Not so dumbo jumbo

If you have ever been a regular visitor to zoos, you would always find a lot of people from ages 8 to 80 pulling funny faces and making jeering sounds to make the caged animals like monkeys, lions and tigers 'come alive'. Also there is always this one guy who keeps telling the children "Kids! Don't do that. Animals don't like it." even if their indulgent parents wouldn't. That guy would be me.

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So naturally when I saw a baby elephant roaming around the Nandankanan Zoo in Bhubaneshwar with his mahout in tow collecting donations for tourists, I was a little concerned. A baby (that was almost my height at the shoulders) walking through crowds of insensitive face makers who come to zoos not to appreciate the animals but to tease them would definitely not enjoy the experience.

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But being outside the enclosure seemed to have an appropriate effect on the misbehaving crowds. They looked on in wonder at the spiky haired creature roaming amidst them, its dextrous trunk collecting the notes and coins that were offered to them. No one seemed to want to mess with it, baby though it was.

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I fished out of my wallet a Rs. 5 coin, the small heavy coin and was considering my other options when the elephant spotted the coin in my hand and headed towards me. It was my turn to be enamoured by the cute creature but a strange irrational fear gripped me.

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The trunk that was waving in front of my hand then seemed too huge to hold on to the little coin. I really thought that if I dropped it, the coin would fall right into his trunk and cause great discomfort to him as all animal lovers know that an elephant's nose is his trunk. Imagine someone dropping a 5 Rupee coin down your nose! So everytime the damp little trunk headed towards the coin in my hand, I just couldn't let it go out of my hand.

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The pantomime continued for nearly a minute with the baby elephant curling his trunk towards my hand, touching it but me clutching tight onto the coin. The mahout kept telling me "Koi baat nahin. Chhod do sikka. [Don't worry. Let the coin go]" but I kept ignoring his advice.

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The baby jumbo had by now decided that I was teasing him. The next time his trunk came near my hand, it gave my hand a real quick smack and before I realized it the coin was out of my hands. Not just out of my hands but neatly pinched by the baby's trunk. Handing it over to the mahout, he gave a long elaborate salute with his trunk as he had been trained to but I am pretty sure that his actions preceding that were out of sheer natural exasperation at my over cautiousness.

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"Leave this to the jumbo, dumbo." 

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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2011/08/not-so-dumbo-jumbo.html]

Headshot

"Craaaaaaaackkkkkk"

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When I first heard that sound loud and clear, I asked myself "That cannot be the sound of the ball smacking my head, can it? It just cannot be..." The wild spinning of my head and the stars I was seeing at 5:00 on a summer evening as I went down on my knees replied "Yes, it was your head, dummy! Concussion. Concussion. Concussion. Man down!" The sport is called softball [in most ways similar to baseball] but I can tell you from personal experience that there was nothing soft about that ball. 

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I should've seen this in my future, taking into account my overconfident demeanour about fielding on a softball game. Given a chance, I would tell everyone how easy it was to stop a shot in softball with those huge gloves that the fielders use. "We don't need gloves in cricket", I'd say. After all, if there was anything in cricket I was good at, it was fielding at close in positions. So on that sunny Wednesday evening as the batter clubbed the ball in a flat long trajectory towards me situated in the left field [a sort of deep mid-off], I was relaxed and ready with my glove in "Come to Daddy" mode. Only to find the ball magically evade the more-than-ample glove webbing in front and smack down flush on Daddy's head.

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I was the star of the team now... in all the wrong ways. Team members rallied around me, "Look at my eyes", "Follow my fingers with your eyes without moving your head", "Stay on your knees", "It's going to be OK" and all those things you say to people who don't have too long left. The batter on the opposing team looked like he had just murdered a man and to be honest from the crunching sound that the ball made with my knucklehead of a head, I wouldn't have counted on myself to get back to the team enclosure.

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Ice pack to my head and still surprised at my being able to walk unaided, I went back to the benches and popped a couple of painkillers a helping hand had offered. This was going to hurt real bad in the night, I already knew, but an even bigger bruise was from the blow to my ego. A lifetime of above average cricket fielding laid to waste, in that single moment of idiocy. Now that I seemed OK, the jokes were already doing the rounds. "You thought you were playing soccer, huh?" and "We take two extra runs for that accurate hit!" are only two which come to mind.

