Blogathon Day 4: Five biggest achievements of an Aam Aadmi

Given the recent turn of events in the Indian politics, Aam Aadmi has actually become quite a celebrity. Given that special status, and my inclination to talk about stories of my rendezvous with celebrities on this blog (such as my actual meeting with Imraan Khan and hypothetical marriage with Salman Khan), I will write about the aam admi today. But not in the celebrity sort of way, more in the cattle class sort of way. And since the prompt for today is about achievements, what better opportunity than this to talk about the achievements of the common man in India!

So, here is my list of 5 biggest achievements of a common man in India. Ofcourse excluding winning Delhi elections and other such antics certain special Aam Aadmis are pulling.

#5 Using a public toilet

That is, if you ever spot one, since these are as rare as 24 hour electricity in Indian towns. But rest assured that if there were to be a public toilet within 5 miles of where you are, you would know. Please don't make me explain how. You know what, I don't even want to talk about it. I know you agree its an achievement, being able to pee there.

#4 Getting college admission

You all must have had nightmares either getting yourself or your kids into colleges in India. If you have enough money, it might work. But for the aam aadmi, there are such atrocious demands as getting 100 percentile and what not.

 #3 Getting a passport

It takes 6 months to 1 year for a common man to get a passport in India. This time also includes numerous hardships and substantial money. And then it arrives with a mistake. Mine says my gender is male. I once had a very embarrassing moment with a bank employee when trying to open an account with that passport. Read my getting a passport saga here.

#2 Boarding a Mumbai local

Although I havn't done this myself long enough, my respects to those who do everyday. Mumbai locals are believed to carry more than 7 million people everyday. That is more than the official population of entire UAE. These train commuters have evolved their own code of conduct, sign language and body language to survive in these trains. Many of my posts have been inspired by these. I am sure more will be.

#1 Booking IRCTC ticket

Oh ho ho. This is the big one. People update FB statuses and throw parties if they successfully manage to book a ticket online on IRCTC. Wedding dates are decided on the basis of the dates people manage to get tickets for.

Hmm. If a certain Aam Aadmi, could bring change around in the country, I wish he could change these.

That is my wish list. My biggest achievements. And my biggest nightmares.

Blogathon Day 3: Weather report one day too late

Yesterday, the prompt for the day was weather. Being a rain child or a hot bird. To be honest I like all weathers, as long as they fall on weekends. Just to make things clear, my weekends are Friday and Saturday. The flip side is that I have to work on Sundays, but on the bright side, the Monday blues don’t exist!

So anyway, yesterday being a weekend day, was my favourite weather. I started the day with sleeping in late. The rest of the activity for the day was adjourned for the next day. Including this post, which is one day too late. The weekend weather is called Procastinter. Its awsome, intermittent and often made more enjoyable during overcast skies, and heavy showers.

Procastinter can be enjoyed on a hot sunny afternoon drinking chilled long island tea in front of your television, or on a chilly snowy winter morning, slipping under covers and eating garam moongphalis, or in your balcony on a pouring moonsoon evening, sitting on your plastic chair, touching rain water with your toes and eating Rocky road pastry.

I spent mine eating a healthy portion of this grilled bell peppers and pasta salad on my couch in the balcony with sweet winter sunshine, and some white wine.

Sad the procastinter is getting over in a few hours for me. Ah.. procastinter, come back soon again!

Blogathon Day 2: My serious introspection

I like to introspect. Mostly in the shower. And today I was introspecting a lot. Not about the year gone by. But about how cows manage to itch right right where it is itching.

I mean seriously, have you ever noticed a fly sitting on a cow. If a fly comes and sits on my right arm, I’ll lift my whole arm, or I’ll try to shoo away the fly with my left arm, or I will shake myself completely to move the fly. But a cow, wouldn’t bother as much. Same with a lazy person.

Imagine Ms cow eating her hay with gay (not the illegal one), when a fly comes and sits on its sirloin. The cow doesn’t care. Sirloin shakes itself, while Ms cow continues to eat. The darn fly then moves to sirloin’s neighbour, the tenderloin, which then makes a small frown. The fly jumps two blocks away to the shankle, the shankle shakes, it then climbs to the forehead, and the fore (head) skin only moves. The fly is now challenged. It hops and hops and hits the eye of the storm, literally. The cow blinks. 

I mean c’mon, what would it take you to nod your head? A Fanta perhaps ?

For those of you, who don’t enjoy steaks, here is a diagram:

And just FYI, Rib eye is not the eye of the cow. It is the rib instead.

The Resolution that was

Every year on the 31 December, what you hear a lot is “resolutions”. If you ask me, well, mine is 2.75 megapixel. Yes, thats the closest to a resolution I have ever been. Except once.

 Once, couple of years ago, when I was still a young stork, I decided to give my relationship with Salman Khan a serious chance. At that time I genuinely believed that if I approached him and held a very serious man to (wo)man talk with him and explained to him how it made perfect sense for him to marry me, he would have no choice but to agree.

 My case was solid. I knew where he lived. He was rich, I was intelligent. He was single, I was almost. He was being rejected time and again by beautiful women, and I was an answer to all those beauties, who wouldn’t match my brains. He was short, I was shorter. And finally the deal maker - He was Khan, I was Ms Khan. Where do we sign now?

 However, there was only one problem. How do I get to speak to him? Well, the plan was simple. I, along with my two other girl friends would go to Salman’s Bandra apartment. And in the middle of the night, we would start singing. All Salman Khan songs. Starting with “Oonchi hai building.. lift teri band hai”. And if you have heard us sing, we sound worse than Anu Malik. Poor Salman would eventually give in and come wave at us from his balcony. Thats when I would throw keywords at him. He would get the hint and call me in for a chat. The next we know, we would be in Ibiza getting “papped”.

