Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Every South Indian Of Marriageable Age

Read Harish's hilarious post here.

Ring-a-ring-a Rosies

Remember the old myth about the origin of the nursery rhyme of "Ring-a-ring-a roses, pocket full of posies, …" ? The story goes that it's a dark rhyme about the Black Plague back in the 1600s or the first Plague in the 1300s. (There is another less popular story that it's about the children in the mining towns up North in the Isles). It's a load of hooey. The rhyme was only recorded in Mother Goose in the 1800s, about 500 years after it was began?? Surely, not.

A convincing theory is that, the nursery rhyme has actually something to do with the puritanical wave that swept across New England. Dancing and revelry, incld. square dances, were frowned upon. Even banned in some places, actually. Young people found a way around these bans by calling the square dances, play-parties. Play-parties had lots of ring games with holding hands and dancing in circles.

But, there are others that state that there are actually two versions of the nursery rhyme. One has its roots in Middle English, while the other is a la Americana. Anyone, wants to play professor? (Why don't they research these kind of things anymore, instead of researching things like how many calories you burn if you chew gum 24/7/365?)

And oh, there is a fairly consistent theory of origin of the another popular rhyme (especially in the place I was born in as where the monsoons were bad),

"Rain, rain go away,
Come again another day,
Little Johnny wants to play;
Rain, rain go to Spain,
Never show your face again"

It originates from the Elizabethan era. Umm…the first Elizabethan era, not the current one :-) The Spanish Armada set sail to conquer England in the 1580s. The English underdogs defeated the Armada thanks to some nifty seamanship as well as to help from incredibly foul weather that dispersed the Armada fleet. 

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Yes, Minister

The other day, I was talking to a friend when he confessed that he disliked Yes Minister. I positively went wild with indignation. How can anyone not like clever plots, intelligent cynicism, acerbic wit? I vowed to convert him into a Yes Minister-ite. And you, readers of my blog, as well.

For the uninitiated, Jim Hacker is a politician. In fact the Minister of Administrative Affairs (a fictitious department). Bernard Woolley is his Private Secretary and Sir Humphrey Appleby is Permanent Secretary of State for Jim Hacker's ministry. Jim Hacker is a publicity seeking, albeit well intentioned, insecure politician. He is hapless compared to the devious Sir Humphrey. Sir Humphrey and Bernard are civil servants/bureaucrats, by the way.

Here are some of my favourite parts -

Minister Jim Hacker: "What am I going to do with all this correspondence?"
Bernard Woolley: "You do realize you don't actually have reply to, Minister."
Minister JH: "Don't I?"
Bernard Woolley: "Not if you don't want to, we can draft an official reply."
Minister JH: "What's an official reply?"
BW : "It just says The Minister has asked me to thank you for your letter and we say something like The matter is under consideration, or even if we feel so inclined under active consideration."
Minister JH: "What's the difference?"
BW: "Well, under consideration means we've lost the file, under active consideration means we're trying to find it."

Or this …

[Minister wants a controversial petition on electronic surveillance to disappear]
Bernard Woolley: "Shall I file it?"
Minister JH: "File it? Shred it!"
Bernard Woolley: "Shred it??"
Jim Hacker: "Nobody must ever be able to find it again."
Bernard Woolley: "In that case, Minister, I think it is best I file it."

And this absolute gem about the EEC …

[Sir Humphrey Appleby is anti EEC, while Minister JH is pro-EEC]

Minister JH: "Europe is a community of nations, dedicated towards one goal."
Sir Humphrey: "Oh, ha ha ha."
Minister JH: "May we share the joke, Humphrey?"
Sir Humphrey: "Oh Minister, let's look at this objectively. It's a game played for national interests, it always was. Why do you suppose we went into it?"
Minister JH: "To strengthen the brotherhood of Free Western nations."
Sir Humphrey: "Oh really. We went in to screw the French by splitting them off from the Germans."
Minister JH: "So why did the French go into it then?"
Sir Humphrey: "Well, to protect their inefficient farmers from commercial competition."
Minister JH: "That certainly doesn't apply to the Germans."
Sir Humphrey: "No no, they went in to cleanse themselves of genocide and apply for readmission to the human race."
Minister JH: "I never heard such appalling cynicism. At least the small nations didn't go into it for selfish reasons."
Sir Humphrey: "Oh really? Luxembourg is in it for the perks; the capital of the EEC, all that foreign money pouring in."
Minister JH: "But its very sensible central location."
Sir Humphrey: "With the administration in Brussels and the Parliament in Strasbourg (Luxembourg)? Minister, it's like having the House of Commons in Swindon and the Civil Service in Kettering."

