Another Sunday by the Pool

There was a garden lizard at the bottom of the pool. Quite, quite dead. And had been for a while by the look of it. The death of a lizard is a puzzling event. Should one feel sorry, solemn, maybe even a little grave? Or is it an incident that doesn't concern one? Should it just be shrugged off and forgotten? After all, it's just a little reptile. There are tons of them around. It's not like they're an endangered specie that you'd have to care about and show appropriate feeling for. Nor are they filled with fragile beauty (a herpetologist might disagree but whatever).

I stared at it for quite a while because I didn't know what to think (isn't it unsettling when that happens? I can deal with the whole thinking one thing, then the other and having a raging argument in my head thing but the sohowexactlydoireacttothis feeling is one I loathe).

I fished it out in the end. Trekked to the security guard office, got a fishnet from the maintenance man, waded into the pool and fished it out. This is going to sound peculiar but I followed that noble gesture by burying it. Somehow the thought of just throwing it into the bushes where ants would swarm around it and maggots grow out of it didn't seem right. These lizards (the American ones, I mean) are so fat and disgustingly well grown. Alive, they frighten me but dead like this one, I feel sorry for them. So stupid.

Why would you jump into a pool full of chlorine when you labor under the weight of a body that cannot adapt. When you're pampered from birth with everything you need, the sudden appearance of a chlorinated pool in your path does nothing other than invite you to take a refreshing dip. Nothing wrong with that. Try it out, be adventurous you think to yourself. But then you end up dead at the bottom of a pool. Because adaptation is a skill. And the only way you can acquire it is to be up against a wall. It just can't be inherited or bequeathed or bought. It has to be earned the hardest way there is. Mostly, by death.

An Indian lizard, one feels, would definitely have jumped into the pool. But then, an Indian lizard would not have flinched at the chlorine. An Indian lizard would not have ended up at the bottom of the pool. Toxic schmoxic, it would have thought and swum right along.

I think that's why I buried it. I might have some deeply hidden guilt for the unadapted ones. I just might.

And *ta da* this is the 150th post. Who'd have thought.

What is the difference between a riffled draw and a snatched bag?

It all happened so quickly. Looking back, she couldn't quite remember the exact sequence. Yes, before it happened she was with 1 bag, 4 credit cards, 1 driver's license, 1 Motorola Razr, pink, 1 lucky charm, 1 ID badge. After it happened she was without. It was the inbetween bits that remained hazy. She thought he had had a knife but she wasn't sure. He had cut her bag from its moorings around her neck, so he must have had a knife. But she wasn't sure. "Did he hurt you?" the cops kept asking. "Does your shoulder pain? Did he yank at it?" I don't know, she wanted to say. But she said no. She didn't think so. All her friends asked her but what happened? Where were you? How could this happen? She gave them the detailed story that she'd arrived at. The version that she'd culled by compromising what must have happened with what she'd remembered happening. They were satisfied. I can't believe you take it so calmly. She laughed it off. She was ok. Everything was fine. Just minor hassles to overcome. Cards to replace. Phones to buy.

But in the middle of the night she could see his brown eyes. Looking into hers the minute before he snatched her bag. Filled with a vindictive delight. I am taking what ought to have been mine.

If I'd had coffee I'd have thrown it in her face. Sometimes I scare myself.

She 1: If only I didn't have such a big butt, y'know what I mean? I'd be able to wear a much smaller size. Though, y'know even now it's only a size 8. So, it isn't that bad, y'know what I mean?

She 2: You don't have a big butt! It's worse being me. I have no butt to speak of.

She 1: *I* think I have a big butt. I never used to have one this big, y'know what I mean? It's only since I started dating Ian. We eat so much, y'know what I mean?

She 2: Yeah, I know how that feels. It's no use just you being on a diet if he's pigging out all the time.

She 1: Yeah, but I'm totally going to stick to this regimen, y'know what I mean? Like those ads on tv. Lose two dress sizes in 2 weeks, y'know what I mean?

She 2: Haha. Those adverts are just crazy.

She 1: They remind me of my bro. He's an exercise nazi, y'know what I mean? That's why I never work out with him. I just say leave me alone, y'know what I mean?

