made-to-order names — or designer names, if you prefer — are not about the past, but about a future which will be as independent and creative as the out-of-the-box-named individual chooses it to be.
Indeed, this business of unusual name-calling could well turn out to be just that: a mega-business, like iPhones or Twitter. Future jobs could include that of the professional name-caller, whom people would consult to devise an original name for them, much like people go to event managers today to devise original theme parties for them.
Lawyers and patent attorneys would also benefit, what with people registering their names under the Copyright and Trade Marks Act. After all, little use going to a name-designer, and paying the person a lot of money, if a couple of weeks later you discover that the person next door has pinched the name you've chosen so that there are now not one but two Ulianilonias, or Zingaloos, or whatever, on the block, whereas by all intellectual property rights there should only be one, your Ulianilonia, or your Zingaloo, or your whatever.
Numerologists will ensure that the name you chose is not only one-of-a-kind but also numerically calculated to bring good fortune to the person who is called by it. However, as in all things, moderation has to be exercised in name-calling. For instance, while Zyxwrut, or Aeiou, might be even uniquer than an Aadhaar number/SSN, as well as being numerologically sound, that they require a contortionist's tongue to pronounce should rule them out.

Some names are just too bizarre to be for real.
For example, what weirdo would end up being called Swati?

Duh!

Why are we sitting in the refrigerator ?

Why are we sitting in the refrigerator ? I asked Chinu (roomate/partners in crime) with one eyebrow lifted at an angle of 40'.
We`re not sitting in the refrigerator; we`re sitting in our living room she replied. This conversation took place during the recent cold wave that swept Scottsdale (Believe it or not Scottsdale actually got snow!!), the app on my phone read the temperature as 50 F making not just the living room but all the rooms of the house feel like the inside of a Ice box.
Teeth chattering in Morse code I marveled at this unique phenomenon of global warming. How had this global warming which was melting the Arctic ice cap and giving polar bears heatstroke all of a sudden become a global colding? What next??? Would they schedule the skiing and ice-skating events of the forthcoming Winter Olympics in the Mojave Desert in mid-July ?
However, environmentalists soon came up with a phrase which explained why the planet was freezing over even as it was heating up; it was an example of what they call Extreme Weather Events (EWEs). Thanks to global warming the Earth would increasingly experience extremes of weather; unusually hot hot waves, unusually cold cold waves.
As we huddled in front of the fireplace , both of us bundled up in woollies, Mili my pet ant (We met during my camping trip and I mused on the wondrous laws of Nature which could turn global warmth into global freeze, all as part of the day`s work and no overtime either. How cool or how globally warm was that. How cool indeed, Mili wiggled in acknowledgment, an icicle forming on the tip of her nose .As we shivered and shuddered in sympathetic unison, it struck me maybe if I go on a virtual expedition on google maps in the warm sunny beaches of Macau the placebo effect might kick in. Google can you please launch FIBRE in Scottsdale sooner, my fantasy for soaking in the sun needs to be supported by sonic speed

Larry and Sergey are you guys listening ??
=)