And this one…

Minister Jim Hacker: "When did a civil servant last refuse an honour?"
Bernard Woolley: "Well I think there was somebody in the Treasury that refused a Knighthood."
Minister Jim Hacker: "Good God. When?"
Bernard Woolley: "I think it was in 1496."
Minister Jim Hacker: "Why?"
Bernard Woolley: "He had already got one."

In order to understand the next one, you need to know that yearly, the Queen bestows honours on people, including civil servants, for various reasons. Among them is the Most Distinguished Order of Saint Michael and Saint George, a British order of chivalry founded by George IV. The Order includes three classes, in descending order of seniority:

  • Knight Grand Cross (GCMG) ( GCMG : where M is for St Michael, G is for St George and GC is for Grand Cross)
  • Knight Commander( KCMG : where M is for St Michael, G is for St George and KC is for Knight Commander)
  • Companion ( CMG : where M is for St Michael, G is for St George and C is for Companion)

[Talking about the abbreviations of the honours CMG, KCMG and GCMG]
Bernard Woolley: "Of course in the service, CMG stands for Call Me God. And KCMG for Kindly Call Me God."
Minister Jim Hacker: "What about GCMG then?"
Bernard Woolley: "God Calls Me God."

Auden Speaks From the Grave

Pick a fight, go to war,
Leave the hero in the bar.
Fight a lion, climb the peak,
Let no one guess you are weak.

Very true, innit? Auden speaks to me from his grave.

To My Second Mother

Happy Birthday.

Monday, October 29, 2007

No Tea & Sympathy

I am truly exasperated. I don’t understand women who offer their hearts to emotional cowards and let them make mince meat out of them. Why, they practically serve it up on a platter with strawberries and cream on the side. Good Gawd! What is wrong with you women folk. Protect yourself!

If he can’t discipline his roving eye, discard him after you've blinded him. If he can’t decide between you and another poor woman, why are you even waiting around for him to choose? Is he Indie Jones picking the Holy Grail?? Go attend to the 15 men who are serenading outside your window. If he comes knocking at your door with roses and a charming smile, slam the door on his face, preferrably after you've punched him. You forgive once, and he will make you make a habit of it.

Go, lead your life with passion but without maudlin sentimentality.

Now run along, and don’t come looking for tea & sympathy from your Agony Aunt. I have little sympathy for I understand too well that you gave him the right to play with you. Take responsibility, powder your nose and move on.

Thursday, October 25, 2007

These Are A Few Of ...

Things I Dislike:

dyed hair,
lipstick on teeth,
coffee breath,
pregnant women,
garden salad,
sharp elbows,
olives,
tousled hair,
tobacco,
creases in pants,
smell of alcohol,
bananas,
loud music,
cell phones,

Things I Love:

old-books shops,
old clocks
wrinkles (on other people),
diners,
cream soda,
gramophones,
cloth bags,
open-air theatres,
large earrings,
wet dogs,
gales,
stormy seas,
lighthouses
lawn sprinklers
B&W movies
pickled jalapeƱos,
musty libraries
BBC World Service,
gardens

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

A Trivial Thought

How do you un-trivialize a trivial life? Pursue an education? Pack up your bags and search for your Lake Isle of Innisfree? Drink tea and discuss literature? Compulsively scrub floors? Go to the talkies to plug the leaks? Obsess over solving NYT's cryptic crosswords? Knit, crochet and marry a stranger?

Travel to be disappointed, sleep to forget, read to escape, write to grieve.
Is that all there is to it?

Edna St Vincent Millay was right – "Life isn't one damn thing after another. It is one damn thing over and over". And in spite of this, why do I refuse to stop hoping and plotting?

Beheadings

Right after beheadings, custom required raising the severed head to the crowd. This was not, as popular belief would have us think, to show the head to the bloodthirsty crowd. It was actually to show to the head the crowd and the body it was severed from. You see, consciousness remains for at least 5 -6 seconds before the head dies due to lack of oxygen.

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

And They Were Called Akasapu

Ever wondered how your family got those funky surnames? Well, for that matter, how did the Akasapus get their name? Well below is a piece of recorded family history. My family history. At least, my mother's family history.