She 3 (standing up from her seat in the row in front of them suddenly): Yes, yes, woman!!!!! She knows what you mean!!!!! We *all* know what you mean! For pity's sake STOP SAYING THAT!!!

*exit bus right*

Some verbal habits are so annoying I feel like shaking the speaker in an attempt to make them stop talking. Especially on Monday mornings.

Brown Eyed Boy

I look at you across the crowded room full of chattering couples. You look up at me, as if you can feel my gaze. Your big, brown eyes are so beautiful I catch my breath. You and I, we're both single, but in this one instant we're together. I have a crazy impulse to rush to your side and hold you close. I find this world sometimes scary, sometimes bewildering, generally strange. But you, you seem so happy, comfortable in your space, trusting of people, confident in your ability to charm. It makes you magnetic. Draws a magic circle of light and laughter around you. You suddenly stand and start lurching towards me, drunkenly. "Careful", I find myself muttering under my breath. I catch you just as you tumble forward, chuckling, almost falling flat on your nose. Scooping you up in my arms, I'm rewarded with an angelically toothless smile. "You perfectly adorable naughty papa", I mock-scold as I carry you off to your mother, one arm tight around my neck and the other waving candy gently in the air. I know I'm in love. I don't even try fighting it.

Mistaken Identities

She sits on the low wall, legs swinging, head nodding to the beat of the iPod, dappled in early evening sunshine, contented smile on her face. The black burkha clad lady approaching her, sizes her up in an instant. She sees the lips of the small, elderly Muslim lady move and realizes she's being addressed. A little vexed, she removes one of the earphones from her ear and looks enquiringly at the lady. "Asalaam aleikum", the lady repeats with a tremulous smile. "Aleikum asalaam", she replies without even thinking about it. One only has to be Indian to know the greeting. Religion is immaterial. The tremulous smile widens confidently. The lady seems poised on the brink of voluminous conversation when the bus arrives. She gestures the lady in front of her and they both climb into the bus. She sticks the earphone back in her ear and disappears back into her own world. She sees the lady look at her a couple of times, smiles at her. The lady starts looking worried with each passing stop. Until finally the last stop is reached. This is where she gets off but the lady still sits stubbornly in the bus. The driver, perplexed, looks to her for help. She at least looks geographically competent to deal with a black gown clad SouthEast Asian woman. In school girl Hindi she asks the woman where she needs to go. The lady, enraptured to be able to talk to anyone who can understand her, almost flies to her side. Sits nestled beside her, looking at her trustingly, waiting for her to sort the problem out. The matter is easily settled, the exasperated driver appeased and informed, the lady comforted and instructed to sit tight. She will be home soon. The lady looks at her. Two brown pools of gratitude. Thinking "I'm so glad I found kith and kin on this bus in this strange country where noone understands me." Saying simply "Khoda Hafez". She gets off the bus, walks to her apartment.

How easy it is for people to accept you for what they want you to be.

Boxes Marked "Random Stuff" Are Opened At One's Own Peril

She sits surrounded by packing boxes. Most of them yet to be opened. Marked boringly "Kitchen Stuff" or "Hall Light, Parts". She's just finished with the one marked "Candles". She has her priorities right. She wonders what to start on next. It catches her eye. The little cardboard box. "Random Stuff" it proclaims in black marker filched from the lab. It's the obvious choice. She finds a mess of papers inside, piled in any which way. She sees the corner of what looks like a card sticking out. She pulls it out of the heap. She reads the little ditty scrawled in blue ink inside. Written with a smile, read with a giggle. Memories of her most recent birthday. Spent with one of her best gfs and a bunch of guys who joined the party after it had kicked off. One of the guys had given her the card the next day. Apparently insisting that everyone at the party call her Paris Hilton (!!!! Really have to lay off those martinis!!!) and declare that she's just turned nineteen had been a big hit. It had been a nice night. Atleast the bits of it she remembers. She puts the card into the Madden shoe box she keeps for memories. She picks up a letter from her baby sister, covered in sparkly sticky butterflies. An illustrated text of her sister's daily activities. She chuckles as she sees the line of XO kisses at the bottom. Into the Madden box. A letter from someone she met recently but who has become surprisingly special surprisingly quickly. Scribbled on the back of a treatise on calibration systems. Of course she has to read all three pages again. Letters from her older sister. Sketches. A recycled-paper lampshade given her by someone who had once been kinda special. A CD with a song written for her by someone who had once been more than special. A bunch of old photographs. Smiling faces set in backdrops that bring dead days back to life. A letter from her ex-roommate bitching about the current roomie situation. A continent away. The letter seems to contain within itself a whiff of cold grey English air. So many memories collected in such a short time. How does anyone manage to hold so much so close. Rain drips outside with satisfactorily depressing monotony and the yellow-grey light filters in through the window. iTunes obligingly cues Good Charlotte to sing The Chronicles of Life and Death.

