Uncle Podger catches a flight ...

The name Uncle Podger makes me smile :)). I immediately visualize the man trying to hang up a picture in his living room with his wife and several children in attendance. I can see him impatiently waving about and demanding a dozen things simultaneously, keeping every person present totally busy. (If you didn't already realize, this is from "Three Men in a Boat" by Jerome K. Jerome). The next scene that comes to mind is Uncle Podger sprinting to catch the morning train to reach his workplace (see "Three Men on the Bummel" by the same author). I thought it would be fun to imagine how Uncle Podger might catch a flight in the 21st century.


"Never wait until the last minute" he would sermonize to all and sundry, but for himself nothing would get done if there were no deadlines ... Uncle Podger would never pack even the day before his travel -- it was simply more fun to do it just an hour or two before leaving home for the airport. On the day of his departure, he would leisurely savour his coffee over a bunch of newspapers as was his wont everyday. Immediately after this, the mad rush would begin. You could see the tension sparking in the air. "Can you boot up the computer and log into the airlines site so I can print out my online ticket ?" he would say. "Hurry up. There are so many things to do ..." The printer would decide to strike work that day or the cartridge would run out of ink. Finally, one of the children would be deputed to run to the nearest cybercafe to get a printout.

In the meantime, Uncle Podger would assign other duties to his spouse and progeny -- "Can you call a taxi to the airport ?" Aunt Maria's "I thought I told you to book it last night" would be totally drowned out in the loud instructions that Uncle Podger would shout out to the child booking the taxi -- "tell him I need to catch a flight at 2 pm" "Did you tell him the right address?" and so on and so forth.

Uncle Podger would be bustling about everywhere without actually focussing on a single item to be done. "Maria, did you get my shirts ironed ? No, not those -- I need the other ones that aren't here. What about my medicines ? Can you order those -- right away -- and ask the guy to show up in the next 15 minutes or so ? Do you happen to have a lock ?" On being given one, he would come up with "No, that is too small, or that seems too large -- didn't you have a number lock?"

When finally, his bags were packed and the taxi driver called to say that he had arrived,
he would start to have his lunch and then unhurriedly comment about the lack of seasoning or if the vegetables were overcooked or undercooked. The whole family would heave a collective sigh of relief when he finally got into the taxi to take him to the airport. They knew they had to enjoy what little peace they would know -- until he got back !


Image from cartoon-photocollection.blogspot.in

God's gift to the vegetable vendor: The male shopper

Having been brought up in a family of girls, my knowledge of the male shopping habits is limited to the study of a few selected Y-chromosome-card holders -- mainly the spouse, but also friends and their spouses and hearsay about someone-or-the-other’s acquaintance and so on. My father does not figure in this – he belonged to that generation where it was understood that grocery shopping and vegetable shopping were the forte of the woman of the house. For better or worse, my mother had to do that and I usually accompanied her on her daily trips to the vegetable market. In the present day and age, it isn’t openly admitted but boils down to the same thing – surprise, surprise -- it’s the wife who manages the portfolio of grocery and vegetable shopping.

After days of tenacious nagging (in his words) or reasoning (the female spouse’s point of view), the reluctant male agrees to go vegetable shopping if the wife would make a list of what she would like. Just to underline the point – He would not even want to get out a paper and pencil to write down the list. Well, once the list is made, there is a last-ditch effort to get the wife to come along – “we can drive down in the car” ( to the vegetable vendor who sells vegetables just outside the apartment complex where they live ) – when this priceless offer is turned down, he shuffles off listlessly, usually leaving the all-important list behind at home. If this happens, one can expect to see just tons of tomatoes, potatoes and onions when he returns – the only vegetables he can identify by sight !

The vegetable vendor prays vehemently that she might get at least one male shopper everyday. It is all she can do to stop herself from falling down on her knees and thanking God when one such vision appears near her cart. The most ideal characteristic of this paragon (from the vendor’s point of view) is that he won’t even enquire about the price per kilogram of anything. He just reels off his requirements from a list and asks for how much he needs to pay – choosing the vegetables is left to the vendor. The vendor can also easily dispose most of her cache of old and tired-looking vegetables that even the neighbourhood cow would not look at – the male shopper with his “I’m-in-such-a-rush-and-please-won’t-you-just-tell-me-how-much-to-pay-so-I-can-go” attitude almost invites this upon himself. Also, any suggestions from the vendor as to alterations in the quantities are accepted without hesitation – thus, a man might return home with a kilo’s worth of green chillies, while his wife would have considered a tenth of that too much !! It is also easy to hoodwink these child-like beings – at least 60% of male shoppers cannot distinguish between cauliflowers (usually expensive) and cabbages (generally cheap). Someone I know came back with a kilo of sapotas (a brown-skinned fruit) when he meant to buy potatoes ! The unfortunate man attempted to get out of this by blaming the poor light in the evenings. And the icing on the cake -- the male shopper does not stoop to bargaining ! No wonder the vendor enquires after the well-being of my husband with such loving concern ...