Firstly, akasam in Sanskrit and Telugu means sky. So, Akasapu means 'belonging to sky' or 'of sky'. Family history has it (written on talapatras that existed till my grandfather was about 10 and then were later lost during ancestral wealth distribution) that the clan of Akasapus were master weavers. They were famous in their land for creating the most exquisite cloth of their times . Lore has it that they once weaved a saree out of exquisite, delicate silk with such finesse that they could fold it neatly and tuck it into a matchbox and present it to the king.

The king (I forget the name, but basically, a king before the era of Sri Krishnadevaraya of Vizanagara kingdom) was so impressed by their feat, and touched by their humbleness that he stated that they could ask for anything. The humble clansmen replied that they desired no ephemeral, worldly rewards, but wished for their name to be eternal and sasvatham. The king pleased by their reply, decreed that, from that day forth, they will be known as the Akasapu, people as eternal as the sky.

And thus, the Akasapus came to existence.

Avy explains "what's happening, why no calling and other not-so-interesting news"

This was sitting in my inbox this morning. From Avy. As written in an earlier post, we share a bit of telepathy. No kidding. It came at the right time.

"Went to claim my microphone from the office (my ex-office desk) where it was hibernating all these months, only to realise that somebody used it and left a note saying "Thanks, but I'm sorry I broke it". So, yes, a new one will be shipped from the neighboring galaxy and you'll have to spend some light years waiting just to hear my 'hello' :).
The Gods have found a way to ban all surprises, flowers at doorsteps, messages in voice mail and most importantly 'a single red rose' from my life."

Monday, October 15, 2007

The Old Man Of Lode

In the summer of 2002, I was in Cambridgeshire for a day. I spent some time walking around Cambridge before hopping on a bus to a little village near Cambridge, a village by the name of Lode. I had heard from someone on the coach from London that there is a pretty little abbey and a mill, called Anglesey Abbey, in Lode. Sure enough, the former priory was pretty, the grounds were impeccable. But it wasn't the abbey, I remember most about Lode. It was the Old Man of Lode.


Satisfied with the Abbey, I was heading back to the bus stop to take the bus back to Cambridge. As there was plenty of time to kill for the next bus, I walked along the country road to the next bus stop, enjoying the sun and the wind.


Upon reaching this bus stop I still had 15 minutes to kill. So, I walked along the road to find a lane, more like a dirt path, that took me through the fields. It was a windy day, and the fields sighed and whispered, beckoning me to enter. I did. The butterflies seemed flustered by my entry. The path took me right past the backyards of some homes/farms. Believe me, country home backyards are fascinating. There were kennels, tubs, lawn chairs, flower beds, wrought iron swings, willow trees with rubber tires for swings, mini greenhouses, conservatories … Fascinated, I took more time than I meant to. I headed back. The bus was no where in sight. It was now 5 past the hour. I waited.


There is something about the countryside that slows time. No matter how much there is to see and do, time creeps and crawls in the country. I walked up and down the road, kicking pebbles and chewing on grass. It was now about 20 minutes past the hour. I threw a pebble into the fields. Two hares jumped out.


Then I saw an old man walking towards the bus stop. Dressed in tweeds and a deerstalker hat. Small, slightly bent, wrinkled, about 80. He nodded at me. I nodded and smiled back. I had resumed strolling up and down. When I was near enough, he said that I had missed the bus when I had taken the walk in the fields. I was a tad bit taken aback but was polite enough to make small talk "Are you going to Cambridge, sir?"


He took a minute to answer, "No, I am not going anywhere. [Pause] I didn't know youngsters still called us old folks 'sir'. Where are you from?


I told him a little bit about my being Indian. Then he asked me why I was in these parts of England and I soon found myself telling him about living in Singapore and studying in the-place-i-studied and how I plan to go to the Highlands come next winter yada yada yada. His eyes twinkled. The blue of his eyes was marred by cloudy grey that comes with the years.


I asked him back where he was from. Slowly and eventually, he told me about how he spent most of his life in Cambridgeshire, and had never really done much of anything other than farming and how his wife died about 20 years ago and that he had few surviving relatives, and how he doesn't drive anymore because he cannot understand why people are always in a rush to get somewhere and honk so much, and how he used to enjoy going to the talkies, but now he cannot stomach all the noise and blood, and that how life in England has so drastically changed that he doesn't feel he belongs anymore, and how he stopped going to town (Cambridge) unless it was absolutely necessary and how he once went to London a long time ago and absolutely hated it, and how he feels unwanted in his own country in spite of fighting for it during the Great War (he meant the second one), and how he wishes that he will not wake up one day not because he is depressed, but because he sees little purpose in his life.