But now you're old, cold, covered in blood
Right back to where you started from.

It somehow feels appropriate. Significant even. It's an afternoon designed for melancholic nostalgia. She submits. But not with good cheer. That would spoil everything.

The Perils of Penelope Pink-shiny-stuff

She sets the timer for 15 minutes. The gel has to be ready to pour in 5. She quickly, efficiently weighs out the agarose and adds it to the TBE. She swirls the solution around in the glass bottle twice and places it in the microwave. She sets the microwave energy level and timer and presses the Start button. The light flickers on glumly behind the dark glass, and the bottle begins revolving. She keeps a watchful eye on the hazy silhouette of the liquid in the bottle. Once it starts bubbling, she has to stop the microwave, remove the bottle and give it another shake before resuming the heating. Otherwise it will spill over and the insides of the microwave will be a gloppy mess of fast-solidifying gelatin. She has done this so many times that it's easier than breathing. As she stares through the grimy glass of the microwave door she notices a Bling. And another. Something sparkly. Silver. Faintly pink. The reflection of her freshly painted nails. She smiles, enchanted by the twinkle of the little glittery scintilla. The quicksilver change in the planes of shimmer as she moves her hand just that fraction of an inch. Her eyes move from the reflection to the reality. She normally doesn't paint her nails but yesterday boredom and the presence of a bottle of Blush on the living room rug had conspired. A background bubbling noise tries, but fails dismally to register through the glitter-haze. But even through her rapt contemplation of her nails she does hear the fatal thump. Without looking up she knows the plastic lid of the glass bottle has just hit the roof of the microwave. She confronts with firm resignation the sticky agarose coat that the microwave-inside is now gaily wearing .


Damn all sparkly things to hell!

The News Noose

So, the doorbell rings. At 1 in the afternoon. The crack of a Saturday dawn. There's a young Asian kid with a crew cut standing outside smiling at me. He has the smug, I've-been-up-for-at-least-8-hours-and-run-5-miles-before-apparently-deciding-to-knock-at-random-people's-doors look. I, having been at the receiving end of this look before, am unfazed by it's smugness. I simply goggle at him, as my caffeine deprived brain gropes hopelessly for an explanation for his presence. After a couple of seconds of this, he decides to take matters in his own hand. He says, "I'm the newspaper delivery guy?". Recognition creeps in hesitantly. And along with recognition, bitterness and a sense of impending panic. Because behind the affable, muscle-bound, seemingly liekable exterior of this chap lurks the sole reason for one of the Banes of my Existence. The dastardly problem that has so often been used as a clincher in the arguments of informed friends that I'm certifiable. The Unfortunate Newspaper Situation, as it is called in my circles. The facts are simple. I'm an American newspaper virgin. The abundance of their news overwhelms me. I flounder in the face of all those pages. I feel suffocated. It's a complex mixture of clautrophobia, agoraphobia and the very real danger of asphyxiating to death in the morass that is the Sunday paper. I am perfectly happy without the news. As Paul would say, I can get all the news I need from the weather report. However, one fateful weekend dazed by a hangover and disoriented by the early hour, confronted by this selfsame sinisterly smiling boy with the misleadingly unassuming exterior, I blithely signed up for newspaper door delivery. I maintain that I was under the impression that it was Some Other Service that I was signing up for (I'm never at my lucidest on weekend mornings). My friends (who represent the Forces of Evil) jeer and insist that it is just one of the many symptoms of my insanity. However that might be (and we all know that Forces of Evil are never to be believed, it goes with their job description), I can't deny that I keep renewing the subscription every couple of months. I have by now come to terms with the fact that no other service is being offered. As far as I can ascertain the only contract (and I've had ample time to ascertain this in) being entered upon is that of me paying a princely sum, in return for which I get wads of newspaper every day. They invariably pile up on the mat until I can't step out of my house without drowning in a sea of print. At this point of critical mass I normally decide to liquidate them, and this typically involves 5 trips to the dumpster. I have nightmares of being newspaper-ed in and having to jump out of my balcony to get out of my house. I'm perfectly clear that I don't want the newspaper delivered at my doorstep, in fact I'd pay to make them stop. But at the crucial instant, when I ought to be shutting the door firmly on the face of my would-be delivery boy after refusing calmly, and with composure, to renew the subscription, I invariably find myself ushering him out of the house affably, lighter in the pocket, and heavier in the heart (and the doormat).

