born of chaos

sacred rice

2012-02-09T21:56:00.001+05:30

Three days ago, I was surreptitiously comparing features of new phones, while my old waterlogged faithful was gasping in a container of rice.

Well, it worked!!! The rice trick I mean, not the surreptitious comparisons.

The ring sounds a bit nasal, but that's not shocking, after hours in cold water. The screen shows a marbled pattern that doesn't belong to any wallpaper of htc or for that matter any brand, but I could get used to it.

Everything else actually works. The phone, the net, my mail, and yes, I also know that the temperature in Fareham is 1 degree!

I am so impressed by the accuracy of the advice on the net, that I am now seriously considering taking my credit card for a surf. Maybe we could drop by on all those sites that promise flat stomachs, instant wealth and eternal youth...

my wildfire just got extinguished

2012-02-06T21:49:00.005+05:30

I’ll confess right at the start that I have never been one to fearlessly embrace the cutting edge of technology; I am more often than not gingerly clutching the wooden, riveted handle.

By the time I bought my first smart phone, the android revolution had long stopped being a revolution. But inside my cosy cocoon of elderly gadgets and appliances, my little HTC Wildfire (bought, unknowingly, weeks before the model was declared obsolete by the manufacturer) was all set to start its own revolution.

I learnt the hard way that bragging about my new acquisition was out. I mean it can be a bit tiring to intercept amused smiles and sniggers when you enthusiastically ooh over mailing pictures to people without once touching your laptop (I use the term laptop fondly for a machine that’s only slightly older and heavier than my 4 year old daughter).

But it's amazing how my own smartness quotient has been boosted by my phone.

I know now that what’sapp isn’t a greeting with two spelling mistakes. That android market isn’t a shop that sells toy robots. And that the best things in life are still free, especially if you like to be quoted. I have this tom cat who reminds me of a colleague in meetings with his boss. And this personal echo came to me at no cost from the above mentioned android market.

Then there have been fringe benefits like learning to make detailed schedules of how I should spend my days. Even the fact that I don’t follow any of the events can’t dampen the thrill of seeing my plans transfer themselves to Outlook via Bluetooth on my …um… computer. And Outlook, that was another first for me, to figure out that the word is not just a part of a dismissive statement to be used when you’re losing an argument, as in ‘Oh (said coldly). Is that your outlook…”

But all these things are the stuff you sometimes find stuck to eggs, compared to what I discovered this evening.
Apparently, while immersion and deep dives are good things for human brains, they are not, for android intelligence. So if you sink your impossibly muddied gardening pants in a bucket of water, as I did a few hours ago, you have to make sure your phone isn’t in one of the pockets.

As I write this, my dismantled phone is resting in an airtight plastic container full of rice. I am informed that rice is a desiccant, by lots of people on the net who have written about how it worked to restore their phones. They have also written about their phones being in water for anything from a couple of seconds to a few minutes. (Mine had been soaking for an hour and a half, and I had blamed the long silence on my unpopularity).

I’ll know by tomorrow, if the tip works. But either way, I’ve got a lot to look forward to.
If the phone stays dead, I’ll have to get another one. It will be my second phone in 6 months, just like those early adopter types. Fancy that.
And if the phone pings back to life, I’ll be able to figure out the exact temperature in Taipei, and cloud status in Tokyo. And if I scroll up, I’ll even know what the weather is like in my own city. If that’s not smart, what is?

scrabble rouser

2009-11-05T01:51:00.004+05:30

Yesterday, I got hit on and dumped, all in the course of an online game of scrabble. It could have been the shortest chick flick plot ever, but a few things came in the way.

For one, the person in question knew words like myxo and tithe, but probably hadn’t run across heterosexuality.

But then again, hindsight says she might have a weakness for the word options. Because she asked: “Are you male or female?”

I’ve been called a tomboy in my childhood, but this was taking things a bit far. In my shock, I forgot all about the 6 letter word I had lined up, and scooted to my profile to look for signs of waxing neglect.

“Female” I replied as huffily as I could in a chat box without font options. In my eagerness to set the gender issue right, I also ended up sacrificing a precious s on an unworthy word.

The event box pinged again with the word titups. Evidently, the woman chose her words with care.

“Do you enjoy being anonymous?” she asked.

A role player, I thought, before relief hit me like a triple word bingo. I had recently altered some fb settings on the advice of a chain mail (did I mention that my middle name is lemming?), which had turned my name to Anonymous, and my picture to an androgynous silhouette. I was so pleased to know that I wouldn’t have to spend my life savings on hormone therapy that I blabbered foolishly about the settings issue.

Yes, I know it was foolish. Haven’t I just said so myself?

“You’re cute.” said the hitter. “I’d like to see what you look like.”

How does a person who doesn’t know my name, profile or face decide I’m cute? It has to be my brilliant game, of course! I scrolled up to find evidence of my cuteness, past shameful three letter words and single digit scores till I reached… well… the beginning of the game.

What followed were requests to add the above mentioned person as a friend (“at least for a few hours”), questions about sexuality and pleas to reveal personal info.

I didn’t answer any of these queries. I couldn’t. I just wasn't cute enough. Yet. I hovered around a ‘j’ like it was a phone the morning after a date. I twisted letters like hair curling bendies till they made 7 letter words. I opened dictionary tabs to validate long words that could make false eyelashes look stumpy.

Just as my cuteness score started looking respectable, it petered again to zero.

The woman I was playing had hit forfeit. Abruptly and cleanly, like a model break.

I should have been heartbroken, or at least miffed, but all I could think of was that forfeit made a great 7 letter word.

the lost symbolism

2009-10-11T23:44:00.003+05:30

On Friday, I carefully engineered a casual stroll into a bookstore. Most of us have done the carefully casual ensemble and the carefully casual interest thing, but this was a first for me.

I walked purposefully past the cash counter to the fiction section, then stopped by at the humour aisle, and spent a purposeful 90 seconds skimming over travel. After a respectable amount of time on non-fiction and discounted books, I walked back past the cash counter to study the new releases.

That’s untrue. I studied one new release. Still untrue. I already knew what the cover looked like and what the back and fly leaf said, so it was more a grab with a shifty look around.

And then I felt like a fraud.

Like the near obscure author who when questioned about his literary favourites, sneered that he didn’t read the likes of Chetan Bhagat. Or like the people in the audience who tittered in agreement. (Months after the episode, Bhagat continues to occupy the best seller shelves, and the obscure author continues to be just that. Obscure. I like to think I helped the situation in a tiny way by not buying a copy of his book).

Or like all those people who when seen with pulp fiction, launch into an explanation about taking a break between two profound literary masterpieces. Or about needing mindless entertainment on long flights.

All the film makers who turn up their noses at academy award winners. It’s just politics, they say.

The stick figures on the big screen who claim to eat like the rest of us.

University toppers who claim not to have spent enough time studying.

Chee. There are enough of those in the world.

I carried the book to the cashier and slapped it on the counter.

“Oh, you’ve bought the new Dan Brown have you?” A woman who was next in line purred at me. She was wearing an expensive dental job and a priceless smirk.

“Yes” I answered with more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary. “I enjoyed his earlier books, and can’t wait to start this one.”

“Yeah, he’s … well… interesting”, she said. “But I think I’ll wait for the paperback”.

“You’ll wait six months” I answered, feeling the smirk transfer itself to my face.

A couple of browsers turned to eavesdrop openly.

I smiled and nodded at them all and left the bookstore with my new book.

dark secrets

2009-09-25T00:13:00.003+05:30

Nurture felt slightly nauseous as Nature dunked a gulab jamun in a pool of syrup.

She looked away from the pulpy mass and focussed on the task at hand. She had to teach Nature to say lurrrve, and judging by the subject’s inordinate fondness for sweets, the best way seemed to be with a dessert.

“I think it’s time you graduated to a more sophisticated dessert, like dark chocolate.” she spoke firmly.

“I can’t. It’s not sweet”, Nature replied cheerfully, as she swallowed the gulab jamun mash. “And my family genes forbid me to ingest any dessert that doesn’t come with a diabetes guarantee card”.

“It’s a cultivated taste you know” Nurture spoke with a confidence born of centuries of success with white mice, rhesus monkeys and drooling dogs. “Come on, try some”.

“I’ve tried it” nature said, as she looked longingly at nurture’s untouched bowl. “But my ancestors got together and made me gag. Especially my great uncle – have I told you how he once ate 20 laddoos at a…”.

“Yes, many times.” Nurture interrupted, insensitive to family ties of mere protein. “It’s usually followed by the story about some glutton who used to have no space in his thali for pooris when he served himself shrikhand”.

Nature looked a bit miffed at having her family tree squeezed into two stories.

“I remember them because they’re fascinating stories” Nurture rushed in to make amends. “But the past is… well, predictable. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“That was bred out generations ago.” Nature replied sadly. “My dad’s idea of adventure comprises using both hands to move pieces on a chess board. My mum feels the thrill of a bungee jumper when she bargains her way to two free bunches of coriander”.

“Ok so forget adventure then” said Nurture. “What about being cool? Don’t you want to be one of those elitists who discuss the finer nuances of complex flavour profiles?”

“I do”. Nature admitted, influenced by a few stray but powerful genes from an aunt who in the 70s, had served caramel custard at her son’s wedding. Twenty years later, the aunt still recounted how some of her uncool relatives (from her husband’s side of course) had whispered the name of the dessert in case people thought they were swearing.

Nurture saw victory inching closer and pressed on. “For a moment, forget all those chromosomes. Let’s pick up that bar of dark chocolate and take the first step to getting cool. I’ve got an eleven step process of tasting dark chocolate that might help you.”

“I know it.” Nature said. “I tried it with milk chocolate. By step 2, the bar was finished. By step six, my intestinal enzymes had got to it.”

“Yech it’s your sweet tooth”. Nurture said disdainfully.

“We haven’t had a sweet tooth in our family for generations”. Nature countered. "Ceramic teeth, yes, many times over. Metal teeth, check. Empty gummy spaces, bingo. But no sweet tooth after the age of 10.”

Nurture felt herself sinking deep into despair. She wished she were working with tomatoes or some other subject that didn’t have vocal cords.

“So forget it then. I guess I’ll just have to live with the fact that I couldn’t teach you to say lurrrve.”

“Lurrrve?”. Nature asked. “I don’t even know what it means.”

