Friday, March 15, 2013
Monday, March 04, 2013
Monday, January 14, 2013
No News is Good News
While scrolling through my RSS feed for Gulf News today:
So no, that wasn't depressing at all. And Gordon Ramsay needs to rethink his timing.
So no, that wasn't depressing at all. And Gordon Ramsay needs to rethink his timing.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Tuesday, October 09, 2012
Nobody Does It Better...
Silliness, that is.
An email from the Sibling about a shopping errand:
My reply:
An email from the Sibling about a shopping errand:
Dear Ma'amsaab.
I is naice person requesting some of your personal time. Please to be accompanying me to the places of many clothes.
The time date place choose you can.
kthnxbai
no hating.
My reply:
Dearest critter who lives in my room and eats all my food,
Your correspondence doth please me greatly. Verily, I woke up and began to laugh.
Would thou like to accompany me to the great bazaar of the emirates on the day of thor?
Awaiting your response,
One SAAMA
Monday, October 01, 2012
Bhagu
The title of the last post was oddly portentous. All I was referring to was a death of civility, sense and free speech. That was all I had meant. Instead, I got real death on the last damn day of September.
I’m still struggling to reconcile the man I knew, to the one I heard about yesterday: broken, beaten by a weak heart and an infection, connected to a heart and lung machine. Where was the man who laughed at me when I told him that I’d never swim in the sea for fear of being swept away by the current? The man who was asked to tone down his normal voice and vivaciousness, just because he lived in an area of Bangalore filled with ex-servicemen who didn’t take very well to having their siesta disturbed. I can’t imagine him tied to a machine, waiting. And if I ever get married, I can’t imagine a wedding without him around to make fun of the groom, and completely embarrass the bride with pranks involving lingerie hidden under a seemingly romantic bed of flowers.
Bhagyam. Luck. He lived up to his name. The man survived two heart attacks and two strokes. My cousin, his son, called me up to tell me that doctors would drop by outside of rounds to meet this smiling, laughing juggernaut who just couldn’t stay down.
“Your father is built like an ox!” I said.
And I meant it. My dad’s side of the family has always been lean, to the point of being skeletal. Bhagyapaapan was the anomaly; not only was he bigger and more muscular, but also towered over all his brothers at a lofty 6 feet. The only one to eclipse him since then has been his son. Yet, where my cousin is skinny and similar in constitution and appearance to my father, Bhagyapaapan was burly, and prized his fried fish and his mutton. Many years ago, when I still used MSN Messenger, he signed in with the moniker, “Tummy N Spicy Bagy.” On seeing that, my best friend erupted into a fit of giggles that didn’t dissipate for at least 10 minutes. But it described my uncle perfectly. He was all gut and fire.
I was born in his city, and spent the first few weeks of my life under his roof. Aside from my father, he was the first man to carry me. He christened me with the most ridiculous nickname I have ever had, and am likely to ever have: “Chakki.” Thankfully, it never caught on and he was the only person to refer to me as "Chakki." I returned the favor shortly after I learned to talk. With all the ineptitude of a 2 year old, I called him “Bhagu.” And that particular nickname spread. His own son, exposed to my infantile nonsense, learnt to call him “Bhagu” before he called him “Dad.”
Growing up, I lived in mortal fear of Bhagu, even though I had no reason to be. He was nothing like Dad, who was smaller, quieter and soft-spoken. I was unused to Bhagu’s vastness and booming voice, and his gentle teasing terrified me. It shouldn’t have; he was my Godfather. He lived with more joie de vivre than anyone else I knew, but I was too young to recognize that what I thought was shouting, was just the natural register of his voice.
I quickly started associating Bhagu with doing things I didn’t like to do. When he dropped by, I had to do away with naked feet. Only urchins roamed around barefoot, and I had to wear slippers at home. I did, but only when he was around, but slowly and surely I came around to his style of thinking. I now struggle with going barefoot, even at the beach. I was a mystery to him, in some ways. He couldn’t understand how I could skip meals, or how I could hate anything cooked with chilies and how I could be content with nothing more than a bowl of soup. He forced me to eat fish, his idea of manna. I hated, and still hate fish. But like with the slippers, I guess I’ll come around eventually.
I’m still struggling to reconcile the man I knew, to the one I heard about yesterday: broken, beaten by a weak heart and an infection, connected to a heart and lung machine. Where was the man who laughed at me when I told him that I’d never swim in the sea for fear of being swept away by the current? The man who was asked to tone down his normal voice and vivaciousness, just because he lived in an area of Bangalore filled with ex-servicemen who didn’t take very well to having their siesta disturbed. I can’t imagine him tied to a machine, waiting. And if I ever get married, I can’t imagine a wedding without him around to make fun of the groom, and completely embarrass the bride with pranks involving lingerie hidden under a seemingly romantic bed of flowers.
Bhagyam. Luck. He lived up to his name. The man survived two heart attacks and two strokes. My cousin, his son, called me up to tell me that doctors would drop by outside of rounds to meet this smiling, laughing juggernaut who just couldn’t stay down.
“Your father is built like an ox!” I said.
And I meant it. My dad’s side of the family has always been lean, to the point of being skeletal. Bhagyapaapan was the anomaly; not only was he bigger and more muscular, but also towered over all his brothers at a lofty 6 feet. The only one to eclipse him since then has been his son. Yet, where my cousin is skinny and similar in constitution and appearance to my father, Bhagyapaapan was burly, and prized his fried fish and his mutton. Many years ago, when I still used MSN Messenger, he signed in with the moniker, “Tummy N Spicy Bagy.” On seeing that, my best friend erupted into a fit of giggles that didn’t dissipate for at least 10 minutes. But it described my uncle perfectly. He was all gut and fire.
I was born in his city, and spent the first few weeks of my life under his roof. Aside from my father, he was the first man to carry me. He christened me with the most ridiculous nickname I have ever had, and am likely to ever have: “Chakki.” Thankfully, it never caught on and he was the only person to refer to me as "Chakki." I returned the favor shortly after I learned to talk. With all the ineptitude of a 2 year old, I called him “Bhagu.” And that particular nickname spread. His own son, exposed to my infantile nonsense, learnt to call him “Bhagu” before he called him “Dad.”
Growing up, I lived in mortal fear of Bhagu, even though I had no reason to be. He was nothing like Dad, who was smaller, quieter and soft-spoken. I was unused to Bhagu’s vastness and booming voice, and his gentle teasing terrified me. It shouldn’t have; he was my Godfather. He lived with more joie de vivre than anyone else I knew, but I was too young to recognize that what I thought was shouting, was just the natural register of his voice.
I quickly started associating Bhagu with doing things I didn’t like to do. When he dropped by, I had to do away with naked feet. Only urchins roamed around barefoot, and I had to wear slippers at home. I did, but only when he was around, but slowly and surely I came around to his style of thinking. I now struggle with going barefoot, even at the beach. I was a mystery to him, in some ways. He couldn’t understand how I could skip meals, or how I could hate anything cooked with chilies and how I could be content with nothing more than a bowl of soup. He forced me to eat fish, his idea of manna. I hated, and still hate fish. But like with the slippers, I guess I’ll come around eventually.
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