Out for Launch

Poems-It takes talent and I believe a different wiring in your head to write and appreciate them.I can never make the words falls so perfectly in sequence that would evoke a emotion in the readers head.My sister Sakshi on the other hand has several one them to her credit published in journals. What is my contribution to this feet you ask ? I can proudly tell you that I am the sole source of "countless nuisance moments" in her life which inspire her to write .(a.k.a vent it all out).
 Her latest penmanship made me think that perhaps she should bundle her writings and publish her own book. (After all my grandfather had several under his belt.They are out of print now but you can still request order them here Amazon Link1, Amazon Link 2)
We should celebrate her publication in style.Let me do a book launch for her book (Hopefully not like the one I attended in 08).
All I need is :
Invitations: I looked up my list of Facebook friends to invite.
I pinged a few and soon realized that the book-reading habit is not just dead but buried, with a stake through its heart so that unlike Dracula it can't rise from its grave.
Nobody reads books any more, not even on Kindle which was devised as a fashion accessory - like Gucci earplugs or Armani hernia trusses .Medical science has yet to establish that the reading of books can cause cancer and make hair grow on the palms of your hands. However, it is generally accepted that books are injurious to mental health in that they distract from watching Bigg Boss/Bachelor, playing angry birds, and catching up on the latest tweet that's doing the rounds .No worries, it would be a small cozy group.
Guest of Honor:
Undeterred, next on the agenda is finding someone to launch it. It had to be launched by a Celebrity, who should be a Big Name. It could be a politician or a show biz personality or perhaps another author. But the preferred kind of Big Name is the Big Name which doesn't fit into any particular slot and is known only to be famous for being famous. Like Kim Kardashian or Charlie Sheen.
{Coin Toss}
Heads. Charlie Sheen it is.I hope he reads my mail when he is sober i don't want my invitation to be swept under the carpet in his drunken stupor.
Cause:
It’s in vogue , to associate part of your earning to a charity. My mom does enough pro bono activities to support education, girl rights,unemployment and what not.So now its my responsibility to stand up for what i believe is a lost cause and needs attention.
Shoes.
I can already see the electronic scroll in font size 12 ,color neon ,font -Helvetica on the website “In aid of buying new shoes relief fund”.This should evoke enough empathy and drive sales.Yayy.
Website : 
I need a place to display the cause, share pictures  and get RSVP's.
Summary:To summarize ,the checklist for a successful launch are: guests, chief guest, cause, website and oh yeh the book maybe..just maybe.
Sorry need to go now, I need to update my out of office message to “Out for launch”.

In full disclosure, the checklist above is not going to get you very far with your book launch but I highly recommend Guy Kawasaki’s latest publication.

Bully

I have walked more than two decades on this planet.I have met my share of bullies. Some intimidate you with their physical appearance and others by their sharp remarks, whatever be their style the one thing that holds them together is the common mission in life to generate secretions of your Lacrimal gland (a.k.a make you cry).
Now that the thermometer on my patio wall does not threaten to burst, I decided to go camping with my pals. We reached early morning and hiked before the sunscreen started to wear off .After the hike, we sat under the shade of a tree which showed gradual sign of the coming fall. The leaves had started taking hues of red and orange. We all sat exhausted sharing a bottle of Gatorade when I felt a slight buzzing near my ear; I moved my hand to shoo off whatever it was. The shooing did not deter the sound maker, exhausted and not wanting to move a muscle ..i tilted my head to see the source of sound .It was a brown and yellow ugly hornet.
Yuck.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAaa” the hornet stung my friend Priya, she winced in pain.
Ah the bully.
I ran behind the hornet to shoo it off. I had forgotten the terrain and fell on the boulders. I scrapped my knees and the tips of my fingers were gone (Aha ..time to commit Crime) I was in pain. The bully just flapped its wings more fervently circled around me in mockery and flew away.
I had it.
I might have been brought down on my knees once by the bully but that does not mean I accept defeat. After being rushed to urgent care, I visited the closet Walmart and bee lined for –Pest control section. On the top most shelf laid a can with my mortal enemies face on it. I could not reach it and had to use the back of the handle of a rake kept in the gardening section to make it fall down. I paid for my weapon and luckily the cashier put it in bag ,as I did not want to even touch anything which had my mortals enemies face on it.
The next morning while we sleeping in our tent, I woke up with buzzing again. My senses perked up and I reached for the can SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
Priya mumbled “You missed it “,No I did not .
I could already visualize it stuffed and mounted on my dining room.
The taste of victory is so sweet.
I proudly stepped out to see the carcass of the bully. I did not find anything.
Hmmmm.
Ahh I know, the ants must have carried it away and the entire ant colony would feast on it.
So my dear readers…..if you plan to bully me ….remember I might find that can in walmart and spray you dead.
Beware.
Grr.

Mr Bain:Is Rain–boon or bane ?