“It’s well, a verbal version of a machine gun.” Nurture explained without much interest. “Because of its ability to reduce people’s self confidence to pulp.”

“Ok, I want it already”. Nature said. Actually, she was mouthing the desire of a distant relative who achieved the same result by referring to designers by first names or nicknames. The relative usually topped it with a pitying look when listeners thought choo was a sneeze or that Nina was a neighbour’s name.

“Only certain things can get you the power of lurrrve, For example, you can lurrrve Norwegian salmon, not bangda fry, unless you’re doing the inverse snobbery thing. You’re allowed to lurrrve unpasteurized stilton, not cheese slices. It doesn’t matter if you prefer cheese slices. You just can’t lurrrve them. Of course the easiest way to join the lurrrve club is through dark chocolate, but I guess…”

“Wait” Nature interrupted. “Did you say Norwegian salmon? I do genuinely love it, I mean lurrrve it”.

“Good for you” Nurture said, her mind already preoccupied with strategies to reduce a normal person to a size zero.

"So why don’t I just think of Norwegian salmon when I’m talking about dark chocolate? I lurrrve dark chocolate. How’s that?"

There was no answer.

“I could then talk about cocoa percentages… I can do that quite easily.Nurture are you even listening?”

Nurture wasn't listening. She wasn't even in the roomt. She had left already knowing that her mission had been successful but that she couldn’t quite take the credit for it. Unless of course, she used her sense of adventure to fabricate a story…

it's a steal...

2009-09-13T00:52:00.008+05:30

The first time I visit a shop, I’m a regular customer. But the second time I go, I’m royalty. Salespeople come rushing up from every corner of the store, the manager addresses me by name, and I’m assigned an exclusive shop assistant for the duration of my visit. For the longest time, I attributed this special treatment to my charm, but after introspection and several hits to my bank balance, I’ve realised that my lack of bargaining skills are the real reason.

I’ve had the opportunity to watch some prize bargain queens and kings at work. I’ve observed how they plough masterfully towards their targets, and how they let nothing get in the way. And from these observations, I’ve understood that getting an extra tissue on demand at a café does not constitute a good bargain. I also know now that bargaining may be an art, but copying the masters achieves nothing except an unflattering likeness to a simian in a panchatantra story.

If you’re like me, ie the hieroglyphic symbol for loser shopper, here’s the greatest bargain you’re ever likely to get. You can share my failure for free, instead of getting your own at the cost of angst and embarrassment.

One person’s masterstroke could be another person’s stroke: My sister and I were shopping for ethnic totes at a street bazaar in Delhi when my sis pointed at one she liked. The burly XL stall owner quoted a price. My sister named a figure that was low enough to make me squirm. Monster man dropped his price a shade. At this point, my skinny teenaged sis looked straight at him and said “I’m beginning to get angry now”. She said this softly, with a smile on her face, and the stall owner was shocked into nervously looking around for skulking armed men, before he wordlessly handed her the tote.

This is easy, I thought. So I tried it at another street stall in another city. “I’m beginning to get angry now” I said at the right moment, my voice velvety soft and Brandoesque. Almost on cue, things started to happen. The stall owner quickly pushed a chair towards me and gestured for water. “BP patient hai”, he whispered knowingly to his assistant, and handed me a glass crusted with fingerprints. While I pretended to sip the slightly murky water, the man regaled me with stories about his own blood pressure travails. I left after a while, with a recipe for bitter gourd juice (BP ke liye ekdum first class) but sadly, no bargain.

Starting from scratch: When a salesperson tried to convince me to buy the last refrigerator in the store, ie the display one, I decided to capitalise on the bargaining opportunity. I knew what to do, having watched my bargain black belt friends closely. I disdainfully pointed out a near invisible scratch near the door (I think I might have created it while pointing it out) and demanded a discount. The salesman quickly dropped the price and before you could say freeze, I paid for the piece. When the refrigerator was unpacked at home, I realised the scratch was truly invisible, as it was eclipsed by at least 3 dents on the door. The crisper tray looked distinctly French, as the r had been rubbed by enthusiastic shoppers. The egg trays croak ominously every time I open the door, and soon, I should be able to save myself the first step of making omelettes.

Great timing comes at a cost: Yippee, it was sale time! The time of the year when bargain royalty moves in and gets stuff it might need later. Well, I got that bit right; when I swooped down on a brilliantly discounted dishwasher I didn’t need. It arrived in perfect condition, though I can’t say the same about many other things anymore.

My jars have melted into size 0 shapes, which are great for the catwalk but not for storing things. I've had to replace them with dishwasher safe ones (read imported, read expensive). My electricity bills have doubled as have my tea and biscuit expenses. The last two are courtesy my erstwhile human dishwasher, who has no work left and uses my home as a café for her mid morning breaks.

Make a fresh start: Whatever the evidence against it, I’ve started believing in reincarnation. It's my best chance to be brilliant at bargaining. Yes I realise I might be reborn a mosquito, but if I can get a great deal on a repellent-free home, I’ll take my chances.

positioning statements

2009-08-12T23:56:00.004+05:30

My daughter and I were watching videos of nursery rhymes on youtube when we came across these ads:

An invitation to learn to “Speak English fluently” on the ABC song. An example of a keyword match missing out on nuances, I thought sympathetically, till I saw the next one.

A chance to get an “MBA in London in 1 year” on ‘Five little monkeys jumping on the bed’. I hit replay in case I'd missed out a nuance that linked the lyrics to the ad, but still couldn't get it. The ad saw a connect though,because it appeared again.

A university that claimed to have “India’s top engineering college” appeared on a shot of a bridge collapsing during the rhyme ‘London Bridge is falling down’. Before I had finished laughing, a contest from HP invited me to express myself. Yes, that sounds worthwhile. I’ll have a quick breakdown while I wait for the judges to decide if I win.

Walk when you talk appeared on three blind mice. Sure, you don’t need to see where you’re going if you’re walking for exercise. The line about losing calories (spelt loosing) was perfectly timed, bang on the shot of the poor mice losing their tails, courtesy the farmer’s wife.

Airtel’s special 5 offer came up on Hush Little Baby – what a terrific follow up to millions spent on getting people to talk…

I had always thought you couldn’t beat English subtitles on Hindi movie songs for a good laugh (our love is sweet alcohol and such like), but it turns out their tickle scores have been beaten forever.

writer's crap?

2009-08-01T23:27:00.008+05:30

Some of the kind readers of this blog have asked me why I haven’t been posting anything.

The truth is that I want to. The greater truth is that too many things come in the way.

Here’s how it goes.

I start a new post, intending to write a few hundred words that are as profound as they are witty.

Profound is important. Or do I mean zen? Zen is infinitely more enigmatic and cool. It’s also a term I use a lot, usually with a superior expression when people look pointedly at my mismatched clothes or split ends. But then again, profound is more global. Well, there's a good way to find out what I do mean. After a good bit of wandering down scenic hyperlinks, I know that both are hard, and eminently dispensable.

I settle for witty and start writing.

Two lines down, I find my post littered with a flock of squiggly red lines. With a snort, i change the language to UK English. The flock grows. Not willing to get intimidated by a mere programme, I snort again, copy paste my two lines into a word document and disable spellcheck.

All that's left now is to shoot out those few hundred words, in an elegant and unperturbed way. I know it can be done, i have a friend who's getting two books published this year. When's the launch of the second book i wonder, and email her.

By the time i switch tabs again, I see that my writing has shrunk from two lines to one. Blogger's puny text box had made my writing seem twice as eloquent.

I think of all those talented people who write a few thousand words before breakfast or between jail terms, and realise, in a blinding series of epiphanies, that I hate each one of them. I also hate the paper clip that unfurls and widens its eyes mockingly like a demented yogi. I zap it into a kitten, and then into a puppy. After right clicking both options to check out animation, i know that the puppy works. My writing still doesn't. Or does it? I open a new tab and log into site meter to see how many people have visited my blog. A mere handful (I refer here to the hand of an embryo before it sprouts fingers). Last week might have been better, I console myself, and click to find out. The graph of the the month's visitors looks like a line up of midgets.

I would be discouraged at this point if I didn't know that it's silly for a writer to hold on to convictions that have lost relevance. This is the time to do something about it, I sternly tell myself, and drop witty from my list of to-dos for this post.

Now free of all pressure, I remind myself of the basics of writing. Focus on the material you have, and translate it into words without worrying about anything else.

I know I can do that.

I start a game of scrabble.

face value - part 7

2009-04-28T23:25:00.004+05:30

Go on, exercise your rights. If you'd like to declare today 'The international day for self-flagellation', put your cursor where your mouth is, and click here to get to Face Value Part 1.

Thanks to Douglas Adams, we think we know the ultimate answer to life, the universe and everything. He would also have us believe that the only thing that remains a mystery is the ultimate question.

We are wrong on both counts, as a small minority of people on Facebook have demonstrated. First of all, the answer is still work in progress. The only thing established is that it needs more keys than the numbers bar of your keyboard. And as for the ultimate question, that’s no mystery. The question is right there for all to see, in the status bar of the Facebook homepage. ‘What’s on your mind?’ it asks us, and the above mentioned band of Facebook users pours out a sea of possibilities that can fix life, the universe and everything.

The atlas-of-the-mind type

To get even close to understanding this personality type, you have to first stop pursuing selfish things like happiness, success and good coffee shops.

Then, try to see the world from a modern Atlas’s point of view (no you don’t have to squint or have eyes in the back of your head; I meant this in a figurative way). When you carry the earth and the heavens on your shoulders like you would a slobbering drunk friend, your perspective is bound to be larger than all the above.

I know what you’re thinking. How can Rajeev, who’s an un-creative number cruncher by day, be qualified to find solutions for the universe? Now here’s the secret of these people’s global wisdom. They have an uncanny knack of rewriting universally accepted laws and rules.

Here are the top three that I have uncovered while studying the status updates of these noble souls.

If at first you don’t succeed, extrapolate, extrapolate, extrapolate again. When V.V. Clemsy drops a glass of milk, he doesn’t waste time crying over spilt milk (boo hoo as a Facebook status update just isn’t global enough). Instead, he asks himself how the principle of dropping a glass of milk can be applied to larger subjects. Calcium depletion? Not big enough. Hungry children? Better, but overused. A drop in world nutrition levels? A loss of organic produce? Organic… hmmm there’s something there. So there you have it.

