A Fairness Cream Episode

At the shop I usually frequent (reluctantly I must add….I hate shopping for groceries and such organic matter), I happened to catch an interesting scene. There were two girls,aged around 16 in deep discussion on various 'Fairness Creams'. 

       Having been blessed with, in what is known in matrimony-speak, a wheatish (brownish) complexion, I can confidently say, I have not had the pleasure  to be part of such a discussion. 

I admit, I did consider it once, till I discovered the phrase (Tall, Dark and Handsome'. I figured if I can get two out of the three right, I stood a reasonable chance. 

       Therefore I gave up on the 'Fairness' part very easily (I am particularly proud of my eagerness to give up easily), and decided to concentrate on increasing my height. Plus height helps in longer strides and I am particular that I am able to run fast from any kind of fight or other such displays of maleness. 

       During my formative years (and what a form that has generated), I frequently, planned to hang weights from my ankles while I was sleeping. I loved the planning (in intricate details as I tend to daydream a lot) and spent quite a few hours in working out the sourcing of the materials for this endeavor. 

       The two main parts were the weight and something to hang it with (I couldn't use a rope as that would have become painful after some time). I finally settled (in my mind) on 'Ammi Kohzul'. I do not know what it is called in English, but it is basically a granite roller that is used in grinding chutney's etc. I knew getting this from my Mom's kitchen in the night would not be easy. She was a suspicious woman, especially when it came to anything connected with me. 

        To this day, I have not found a good reason for a teenage boy to take an 'Ammi Kozhul' to his bedroom in the night. If any of you can think of some palatable excuse, please let me know (only for academic reasons of course, as I now have my own roller and do not need to resort to excuses). 

        Second thing, that I needed was a piece of long soft cloth. I couldn't figure this one out satisfactorily, too. What I needed was a 'Dupatta', the long piece of cloth that comes with churidhars ( it is an old Ninja headgear and they used it to camouflage their face. It has been copied religiously by the girls in Bangalore. You see many of them on the roads and I presume they are on their way to commit their next crime). 

        Unfortunately, my mother only wore saris and asking her to lend an old sari was out of question. She was already on the borderline in matters concerning my proclivities and this would have pushed her over the edge. 

        So to cut a long story short, I did not achieve the required height that, I of course felt, I deserved. 

        That left only the 'Handsomeness'. During certain times of the year when the light was just right, and it fell softly and glowingly on my face, some people have admitted, I look passable. From my own experience, I can confidently say that children do not scream and run away when they see me (instead they burst into giggles). 

        Therefore, if you are in your formative years, and if you are bothered about the form that you eventually turn into, I suggest you do not pursue 'Tallness' and 'Handsomeness'. Instead, concentrate on 'Fairness'. At least it is easy to purchase a cream and dabble it everyday on your face. 

        The 'beauty' industry needs your money. Think of it as a social cause. 

On Weighty Issues Like Careers!

A few nights back, I was with two of my friends, when the topic of  'Careers' came up. We usually meet up, to drink, but responsible adults that we are, we regularly try to interject our sipping with such weighty matters as 'Careers'. This usually makes us feel good and to celebrate we usually pour one more. The system works well and at the close of business hours a more contented lot will be difficult to find. 

The 'Career' question was not about any of us. We were way past that. It was about the son of one of them. 

I have been told and till recently believed that children are like the red luscious plum that you find on the top of the cake. They are like little angels sent down from the sky to fill the world with bright peals of laughter and our lives with pleasing mischievousness.

I have been told this by every parent I have met especially when it has concerned their own progeny. I have not doubted it though I did find it suspicious that these parents usually end their description with a nervous, hysterical laughter. But I have always attributed it to their love of their little angels. 

This particular child and since we need to name him something, let’s call him Darth Vader. Now DV (lets shorten it as I feel like shortening it) in no way fits the description. Instead of a luscious plum, he is more like the slimy fungus that grows on the cake after a few weeks. He is not a very bright fellow. He is not only not the brightest bulb around but can be confidently said to be of the lowest wattage in the country. There is rumoured to be one of a dimmer status in the North but since records are scanty and unreliable, we can ignore that. 

Now don't get me wrong, I am not averse to low watt idiots. In fact I like them. They provide me with opportunities to show my intellectual prowess. I feel good after talking to them. And if I can imbibe alcohol and then converse with them it makes my whole day. Rather the whole week. Love and peace reigns in my heart and I look at my fellow citizens with an air of forgiveness. I forgive left, right and centre even to people who have done no wrong. I know they will do some wrong soon and I forgive in anticipation. 

Now DV combines low wattage with meanness, low personal hygiene, a propensity to air opinions, a thick skin, an inability to understand simple words like 'Get Out' etc. To make matters worse he looks like an elephant. His parents have, of course, put him in Aerobics, Bushido, Calisthenics, Dance and so on in alphabetic order till Yoga. They couldn't find anything starting with Z.  

They tried donating him to a zoo (to fill their personal ambition of completing the complete English alphabet). The zoo refused on grounds of costs. Apparently upkeep of a baby elephant is costly. 