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I took the field again after a couple of innings and on getting back home the rest of the evening was spent Googling 'concussion' to check if there were any warning signs to watch out for. Thankfully I had none but it was a timely reminder for people of my abysmal physical abilities not to get cocky about anything, even catching a flat long hit ball. On the positive side, my concentration levels out in the field for subsequent games have improved ten-fold. Unfortunately I have also earned a tag, a tag of dubious distinction, as the guy who took a headshot.

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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2011/08/headshot.html]

Walmart uncle

"Excuse me, buddy, which is the aisle for comforters?"

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One of the primary difficulties of dealing with an Indian looking person in the USA is to figure out whether he/she is an Indian Indian whom you can initiate conversation with a plain and simple "Acchaa..." or will you be greeted with the nasal twang of "What's that?" indicating that you have crossed paths with an Indian American, born and raised in the States. Or worse still, he/she might turn out to be a Latino making you feel all the more awkward. It's a problem I haven't figured out a solution for even today, and this tale is from my first few weeks back in July 2008 when I found myself drawn into this confrontation. 

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So when I saw this south Indian looking 60 plus Walmart employee, I figured the best way to deal with these doubts was to assume that all of them Indian lookers were Americanized whole and soul. I don't know what had led to me making this simplification but I had already tuned my mind to that frequency. If I had known what was coming, I would most definitely have called him 'Uncle'.

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A piercingly cold stare later came "FIRST OF ALL, I am not your BUDDY! You trying to be American with me?"

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I was caught totally off-guard by the vehemence of his reply. I managed to muster "Uhh! I mean..." before the onslaught continued.

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"I know you are from Kerala. All people from Kerala talk like this!"

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For a brief moment there, I was really tempted to let God's Own Country take the blame for this etiquette transgression on my behalf but the pesky little thing called a conscience pricked me to blurt "Actually I am from Calcutta..." [which was only part of my story but this wasn't the right place and time to drag the names of those other places in the mud too]

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"Oh, Calcutta? I once went there in 1972. Dying city, dying city..." said Uncle Fierce.

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Uncle was getting on my nerves a little bit now. I noticed that his Walmart name tag said "CHAN" probably a corruption of Chandran or Chandrashekharan and I was tempted to point this out to Mr. "I love my India" Uncle. But picking on a guy at least 40 years my senior wasn't really my style especially since I had already stepped on his reactive toes with the introductory "buddy".

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All thoughts of comforters were blown out of my head for then. I walked away dazed and tail in between my legs. As if adjusting to the million new ways of living life in a foreign country weren't enough, now I had to be on the lookout for 'speech Nazi' Indian looking uncles.

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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2011/08/walmart-uncle.html]

Those three magic words

I like working Mondays. I really do. They come with their own set of true pre-conceived notions. So if things go awry and I get swamped with work, I say "Hey! It's Monday. What else do I expect?". And if the day gets to an un-eventful end, I am like "Wow! What a cool Monday!" Good or bad, Mondays are very upfront about themselves.

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The same however cannot be said of undercover Mondays. Undercover Mondays can be any other day of the work-week except Monday when deadlines seem destined to slip, issues crop up over long completed tasks, the boss catches you on G-Mail the only second you had in all day to open it up, defensive/offensive e-mails with you in the centre are flying around, the world seems to be headed to a depressing end and such like. It's the Monday like feeling on a day which is not a Monday hence a terrible, terrible situation to find oneself in.

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In steps the 'frenemy'. What do you suppose that means? The 'frenemy' is in all of us, sadistic cubicle bound prisoners. The kind of person who is a friend for all practical purposes, most probably a peer but also someone who takes secret/not-so-secret glee in the predicaments of other colleagues. After all, it all seems funny when someone else messes up or is perceived to mess up. So here comes the 'frenemy' prancing into my cubicle wearing the ghost of a smile, fully aware of my undercover Monday in progress through overheard conversations, CCed e-mails etc and asks THE question of the day "So... how's things?"