V. V. Clemsy laments the loss of yet another organic resource from a world that’s turning to plastic.

Most readers, for fear of looking ignorant will scan the net and find lots of relevant news stories that will help them sound intelligent while commenting on V. V. Clemsy’s update.

Rush in where punsters fear to tread. When Aloe P. Shea sees hair in her comb, she doesn’t just think of it as hair loss. That’s petty, selfish and a wasted opportunity. So she lets her mind out on a random association trip. A receding hairline? It’s getting macro, Aloe knows, but it’s still too selfish to make a statement about the world. So she flies from receding to recessive to recession... Bingo! That’s global enough now.

Aloe P. Shea then feels that the solution to global recession is to pat existing resources in place.

When you point a finger at yourself, remember that three fingers point at the world. Nothing remarkable has happened to Indra Pal Lobhia all day. In fact he lost a bet on which cricket team would win today. So does Indra Pal Lobhia, or IPL as he is known to friends and enemies hide the fact under the astroturf? No way! He capitalises on it to publish his learning about life, the universe and everything.

His status update reads: IPL knows that individual and team brilliance must collaborate with the will of the people for a Utopian culture to flourish.

Coming up soon: The I-link-therefore-I-am type

a prisoner's rant

2009-04-14T22:55:00.002+05:30

I can now officially say that I know what rigorous imprisonment feels like. I’ve learnt this in the last 36 hours, and I don’t recommend it to anyone, not even those of you who snigger at my middle and mispronounce French words.

As we know from the movies, most people who get arrested are allowed to make one call. Not me. I am not allowed to call anyone, or even greet anyone who calls me with cheery familiarity. Not loved ones. Not unloved ones. Not even those who are celebrating a birthday or anniversary. The last bit was unnecessary, because information about significant dates is now barred from me.

The only food I’m allowed to eat is that which I cook myself. I can no longer indulge in the anticipated pleasure of booking a table at my favourite restaurant. I can’t even order my usual bacon and egg sandwich.

Then there’s punishment of the rigorous kind. Like literally having to go the extra mile, even when the weather is unbearably muggy (today was one of those days, when every dust particle in the air was sweating like a peasant). Instead of using the convenience of home delivery, I had to trudge out to get a bottle of water, skirting around unmentionable objects on dusty streets. The experience was so uncomfortable, that I had to repeat it, this time for aspirin.

About 18 hours into the routine, it started getting to me. Since there was no familiar alarm to wake me up, I got up this morning, feeling groggy and listless from too much sleep and having nothing to look forward to. I spent the morning dreaming of futile luxuries like manicures and hair trims.Futile, because my current state only allows me to get these at the grottiest places, which don’t have enough clients to require an appointment.

I am slowly losing track of time, and have to wait for the newspapers to figure out the date. I'm not enough of a veteran yet to do the lines and cross thing.

I feel betrayed, bereft and totally alone.

Actually that’s not true.

In spite of my solitary confinement, I know I’m not alone.

A google search has revealed that there are at least 2 dozen people in the world whose phone touch screens have also frozen. But then again, they didn't have to suffer this indignity on a public holiday when service centres were closed.

dental case

2009-04-02T23:51:00.002+05:30

It’s time for the most dreaded event of the year - my annual visit to the dentist. Actually, to have been true to the term annual, I should have made this statement in early Jan, but luckily for me, procrastination heads the strengths section of my cv.

What is it about dentists that makes everyone avoid them like the plague? (I would have said plaque, but dread has eaten away at my sense of humour). Although a lot of people claim that the sensation and sound of a drill puts them off, it’s like a sailor saying he avoids icebergs because they look dirty.

I think the real reasons are deeper and start way before the drill is plugged in.

Think about a standard visit. However cool/dignified/sophisticated you may be in the outside world, you peel that off with your footwear, and sprawl belly up on a chair like a canine at the dregs of a pack. I don’t know if it’s a Pavlovian reaction, but I usually start whining at this point.

Not for long though, because then I’m asked to say aaah. Not ooh or whoa or a similar cool civilized equivalent, you have to say aaaah till your nostrils dilate like a hippo’s and your double chin behaves like a silicon implant. Sure, a doctor makes you say aah too, but it’s for a few seconds, not for the duration of a 60 minute visit. If that weren’t humiliating enough, the dentist shines a strong light to light up the most unflattering part of you. Whoever says that mouths are sexy hasn’t seen an epiglottis fluttering in panic while you salivate helplessly. The only thing worse must be getting treated for haemorrhoids. But then again, with that unfortunate condition, you don’t have to watch the expert watch you as he sees dreams of a new car come true. In return, does the man at least give you the satisfaction of staring back at his cavities? Nah, he’s wearing a mask like a super-coward.

Once he’s done with the show, he wants the tell bit. Does this hurt he asks, jabbing you with instruments modelled after torture tools of the dark ages.

What do you think you pervert? You want to shoot back. But of course you don’t say that.

However witty or articulate you may be, the only response you manage to everything is gaaa.

The one right question for this answer would be 'tell me what comes after sa re', but the sadist skirts around that. Deliberately, I’m sure.

Then starts the pain. The drill bores deep into your tooth till it reaches your wallet and draws out deposit after deposit. Like an anti-alchemist, he converts your hard earned gold to ceramics, till the inside of your mouth resembles an imitation ming vase.

Once he is satisfied with his handiwork (watch for the mask twitching with joy), the dentist brings out a small mirror to show you what he’s done.

You take a cursory look, before you squeeze your plastic to pay for his emis.

365 days of composure, you sigh joyously as you walk out, gathering your surviving shreds of dignity. But the dentist’s influence still holds. Thanks to the little mirror that only showed you your repaired tooth, you missed out on the white gook that lines your mouth and makes you look like you had a 5 course meal of bird shit.

So let’s make that 364 days of composure, unless you’re like me and you procrastinate.

rip wham wrinkle

2009-03-19T00:36:00.004+05:30

Warning: This is a longish post, but consider the fact that it's about one of the longest evenings of my life.

Last Sunday, my doorbell rang late at night. I should have looked through the spyhole, but having watched Rajni on DD at an impressionable age, I opened the door instead with a bright smile on my face (don’t know how she carried it off 16 times in each episode, all I succeed in doing is to have courier guys suspiciously at my id).

My neighbour was standing outside. Although we had lived in the same building for four years, I only knew what her profile looked like when we rode in the same lift. Now here she was, giving me a full frontal view of her face.

Sorry! I automatically mumbled my standard late night greeting to all neighbours, then realised the music wasn’t even on. Seconds later I also realised that she was smiling.

The result of that meeting was historic. I had been invited to a birthday party of a child for the first time in decades. Well, technically, my baby daughter was invited, but since she can’t walk yet, I was invited in the capacity of a limo.

Yesterday was the big day. We walked to the venue. OK technically, I walked, till my daughter kicked me in the flanks to spur me into a fast trot. We finished first effortlessly, and got to the party before the hostess. Incidentally, it makes me wonder why such a big deal is being made of saving Tipu Sultan’s horse breeding farm. You don't need to breed winners, just get a few babies on the most ordinary nags and watch them fly.

Looking at the bright side, the good thing about getting there early was that no one saw my reaction to the place. The doorway, pillars, almost everything in the room was made of balloons.

Baboon lisped my daughter. No baby, it’s balloon I corrected, then realised she was looking at me. I collected myself, and tried to look as though it was perfectly normal to walk into a world of helium with giant teddy bears frolicking around.

One of them was clearly a trainee teddy bear or an aspiring puma, because he lunged at us in the uncuddliest way. I jumped back in fright, and landed against a pillar of balloons that squeaked their disapproval. And that was how the hostess and the birthday girl saw me as they walked in.

“Hahaha” I whimpered, as though it was a great joke to get accosted by a monster in fur. “Great party, great party. You must have worked really hard to set this up.”

No said the lady. The event manager took care of everything.

Ah. I had always thought of event managers as people who got things done for launch conferences and concerts, but clearly this was much more challenging. Because by now, the other guests started arriving in droves.

The entertainment console got into action and the miniature amusement park ride worked like clockwork. Kids in designer wear looked unmoved by the spectacle around. I would have dehydrated to a twig from having my jaw drop so often, had waiters in suits not regularly replenished me with beverages. Although it was my daughter’s first party, she seemed very composed in the strange environment and waved and smiled at the right places.

Then the cake arrived with 6 candles on it. I panicked. I had thought the kid was turning five, I swear the card had said so. I considered sneaking to the pile of presents and correcting the age on the books I had inscribed with great care, but it was too late. The candles were being lit. Good thing too, I was saved the embarrassment of looking like a kleptomaniac by the lighting of the first candle. It opened up into a flower and was plucked out of the cake. I clapped in genuine relief, till I realised everyone was looking at me.

The rest of the evening made me want to look for a giant teddy bear costume to hide in. The other mothers chatted about milestones, and it seemed as though all their kids had mastered calculus in the second trimester. “What is your daughter eating these days?” one asked me to include me in the conversation. Food I responded eagerly, and she looked at me kindly as though I was challenged in every way possible.

Finally, it was time to leave. I cantered back with my daughter, who was repeatedly squeezing her return gift to make it squeak. I thought of my daughter’s birthday, which is coming up in eight months, and instantly felt 600 wrinkles sprout on my face. And all the way home, my squeaks drowned out those of my daughter’s toy.

face value - part 6

2009-01-17T23:11:00.004+05:30

If you read War and Peace at a sitting, you clearly have the stamina to scroll down to the beginning of this series. For the rest of you, clicking here will take you to face value - part 1.

Unlike my earlier posts on Facebook personality types, this one doesn’t try to explain how or why the Plato-on-a-plate type is the way it is. This is a struggle to preserve my last shreds of self-esteem when I read this type’s updates.

Plato-on-a-plate-type

This is possibly the most misunderstood personality type on Facebook. I mean misunderstood in the truest sense of the word – because most of us can’t understand what they’re saying.

Here’s an example from the person after who this category is named.

When Plato wanted to talk about the nature of education, he could have sung ‘we don’t need no education’ accompanied by brilliant guitar work.Or he could have joined a peace protest.

But naah, that would have been too simple.

He told a story about a group of people who spent their lives chained up inside a cave. He then brought in a twist by having one of them escape. In a role reversal of Tom Hanks in Castaway, the freed man spent hair raising weeks learning to deal with the real world. Once he succeeded, he went back to the cave to rescue his buddies, but got derided by the lot as he was temporarily blinded by the darkness inside.