Of the 15 days I was in Seattle, it rained for 13. Dark clouds gloomier than an economists forecast covered the skies. The locals hated the cold and the wet. Sakshi and I loved it. The locals thought we were mad to prefer rain over shine. Either that or we were high on Starbucks Chai latte (from the first Starbucks store ever ), a surfeit of which might well have hallucinogenic effects.
Our preference for cloudy skies over clear had nothing to do with insanity or Starbucks. It had to do with the grass being greener on the other side. In Scottsdale, we crave for raindrops to hit our car windshield, even though that might spell into multiple unplanned car washes. Seattle on the other hand, is a peacock heaven,the locals wait for shooting stars and wish for sunny days,the slightest glimpse of the sun makes the locals rush in hordes to hard, pebbly beaches where they take off their clothes and turn themselves into human barbecues in a tribal ritual called sunbathing.
Having left phoenix when it was a sweltering 115 F, Sakshi and I didn't miss the sun at all. And we welcomed the rain clouds that kept it away, ensuring that the mercury never went beyond a maximum of a very pleasant  60 F .
Sakshi and I love walking. Equipped with umbrellas which we'd had the foresight to pack in our luggage and thick-soled, puddle-resistant shoes.We walked along the banks of the river for three and half miles where tourists fed bread crumbs to a quackle of ducks. We stumbled upon Anglers, a picturesque café with tables outside .We played scrabble as we munched on our salad .Sakshi was leading the game .All my pleas that “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” is a real word were coolly gulped with lemonade.
With nothing left in my artillery I resorted to the last arrow in my quiver of whimsies .I decided to distract her with cute street dogs that bounced on the street .Ahh well it made her smile but not happy enough to be bad at the game.
Sheesh. I continued to struggle to make triple word scores when the gentle man sitting on the next table spilled his drink .The helpful staff was immediately trying to clean the mess and replace his drink but in the commotion we didn't realize that it had started to rain again and we had to abandon our game (I knew my faith in almighty will pay off some day).
So Seattle with your green grasses ,unplanned showers and yummy lunches, you made me realize , It's not just about walking, or rain, or sunshine. It's about how all of us yearn for that which we don't have. Those who are brown-skinned use Fair & Lovely to whiten their complexions, and those who are white-skinned spend fortunes getting themselves fashionably suntanned. The paparazzi-pursued celebrity seeks the protective cloak of anonymity, while the anonymous hunger for the limelight of fame.
Yes, the grass is always greener on the other side. The credit for greenery goes to rain .Phoenix eat your heart out.
=)

Waxed/Vexed mouse

My neighborhood library "Agave"  is my secret haven for the last couple of months.It is a small cozy place tucked in the corner behind a grove of mesquite trees.It symbolizes a place of comfort, solitude, free books and DVDs for me.
The librarian -Richard is a kind soul who is blessed with a balding head and a twinkle in is light grey eyes  which makes me always wonder whats buzzing underneath his graying temples. He has been at this very library for the last 8 years since his retirement. He takes great pride in sharing stories about how it rained cats and dogs the day the  foundation stone was laid and how in no time he had all kinds of people flocking in the corridors of the library .
Richard maybe happy about his visitors but since the last week there are a bunch of visitors that have been the reason he is popping aspirin as m n m's.
There is apparently a new mouse family in the library who get their nourishment from Shakespeare ballads and Newton’s theorem alike.So three days back when I went in to drop off the books I noticed the distraught look in Richard’s face. He shared his woes about the "brown" clan .I decided to jump in and figure a way out.
I went to the home depot and looked for all kinds of traps I couldn't bring myself to kill them . After looking the talents of many locals’ artists i decided to go with one that looked like an open book which had sticky pages.The idea is that the mice would get stuck on them and can be safely moved to their own sanctuaries.
Richard said he had notice 5 baby mice and 6 adult mice.so we placed the traps in different sections .I placed two in "romance”, one in "fiction" and a couple in children section.
We switched off all the lights and closed for the day .
In the morning we found a mouse stuck in the trap placed in the romance section and the rest of the traps remained untouched . I high-fived with Richard .The mouse was pretty calm his beady eyes looked unperturbed by our presence .We took the trap/books and placed them outside the library near the manhole waiting for it to run off.It just couldn't move .I went back to my car trunk and got my bachii (Taiko stick) and poked at the mouse nudging him to move but that didn't help either . Richard took over and poked harder with the stick and wallah.
We had a mouse with well waxed bottoms.
So much for all the Brazilian wax advertisements that flood radio stations.
Romance section seems to have been a hit so we planted another set the next day but caught none. In fact they all seem to have vanished.
My theories with Richard range from either the mice pride themselves in being the furry clan and didn't like our services or for all you know they might have gone to get the rest of their clan for the Brazilian wax .
We will see.
=)