 All of this was worked out in extreme detail. Nothing in this could fail. The date was set, the team ready and I even got my manicure, just in case there is a ring involved. But then, poof! came my future husband’s “expression of interest” on shaadi.com.

 I had to choose between finding a perfect wife for Salman, or a perfect husband for myself. Ofcourse I chose the latter. I chose to go for a Coffee with my Mr K rather than a “Koffee with Karan”. Plus there were those rumours of him dating certain other Ms K. I can take everything, but not infidelity. Huh.

Queue-ki naaki

Not so long ago I was shipped to Dubai. And I have lugged this blog along in my large brown bag. And here I open it first thing at the Carrefour super duper hyper store. Thanks to the forever due FDI in retail we havn’t yet discovered the Ikea meatballs (or was it horse-meatballs?) and the serpentine queues in India.  Or for the latter, have we?

 At the Mumbai local ticket counters, at the immigration department at airports, at the passport office, at the college admission counters, at the ATM, at the bus stop, at the water tap and also at Mcdonalds? Delhi ofcourse, is not included in this. There, you just mob around for everything, call out names,  and rape someone if you can.

 Anyway, back to queues (did you know it is spelt like this?), if you have ever been to one, chances are you agree that they are highly frustrating!

These forever 21 queues (21 is the number of people ahead of you) make me hate mankind (and womankind) and hope I was in a country, where they sell guns with 21 bullets in supermarkets, so I could shoot the queue ahead of me and suffocate the billing executive under the 21 corpses.

 Even in a store with 21 queues, it always seems that you are stuck in the slowest one. Its either the slow billing executive who can’t count money right, or doesn’t have keys to the teller, or it could be one of those annoying customers ahead of you who want to change their mind about items just after they are scanned, or those who want to reach out to pick chewing gum 7 feet away from the counter after all their items have been scanned, or better still, there are stealers who stuff a bag inside a bigger bag, thinking it won’t be noticed and they could have it for free. Whatever the reason, the ice-cream in your cart will sure melt before you reach the billing counter.

 Worse is when you are standing at the express counter and a hot looking girl walks to the guy at 7 and points to her buns. This guy is the typical “chomu” who is too happy that a girl spoke to him and she let him stare at her buns. Even though they were edible ones. Apparently she had only one item to scan to she can jump the queue. And the chomu lets her. And how many items did he have? A pair of slippers. While, I at number 21, can fume and do nothing else.

 Take my suggestion, if you want to remain sane, don’t ever go to a supermarket on a weekend if you have less than 20 items to buy. Its not worth the heart-ache or the back.

 PS: Have you heard that song "Isshq ki naaki"...?What is "naaki" anyway?

Lust at first sight

She crossed her legs as she stared at her own reflection on the glass panel at the metro platform. Adjusting her hair she craned her neck to see the metro arriving. The train arrived, and she stepped in. "Al abwabu tuglaq", "the doors are closing". And just then, their eyes met.

His steel grey eyes looked like made from the same glass she was staring at a while ago. A few strands of hair strayed on his forehead from his perfectly gelled mohawk. His lean tall structure stood firm and unperturbed by the moving train. He looked at her straight in the eye, but he wasn't looking. He was thinking.

After a brief pause and a soulful glance, that seemed to melt her in her shoes, he went back to reading on his tablet. Not realizing what he was inflicting upon her. He looked deeply involved, carried away and in control at the same time. His laptop bag snuggled between his legs on the floor.

Despite the dark business suit that covered his frame, she couldn't stop admiring the sculpture it camflagued.  She stood next to him. Close enough to smell the Givenchy perfume he was wearing. She noticed the intricate network of veins on the back of his hand that moved as he swiped screens. She adjusted her dress, and her hair and tried to look out the window. But his presence was just too distracting for her.

Lust at first sight. She thought smiling at herself. And put on her wayfarers.

"Al mahakkal kadima hiya Abrajul Emarat"

Talking Stomach

Some people like to talk a lot. Well, I am not one of them. But my stomach makes up for it. It has the guts (literally!) to break into the awkward silence of any room, be it an office, a funeral or a classroom. Ok, this might just be turning into a very gross subject for some of you readers, but well, there is an elephant in the room I am trying to address. And unfortunately that elephant is in my stomach.

Reading from health and wellness posts online, I conclude that many of you must have experienced some sort of growling in your stomach when it raises an alarm that your body needs food. Sometimes these sounds a more like murmurs, sometimes little louder so you can hear it.. or maybe your loved one can hear it, if sitting very close. But mine are more like roars from Jurassic Park. Even the water in the glass begins to shake. And now I am exaggerating. But they are loud enough so that everyone in my modest office of 4 can hear them. Although, I try to type really fast and create camouflaging sounds, I am sure it manages to break through the walls of my stomach and into the ears of those who may or may not understand where that sound is coming from. I eat my words and swallow them with water, but that doesn’t help either. The only thing that helps is sneaking out, snacking in, or snickers.

You know, I suspect that there is some sort of rhythm or secret message hidden in it. It happens at the same time everyday - between 10:30am and 11:30am. It growls, and whines and mews and most definitely says something. Maybe it is saying that my hair is looking very good today. Or maybe that I am a great driver. Maybe it is just blabbering like little babies and expects me to give company.  I don’t know. Maybe it is a song growing in my stomach. They say that good music comes from inside. Hmm. I’ll know someday.

And I ate an elephant for dinner last night. Stomach that!