But this time, it shall not be so. I have given the matter much thought and I have a Speech Prepared, so ha! It will explain how I've enjoyed working with Newspaper Boy, how his work has made a Substantial Difference in my life and often, been the Sole Source of Exercise in my week, but People Change, and he has to Accept it and Move On. Our relationship is Over I will say. It is not him, it's me I will add fixing him with my steely gaze. My speech is a masterful blend of the polite and firm, and I've even practised saying it to one of my marginally less evil friends. Newspaper Boy can proceed to be disgusted at my lack of interest in worldly affairs till he's blue in the face. Disapproving looks will not move me from my burning deck. I will stand firm. I take a deep breath and open my mouth. "Miss, we're discontinuing the newspaper delivery service", he says. I lose the lungful of breath I had just accumulated. "Not enough customers", he explains dismally. I rally quickly, or as quickly as I can at this time of the day. "Awww, that is soo sad", I wail, giving what I feel is a convincing imitation of a grief-stricken news addict. "Yeah", he shakes his head at this bad taste displayed by the world-at-large's abstinence from building newspaper mountains at their apartment door-steps. "It was such a nice idea. And you were so good at it. I don't think you've missed even one day", I feel a manic impulse to shield the boy from the blows of constant disasppointment that is life. I think it's the guilt of intent. "Except one Thursday in December", he says mournfully, "There was a storm". "I'm going to miss seeing the news outside the door when I wake up", I continue perjuring my soul gaily. The over-whelming relief flooding through me makes me giddy. I am free. Free at last!!! "In fact I don't know what I'll do now. I might actually have to start buying them from the vending machines." I chuckle inwardly at that one, floating around eight stories up on my cloud of freedom, feelings of guilt extinguished by my exemplary and selfless (I did perjure my soul) attempts at cheering him up. "Miss, you don't have to do that. I'll just sign you up for the weekend service. We're still doing that. Don't you worry about it." He smiles in happy joy, obviously ringing this up as his good deed for the day. Crazy news-addict lady in Apt #1 made happy. Check. "Will it be cash or cheque?"" He looks at me enquiringly. It's called karma. You can't sidestep it. I float gently down from my eight floor cloud top and sign the subscription form with the lightness that comes from accepting the inevitable.

Nostalgia

Two minutes in bed, waking up and listening to the war for the day. Stumble out of bed. Brush teeth waiting for the snatches of song in between the annoying chatter of the RJs. Jump into shower. Dry hair while trying to get into clothes. Think. Have to tell the boss about the fresh probe. The count seems low. Should she repeat it. And also have to place new orders for atleast two restriction enzymes. Annoying radio chatter. Tempted to turn it off. Hair refusing to stay in place. Dang it. Search frantically for clips, pins, bands, anything that'll help. Not satisfied but good enough. Find sweatshirt that matches or at least blends. Hop on one foot putting socks on. Search for lip gloss. Need the colourless one. Rummage in draw, cursing the Fates. Found: orange lip gloss from more than a year back. Pause. Slight smile. Open it. The sickly sweet smell of fake oranges. Smile widens. Her first snowfall, the smell of winter coats musty from disuse, bright scarves, clumsy gloved hands, the sting of fresh air. Sitting on the windowsill reading...what was it? Moving Pictures. Yeah, the Terry Pratchett phase. The buzzing of the phone. Excited squeals from the other end. What? Snow? Where? Outside your window dumbnut! Where else? Drop the receiver, run to the window. Look out. White drifting down. More excited squeals. Hasty walk undertaken. Struggle into layer after layer, rush out the door, scarf ends flying about, leave key in the lock. Soft chuckle. Dab the gloss on. Lock the door, hum a tune. Memories rock.