What’s the connection with lousy schooling? I haven’t a clue. But I remember loving Plato’s allegory of the cave when I first read it. I thought it was a collaborative movie plot by Lewis Carroll and Guru Dutt, till someone explained how foolish and shallow I was.

Well, Plato died over 2000 years ago, but his type continues to make us feel inferior and foolish by prowling around the status boxes of Facebook.

Here’s my defence.

The more complicated you get, the simpler we’ll get.
When you say Timothy is seeped in acid sunshine (thanks Five Wise Men for that one), we will assume that Timothy ate spicy food for dinner and there was no antacid at hand.

If you use vague metaphors, we’ll laugh at you with clear meta force.

When we read - Walker is wondering why the second step often precedes the first, we will scoff at the fact that Walker has tripped on his first jog ever.

The higher your feet are from the ground, the more easily we will see your underwear.

Iftekar is imagining a world without hypotheses. Ha Iftekar, doesn't this mean that you have decided to control your embarrassing saliva spray habit by dropping all ifs from your conversation? We will also wonder if you will call yourself Tekar from now on.

If your meaning is unclear, we’ll attach our own. And it may not be flattering.

When Sighmona feels that life is one rough draft after another, we will understand that Sighmona was stupid enough to wear a strappy dress without a jacket on a windy evening.

End of vent. This analysis may not have made sense to those of you reading it, but aah, it felt great writing it.

Next: The Atlas-of-the-mind type

mind gym

2008-12-12T21:38:00.005+05:30

Anyone who's reached a turning point in life will almost always tell you how it was triggered by a drastic incident.

One such incident occurred to me three months ago, and I decided to turn my life by sinking the cost of a small island into the services of a personal trainer.

To put things in perspective, drastic isn’t a word I use easily, especially in the context of fitness. When once, someone once congratulated me on my pregnancy (I wasn’t even close), I laughed with genuine mirth. For weeks afterwords, I used the statement as a legitimate excuse to pig out, because I believe even a perceived phantom pregnancy deserves a good round of cravings. Another time, when I was mistaken for a friend who hadn’t exercised since she swam around as an embryo, I explained (and believed) that the mix up was caused by the style of our exclusive shared hairdresser.

So when I say drastic, believe me, I do mean drastic. Since it’s too painful to get into details, I’ll just say that it had to do with a trial room lined with mirrors that reflect you from angles that should be outlawed in civilized society, and a scream that emanated from me because I thought I was being attacked by a mob of aliens from bulge-planet.

Realizing the futility of pawning my ad portfolio, I saved money for a fortnight by hooch mooching, and then hired a sadist who was to be my gym trainer.

Two and a half months later, I am a changed woman.

I have become a masochist. I feel that if something hurts, it's a good sign. There's furious fat burning going on there. When I meet people who have sprained their ankles or are recovering from a surgery, I struggle to keep the envy out of my eyes.

I have also become one of those squares I’ve always laughed at. When friends invite me out for a drink, I mumble silly cliches like early to bed, early to rise, and mean them. When I do go out, I embarrass my companions by conducting a mini Spanish inquisition with waiters about protein levels and carrot sticks.

Speaking of protein, I now possess spare tyres of useless knowledge, like how much protein a large egg has (6 grams). I cut chicken till it looks like a starfish with 6 amputations, because sites tell you that a palm sized piece is just right. I also twitch with excitement at the ingredient labels of cans, till salespeople rush in with onions, dirty socks and other well intentioned first aid for epileptic fits.

I no longer measure things in kilograms, but in inches. It’s logical, because muscle weighs more than fat, but try explaining that to a butcher or a veggie vendor…

Then, there’s my reaction to mirrors. From someone who would forget to notice her face during the toothbrush routine, I have become a monster who seeks out reflective surfaces. I scratch my chin while passing tinted car windows to see if my triceps are still there. When with people who wear sunglasses, I laugh with my head thrown back slightly to see if my double chin has reduced. I seriously regret having bought an LCD instead of a plasma, because I can’t see myself doing crunches.

The person I have turned into is drastic enough for me to consider an about-turning point. Sack the trainer, says the right brain impulsively. The left brain agrees with the logic of the suggestion.

Once I do that, I should be able to get back to who I was. I have a feeling it won't be too hard, because some things about me haven’t changed in spite of the 10 week detour.

My old clothes fit just as snugly, and while I love the inches vs kilograms theory, I haven’t lost either.

I still huff and puff up the stairs after step 7.

And I still hold my breath to hide my muffin top, when talking to a colleague who thinks the term belongs to bakeries.

I'll just have to work on my mind now...

face value - part 5

2008-12-11T02:52:00.008+05:30

Where there's a part 5, there are usually parts 1-4 squealing for attention. If you'd like to save yourself some serious scrolling and math, click here to read face value - part 1.

If you’re one of those people who believe that life is never unfair, explain this.

When people put their careers on the line, they become the heroes of corporate legends. But when people put their careers in a line, they get nothing but sniggers and exasperated sighs.

Those who put their jobs on the line are rewarded with fables that, with time, grow as complex as a ‘let’s defrost the fridge today sambaar’. Every narrator of the tale insidiously incorporates himself or herself into the story as an influencer, a supporter or at least a drinking buddy.

On the other hand, those who put their potential in a line become the butt of funny stories, where their best friends describe them, at best, as third cousins of unpopular colleagues they’ve spoken to once.

This post is an attempt to pay a tribute to these unsung heroes. There are people who have tried to dissuade me, with the argument that these people are considered unsung because no one can hear singing above the blowing of trumpets. I believe that's just another example of the unfairness these hidden heroes have to endure. I will try to neutralise some of the injustice today.

The-CV-in-a-nutshell type

People of this personality type have never read books on how to write the perfect CV. They wrote the books you see, that too on grains of rice and Facebook updates.

To get a fair perspective on the people of this group, let’s look at some of the qualities a good resume is supposed to have, along with proof that this personality type is the master of each parameter.

Highlight your strengths: Easier said than done. It’s hard to do justice to multiple strengths, unless you have a spare hard disk handy. Or unless of course, you’re a CV-in-a-nutshell type person. Here’s an example of how this personality type packs all his/her strengths into a few snack sized bytes.

‘B.Rags hopes The Newsweak’s million readers like his cover story tomorrow’. There, you’ve got journalistic skills, people skills, a talent for numbers, democratic disposition, time management skills and modesty, all comprehensively covered in a mere 11 words. And of course, you can’t but help notice that wonderfully elusive quality – brevity.

Be honest: For those of us who are wary of admitting weaknesses on our resumes, there’s a valuable lesson to be learnt from CV-in-a-nutshell people. Just say it like it is, their updates demonstrate to us, time and again. Undaunted by fears of creating a negative bias, these personalities bravely call a spate a spate.

‘HooHa can’t seem to upload her best employee award pictures.’ Notice how courageously HooHa shows a lack of IT skills?

A lack of career planning skills is not swept under the carpet in this update - ‘Peter S. Principle is pondering… after CEO, what?’

Attach a list of references: This bit is usually relegated to page 2 in the crispest of resumes, but in a flash of brilliance, this personality type brings it to line 1.

Notice the sheer genius with which this one tells you ‘Chickenfeed is cooped up with the fortune 500 gang. Again.’ If you’re thinking of hiring Chickenfeed, you know immediately who to contact for reference checks. A whole list of referees, in a matter of words.

Keep it short: By now, you already know that the CV-in-a-nutshell type of personality excels in fat-free statements. But like all groups, this lot too has some individuals who outshine others with their breathtaking brevity. How much shorter can a list of achievements get than ‘Seema@nohands.com'? One simple URL, and a click - and you have access to the potential of Seema.

Note: In recognition of the innate shyness that characterizes people of the CV-in-a-nutshell personality type, all names and contexts have been changed.

Next: Plato-on-a-plate type

face value part 4

2008-12-05T23:22:00.006+05:30

Research shows that scrolling causes the index finger to build unnecessary muscle. If you'd like to start reading this post from 'face value part 1' and still not look silly while pointing, just click here.

Do you sometimes feel that you have many more friends than your Facebook friend list shows? Do you attribute this feeling to an inflated sense of your own popularity?

Before you pat yourself on the back like a trainee contortionist, listen carefully to a little voice saying ‘It’s not you, it’s us’. You are hearing the voice of the Sharelock-Holmes-type person on your friend list.

The-Sharelock-Holmes-type personality

This personality type contains the split personalities of Facebook. No, not like Jekyll and Hyde, because at least they surfaced in turns. The dual personalities of the Sharelock-Holmes type speak at the same time in the same sentence on each Facebook status update. One half of the split wants to be discrete and secretive, while the other wants to tell all. And they both get their way.

Classification: The story goes that for years after the birth of Facebook, eminent psychologists struggled to analyze these complex characters, and finally threw up their Freud texts in defeat. No one else wanted this daunting task, until a team that sold advertising space in newspapers volunteered to complete the classification process (there’s a school of thought that feels that the team heard split purse instead of split personality, but there’s no concrete evidence to support this view).

Applying their skills of splitting newspaper pages into any shape and size under the guise of innovation, the advertising space sellers created this classification of the Sharelock-Holmes-type personality.

Horizontal split: To understand this subtype, imagine a person whose head is covered with a secretive deerstalker detective type hat, while the body wears a flamboyantly unbuttoned trench coat. This subtype wants to be discrete and flashy at the same time.
This Sharelock-Holmes sub-type creates status updates like: Miss Cama has finally done it sutra style, but can't talk about it.

Vertical split: In this sub-type, the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing. But the right hand not only knows what the left hand is doing, it makes it a point to broadcast it to the world (ok, only left-handed people will truly understand the unfairness of this situation).
A typical status update might read like this: Godot is waiting for a waiter. And only God knows why. (notice how poor Godot or the left hand is clearly at a disadvantage).

Front page solus split: Both these personalities clamour equally for action, since both want to be at the centre of attention.
They typically have status updates like: Gemini wonders if she should or she shouldn’t.
Or Namedropper can’t choose between Obama and Paris Hilton.

Statutory warning

Whichever sub-type of the Sharelock-Holmes-personality type you have as a friend, you need to be careful about one thing.

They're all hugely infectious.