Sometimes I wonder whether this twice-a-year or at best, thrice-a-year phenomenon is stage managed ?! Frankly, if each time the male shopper comes back with lifeless vegetables while paying top prices, maybe the frequency of such requests to go vegetable shopping would drop ? Maybe the Y-chromosomers are smarter than most of their wives think .....


(Image from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vegetable)

It was a fine morning in June. Cars were parked on either side of the road in front of a modest looking house. People thronged outside the gate and you could see a few trying to peek inside beyond the high walls. Some of them tried their luck, checking out possible vantage positions by walking around the house. Subtle jostling and elbowing was apparent in the sophisticated looking crowd. One could hear sounds of laughter as well as shrill crying beyond the walls. A few rubberneckers towered above the rest of the crowd and were the envy of the others. Some people paced up and down along the walls reminding one of caged animals. Others chatted amongst themselves – you could hear exchanges like "I’ve heard that …", "Someone I know had a similar experience…", and so on. Patience not being one of my virtues, I kept checking my watch but time seemed to have come to a standstill.

Finally, after what seemed like eons, the security guard announced that we would have to make way for him to open the gates. There was utter chaos at this, although a small space was eventually cleared around "The Gate". More craning of necks; then the trickle of … small children – out of the playhome, after their first day at school ! I held my breath and prayed that my daughter hadn’t found it too hard. Most of the kids that trooped out rejoiced at the sight of their parents, glad to be back with known people. I braced myself to comfort my daughter when she would appear.

When she did, it was a real anti-climax. She cried to go back inside – loudly enough for all the assembled crowd to hear! In spite of my dusky complexion, I must have glowed red with embarrassment. But I was also swept away by a sense of sheer relief. My daughter was so taken up with all the new toys and the play area that she wanted to stay longer. So I let her go back in for a few more minutes. She was still unwilling to come out, but the playhome awaited its next batch of children soon. I carried her as she furiously kicked and protested vocally at having to go away from her new-found playmates. I was glad my daughter’s love for novelty took the edge off parental separation. I have never had any trouble since then ...

... until today ! Now my daughter is almost six and she cried for the first time today that she did not want to go to school after almost two weeks of Dasara holidays -- it reminded me of her first day at the playhome (almost 3 years back) ... and hence this blog post.

How to drive like the scrupulous Indian male ...

(listed in no particular order)

• Have a good repertoire of swear words in different languages.

• Swear particularly viciously at all female drivers

• Refuse to ask for directions even when obviously lost and have a huge argument with the wife who dares to suggest it.

• Continuously whine about lack of lane discipline but laugh at all the NRIs doing the same thing. (Note: NRI stands for non-resident Indian).

• Curse the traffic signal for not letting you through.

• Wait for the signal to change while hogging the zebra crossing -- pedestrians : who are they?

• You cannot allow anyone else to overtake you -- from the right side or otherwise ! Drive like a maniac to ensure this.

• Preach about not talking over mobile phones while driving -- but continue to do so in an inconspicuous way -- switch on the speaker mode and demonstrate your ability to multi-task.

• If you are a senior citizen, you typically drive with both rear-view mirrors fully closed ! This will prove the existence of a merciful Providence -- one who lets other people go unscathed while you make sure your mirrors shine as much as they used to when your car was new.

• Never, ever signal right or left -- it is just more fun to let people guess which way you are likely to turn (or not and go straight!).

• If you are driving at night, you have so many more options: (i) drive without headlights, (ii) to make things more interesting, drive with just one headlight on so oncoming traffic cannot guess if you are driving a 2-wheeler or a 4-wheeler, (iii) If you do have both headlights on, have such a powerful beam so as to blind anyone within a radius of 10 feet.

A rose by any another name ...

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."

Romeo and Juliet (II, ii, 1-2)


Let me come directly to the point. I disagree !