I listened for a long time without any pity, but with growing desolation. With every syllable he uttered, I was engulfed in my own emptiness. In spite of such desolation, he spoke with such perfect equanimity and quiet dignity that it very nearly broke my heart bit by bit.


He asked me why I seemed to agree with him, though I was young. I told him something along the lines of – Of the little I've seen, I found little comfort in women for there is too much malice in them, I found little comfort in men for there is too little sensitivity in them, I found little comfort in children for there is too much selfishness in them and that I often wonder whether there is such a thing like the simple people or the simple life and whether it was really ever simple, and if it was, how come it wasn't simple any more or had I just 'missed the bus'.


He laughed. A sound of mirth, sadness and surprise. He nodded and said, 'You've seen right.' I probed him with more questions, and he answered all of them with great frankness. He didn't show the usual English reticence when it comes to discussing personal life. He advised me to visit the White Cliffs of Dover if I ever get a chance to. I said, I would. He added that there are some things comforting because that do not change, and shall remain the same for all eternity, and one of them are the White Cliffs of Dover. He recited the lyrics of the song (There'll be bluebirds flying over the white cliffs of Dover) a little and I finished it a little for him. And we stood there on the dusty country road smiling and nodding at each other.


Then he asked me whether I would like to have some tea and biscuits, as it was a hot summer day. He pointed towards the stonewall adjacent to the road, and said, his farm was beyond the wall and this (a berry tree bent over the wall onto the road) was his berry tree. His mother had planted it when she was a lonely bride, new to Cambridgeshire. But just as he uttered the invitation, a red bus rumbled in the distance.


I was very touched by his invitation. I very much wanted to take a walk with him in his farm and ask him about his life, about the War, about growing up in Cambridgeshire, about his loves, his children, his young hopes, his travels, his faith. I wanted to know everything.
I saw his quiet dignity in his loneliness and his kindness in his bitterness and a wisdom that comes from living through the decades.


But I had to board that red bus. Before I could turn him down, he spoke, "Oh, there's your bus.
Run along now before you miss this one too." I mumbled something about being awfully glad that I met him, and would have liked to have tea.


To which he said something very perceptive and beautiful, 'You're a good girl. Don't be sad thinking of old age and the bygone times. It is a job for the old. Now you take good care.'


Bidding adieu, I hopped onto the bus and found a seat at the rear. As the bus rumbled along, I looked back and saw him, in his tweeds and deerstalker cap, standing beside the winding road, right underneath his mother's berry tree. He made a desolate picture. I waved. He raised his hand in reply.


There are times when you feel that you are in the right place at the right time and that life isn't completely meaningless (you know this by theory, but you don't feel it often) and that you are part of a grand plan and nothing is a coincidence. Meeting the Old Man of Lode was one of those times for me.


I wonder if he still comes by the country lane to talk to people who missed their buses. I would like to think that he came just for me.

Let Me..

Let me fly,

hop, skip, leap, dash

Let me outrun the brook,

Let me chase the rainbow

and the butterflies.

Let me enter the woods at dusk,

and walk in the rain

Let me sit by the fire,

by the sea

 

Set the kite free from the tree top,

let it flutter and kiss the skies

as I cannot.

Let it be free,

as I am not.

 

Monday, October 08, 2007

If...

If I had a restaurant, I would name it Fly In the Soup.

If I had a fastfood chain (though, on second thoughts, I would never do humanity such a disservice), I would call it Hole In the Wall.

If I had a footwear retail store, I would call it Pebble In the Shoe.

A pal once said, “Ech, remind me never to ask you for advise when I need to name my company.”

Friday, October 05, 2007

With Death By My Window

With Death by my window,
I slumber in his shadow,
He yawns and coughs,
spies and waits
for the wheel to grind to a halt,
the water to slow to a trickle,
the shadows to cease their dances
and the dinghy to be adrift.

The clocks have struck,
the bells have rung,
the hour has come,
I hear him at the door.
The hour has come
for a rue laden heart to
to ponder the eternal verities.

Wednesday, October 03, 2007

How the Divine Spark Within Me Nearly Ended

Couple of weeks ago, I woke up realizing that I was being strangled. Initially I thought it was my folks (they don't like me to be in bed after 4 am). For an eternal second, I flailed and writhed like a hapless rag doll, gasping for air. Then, thanks to the spark of brilliance within, I realized that my hands were actually free. So, instead of clawing the air, I began to claw whatever was squeezing the life out of me. Within milliseconds I was saved. The killer lay limp in my hands – defeated. It was Snake.