horo-(in-)scope

Like every new year" never before " offers for zodiacal predictions are flooding my inbox.At this time of the year, astrology books sell hotter than hot cakes and threaten to unseat the latest Chetan Bhagat from the top of the best-seller chart. Some might find this surprising considering that we are in the digitalised 21st century of spaceships and supercomputers. So where in this supposedly hi-tech mindspace does hocus-pocus like astrology fit in? Nonetheless, the ongoing debate about whether or not the distant stars and planets can rule our destinies seems to gain in volume and intensity with each passing season. Is astrology mere mumbo-jumbo, or is it? as its adherents claim? more jumbo than mumbo in terms of its cosmic credentials?Except for one thing, i've long been a sceptic with regards to star-gazing. The reason for my skepticism goes back to the time when i was part of the "Horizon " e-magazine . The magazine had decided to publish a astrological column for the annual issue.None of the editors took astrology seriously. The way we looked at it, it was harmless fun, rather like speculating about life on Mars or if UFOs did or did not exist. As long as you didn't begin to see little green men peering up at you from your morning bowl of cornflakes, or resign yourself to the fact that you'd never get that office promotion so long as Saturn remained in your ninth house, everything was fine.We decided that horoscopes should be  generally cheerful and upbeat, the zodiacal equivalent of a vitamin tonic. If your prediction of the week was good, it gave you the confidence to succeed in whatever you were doing. If the prediction was not so good, working hard could help to overcome negative influences, so buck up and put in extra effort. Either way, you won.The only catch was 

we did not have a REAL astrologer.

So what would we do without the annual forecast that our readers eagerly awaited? (We had publicized it in our last issue and there was a lot of buzz)

Simple: Make it up. 

We divided the zodiac signs between us. I was given Pisces, Leo and Sagittarius. And we made up the predictions for what lay in the year ahead, remembering to keep the general tone positive and throwing in a lot of trines (as in: Your Jupiter will be in trine with Mars) for the sake of authenticity. No one knew what a trine was. But it sounded like a powerful ju-ju, an astrological version of ajinomoto. So we liberally sprinkled our cooked-up predictions with generous dollops of trines.After that do-it-yourself foray into horoscopy.

We recived a lot of positive response and the readers wanted us to make it a regular feature.

The team exchanged amusing glances at the thought.We had to come up with a way to get out of it graciously.So the subsequent monthly issue's editors note read something like this :

Dear Readers,

blah blah.....blah...some more blah

We loved your feedback but our astrologer based on the accuracy of his predictions has been offered a "exclusive" job with a country's elite and has entered a "exclusive"contract

whereby we would have to pay royalty every time we used his name or his whereabouts .So unfortunately we cannot continue with this feature ..

blah blah

Team Horizon.

PS:I know team this was supposed to be out little secret but trust me the readers of this blog are completely trustworthy and they promised me to take this secret with them to the grave .

 Miss you Horizon!!

:)

A case study:Indian paunch

Objective:To visit the temple.

Achievement:Me and my sister manged to get up early.Like 5 am early.(oooooooo...ahhh...whistles..applause)
Scenario:We are sitting at the back of our car and driving through the parking lot of a temple.
View from our car window:A young couple has come down to get their new car blessed .The priest who was performing the ceremony stood a 5.4’’ ,300 lb whose only clothing was the lungi .He had a lot of body hair (looked like a fur coat) but his head was shaved and was shining bright. In fact for some reason the sun and the surrounding shadows from the trees seemed to make the world map on his head. He had his eye shut and was busy chanting the mantras.
Request made : Our driver honked and requested the priest to move so that he could park next to the new car.(only parking space available after taking multiple rounds looking for one)
Response received:The priest without batting an eyelid (infact with closed eyes) sucked his paunch in and said  "Nikaal lo "(Go ahead)
Reaction:Me and my sister exchanged amused glances (I promise i did not laugh)
Next scene should have been: A growl/comment of exasperation from the driver .
Next scene was: The driver could smoothly steer the car in.
We(Me and my sis) are now fans of :