Yes, one usually has no say in the choice of one's name -- you just hope that your parents do not have any outlandish ideas ... And, for the record, I did know someone who was named after a greek letter ! She was a good sport and took it in her stride; and would even use the greek symbol as her signature. But that is the exception. Most of us end up more or less content with our names. We may or may not acquire nicknames, of course. Once again, that depends on what cards Fortune deals you. It is awkward for a solemn professional when his/her colleagues somehow discover that he/she used to be called Ammu, Ambi, Sundeli and so on.

Those that get married sometimes acquire a whole new name. This was more common in my grandparents' generation. So you will have to learn to respond to a name that has no relation whatsoever with your original one. I presume it could have been confusing to react to one name in your own family and to another in your husband's place. Still, it used to be the norm and well, you had to live with it.

That generation -- my Thaatha-Paati's, I mean -- was quaint (from my point of view). While being demonstrative was unheard of and would certainly have been frowned upon, men showed off their affection for their wives by bestowing them with wierd nicknames. One of my Thaathas was enchanted by Mathematics -- Algebra, in particular -- (even though he was defeated by the English paper in his 10th std exams) that he adoringly called his wife "X". I don't blame you for sporting a wide grin right now as you read this. Speaking for myself, I didn't believe my ears when I heard it for the first time, either. But there was Paati -- responding to it -- time after time after time. My other Thaatha was so taken up with the sound of his wife's name that every sentence would be punctuated with it -- that tall, stern, eagle-like visage hid a hopelessly romantic soul !

I know someone who loves her name and could not have wished for any other. She was also lucky enough not to acquire any nicknames -- funny or otherwise. Nor did she acquire any new name when she got married. I would have thought nothing could be better. But it was not to be. Her husband would talk to her all the time without once calling her by name. This rather reminded one of the good old days when women wouldn't name their husbands since they stood in awe of them. That certainly wasn't the case here. Well, she was exasperated. She liked the sound of her name and did not relish the fact that she hardly heard it -- and from the look of it -- would probably never do so. Things did change somewhat when she had a daughter. She was okay with and even encouraged her to call her by name. This was looked upon by her spouse as some crazy fad to appear modern but she didn't mind any labels. She was happy to hear her name again -- albeit from the mouth of a toddler !

(Image courtesy of Desktop Background Wallpapers)

How men watch TV .....

 

Sink down on the couch.  Make yourself comfortable.  You are staying put here for the next few hours (at the very least).  Annoying doorbells or telephones will be answered by the wife.

 

Ask your five-year old to fetch you the remote control(s).  Enquire if there is anything to "munch" irrespective of whether it is just before or just after dinnertime.  Sulk visibly in case you don't find anything "interesting" enough to eat;  if you do find something to your liking, cradle the bowl of chips or popcorn and switch on the TV.

 

Keep watching the same "breaking news" across TV channels.  Cross-check this while simultaneously browsing the Internet on your Blackberry.

 

Ads are evil.  Scan as many channels as you can during a commercial break to see what else there is on TV.  This way you can watch several movies and numerous news channels at the same time, and also rattle your poor wife's brain in case she still thinks she can watch TV with you.

 

Tell your wife how she is missing out on important topical events.  Emphasize the need to be aware of what is currently happening in Egypt, in the cricketing world, the 2G scam, etc., and how not knowing this vital information will permanently scar your life.  Convince her that the next  day's newspaper somehow will not give you the complete picture.  In pursuit of this exclusive information, stay up all night -- day after day -- to catch the exact moment when Mubarak might announce that he will step down, for instance.  The next day morning, sleep late and complain about not being able to sleep well ad nauseam.

 

Start the whole process over again -- switch on the TV and work your thumb on the hapless remote !!

 

 

Of invisible switches and hidden correlations ...

Every married woman knows about the switch that trips when she opens her mouth to talk to her spouse.  The subject's ears cease to function at once; they are back to normal the moment the wife stops talking!  Not once in eight years have I ever known my husband to really listen -- nondescript, vague grunts and fillers are his way of acknowledging the annoying sound waves that bounce off his ears.  On the other hand, the converse does not apply.  At least, my spouse expects me to hang upon his every word and sulks if he thinks he does not enjoy my full attention.  Trying to feed your child simultaneously is not a good enough excuse to turn away when He talks ...