The Sad Story of Nemo (or The Wisdom of Naming Only Once but Naming Wisely)

Cautionary Note: Maudlin folk who cry during Hallmark commercials, be warned. Possiblity of tears ahead.

He brought home the little clown fish. The latest addition to his aquarium. He couldn't wait for his niece to see the little squirt. He hid the bag behind him as he walked in, and slipped the little fish in when his niece wasn't watching. After dinner, he was watching the news when he heard the squeal. Of delight? The patter of little feet, and his niece was standing before him. Her cheeks flushed. A worried frown creasing her face. Feet planted apart, all earnestness,"There's a new one in the tank" she confided gravely. "Really??" he responded with appropriate incredulity. "Yes, chachu. I just saw it. How dya think it got there?" He professed bafflement at its miraculous arrival (much as Mary must have to her querulous husband). They both stood in front of the tank, discussing the ramifications of the new arrival until it was time for her to go to bed. She turned back for a final glance, "Let's call him Nemo", she said. He smiled at the intrusion of pop culture into even this nook of the world, and nodded in agreement. It was a fine name.

He came home, to find her in a corner. All queries replied to with a shake of the head, and welling tears in her eyes. He thought the fish would cheer her up, and suggested they look in on Nemo. For a cup of tea and a chat, he quipped. She proceeded to burst into tears. Alarmed, he backed away. Tears frightened him. Made him feel clumsy. Helpless. His bhabhi rescued him, saying "She's been like this all day. Some fish in that tank of yours. Dead, I think." Casually, an offhand remark, of no importance but for its consequence. He went to the tank, in trepidation. Nemo was listing to one side, one of his fins ripped off. His eye looked at him, not in accusation, but in listless acceptance. As he stared, a small hand crept into his own. She was still crying.

Is it just me or do names take over the named?

Update: So, in the spirit of scientific enquiry and ratiocination and all that, I propose an experiment, brilliant in it's simplicity and general doableness. All I need are brave and noble human volunteers (but no scruples please, I can't deal with people with scruples, nuh-uh). Please step up, said b and n volunteers. Here is the plan. Sally forth (and no, Sally is not a girl) and procure some infants (or toddlers, but preferably infants). Select distinctive and characteristic names for them (these are important criteria, pliss to remember). Then, 25 years from today (please make note of date), we shall meet at the eldritch hour of 3 in the afternoon, at the haunted house in the corner of 9th and 88th (I will not tell you the specific city because in the tradition of the genre of movies to which Serendipity proudly belongs, if it's meant to be, we shall all find ourselves in that city on that date at that time), with the said 20-something year olds in tow. That shall be our finest hour when we will know for certain whether names take over the named or not. Suggestions for the names will be provided on demand - I have already thought of a few like Nietzche, Hawking, Bush (see, why I said no scruples?).

Update 2: Betcha the cuplrit's name is Danny Ocean. Any takers?

The True and Amazing Chronicles of a Commuter: Part 2 3

The bus lurches around the corner at seemingly ill-advised speed and stops dead. They clutch the overhead straps to keep from falling over but continue staggering to the exit. You're allowed to wait for the bus to stop, I want to say. Please don't exert yourself, I almost tell the old man standing next to my seat, waiting for his turn to step out into the winter cold. I have a grandfather like you, I feel the wish to confide. Old bones need cherishing. If I said it out loud, would he be offended? I spot an Indian in the queue of shuffling soon-to-be-disgorged-passengers. She's almost at the door. In another minute she'll step out. As she leaves, she turns back to the driver. Thank you, she says, and have a great day. A chord is struck. Board examinations, 1996, Physics. Newton's Laws. I knew them by heart, but I never bothered learning what the words meant either.

Culinary Note: (This is for Adi) You didn't expect it to be edible, didja?

Update: The first part for the curious (yeah, yeah the name has changed, and it wasn't a chronicle - which is why the name has changed, not that this is a chronicle either. Tsk, how complicated)

Update 2: Apparently there's also a second part, so this is actually the third part (d-uh!).