As you read the status updates of this personality type, one half of you feels disgusted and wants to ignore these desperate attention seekers. The other half feels sorry for their dull lives and forces you to sound interested. Sometimes, one half of you gets irritable, while the other half is curious. OR, one half of you wants to put on a poker face, while the other half wants to poke out these cheap gimmicks.

See, you’re already on your way to becoming a Sharelock-Holmes type person yourself.

Watch out for: The-CV-in-a-nutshell type

let's not turn into the people we despise

2008-12-04T11:06:00.008+05:30

It's not splayed in the media, but the terror attacks in Mumbai have claimed casualties way beyond the wildest expectations of the people who planned them.

Callousness, apathy and a mere baap ka kya jaata hai attitude are definite victims. You can see it in the mails and text messages people are forwarding. You can measure it in the rage you can sense all around you.

I have no evidence to support this on a larger scale, but computer games, page 3 anecdotes and shallow witticisms seem to be seriously injured too. The intellectually endowed among us are turning away from these activities and aiming their considerable resources at topics like the political system, national security and ummm the country. You can see that shift in the changed focus of newspapers and blogs.

Getting the attention of thousands of consciences is a great start. Now that running the country is no longer beneath our dignity or status, we are now free to go beyond indifferent shrugs towards positive steps.

With the collective might of all those grey cells, we could even hope for real robust solutions.

Through the haze of shock and anger, solutions do seem to be sprouting up. Perhaps because it is early days, or because I have no expertise in the areas of governance, security and politics, here’s what I am taking out of the solutions I’ve seen in the last week (yes, I did say apathy was a victim, I’ve read more blogs and articles on the nation in the last week than I have in my life before that).

To fight outlaws, let’s turn into outlaws too. Let’s teach those terrorists and corrupt politicians who break laws a lesson by breaking a few laws ourselves.

Let’s put our pleasures above the legal system: Let’s drink beyond closing hours, let’s smoke in no smoking zones, let’s spend our tax money on presents for ourselves. Now all those people who bump up their personal incomes by taking bribes will have competition.

Let’s show ‘em by lighting candles and going for long walks: Let’s indulge in actions that make us feel as though we're doing something. It doesn't matter if our actions don't really achieve anything or if they underline how small and helpless we are against a system. Politicians and bureaucrats have done that for years with their lip service and tree planting drives, why not us?

But I’m not discouraged by this, as this feels like the beginning of a giant brainstorm. To complicate things, most of the participants have no prior experience in the topics they’re addressing.

In spite of some of the false starts, well intentioned non-ideas and idealistic bubbles, it’s just a matter of time before practical and unique ideas start glimmering through.

I ran across one that sparkled for me this morning. Civil Obedience has practical steps that I can take, without feeling like a pygmy fly against a giant swatter. Or without becoming one of the people I want to fight.

Thanks Rahul, for a great post.

face value - part 3

2008-12-01T21:33:00.006+05:30

Here's an easy way out for those of you who weren't born or paying attention when Maria in The Sound of Music said 'let's start at the very beginning'. Just click here to get to face value - part 1.

Before we talk about this type, let’s talk about you.

You’re probably thinking – easy weasy, I know the type, it’s all those people who abuse double meanings and make people go aargh!

Then, like people who automatically adopt a pseudo BBC accent while talking about the channel, you will get into pun mode. Hehehe, you’ll go, people who belong to this group believe the pun is mightier than the sword. Hahaha, if Facebook were a Hindu community, these people would all be pun-dits. If they were to be given a state of their own, they would choose Punjab. Hohoho.

And so on and so forth till I rapped you on the knuckles and said ‘Sorry. You couldn’t be more off the mark if you were blindfolded’.

Ok here's the most effective way to spot this personality type from your friend list.

The life-at-punpoint type

Whatever your instincts may say, don't think of words.

Think instead of pictures on a colourful wall calendar at a tea shop. Imagine a mythical hero with a rhyming dictionary in one hand and a thesaurus in the other. Those of you who have cut your teeth on Amar Chitra Katha comics can go ahead and imagine two extra hands – one holding the url of an anagram finder, and the other, an oxygen mask for victims.

Now, here’s the real clue.

Vanquished under the feet of this mythological character is not a demon, but another identical hero armed with the same weapons!

Get it now? This personality type constitutes the warriors of Facebook, and its greatest motivation is to establish supremacy over others of the same personality type. Everyone else is, well, just a part of the audience. This insight may help explain how life-at-punpoint people manage to remain undaunted by all the yucks they get regularly from the rest of us.

While the rest of us are fooled into thinking that the punsters in our friend list are just being funny or plain silly, what we miss is the determined war in progress. It’s a war to verbal death as far as the people fighting are concerned.The fact that the war is public and watched by all makes it even more critical for all parties to try harder.

I’ll give you an example of how it goes.

If, reacting to the recent Mumbai ordeal, one of the warriors says:

Mart is shaken and stirred. Without an olive in sight.

Mart’s competitor will be forced to come up with a rejoinder: James’ bond with Mumbai grows stronger with every bomb.

Mart will then be stung into changing his status update to: Mart gets a quantum of solace from knowing his friends are safe.

To which, James will have no option but to say: James is da-nieling at church and praying for the victims and their families.

Mart will shoot back with how he is craiging at the insensitive reactions of politicians in Mumbai.

The updates will retract in time and wit, till they start to look like typos and signs of drunkenness to the rest of us.

Status messages will deteriorate to ‘Our politicians seemed to be moored in fiction’ and ‘It’s a fleming shame’

Then the day will come when one of them, let’s say James (because he started with a punny advantage) says something like James’ chitty chatty media friends say the bang bang is over’, and Mart is forced to change the topic.

The score card will read 1-0 in favour of James, and Mart will be the one underfoot in the calendar.

This will continue till the next topic comes along and Mart gets a chance to be the one on top.

Waiting in the wings: The-Sharelock-Holmes-type

face value - part 2

2008-11-21T17:52:00.007+05:30

In some cultures, it's considered normal to read backwards. For the rest of us who need to start with face value - part 1, here's technology to the rescue. Click.

Here I go again – breaking up personality types on Facebook and gouging chunks out of my friend list. I promised you last week that I would get to the bottom of a category that does the same with facts. Here you have it.

The piles-to-show-before-I-sleep type

Any apprehension that you might feel about the term piles is ummm… justified. But then again, if you have friends who belong to this personality type, you are used to seeing much worse on news feeds.

People of the piles-to-show-before-I-sleep type believe their lives are courtroom dramas and that every moment is an opportunity to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Do not make the mistake of thinking that everyone of this personality type has been weaned on the same truth drug. Here’s a sub-classification based on which part of the oath these truth seekers prefer.

The truth sub-type: Truthful to the core (and I do mean core), these people fervently and regularly spill the beans on your home page. There’s a theory floating around that they don’t really spill beans but consume them in large amounts.

You learn a lot by just reading these people's updates. For instance, you find out exactly how long upset stomachs last and the multi-sensory effects they’re capable of. You know which of your friends’ friends had one too many last night and which one is planning to put in her resignation letter next week.

The whole truth sub-type: These people’s ancestors are rumoured to have inspired the birth of holistic health sciences. You find this easy to believe when you see the passion with which they include every scrap of body (every appendage, however vestigial), mind and soul in the term ‘self. Naturally, a question like ‘what are you doing right now?’ cannot be answered in less than a wholesome paragraph.

At 1 am in the morning, they won’t just tell you they’re still counting sheep. They will tell you how many sheep, which ones were sheared and how nauseous the mottled ones made them feel. They will also keep updating their status every few minutes as the sheep count increases.

If you want further proof that you’ve got one of these people on your friend lists, ask them what a précis is. Most of them think it’s a term for an ironed outfit.

Nothing but the truth sub-type: These people display incredible courage in their pursuit of the truth. Ask them to choose from interesting, witty, fun and truthful, and their unflinching choice remains truthful, however boring it may make them.

Sadly, this uncompromising honesty limits the answers these people have to the status question. They're cornered into telling you that they’re at the computer, looking at the screen or updating their status. Another sign of courage of these heroes among personalities is that each one would rather watch friends die painfully of boredom than give up the truth.

Next: Life at punpoint

face value

2008-11-17T13:07:00.008+05:30

“What are you doing right now?”

Simple unambiguous question, wouldn’t you say? It used to be, till the folks at Facebook (consciously or accidentally) upgraded it to a complex personality test.

They’ve done this in two simple but lethal steps. One, they’ve called the answer a status update. And two, they’ve put your update out there for all to see. This means your actions can now speak louder than a heavily monogrammed Louis Vuitton bag.

This promise (or threat) seems to have brought cracking order to the fuzzy group of people we loosely and fondly call friends.

With just one question, the haves have been spliced cleanly from the have beens. The have beens in turn are separated from the been-there-done-thats. The list goes on, too long for this post to hold, without butting into the next blog.

So installments it is. Here’s the first of the ‘types’ I’ve discovered, as a part of my fully fatru research, triggered by new preference options. These let me see the status updates of not just friends, but friends of friends and friends of friends of friends. So all those of my friends with fingers on the block friend button, it may not be about you...

The so-much-to-show-so-little-space type

I think this personality type started reading the term status updates, but gave up halfway through the two-word plot. “The ending is obvious no ya?” they thought. “Actual mein, I already know that the only word that goes well with status is symbol.”

Signs of luxury, wealth and success ooze out richly from these people’s updates like ghee from a mysore pak. Any new acquisition makes it here faster than pirated copies of a new movie at the grey market.

To spot this type, you should know that some of them use a deceptively humble tone. Do not be fooled by it - it’s not a sign of modesty anymore than a 5-bedroom villa is a garib khaana. To get behind the fuzz of humility, look out for the clever use of interactive features like comments.

For example, consider this.

Gori C. is homesick for Indian food. Watch how this one grows in status with comments like, 'which part of the world are you in NOW?' And ‘you jet setter you!’ Do not make the mistake of saying 'awwww why don’t you come home for some dal chawal', unless you want to see the gory side of Gori.

Another example is the innocent info seeker who keys in SomeRat wants to know how long transpacific jet lags last. If you really want to know the answer to that SomeRat, you're in the wrong place. Try search engines pet.

Another specialty of this type of personality is that time has no meaning for them. If our barons are talking about new acquisitions which they don't have yet or anymore, this is how they will get the tenses to slave for them.

Present tense: La di da is awed by the beauty of her private island.