 

 

The other switch -- you know, the one that shuts off your ears when the TV is switched on -- is known to exist from quite an early age.  I can personally testify to this.  To get my five-year-old's attention, I have to switch off the TV when I really need to get across to her; obviously this is accompanied by her shrill, vocal protest!  This is also strongly manifested in the male species, particularly when watching a cricket match (even a replay of a Test match that took place years ago).  By the way, every other person in the house will be required to breathe softly in such an event so as not to disturb Him while he is watching TV -- whether it is an ancient cricket match or "breaking news" while scanning several TV channels simultaneously.  Even the darling-daughter-who-can-do-no-wrong needs to conform -- "You can talk to me only during the ads" -- initially said in a soft, even gentle, voice it gets progressively louder till there is absolute silence.  Naturally, there is this obvious correlation between waxing and waning of dinner-table conversation in perfect synchronisation with commercial breaks on TV.   Requests for water or second helpings notwithstanding, everyone needs to toe the line.  The older generation enforce this more rigidly as their daily routine revolves around their favourite TV shows. 

 

 

Well, last but not the least -- as soon as the maid talks about not showing up for work for the next few days, my blood pressure shoots up.  I become in turn cranky, annoyed and depressed.  All these symptoms vanish the instant she returns -- the sun seems brighter, the grass greener, the sky bluer and all is right with my world once again !

 

 

Coffee .....

Coffee -- this conjures up an image of a steaming cuppa with enticing aroma; you can almost feel the warmth of the cup in your palms ..... And, as you sip it,  the life-giving fluid runs through tired veins -- reviving you, rejuvenating you, urging you to get on with the business of life .....

It was a weird quirk of Fate that the family I had married into was steeped in rivers of coffee.  Coffee was the fuel that had the whole household going.  Just-after-getting-up-in-the-morning coffee would be followed by coffee-made-with-today's-fresh-milk.  A "second-round" of coffee was compulsory after breakfast.  Evening, 4 pm, was ushered in with another round of coffee.  This was besides any coffee made for guests happening to drop in.  Of course, everyone reserved the right to call for coffee anytime during waking hours and to comment long and loudly on how it tasted.

Cribbing about my non-existent (in his opinion) coffee making skills is a mandatory part of each day for my husband.   Let me attempt listing a few of my main coffee-making sins:  (1) not volunteering to make coffee,  (2) making coffee that tastes terrible,  (3) not making hot enough coffee (more on that in a minute),  (4) offering too little or too much !  In fact, anything that could conceivably go wrong in this process, did.

Giving him a cup of coffee would mean triggering a half-hour worth of critical commentary on its demerits!  The first sip and the second would thus be separated in time by at least 15 minutes; enough for it to cool down significantly. In spite of this, if the temperature of the coffee during that first sip was not enough to scald and possibly permanently kill off cells on my spouse's palate, it was labelled "cold" and immediately poured into the kitchen sink.  The verdict "bisi illa" (meaning "not hot enough" in Kannada) was supposed to make me wilt -- again, something I am not very good it.  This would lead to more sulking in silence, alternating  with tirades on the importance of making hot coffee.

More often than not, as soon as I put the cup into the hands of the spouse, he would pour off one or two millilitres in the kitchen sink -- "Now, the quantity is just fine" he would exclaim.

 I never dreamt that former US President George Bush would become my Guru, so to speak, until I got married to this overly-fussy (according to me) person with refined tastebuds (according to him).  Let me explain.  I come from a Tamil Iyer family -- supposedly from a background that is traditionally known to excel in making "Filter Coffee".  Keeping this in mind, I don't really blame my husband for expecting me to make coffee of a certain standard.  But I was the non-conformer -- I had never liked the smell of coffee, let alone taste the brown liquid,  it until it became a part of a twice-daily routine to fuel my Ph.D. days.  I had never made filter coffee -- ever -- before I got married !!  Well, I bought the necessary equipment (small coffee filter) and thought "How difficult can this be?"  I realized how it was possible to get different things "wrong" and make varieties of "bad coffee" that was inferior to dishwater in my spouse's opinion.  Advice poured in from all sides -- change the quantity of coffee powder, change to another brand of coffee, change the coffee/chicory ratio, and so on.  I left my husband gasping for breath with each new attempt at coffee making.  Occasionally, I would get it right (by sheer chance) -- this would be labelled as a totally unplanned, freak incident. I have finally made my peace with coffee issues by publicly announcing a lack of talent in making the same and lowering expectations all around (a la George Bush).  Stray victories are attributed to chance or a fiendish underhand plot to get the husband in a good mental frame to get him to agree to something (his theory, not mine!).

After more than seven years of marriage, I am amazed that in spite of my being guilty as charged (with respect to coffee making), the husband has not even entertained the notion of making coffee himself.  I suspect making his own coffee would deprive him of the basic pleasure of complaining about the old ball-and-chain !