Food

Rice, sambar, curd. Rice, sambar, curd. Rice, sambar, curd, rotis, weird gravy. Rice, sambar, curd. Rice, sambar, curd. Rice, rasam, curd, rotis, some other weird-tasting crap. This is how repetitive the lunch menu has become at the cafetaria. And as you've guessed by now, I've got rice, sambar and curd coming out of my ears.

A lot of people I've complained to keep asking me, "Then why don't you go out for lunch everyday?" Like I never thought of it. I would, but then, there are a lot of things that eventually dissuade me from going out for lunch, some of them being:

1. It's hot as hell outside during lunchtime.
2. There's a physical effort involved.
3. All the good restaurants are not within walkable distance.
4. Because of (3), I have to go on bike, which again involves physical effort. I have to kick the bastard for like a million years before it starts.
5. The only people I get for company want to eat at this Malayali joint. I already have Malayali food for dinner, because there's only Bullet Rice (the mallu rice) at home, and the last thing I want to have is Bullet rice in the afternoon. It kinda gets to you after a while. The Bullet rice, I mean.

Worse than the Bullet rice is the coconut-flavored food you get at all these Malayali joints, which the other guys seem to dig a lot. I dunno, but the smell of coconut oil in food kinda reminds me of these nerds, the front-benchers in college who put bucketloads of coconut oil on their hair, the kind who become the honest "Letters to the Editor"type when they grow old. I know I'm crazy, but whenever I taste coconut-flavored food, I always think that they kinda took all these nerds into the restaurant kitchen and kinda wrung their hair dry in the goddam vessel and cooked the food in the oil wrung from their hair. The food's got a weird taste. I'll probably find lice in the food one of these days. Some guys found a cockroach in the food... the guy who had his hair wrung that day must've been one helluva huge giant nerd or something to have cockroaches instead of lice in his hair.

Anyway, I've just about had enough rice-sambar-curd in life. I'll probably get a haemorrhage or something if I have rice-sambar-curd again. These cafetaria guys can really drive you to death when they want to.

Priarie Oyster - Hangover Cure

Read this somewhere. Sounds like the hangover cure that Jeeves concocts for Wooster on the first day of his employment. Haven't tried it, but plan to do so soon.

Ingredients
1 Egg Yolk
1 oz. of Vinegar or Worcestershire Sauce
1 tsp of Tabasco Sauce
A dash of Black pepper and/or Salt

Instructions
Don’t break the yolk. Shoot it down in one gulp.


Addendum: If all else fails, go to Gent's Hair Saloon (yeah, that's the name of the place) at Kundalahalli Gate, Bangalore, and get yourself a head massage.

Coffee Mugs

I don't believe it! Someone actually stole my coffee mug! And before you ask... no, it isn't of any sentimental value. It's one of those 'company' coffee mugs they give you if you work for one. This one is white in color, has our company's logo on one side, and a cartoon character with a stupid expression on the other side. They actually went around 6 floors, distributing these stupid-looking cups to everyone. Hell, they even asked you to sign on a sheet of paper after you received yours. All rationed and everything. I can imagine the folks who did this spending considerable amount of time designing this thing, planning the number of cups they'll make and all. And when they decide on, say 500, and just when they're about to order the mugs, someone'll say in the last minute, all earnest, concerned, and in a honest tone and all, "Shouldn't we order 100 more? I know we need only 500 now, but just in case, you know." And the others would think about it, and one of them would say "You know.... he's got a point. Let's go with 600!!". I hate it when people get all honest, caring and earnest about things like coffee mugs.

Anyway, I'm glad they didn't ask us to stand in a queue or something to collect our coffee mugs, like those Nazis did when distributing clothes and blankets when Jews arrived in their concentration camps. Of course, I wouldn't have gone to collect my allotted coffee mug, but then, people all around me would've gone, come back with their mugs with a smug, content expression, and would've asked you "Hey... didn't you get yours???" That would've depressed me.

Coming back to the point, someone actually stooped to the level of stealing this coffee mug, of all coffee mugs in the world. I wonder if they took it out of need, very well knowing what an ugly-looking mug it was, or if they took it, thinking it was beautiful and all. Whatever the reason, stealing a goddam ugly-looking coffee mug really is the pits. I wouldn't do it even if someone offered me a million bucks to do it. Even if the coffee mug was good-looking as hell.

The Unknown Regulars

There are a lot of these people I keep bumping into at family weddings (the very very few that I attend). I don't know who these people are, I don't know if they are relatives, but they land up at every wedding in the family, and they seem to know me by name and all. I recognize them only because I've seen them in the last family wedding that I attended. Everytime I meet these unknown regulars, the following conversation takes place:

S/he (smiling widely): Hi Guru!!! How are you??
Me: I'm fine. How are you?
S/he: I'm fine. How are mom and dad?
Me: They're fine...

I don't ask them if their parents are fine, because they're quite old and all, and I guess their parents must be dead, and the last thing I want is a foot-in-mouth situation. So we gape at each other, smiling dumbly at each other, an uncomfortable silence hanging thick in the air.

Then finally:

Me: OK.. I gotta go. Got some work to do.
S/he: Sure. Pass on my regards to your parents.
Me: Sure...

Everytime I go to a family wedding, they're there, and we always have the same conversation. Either that, or this:

S/he (pulling my cheeks): Guru! Is this really you? I don't believe this!!! The last time I saw you, you were three years old, in your chaddis, and were peeing on and on.
Me (trying my best to hide my embarassment from the girls who promptly materialize out of nowhere during moments like this): Err... umm...
S/he: Do you remember who I am???
Me: No.. the last time I saw you, I was only three years old, remember??

And then that person would proceed to explain who they are.