Past tense: D. Leer’s finger hurts from the weight of the diamond ring she wore yesterday.

Future tense: Evanna B. can’t wait to meet her new BMW.

If you still haven't spotted the ‘so-much-to-show-so-little-space type’ from among your friends, try this final surefire method. Think of any clichéd line about love and replace love with status. Status conquers all. True status is forever. Status makes the world go round. If it works for any of your friends, bingo, you’ve got your man or woman. Till death do you part.

Next: The Piles-to-show-before-I-sleep type

can't talk the walk...

2008-11-09T12:52:00.007+05:30

Oodles have been said and written about the benefits of hiring telecommuters or people who WAH (Work At Home).

What gets swept under the carpet is the WAAAAH in WAH.

As someone who works at home, I will commit professional suicide (make that two WAAAAHs) and reveal the biggest downside of hiring people like me.

We are incapable of saying the right things.

It's not as though we don't want to say what's right. We just don't know the right words. Spending as long as we have away from meetings and workshops has made our corporate jargon skills as obsolete as hardbound dictionaries.

At a meeting for example, if a client spits out a question about B2B, we won't waffle impressively about comparisons with B2C. We can't. We're more likely to jump into making inadvertently embarrassing statements about Hamlet quotes or pencil types.

When we agree with something, we'll say yup. Or at a stretch, yes. Never the infinitely more effective "I resonate with that" or "I am aligned with your thinking".

If you suggest in a crowded room that we take something offline, we are likely to respond by diving under the table to yank off the internet cable. And when asked to park a thought, we'll helpfully offer to send our drivers over.

Be warned that keeping us out of meetings is not a solution. Our corridor conversations are just as bad (challenging as they have been referred to by one of you). When people ask us to give them a shout, our vocal cords swell obligingly to the proportions of bull frogs in heat. When asked to give a tinkle, er... let's not even go there. Let it suffice to say that when you promise to touch base, our response is preceded by a nervous gulp and surreptitious look at your bottoms.

So if you want to hire us, do so for what we're good at.

We're good at our work and we know all about books, movies and eating/drinking places. What do you think we do with the time and money we save on fuel?

We're tops at email communication, because where there's email, there's google. We can then search for what you mean when you use terms like conversation threads and win-win.

But if you want someone who sounds as exotic as a foreign film without subtitles to lesser mortals, we're not it.

You see, we ARE the lesser mortals in question now.

cacophony!!!

2008-10-18T18:25:00.003+05:30

Economists tell you that the cost of something is not just what’s on the price tag, it’s the total money, time and resources used up to acquire it.

Yikes! This means my new music system has cost me much more than I imagined, and for much longer. Here’s what I’ve squandered, in different denominations.

Currency of time: I spent months looking for the right system, since prices and my bank balance told me I would have to spend a lifetime with the same one, Ok, more accurately, the price tags demanded a saat janam ka rishta, but warranties don’t extend that long.

Currency of enthusiasm: In the first couple of trips to hi fi shops, I coughed up my quota of gusto for colour and shape. A series of abbreviation spitting technophiles indicated with scornful expressions that only the uncouth get seduced by sleek silver or sporty red. The enlightened are supposed to look beyond elephant poo shaped stacks for refined attributes like fidelity.

Currency of vocabulary: The search for a music system has wiped out at least a hundred words I had previously used with confidence. The first time someone told me a set of speakers I liked had a bright sound, I smiled and nodded naively. Only later did I realise that bright is a backhanded slur, like wise guy and clever, for a sound that’s trying too hard. Likewise, whatever the Vedas might say, ohm is not a divine sound, it is resistance to divine sound. Hertz is not a music system made for women. And as for a certain radical freedom fighter, you must never say his name out loud, unless you want people to think you’re vulgar, populist and illiterate.

Currency of self-confidence: I paid with this in installments, maybe a hundred thousand during every visit to a store. I paid my largest chunk the time I said a CD didn’t sound right on a certain set of speakers, and was disdainfully informed about my inferior benchmarking (it means my ears were used to an inferior sound because of my current music system). I now carefully comb my hair over my defective ears, before I get near a mirror.

Currency of comfort and aesthetics: The techno-guys who came home to set up my system with tape measures, laptops and sound signals, tramped around to find the perfect spot for the music system. Two and half hours later, they were done. The speakers were set for perfect balance, sound and fidelity.

The sofa is now jammed up against the wall, and so am I every time the system is switched on. No slouching, cautioned the experts, and no you can’t move the coffee table closer than 6 feet. That lovely pile of cushions that I used to use as back rests or makeshift bed, they’ve had to go. They caused too much distortion. And as for the period hat stand that’s my pride and joy, the back is now covered with cardboard to reflect the right amount of sound. There are 8 large blue crosses on the white floor to mark where the speaker spikes should be. The technophiles made them in permanent ink in case I was tempted to stray a millimetre from perfect sound.

So now, I’m left with two things. Great music, and an overwhelming sense of relief that the task is done. ok, there's also a long pending apology to a cousin.

I had laughed at this cousin when her first reaction to getting married had been an expletive followed by sheer relief. I had refused to understand when she had explained that the act of finding arranged bliss was paved with stress.

Sorry sis, I do understand now. Better late than never na? Come home and let's make peace over a drink. No you can’t pick up the glass, it will destroy the amplification of the music…

show and tell

2008-09-27T12:30:00.006+05:30

I believe a home is one of our few chances to break away from the spirals of genes that tie us firmly to our love handles, clumsiness, baldness, twitches or whatever else we may have inherited when we were too young to put our foot down. It's also our chance to liberate ourselves from the conventions of the past and a society we spent our teenage years pitying.

So. Call it ego, or compensation for not being a rebel when I legitimately could have carried it off, but I don’t want anything in my apartment to be conventional and off the shelf. As a result, most of the furniture in my apartment is in my head.

Last week, I decided to change status quo. I met a highly recommended carpenter and sketched him a cubist conch shell that was to be my music rack. He looked at my drawing with pity in his eyes and helpfully offered me his fevicol catalogue.

Rather than explaining the thing about mass market personalities, I suggested we start with a bookcase instead. Easy enough. Take out a window that gives me an uninterrupted view of the neighbour’s underwired collection, and put in glass shelves. I described the effect – it should look as though a square in the wall has been built with books instead of bricks.

He took measurements, offered to put in sliding doors for a nominal extra charge and promised to return in three days with the showcase.

Not showcase, bookcase, I laughed nervously, gulping to push back images of crystal curiosities and fabric flowers that rose up instantly. The carpenter didn’t notice, he was busy tucking my advance into a fevicol catalogue.

Three days later, I became the proud owner of what can only be described as the S word. The sliding doors I had eagerly agreed to complete the effect. Even with books in it, but it’s still a… I’m not strong enough to say the word yet.

When a friend suggested that I should just cover the borders to make it look less showcasish (she smirked as she pronounced the word), my mind raced to beaded macramé and DIY stencils.

And I knew I’d lost the battle.

Never again will I tell funny stories about a generation that spent most of their time abroad in bargain basements, to feed the big S at home. Or about dolls that spent their lives behind sliding doors, safely out of the reach of children they belonged to.

Never again will I look superior when people ask me if I have a ration card. Or turn the other way when I pass a Swarovski store or a velvet wall hanging featuring a pride of lions.

How can I? I’m one of THEM now.

lost and found

2008-09-21T17:19:00.005+05:30

Spring cleaning day today. I start the operation by plunging into a dusty tangle of junk jewellery that had moved cities and apartments without once being taken out of a giant wooden chest. The plan is to give away at least half of it, to make space for more important things.

The first to come out of the tangle is not junk jewellery. It’s a pair of gold hoops my mother believes she has lost. I think of old photographs of my mum, wrapped in silk saris that her parents had bought for her as appropriate post-marriage wear. She smiles into camera, presumably at my father, who she had met thrice before her wedding. She fits her form demurely against backgrounds she had only seen previously in Hindi films and on wallpapers in photo studios. She could have been a stereotype of an Indian wife or mother of the 60s, if it hadn’t been for the rings. They wink in spite of the British gloom around her, wild, gypsy-like, a tiny spark of individuality rebelling against a life vowed to conformity.

I rediscover a silver pair my friends had given me as a farewell gift when I had left Mumbai. They were loopy, large and flamboyant and l had loved them instantly in the poor light of the restaurant. I remember wearing them for months afterwards, loving the way they swung against my neck when I shook my head. Come to think of it, I shook my head a lot those days. I hold them now against my ears and feel overpowered. When did my clothes fade so much I wonder. And when did I fade?

Buried under the tangle is a pair that I’ve always disliked. My sister had given it to me when she had started working, and they’re well… hideous. Of course I hadn’t told her so, or anyone else. On the contrary, when a friend had remarked tactfully that the earrings weren’t my type, I had lied shamelessly about how beautiful they were, and defended my sister’s gawky demonstration of affection.

I find a pair I had once hurriedly bought to wear at a traditional wedding. I hadn’t had the time to get the 22 carat stuff out of the locker, so I had paraded all evening in a pair of burnished brass imposters. I had beamed all evening at compliments without a twinge of conscience.

There’s a set of earrings given to me by someone who I had loved once. And another given by someone who had loved me. The earrings are the only symbols left of both relationships. For the first time since I got them, I look at both pairs objectively, unclouded by feelings of hope, mush or guilt.

The tangle reveals dozens more and before I know it the morning is gone. So is the afternoon.
I put aside the gold hoops to return to my mother. They are hers, even if she doesn’t need them anymore to express her individuality.

The rest are mine, even though they may stand for things and values I've lost. I want to believe they're still there, hidden deep in me, waiting to be untangled and dusted. I make a start by putting all the earrings back into the box, promising them and myself, that one day I will be worthy again of each pair.

Bangalored Times

2008-08-21T15:18:00.006+05:30

Everyone thinks the term bangalored refers to Americans losing jobs to India.
All I can say is hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

Get real, jobs are just a front to conceal the real assault. Slowly but surely, we’re taking over every language of the world. We’ve already made serious inroads into English, and French and Chinese are also on their way to getting Bangalored!

Here are some of the words that the rest of the world has lost already to our city.