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There remains only one way to salvage the situation then without exploding into a tirade about how life tied my hands behind my back and then asked me to help signal a fighter plane take-off on the runway; without throttling my 'frenemy' with my bare hands and then throwing him off the highest point on the land within a few miles. I know because I have seen days like this before... almost everyone has. This too shall pass and in the meantime I need a polite way to say "B@#$%^d, remember that time when it happened to you." without bringing things to a boil, either on his end or mine.

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So I look up, away from all that on-screen activity which remotely resembles the ruined land of Mordor just after Sauron took over it, stitching a smile onto my face and going face-to-face with the 'frenemy'. "You know..." and after taking a long, meaningful, appropriate pause  "Fun! Fun! Fun!"

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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2011/08/those-three-magic-words.html]

Spider-sense

"Don't hang around with your buddies after work today. Try to come home early."

A reasonably innocuous statement at breakfast time on a workday but I don't know why spider-sense is tingling, warning me of imminent unseen danger.

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"Why?" I ask Mom "What's the deal?"

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"Mr and Mrs. XYZ are visiting. Our very good friends from our days in Mysore. They've recently moved back to Kolkata."

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My parents' 1 year in Mysore was just before I was born so at least I'll be spared the regular "Oooh! The last time I saw you was when you were wearing nappies. Look at you now!" routine... I think. "No, you did not see me in my nappies. I wasn't born the last time you met my parents."

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"Will try to." I say and grab my motorcycle keys heading out to fulfil my quota of work owed to the world, a debt I shall have to keep paying up on till I reach retirement age.

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It's a routine day at work by most definitions - chit-chatting, work, lunch at the canteen while simultaneously cursing the food as we eat it, deadly post-lunch drowsiness, attempts at work, "EOD is here and I haven't got half as far as I was supposed to..." tensions etc but I still have to get to the bottom of the spider-sense warning. So I decide to dilly-dally a little bit more at office than head back home.

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I don't have to wait for too long after my regular departure time before my cell phone starts ringing. It's Mom.

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"When are you going to get home? These folks are eager to see you."

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"I'll be heading out soon." I reply while waiting for more obvious clues to their enthusiasm.

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"Their daughter is here too. She's getting bored"

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Aha! Spider-sense gets stronger.

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"We wanted to give her something since this is the first time we are seeing her. Ummm... let's see. Why don't you get some chocolate for her ***on our behalf*** on the way back?" she continues.

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"What?!! Chocolate? How old is she?" I enquire.

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"About 23-24, I guess..."

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Smooth.

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"[Cough! Cough!] Oh no! Something came up at work. Probably won't be able to take off right now. Will call you later. Bye!" I say before hanging up and dedicating the next 2 hours to reading random articles on Google News via my office desktop.

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Its 10:30 at night by the time I feel safe again to get set for the return journey. Any 'eager' parties should have taken the hint by now.

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For all the traps and set-ups in the world, I've only got one message. Spider-sense never fails.

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[http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spider-Man's_powers_and_equipment]

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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2011/08/spider-sense.html]

Pride

It may have had something to do with the fact that at every Republic Day parade, every single year in school, I'd be the first to be thrown out in the screening process with my woefully un-coordinated marching while my sister would be chosen to lead the contingent for the parade resulting in intense sibling jealousy. That I assume would be the primary reason why I had very little regard (at least superficially) for formal ceremonies like hoisting the national flag and marching.

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I think this incident was before I turned a teen, a point in life upto which you take everything that your Parents (Notice the capitalization) teach you as the equivalent of the word of God without questioning it or arguing over it. So one day my dad read out to me a newspaper article about a guy who ran up to the roof of his burning office building and brought out the national flag hoisted up there before escaping the building. "Ha! What a donkey!" I guffawed out cheerfully. 

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Wrong answer, it seemed, a very wrong answer. I knew instantly because my Mom and Dad rarely agree on anything, back then or even today, yet in sync with a surprised stare at me from my old man, I heard Mom's voice address me from the adjoining kitchen "What? What did you say?" I went "Uh! I mean... you know... like I thought..." and trailed off. Dad isn't the lecturing type so he came up with a short "It's OUR national flag, after all. He's a great guy for doing what he did." and promptly went back to scanning his newspaper. That's all the conversation we had over this topic and I was left pondering.