• Indian paunch.--Our amused expression had turned into awe . The disrespected indian paunch had now taken a whole new dimension.It can serve as a table top and at the same time the owner can take a deep breath and give the illusion of non existence...even to make a car pass without opening one's eyes.
• Indian driving skills-- Countless tales and hymns have been written in appreciation in history..and history has again repeated itself.

 Afterthought:The priest with his paunch sucked in would make a good poster for bikram yoga studio wall. 

Royal pain--achoo!!

I did not go to the royal wedding .Over the years i've developed an allergy to any form of royalty. Some people are allergic to peanuts, or prawns, or dairy products. If, by mistake, they ingest one of these things their faces swell up, or they break out in spots. In my case, my allergy to royalty causes me to break into a sneezing fit, often at the mere mention of a member of the species.It first manifested itself years ago when i knew a family the head of which had in his youth been an ADC to a Rajasthani maharaja. Every now and then, in the course of general conversation (So hot and sticky the weather is, no?), mention would be made of the maharaja connection whereupon the entire family would apparently be seized by a collective fit of sneezing, all of them going Ziness!, Ziness!, Ziness ! Bless you, i'd say to them. Bless you, bless you.

One day, one of them asked me: Why do you keep saying bless you? Because you keep sneezing all the time, i replied, and demonstrated how they did it: Ziness! We're not sneezing, you idiot, i was informed. We're referring to His Ziness, the Maharaja.It seemed that, in royal circles, the preferred pronunciation of 'Highness' - as in 'His Most Royal and Exalted Highness' - was 'Ziness' with an exclamation mark at the end and an accompanying clicking together of heels. I don't know if it was that particular experience or something else, but i start sneezing when people start talking about royalty. Reason i don't play cards. Can't, what with all those kings and queens mucking about.
Anyway, i'm glad that the nuptials went off without any glitches, or sneezes. Though it all seemed pretty tame stuff, no drama-baji like we have in Indian weddings. No last-minute dowry demands. No bhangra-ing baratis. No helicopters. No shotguns fired into the air, bringing down the stray crow or curious bystander caught in the blast. No wailing pooh-paah cars competing with the wailing of shehnais. No Bollywood starlets doing item numbers.
Still, it was a nice shaadi, and i wish the couple all the best for the future. As and when Mummyji finally steps down, and Charlie-baba ascends to the throne - How will they get him out of the wheelchair and onto it? - Willie will be next in line to be king. Perhaps it's time he began to take a few kingly lessons. True, he'll be king of only a small, wet island largely inhabited by Pakistanis and Bangladeshis who run balti restaurants the waiters of which are rumoured to spit in cheery contempt into the chicken tikka masala that the natives consume with obsessive dedication. But a king's a king for all that, and a little royal tutoring might well be in order. Where should Willie go to get it?
Ever since the French Revolution, royalty keeps a low profile in Europe. As in the case of the midget monarch, Sarkozy I of France, who stands five-foot nothing in his elevator shoes. With the Indian takeover and the booting out of the poor Chogyal, royalty has been banished from Sikkim, as it has from Nepal following popular demand. Bhutan's King Jigme Wangchuk has stepped down for his son (why won't Mummyji take a hint?) and has also announced a rollout plan for democracy. The anti-royal Jasmine Revolution is sweeping West Asia and North Africa. So where can poor Willie go to learn to be a proper monarch? Which is the only country left in the world where dynasty is destiny, and destiny is dynasty?
All right Willie, pop across and we'll try and arrange to get you a darshan of a truly Royal Family. OK, Maharani Soniaji, Yuvraj Rahulji? Ziness! (Damn, there goes the sneezing again.)