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Voe is me! As yet I veakly vobble – veary, out of vhack and vonky in the aftermath of vaging vengeful var against a young vhipper-snapper not three moons ago…
Vilful, he indulged in no idle vaffle, but vaded in with no varning. He vielded his veapons – a vorpal* svord? – nay, a velter or varped vords that packed a vallop, vithal.
In a vink did I parry, fought to vrest advantage, though hard strove he to vriggle free, villy-nilly… the vily vrangler!
Yea! Didst the knave declare me a gray fool! (I concede membership only to the former league.)
Alas! The vretch (though a vorthy foe proved he) vanished vhence he came, to vit a vill-o-the-visp, into the ether they dub the Vorld Vide Veb.
*Vith apologies to Lewis Carroll.
© Sosha Srinivasan
Indu Balachandran is a regular-but-sporadic contributor to The Hindu (which, by the way, has introduced a beautiful beta version at http://beta.thehindu.com/ – such an improvement on the original). I make it a point to read Indu’s offerings out loud to my son and they never fail to raise peals of laughter.
Here are links some of her earlier pieces:
- (S)hopping mad
- Lessons in Chenglish
- Oops Let Me Politically Correct That!
- Look what I picked up on my travels
Here is a passage from her latest article, Relatively speaking… on Tam Brahms (for the uninitiated that’s not an obscure composition by the famous German composer, but a short ‘n’ sweet way of referring to Tamil Brahmins!) describing a local relative introducing older kin to a visiting youngster:
“Do you know who this is? This is your Ambi mama who is Cheelu athai’s son-in-law Gopi’s cousin, who is married to Ramani athimber’s daughter, who is also the co-sister of Lavanya Aunty…”
Reminds me of older female relatives in our Syrian Christian community, of which my maternal grandmother, my Ammachy, reigned supreme! She’d start off real simple, but then lead us through this veritable maze of marriage and blood connections that became increasingly more labyrinthine by the minute. At the end of it, we’d have a glazed look in our eyes that would take ages to revert to normal…!
As kids, my cousin Mona (there is a link to her travel blog on my side bar) and I once travelled as front-seat passengers in a car with Ammachy and our respective mothers (who happen to be sisters) in the back seat.
There was a lull in their conversation and Mona grabbed the chance to liven things up a bit.
“Sosha! Don’t you know who I’m talking about?” she asked me loudly in Malayalam, nudging me in the ribs.
I looked at her blankly because we hadn’t been talking at all, merely watching the sights through the window.
“Our Benny mon from up-on-the-hill’s sister-in-law’s second cousin…”
“Oh!” I exclaimed, catching on as she gave me a broad wink and an even broader grin.
“… who married Pulimootil* Mathai’s daughter-in-law’s maternal uncle…” Mona finished with a small hiccup that sounded suspiciously like a suppressed giggle.
(*Pulimootil – a common “house name” that literally translates as “At the base of the tamarind tree”. Probably to differentiate between other Mathais from Plaamotil (at the base of the jackfruit tree), Maamootil (at the base of the mango tree) and Malamootil (at the base of the hillock)!
We turned our heads as casually as possible.
In the backseat Ammachy was now sitting bolt upright, listening keenly, eyes aglint, head tilted to one side – she was in her element. We could practically visualize tiny gear wheels whirring and clicking into place in her brain.
But she, the great exponent on Syrian Christian genealogy, couldn’t place who Mona was describing…
“Addhe aaraa?” she asked. “Who is that?”
[* Read Mona's comment here to fill in on what happened next - plus a couple of other details - which escaped my memory(!)]
The two of us burst into laughter… Mona had made it up and managed to fool her too! Sweet revenge!
It took Ammachy a few seconds to realize she was having her leg pulled, but then she – and Mona’s mom and mine too – joined in the laughter.
Ammachy lived to the ripe old age of 92. She was active and her mind was as sharp as ever until the end. No doubt all those mental gymnastics she put herself through regularly helped!