I have tried asking my mom about the identity of these people, and she has tried explaining how we are related, but it's usually a very lengthy one (Eg; father's brother's sister-in-law's nephew's cousin's father's brother's daughter), and I lose track after "father's brother's sister-in-law's". Moreover, the last thing I want is to stack up useless information about people who don't matter in my filled-to-the-brim-with-unwanted-crap head of mine.

I've always gotten away when dealing with these unknown regulars, but my sister was less lucky.

It was during her own wedding reception. She was having this really tough time because she had to keep smiling at everyone who attended the reception without even knowing who they are (and knowing my sister, it's impossible for her to do phony things like this). Most of these people seemed to remember my sister a lot, and kept saying the same ol' things like "I can't believe it. The last time I saw you, you were this small. Do you remember who I am?" My sister got this "Do you remember who I am?" question many times, and initially, she said no, and everyone explained. But then, she looked at the queue of people waiting to meet her, and then, she started saying "Of course I remember... how are you?", etc.etc. This went on smoothly, until this old lady came to my sister, gave her the gift she had brought and after the initial pleasantries, asked her the usual "Do you remember who I am?" question. My sister gave her the usual reply and looked away for an instant, when the lady asked, grinning, "Really? Who am i?"

Good News!

I’m happy to report that the anonymous guy in our apartment, the guy who loves Pooja and professes his love on the walls of our lift, actually has a vocabulary of more than 3 words (discounting Pooja, which isn’t an English word). Apart from the four “Pooja I Love You” scribblings on our walls, he has now scribbled, apart from another “Pooja I Love You”, a “PILY” (the abbreviation of Pooja I Love You) and “I’m Yours Pooja”. Also, it looks like our guy here is getting a little desperate. There's also a "Pooja I Love You Please".

I am planning to add a “too” between the “I” and “Love” in one of the “Pooja I Love You” messages, or add one of my roommates' name and mobile number below the messages. Let’s see what a bit of competition does to the anonymous lift-scribbler.

Wall scribbling

Holden Caulfield was right when he said "If you had a million years to do it in, you couldn't rub out even half the "Fuck you" signs in the world." While people across the world are busy writing their "Fuck you" signs, Indians instead scribble "I Love You" signs all over, be it a historical monument, a harmless tree-trunk in a park, or any other clean surface with a minimum size of 5 inches x2 inches.

Holden Caulfield was right when he said "If you had a million years to do it in, you couldn't rub out even half the "Fuck you" signs in the world." While people across the world are busy writing their "Fuck you" signs, Indians instead scribble "I Love You" signs all over, be it a historical monument, a harmless tree-trunk in a park, or any other clean surface with a minimum size of 5 inches x 2 inches.

Hell, even the walls of our apartment lift haven't been spared, and they now boast of some guy's profession of his deepest feelings for Pooja, apart from the name and contact number for Jigar Name Boards Brass, which, I'm sure, was written by the owner of Jigar Brass Name Boards, a poor guy earning his living who resorted to this out of desperation after seeing the poor response after knocking on all the doors of our apartment complex. He must have returned home, his clothes sticky with sweat, his shoulders drooping, the brows on his face hanging over his eyes like dark clouds, and his wife must've asked him how business was, and soft-spoken that he is, he must've shaken his head slowly while sighing and looking down, and his wife must've comforted him saying that things will be better tomorrow. The wife, going to the kitchen, must've opened a small Pan Parag tin where she stores probably the last of the family's savings, and asked one of her two kids to go to the market and get rice or something. The kid, obedient, kind and unspoilt, unlike the rich kids of today, must've gone to the market, and the shop keeper must've passed insulting remarks in front of other customers about the credit that the father already owes him. The kid, though his eyes were blazing and his teeth were clenched, must have pleaded with the shop keeper to give him rice one last time, for during the conflict between the stomach and the heart, the stomach always wins. The kid, crying silently out of shame, scarred for life thanks to this incident, would have returned home, wiping his eyes outside the door with a corner of his slightly-torn shirt, and the mother would have cooked dinner, and noticing that there wasn't enough rice for everyone, would've given away half her share to the husband and the kids, since the husband's gotta go tomorrow looking for people interested in name boards, and the kids have to grow up. Thus, eating very little and drinking water out of a earthen pot, she must've slept, her stomach rumbling late at night. Her husband, not able to sleep at night, must've said 'Don't lose hope. Hope is all we have. Tomorrow's a new day with new possibilities.' Thus, comforted by her husband's word, the wife must've slept, dreaming of a better future, while the husband must've stayed awake, thinking of survival in the long, vulture-laden road to prosperity.

The son, however, would need any reassurement from anyone about his future. It was all chalked out for him now, thanks to Amitabh Bachchan (henceforth called AB, thanks to lazy fingers), whom he idolised, mainly because AB had a childhood and family situation much akin to the boy's in most of his 70's movies, getting insulted by shopkeepers and all, and when he grew up, he was rich, powerful, and whipped everyone's sorry ass. The boy imagined how he'd grow up to be like AB and how he would take revenge on the shopkeeper. But there was a problem though. In all these AB movies, the mother always died, and he did not want his mother to die. His eyes became watery as he imagined a scene from the future of his life, where his mom was ill, in bed, wanting medicine to survive, and he would save up all his money shining shoes to accumulate the money, and then he'd go to some pharmacy, hand over all the money in change, get the medicine and run home, only to bang into some car (thanks to negligent driving) and splatter the medicine all over the road. He would then plead the car owner for money for the medicine, but the car owner would ask him to fuck off, and so he'd run home, only to find his mother dead. He realised that this was a situation he did not want. So he got up, the tears now flowing freely, prayed to God, asking to grow rich and powerful like AB but without his mother dying, laid down again and slept. He did not dream any dreams that night.