Jolly
Pronounced jarley, it is a compliment maids pay you when you give them a bonus. I thought my maid was accusing me of giving her counterfeit notes, till I realised she was speaking in English.
Systematic
This is not an adjective or adverb when used in the service stations of Bangalore, but an independent noun. Small objects have systems, large mechanisms have systematics. For example, car ka systematic kharaab ho gaya. Here's an acknowledgement from a male dominated industry that size does matter.
Meals
If you use the term to mean the plural of meal, you're sooo 90s. You go to thali restaurants and order one meals.
Manchuri
China has lost a part of their culture to Andhra restaurants in Bangalore. Akin to a collection of unmentionable parts of dogs, a plate gobi manchuri is a perfect accompaniment to Andhra meals.
Déjà vu
Rechristened Deja View in concrete and steel! A residential complex off Old Madras road now wears the term in shining letters. I guess it must mean that residents look out of their balconies at the end of a long day and enjoy a refreshing view of Deja.
Rights
Not what the oppressed fight for, it’s what parking attendants chant to you with the accompaniment of whistles when you’re backing into a parking spot. Rights, rights, pheee, rights. And when they do that, don’t, whatever else you do, wrestle with your steering wheel to turn. Rights means straight in Bangalore.

pleeeease, make the journey more rewarding

2008-08-15T22:34:00.004+05:30

‘On my way’ has to be the most commonly used text message ever, remarked a colleague a couple of weeks ago, as he checked his mobile for news of a tardy team member.

We smirked and settled down for a long wait.

‘On my way’ should constitute a punishable offence, not for the sender’s lack of punctuality, but for his or her lack of imagination. Come on, if you’re going to be late, the least you can do is to be entertaining. Not only will you keep our blood pressure in control (laughter being the best medicine as Reader’s Digest told us even before the dot com revolution was a dot on the horizon), it will actually help you become more truthful as well. All of us in Bangalore know that nothing is as entertaining as the truth.

For example, try ‘On my way to running down miniature acrobat sliding through giant earring’. The city’s best gymnasts aren’t at Beijing, they’re at every traffic signal in the city, gyrating and bobbing to give your text fingers fodder.

Or after a drizzle, you could text – ‘on my way out of Ulsoor lake which has cloned itself at Sadashiv Nagar. Instead of cursing you, those of us cooling our heels would spend the next hour comparing impromptu lakes we have braved in the past.

If you’re new to Bangalore and mms enabled, messaging solutions await you at every road sign. Besides dozens of signs that say ‘Hump ahead’ (it takes a newbie a while to figure out if this is an announcement or a request), road signs will always tell you exactly how far you are from various destinations. Of course you won’t know what those destinations are, as names of places are usually written in Kannada. Try ‘On my way to a series of marathon humps’ or ‘On my way to getting lost in translation’.

If you were about to say that you can’t punch in long messages while driving, save yourself the effort. All of us know sms lingo well enough to decipher that when you say ‘on your way’ you’re probably on your way to the rest room at the office.

public service inventions we could all do with

2008-08-06T23:43:00.004+05:30

Today, I stumbled on an amazing fact. A Mercedes (C, E or S-Class) can be fitted with a reverse parking sensor kit that warns you of obstacles behind your car when you back into a tight parking spot. And if you’re really fastidious, you can get the sensors spray painted to match your car perfectly.

If ever I meet the inventors who’ve gone through all this trouble to protect a rear bumper and a no claims bonus, I want to hand them my wish list of inventions.

Mouth sensors for feet: These sensors are embedded at the corners of your mouth and tinted with kiss proof paint to match your lipstick (nude shades would be a hit this season). These set off an extended fit of coughing to expel all thoughts of speech when your foot threatens to get into your mouth. These sensors are programmed to automatically get activated when you’re 3 bloody marys down.

Ex-file: This one forces you to take a u-turn when there’s an ex within a kilometre. This innovation has multi-functional sensors that work on all categories of exes, including ex-boyfriends, ex-husbands and ex-friends (the ones you made before you installed the mouth sensors for feet).

Itchy finger kit: This sophisticated device fits neatly into the magnetic strip of your credit card (the black strip at the back of a credit card – if yours looks balder than your car tyres, you definitely need this gadget). Every time you get close to maxing your card, this sensor sets off a strong optical illusion that makes the card invisible. The kit comes with an instruction booklet that has face saving lines such as: “Oh oh, I think I must have left my card at the Mercedes showroom when I bought my maid a car”.

Bum sensors: This one works on the principle of the sensors that save no claim bonuses. The portable device fits into your back pocket and detects habitual freeloaders who usually leave abruptly between the arrival of last drinks and the bill. It then uses consumed alcohol as fuel to propel you off your seat faster than the moochers and to steer you into the loo. With this one, you have nothing to lose, but your cheapo companions.

selling cars and keeping drivers off roads

2008-07-03T22:57:00.003+05:30

For once, let’s assume that selling an expensive sacrifice is not a haloed task, but that it's similar to selling an expensive product.

This may seem to take away the magic of public service advertising, but we have nothing to lose but an award category. The fact is that plasma TVs and expensive cars do sell, while we haven’t really managed to sell safety to the drunk drivers zig zagging across streets.

So the first thing you would do is find an insight that reveals what consumers really want or don’t want.

Why do people drink and drive? Definitely not because they don’t know what could happen if they had an accident. Digging deeper, we might find that:
It’s macho: You think you can hold your alcohol and are totally in control.
Cabs are expensive: It’s much cheaper to drive back than to take a cab, especially if you own a two wheeler.
You don’t know what to do with your car/bike: Parking in a public place overnight is often dangerous. You never know if your car or bike will still be there when you come back the next morning.

Working from these insights, you would then make an offer that makes people get more than they’re giving up.

Here are some, working on the principles of selling expensive things…

Bundled offers: If you’re planning a wild night out, you’re prepared to shell out more than at the neighborhood booze shop. Bars or pubs build in the cost of a driver into the cover charge. Before you stagger towards your parking shpashe, the manager offers you the use of a complimentary driver who gets you home safely.
Another version of this could be shared cabs hired by the bars, which drop people off at closing time. Again, the cost is built into the cover charge.

EMIs: The idea of a designated driver has been executed before, but that doesn’t stop it from being brilliant. You break up the sacrifice into palatable portions, and throw in free snacks for the abstainer.

Special offers with expiry dates: Parking in a public place overnight is often dangerous, because you don’t know if your car or bike will still be there when you return the next morning. So, like the festival offers that clear stocks, a drinking establishment offers to guard your vehicle till 8 am the next morning. The cost to the bar? That of a couple of guards in a designated space.

Cross promos: Bars tie up with malls in this scenario. For an extra charge, you can leave your vehicle overnight in the otherwise empty mall parking space.

Not only will these ideas keep some tipsy drivers off the roads, a lot of people actually would have a lot to gain. Bars would get more customers more often, since even conscientious drivers wouldn’t mind dropping in unplanned. Cab companies would gain business from people who would otherwise have driven back on their own. Malls could generate money out of hibernating parking lots.

The only people who wouldn’t gain directly would be those pitching for the public service category of awards. But look at the brighter side, the services category is much bigger than social service ...

looking for treasure in the wrong places?

2008-07-03T21:43:00.003+05:30

Everyone I know loves public service ads. They win awards, make great forwards and spark off interesting conversations.

But that’s not all that public service ads are meant to achieve, at least ostensibly. What they are really supposed to get from you is a sacrifice. A public service campaign almost always wants you to give up money, a habit, a vice, a convenience, a comfort or an element of your social status.

To complicate things, there are different levels of sacrifice. Here are a few, based on what you have to give up.

Clearance sale sacrifice: These are campaigns that ask you to donate to a cause or to report a problem. Great bargain! For the price of a telephone call, a few drinks or clothes you wouldn’t be caught dead in anyway, you get to become the fairy godmother of the underprivileged. The fact that so many ngos are flourishing is proof of the fact that this category of public service ads work.

Fair price sacrifice: This is where you’re asked to stop using something, say a brand of lippie or t-shirt, to discourage the abuse of children, animals or the environment. While your ego might twitch a bit at being deprived of the coolest logo on your chest, there’s a built-in escape clause in the form of options. There are other brands on the shelf, and another ice age will have to dawn before you have to expose the world to your parched lips. The result? Several companies have backed off from these evils and are even advertising the face.

Daylight robbery sacrifice: Give up something you love, need or want or suffer, demands the campaign. Hey did you see that great anti-smoking/drinking/drunken driving ad, you ask your friends as you light up, order another round of drinks and look for your car keys.

It’s funny, that when it comes to public service advertising of the third kind, creative people get it sooo wrong. In spite of all the hard hitting campaigns featuring orphaned children, dead horses and scary messages, India still has 120 million smokers http://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/97238.php. And 40% of India’s road accidents are still caused by drunk driving http://www.rediff.com/getahead/2008/jun/16msg.htm.

Is it because the otherwise successful people who work on these campaigns see public service as a totally different ball game from selling products? Or because the objective is more often the means (to be different/hard hitting/creative, etc.) than the end? Is it because there are no clients with an eye on targets and results?

What if public service campaigns that demand an expensive sacrifice used the principles of selling expensive products?

Hmmmmm....

a glue called helplessness

2008-06-07T21:16:00.004+05:30

I’ve spent most of the last two weeks cooped up with a group of strangers in a strange city. Looking back, I realise that I was strange too. I didn’t hit ctrl alt del once to lock up my documents when I stepped out for lunch or coffee. I uninhibitedly spoke about fears that I wouldn’t dare breathe to my mother or sisters (all of who I am quite close to).When I had to go out to take a call or to meet someone, I had no qualms about leaving my purse behind with these strangers. Night after night, all of us, male and female, slipped into our bunks in a common room.

This could have happened at an intensive spiritual workshop or a hippy commune, but didn’t in my case. I was outside the intensive care unit of a hospital in Mumbai.

There is something to be said about offline social networks.

We were offline in every possible way. The people we were there for (my father in my case) were separated from us by a heavily guarded door. Even when we got a peek in, we were up against barriers of tubes, needles and sedatives. Grim looking doctors who emerged once a day spoke to us in an alien language, using scary terms like lumbar puncture and mobilization. Those of us who had data cards were baffled by the number of ominous explanations that google threw up. What threw us furthest into offline territory was the fact that we couldn’t do anything for our ailing ones except wait.

So we waited, with our shared helplessness. And that turned us into a group, connected through our lack of power.

We participated in chats about doctors, treatments and incomprehensible news. We aired witticisms and mpgs from our cell phones. We could have been using super wall on facebook, only, we had no common friends. We trusted one another with our valuables and our thoughts, even though we hadn’t checked out a single profile.