By now, I am sure you have developed a mental image of our dear DV. What career do you think would be suitable for him? Suggestions had ranged from the mildly promising to the wildly optimistic. 

To name a few :

Astronaut in the International Space station - this was good as we don't need to interact with them on a personal level. And all we get are murky pictures of them and that too not very often. Plus radio waves do not transmit smell. This was our personal favourite till we realised that reaching there, would require intelligence, grasp of  multiplication tables up to eight (beyond that astronauts use calculators or radio back to earth) and an ability to handle power tools. 


Waiter at a Chinese Restaurant - this was a plausible profession since it only required a command of few basic words like Schwann, Spicy, Chilly, Dim Sum and Pidgin Chinese (to clarify, they all speak Chinese at least to me when I try to order). We felt DV would be able to handle this. This was very good and to celebrate we poured another one. But despondency set in, once we realised that personal hygiene would be hindrance. 

And then, and this happens to me very often, I saw a vision or to name it correctly a solution. The moment was was multicolored, birds were chirping away, and there was peace in me ( I tend to feel this way after a few pegs). 

The answer was : A Politician. It made sense. It fitted perfectly. Harmony ruled. A sublime fit of abilities with requirements. 

The job did not require education. Problem solved. DV was not capable of being educated. 

Appearance was not important. Again problem solved. An attractive persona was not something DV could aspire to. 

Hyberbolic. A huge advantage. 

Inability to understand simple phrases like 'Get Out', 'Please go away'. Another huge advantage. Our politicians do not understand these things and usually require the help of agencies like CBI, Judicial Courts etc to convince them. 

Inability to understand Ethics : DV wouldn't have any problem with this. He has not understood this since the time he was born. He once tried sucking the wooden knob on his pram and cried unashamedly when it did not provide milk. 

The only problem, we could think of was that he needed to cross a certain age to be elected. This is only a minor problem and all of us were convinced that he would eventually reach that age. 

His father promised solemnly to feed him till then. We again celebrated. 

And we parted, a contented lot. Me, most of all. I forgave everyone for a month in advance. Now I need to go search for the recipe book. I need to make dinner. 

Silly Chicken And Sambar

My wife likes chicken. I too like chicken, but not of my wife's making. It is one of those things that I think should be classified under 'We agree to disagree'. But as it often happens my thinking does not mean the subject is closed. I agreed to disagree , but my wife has disagreed with my agreement. 

Therefore, with a some trepidation and a lot of earnest prayers, I nodded vigorously and supportively when my wife announced she is going to make 'Sweet and Sour Chicken'. She was happy with my head bobbing. I too was happy with my head bobbing. The chicken did not show any emotion and laid inert. 

Now you may think this is easy. Add some sweet, add some sour and add some chicken. This is where you would be wrong at least in our house. 

Here, we first refer to the 'Recipe'. Luckily we have a recipe book with a lot of color pictures. This is a big help as it allows us to get our bearings right. With the book proudly propped up next to the fire, my wife just adds or subtracts ingredients till the final dish starts looking like the picture. Once she is satisfied, the book miraculously disappears. I suspect she hides it in case I need to verify that the dish I am eating is supposed to look this way. 

I am jumping ahead. Anyway, after I look at the pictures and she reads the recipe, we take a break. Usually with tea and some snacks. Then she again refers to the recipe and decides we need to talk about it. We or rather she talks about the intricacies of the recipe while I keep nodding my head vigorously. It is easy now to shake my head. The previous bobbing has loosened up my neck muscles and with minimum effort I am able to replicate a pendulum. But I keep myself mentally alert as she has in the past tested my alertness by suddenly asking some questions (refer to the Great Mop fiasco of 2011, wherein I had continued to shake my head leading to a major Mop related disaster. Luckily that was a year before and things have settled down). 

Luckily, what has transpired during the talking and which I gleaned from her morose expression is that we do not have all the ingredients. The easy going fellow that I am, I suggest we make Sambhar. This is a mistake. It is widely known (notwithstanding my temporary amnesia), that the right response in such situations is to suggest something closer to the original dish. For example, Tofu marinated in Onion stock and slightly sprinkled with lemon rind. 

I avert the disaster by excusing myself and going to the bathroom. When I return the morose expression is still evident. I change my expression to suit the current mood in the house. After what seemed an appropriate time to grieve over the missing ingredients, I suggest tentatively that we make the dish with the ingredients that we have. My wife brightens at the suggestion and immediately starts giving me my orders. I have been surprisingly (to me) volunteered to do the cutting, cleaning and general upkeep of the kitchen. This I can do, in fact I pride myself on my chopping skills. 

I chop away happily while my wife start arranging the tins and bottles required for propping up the book. This done, she resorts to basic mathematics of addition and subtraction till the dish starts looking approximately like the picture. I keep a watchful eye on the book. The phone rings, I get momentarily distracted and the book disappears. 

Finally we eat the colorful and well plated "Sweet and Sour Chicken". My appreciation continues vigorously with the head bobbing. 

I intend to shred the recipe book if and when I find it.