Snake is my bedfellow - a longish green soft toy with a wicked, pronged, red flannel tongue, black patches for eyes with one eye missing (I had gouged it out in sleep). This one-eyed-dopey-tongued-green-tailed-one-metered hideousity tried to end the divine spark within me.


Now let me come to the point of my post. Never buy this for your child. Them toys can be ungrateful and can betray you. Just like your kids. If you have to buy 'em, make sure the toys cannot strangle, asphyxiate, poison, blind, retard the child. Best bet is to not buy any toys. With Mattel recalling millions of Made-In-China toys even Barbies (!!), the last safe place on Earth, that is your child's nursery, doesn't seem safe anymore. So, don't buy them. Anyway, your ingrate of a brat doesn't deserve them after that made-in-3-minutes-on-scratch-paper greeting-card he gave you for your birthday.


That reminds me, I have to make a couple of calls to my aunts (as I exported 3 Snakes in all for my some of my cousins in India).

Tuesday, October 02, 2007

The Awful Incident of the Gangly Old Man in the Afternoon

Read Jayesh's post on Monday 1 Oct 2007 at http://www.the-unarticulate.blogspot.com before you read on.

Well, I think Jayesh is making a hullabaloo and cribbing about nothing. As I told him yesterday, he has to count his blessings that he has been mistaken for a Sunny Mangolassiwala or Frankie Boy or even Lucky Lou, instead of say, a Shelly Mangolassiwala or Frannie Girl or Lucky Lucy.


Just this Sunday aftie, I had the misfortune of facing such a traumatizing
situation. Believe you me, it does dreadful things to one's ego.

I invited a few pals and an insufferable cad (you will know who soon enough) for Sunday lunch. Being the considerate host that I am, I was wasting lots of energy trying to get Sir Sgt 'un-lost' over the phone. He was walking towards my apartments and was clearly confused by the many bends of The-road-I-live-on Rd and was hence, sulking (because he likes to be in-charge). To be fair to him, if you take a left on The-road-I-live-on Rd, it is still The-road-I-live-on Road. You take a right, it is still The-road-I-live-on Road, you walk straight it is still The-road-I-live-on Road.


Anyways, so, I was directing him over the mobile phone to walk past the park on his left and to kindly if he could please not get distracted by the many Filipino maids in the neighbourhood (he has a thing for Filipino dames
, and Australian chicks, and plump diving instructors from LA and….) in order to catch sight of me. I was, at the same time, peering over the skinny bushes around me and eagerly enquiring "Do you see me? Do you see me?" After a frustrating minute or two, he finally yelled into the phone, "Yes! I see you."

But I couldn't see an inch of him. So I did a 360 degree turn, in the process stepped on the toe of the guy who was right behind me and tripped on the skirt I was wearing. I still couldn't see him.

Meanwhile, his voices cackled on the phone again, "No wait, that isn't you. That's an old man."

First, my reaction was this – '!'
Then it was – '!!!'
Then it was - '$%@%^!@%#&@#$&*(@#%^!$#^%&@*^@%@^&#%&%&*#%@$#^$@%!'

A second of stunned silence from my end was broken when the heartless cad spoke again to explain - "He was walking like you." Apparently this was a perfectly reasonable explanation.

Being a lady who could handle anything with utmost equanimity and dignity, I inquired in a very civil tone (my voice only hit the 150dB mark and was only audible to the man on the 30th floor three streets away as opposed to the man on the moon) what did he mean mistaking a Gangly Old Man for me, and how dare he mistake a Gangly Old Man for me, and what was he thinking of by mistaking a Gangly Old Man for me.

But before he could reply, I caught sight of same Gangly Old Man in question and my heart dropped into my pit. I whined into the phone, "But his limbs are flying all over the place"

To which Sir Sgt succinctly replied, "Exactly."

I didnt know whether to throw a godawful tantrum right there and then (which I thought was the more mature option) or to run up to him (I caught sight of him by now) and clobber the bejezzus out of him.

Well, what happened next is not the point of this post. Suffice to say that rumour hath that I have a heavy hand for such insolence.

So, you ain't got nothin' to complain about, Frankie Boy..err, I mean Jayesh.

Testing

Testing...123

Just a test post to see if this gets published. Fingers crossed. I am posting it via the email-to-blogger service.

My bigbrother-esque office firewall blocks blogspot. So, I cannot even read, let alone post on from work...ahem..not that I would, mind you ahem..I mean, I have perfectly high work ethics...ahem