But this was a social network with an expiry date. The day I left for home, I automatically signed out of the network. There’s no chance of reconnecting, because back in Bangalore, I realise that I don’t even know the names of the people I was so close to for eleven days.

I also know in hindsight that we weren’t held together by a cause, but a lack of one.

i want my junk back

2008-05-18T21:35:00.003+05:30

On Friday night, I produced some noxious junk. A friend and I were at our favourite pub, and had got past the social niceties to that lovely moment when you usually settle down to a cosy chat.

That's when I did it. About 5 minutes into the cosy chat phase, I made a remark about her marriage. Not only was my statement embarrassingly true, it was as insensitive as tweezing an eyebrow with a wrench. What made it worse was the way my friend tactfully steered the conversation around my remark, like she was stepping around dog poop on a pavement.

I want my statement back.

And while I'm at it, I also want to take back the 4-letter word that slipped out my mouth last month, while telling a funny story to a friend's mother-in-law (the ending wasn't funny, that's one place I'm probably never getting invited to again). And that despicable salwar kurta my aunt had given me and which I had promptly donated to my maid... I want it back with retrospective effect, before the day my aunt visited and my maid wore it to work...

If there were a return policy on the rubbish we say and do, the rules would be different from store policies. Firstly, the seller (eg. me with my foot in my mouth), would have absolutely no grumpy clauses about coming back in 24 hours or avoiding busy saturday mornings; on the contrary, it would be a homecoming complete with open arms and a fatted calf. Then there's the issue of damage - you wouldn't worry about damaged merchandise, your concern would be about the damage it has caused to the unsuspecting receiver.

And the last issue is of cost - if brain surgeons came up with a way to erase the memory of actions or words from receivers, they would make much more money than cosmetic surgeons who pump stars with silicon. And the steep fees wouldn't have to be paid by patients, the people with tongues that run away with them would be more than happy to bear all costs.

I know I would, if I could get back all the rubbish I've said, and never mind the market rates.

u got junk mail

2008-05-06T20:20:00.007+05:30

In the last few weeks, I've realised that I've turned into a digital rag picker. My cursor has been wading through page after page of hits on junk - I must be the only person in history to go beyond page 5 on google search.

But it's been worth it, here are two of the latest gems I unearthed.

One is the term upcycling - which is the practice of taking something that is disposable, and transforming it into something of greater use of value. Besides describing a useful concept, the word has the additional advantage of adding tact and intellectual quotient to everyday conversations. For example, if you don't want to tell a colleague that his presentation sucks, you could say "Your presentation is a perfect candidate for upcycling!"

The second gem is the picture above - by artist Sandy Schimmel. She puts upcycling into practice by creating art out of junk mail and flyers. Enjoy.

a school in every dust bin

2008-04-30T15:20:00.005+05:30

A hovercraft made out of junk, by Arvind Gupta.

A toy maker, writer, science enthusiast, engineer and bibliophile, Arvind Gupta designs toys that bring the principles of science and geometry alive for children. ‘‘One doesn’t need expensive material to perform experiments. ...in fact, the students’ mind is the most expensive commodity involved,’’ says Arvind Gupta.

Besides toys from trash, Arvind Gupta's web site, www.arvindguptatoys.com, contains downloadable books on education philosophy and science education.

straight from the trash can

2008-04-27T22:37:00.008+05:30

Dirty White Trash (with gulls) by Tim Noble and Sue Webster.

These artists from England create sculptures out of heaps of garbage collected from the streets of London. When light is projected on the heap, meaningful shadows appear on the wall behind the trash.

some things never change...

2008-03-27T21:22:00.006+05:30

I’m so tired of working every day,
Now the weekend’s come I’m gonna throw my troubles away
If you’ve got the cab fare, mister you’ll do all right
I want to see the bright lights tonight

Meet me at the station don’t be late
I need to spend some money and it just won’t wait
Take me to the dance and hold me tight
I want to see the bright lights tonight

There’s crazy people running all over town
There’s a silver band just marching up and down
And the big boys are all spoiling for a fight
I want to see the bright lights tonight
Meet me at the station don’t be late
I need to spend some money and it just won’t wait
Take me to the dance and hold me tight
I want to see the bright lights tonight

A couple of drunken nights rolling on the floor
It’s just the kind of mess I’m looking for
I’m gonna dream till Monday comes in sight
I want to see the bright lights tonight

Meet me at the station don’t be late
I need to spend some money and it just won’t wait
Take me to the dance and hold me tight
I want to see the bright lights tonight
Take me to the dance and hold me tight
I want to see the bright lights tonight

RICHARD & LINDA THOMPSON
I WANT TO SEE THE BRIGHT LIGHTS TONIGHT (1974)

weaning facts

2008-03-14T22:03:00.007+05:30

348,000.

At last count, that’s how many hits you got if you googled ‘adopting a child in India’.
But go past Branjelina’s visit to an orphanage in Pune (several pages) and the official sites of adoption centres. You’ll reach a point where you will want to drop the idea of adoption along with your clothes, and start procreating madly.

There is a video of a sting operation about an infant who was taken away from his mother to be given up for adoption. 34 years later, the child (now an angry adult) is back in India, enraged about having been a victim of a lucrative ‘deal’.

I read blogs of women who were turned away because they didn’t make more than Rs. 80,000 a month. (The Indian laws for adoption stipulate a monthly income of Rs. 5000).
There are adoption centers that brazenly ask for donations, and bend the rules of age for people who can afford to donate tens of thousands of dollars.

There are stories about orphanages that turn away Indian parents, because there’s more to gain by giving children to foreigners.

But on one of the back pages, buried under the muck was a faith-restoring news clipping.

It's not you, it's me...

2008-03-11T21:19:00.010+05:30

If you think it’s hard to find the right man, you've obviously never looked for parking.

Here’s how a typical parking game goes.

I see a parking spot from a distance. This one is definitely not engaged, I whisper to my car. My car purrs in anticipation, my heart sings, because we’ve found THE ONE.

Then seconds later, wham!

Dumped by a drawing of a miniature cockroach shaped scooter that signals two wheelers only.

What makes parking spaces so choosy? It’s not like we’re looking for a lifetime commitment, we’re totally ok with one day stands.

My car and I have been rejected because we’re not residents of a building.

We’ve been passed over because we weren’t bright enough to become doctors at a hospital or ambitious enough to be CEOs.

We’ve been spurned because we don’t shop at certain stores and because we don’t like raw Japanese food.

We’ve failed to make it to second gear because it’s the wrong time of the month (not being bitter, I’ve seen designated parking spots for even days and others for odd days of the month).

But here’s one that took my breath away. Dejected by so many failures, I didn't have the confidence of the white car to make the first move. But the spot was chivalrous enough to pose for me while I took a picture.

One day, I will be ready to get close to this one... once I dig out out all my old moral science text books and become a better human being.

the god of big things

2008-03-03T23:11:00.010+05:30

These days, I dress in brown when I leave home for work. My clothes, shoes, hair, car... It's a deep, dusty shade of brown that has nothing to do with spring-summer fashion shows on FTV or Vogue.

All the credit goes to a 1 k stretch of dug up road that starts outside my apartment and proceeds to drive me crazy.

The moment I step out, I’m engulfed in thick dust clouds. The asphalt on the road (I call it a road only because profanities are not encouraged on blogs) is a distant memory obscured by the grime on my windscreen and the grit in my eyes.

But as they say, every cloud has a silver lining, and this applies even to dust clouds. Mine appeared this week in the form of a road roller, parked on the side of what used to be a street. It wasn't rolling or doing anything productive, but it was painted with the most amazing graphics. A great match for the much publicized riksha art of Bangladesh!

Hats off to the guy who drives/owns this road roller. I love the spirit of this person who has managed to think of art while encountering dusty unroads for a living. I took a couple of pictures and smiled all the way home.

And now, my teeth and cell phone match the rest of my ensemble.

plastic vs plastic

2008-02-29T16:12:00.004+05:30

In the last few years, my mother has drastically reduced her use of plastic bags. She’s not alone. There are many, many people doing their bit to prevent the environmental hazards caused by plastic.

Unfortunately, there are a lot more people out there making plastic bags. Factories worldwide belch out 4-5 trillion plastic bags every year (numerals would have looked more impressive but I was scared of scuffing the printing off my zero key).

Where do these bags go? A lot of them make their way into landfills, drains, the stomachs of animals and our oceans.

Luckily, as my friend Pepe showed me after a visit to the Philippines, some plastic bags go to work for a good cause. The tote he brought me (the one in the picture) is made of 18 snack packs rescued from landfills and stitched together.

Here are all the things I love about it.

The looks: I think the design is cool - kind of Warhol-ish and pop artsy! The unusual looks of the bag never fail to start a conversation.

The possibilities: Think of discarded plastic bags as raw material. It’s free. It’s everywhere. All you have to do is watch out for empty snack packs flying out of car windows and buildings, and grab them before the cows do. Voila! You have what you need to manufacture totes, coin purses, backpacks, lamp shades, car covers, umbrellas...

Plastic vs plastic: What I love most is the paradox! Here is a tote made of plastic bags that turns me against using more plastic bags. What could be more delightful?

children of chaos

2008-02-26T23:03:00.007+05:30

If you ever need to rescue a choking conversation, try this emergency procedure.

Ask the people you're with if they drove down to the restaurant or wherever you are at the moment.

Regardless of how lifeless the conversation seemed seconds ago, your question will restore it in steroidal proportions. Awkward humming and hawing will plump up into a series of topics that will charge from traffic jams to atrocious town planning to gaping holes in infrastructure. The conversation will finally pool and grow around the state of chaos created by modernization.

Like us, the people of ancient Greece believed that chaos was crude, unpredictable and disorganised. But unlike us, they didn't think it was the end product of anything.

According to Greek mythology, chaos was the beginning, the original state of existence. It took that churning void to give birth to a beautiful, productive Goddess that we call earth.

Although I don't worship Greek Gods (not the ones in mythology anyway), I find this point of view rejuvenating.

I'd like to believe that even today, chaos continues to give birth to beautiful creations. Maybe we just aren't looking hard enough for the beauty.

Here's to surprising, beautiful things and possibilities born of chaos.

If I don't post new findings regularly, it would be because I am busy finding new ways to revive dying conversations :)