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I know that our flag is grossly misused, by those criminal politicians who mock salute it at every parade; by fundamentalist pseudo-patriotic, religious and regional forces to spread hatred amongst brothers and by those thieving businessmen who build the world's most expensive home out of stolen taxpayer's money, then sell products which harp on the patriotic strings of their customers. But I refuse to link it with them despite their desperate urge to somehow project themselves as extensions of that inspiring image of a tri-coloured cloth fluttering in the wind. 

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Would I run into a burning building to 'rescue' our national flag? I probably would not find the courage to. Would I stand still at the side of the road if I were running a very important errand and the national anthem starts playing? I would not. That would feel ridiculous as I am an incurable cynic. Yet what I would also not do is laugh at people who do those things. For the flag and the anthem are potent symbols, of glorious ideals that may be never be fully met yet must always be aspired to.

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We owe the respect to the hundreds of millions of peaceful, self-respecting, hard working, honest men and women out there who end the day with a happy conscience and of whose ranks we are hopefully part of. We owe the respect to a land which has shared its beauty, its craziness, its people, its memories, its knowledge, its resources, its history, its cultures and its influences to bring us to where we stand in life today no matter how much we choose to refute it. We owe it to ourselves if we have the slightest bit of pride in who we are and what defines us as the flag is the common representative of all of us and each individual at the same time. 

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There was this ill-fated field hockey league which ran for about two years before shutting shop, India being the unhealthily cricket-obsessed nation that it is, called the PHL [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Premier_Hockey_League]. The League may be gone but their TV promotional slogan stuck like glue in my head and I tend it to overuse it on every appropriate and inappropriate occasion because I feel that it is always so relevant in life. "Garv nahin toh kuchh nahin..." (roughly translates to "What's worth living for but pride...")

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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2011/08/pride.html]

It's complicated

I have a good friend but she just won't talk to me. That's almost sad. Because we understand each other perfectly, communicate with a fairly high level of accuracy, agree on certain matters of importance yet her steadfast refusal to speak in English, Hindi, Bengali or Gujarati disappoints. As for me, I don't speak Dog.

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Yes, Chloe is my landlord's pet she-dog (See how I smoothly avoided stepping on those ultra sensitive feminist toes by avoiding the B-word) and we frequently spend quality time together. Mainly because she spends a lot of time flouncing around in the garden of the house I am a renter in and I happen to cross her path many times a day. A Basset hound can bark real loud and she does a great job of waking up the entire neighbourhood if by freak chance, I forget to stop by and say "Hello", ignoring her initial whines for attention.

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Not that I mind. Dogs are very simplistic and straightforward creatures. If they like you, they'll respond by an enthusiastic wagging of the tail & happiness writ on their faces and if they don't, beware the ultra slow tail wag & deep seated growl. They are pretty clear about their 'Likes' and 'Dislikes', which makes them the kind of folk I prefer hanging around with. And they are quite simply the best companions for quiet introspection.

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So I hop over to the garden, pat her on the back with the usual "Good girl [It'd be 'boy' if it were a he-dog]" compliments that every dog takes to be his/her birthright. Then I watch for a few minutes as she chomps on the occasional blade of grass, sniffs around the area as if it is her first day out [it is not, she knows this garden for more than 8 years now], barks after strangers in the neighbourhood, tries to chase a hare or pick a fight with another dog till the limits of her extra long leash allow her to and then look at me with me with those deep, brown soulful eyes. Generally speaking, be a dog and do dog things.

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Then when it's time for me to leave, the downcast eyes clearly say "It was nice to have your company. Hope to see you again." without speaking the words. That's how it is between friends. That you don't have to jabber all the time to enjoy each other's company, becomes even more apparent in a friendship where talking isn't even a possibility. I know what some of you are thinking. "Come on! It's just a dog. Quit the over-analysis."

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But the most human of human qualities is to seek a satisfactory answer. And there is none. What keeps a friend a friend or a makes a non-friend a friend or chucks a friend into a non-friend category are irresoluble questions. No one can define for sure what that intangible connection is which defines a friendship or the where, when and how of it. Revel in it like soaking in a cool breeze on a summer day or the luxury a warm blanket affords on a winter morning and appreciate it for its presence. As for the reasons, rest easy in this one theory. It's complicated.

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P.S: Happy Friendship day to all readers/non-readers, dog-lovers/dog-haters alike.
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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2011/08/its-complicated.html]