© Sosha Srinivasan
It was a quiet Sunday in Casablanca during the summer of ‘82. Billy Hamilton was feeling like a zombie after eight pegs. The bitter-sweet memories hit him like a tidal wave. He, the Millionaire No. I of the 20th century would never see his fiancée again. Mona Lisa, the Parisian, whom he had considered his perfect lady, had had her oxygen line reduced to a string of bubbles by a barracuda off the Great Barrier Reef. And what he would never forget was that snake-in-the-grass, Antoine’s smile as he sneered, “Lucky dip, Americano!”
Uncle Sam Vanderbilt patted Billy consolingly.
“Sonny boy needs an old fashioned remedy to get him out of this limbo,” he thought.
Uncle Sam left the same afternoon for Los Angeles, traveling incognito.
“Mrs. Harvey Wallbanger is expecting you, Sir,” announced the butler at the door of the baronial mansion. The grand old Irish lady, widow of the Demolition Man, fixed Billy’s photograph with a gimlet eye.
“Why not?” she said at last with something approaching a smile.
On the evening of July 4th, Billy, in a mental fog, drove his Bugatti “82 through the London fog to Claridges to meet Uncle Sam. He cut a dashing figure in his white polo neck sweater, blue jacket and black velvet trousers, though his eyes were a trifle bloodshot. With his combination of classic good looks, the charm of Adonis and a Harvard college education, he was no Rambo but seemed like the answer to any maiden’s prayer.
On his arrival, Billy was escorted upstairs to the Paradise Ballroom where Uncle Sam introduced him to Mrs. Harvey Wallbanger and her niece.
“I’m Roberta Burns – Bobby Burns to friends,” smiled the American beauty. Her voice was like black magic and she was dressed in a white satin gown and silk stockings. The sweet girl, brought up in the lap of luxury, had an angel face as smooth as wax and the curves of a roller coaster. Billy could hear the melody of eight bells ringing in his head.
Uncle Sam chewed delightedly on his Havana cigar. “Absolute T N T – she’s a corpse reviver!” he congratulated himself.
Their wedding, held at Brooklyn, was almost called off due to a lover’s tiff.
“Billy! You prize idiot!” roared Uncle Sam. “Send her a peace offering – a Rolls Royce or a Bentley.”
The honeymoon was at the blue lagoon of a Hawaiian island.
“Whiz bang!” exclaimed Uncle Sam.
“Bully for you!” echoed Mrs Harvey Wallbanger.
And that was a happy end indeed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THIS IS NOT A COCK AND BULL TALE BUT A COCKTALE – EACH HIGHLIGHTED SET OF WORDS IS THE NAME OF A COCKTAIL.
- DISCLAIMER: This is only an example of creativity and is, by no means, encouragement to drink.
As a lecturer at a hotel management institute years ago, I happened across a couple of attractively illustrated books on cocktails. While idly flipping through them I was struck by the weird and wonderful names within. It was only natural that my wild imagination took over and the end result is published above. By the way I’m a teetotaler – who said teetotalers can’t have fun with the fizz?!
© Sosha Srinivasan
Eleven years ago we had looked at a ready-to occupy apartment in one of Chennai’s relatively new suburbs, Porur – and had bought it without any modifications
Soon after we moved in, I realized that every time I did the dishes at the kitchen sink I’d wind up with my arms and shoulders feeling like they’d been put through a wringer! So the next time my hands went through a sinkful of dirty dishes, my mind analyzed and dissected – and my heart sank – a strange sinking feeling – as I thunk, “I’m sunk… my sink is sunken!”
It was way too low and the faucet too far back for comfort. I wondered why – and the realization sank in: The building contractor had designed the sink with his dream woman in mind, a lovely young thing, no doubt – but she just had to be real tiny – under 4 feet 10 inches tall – with peculiarly long arms! There couldn’t be any other explanation!
All this talk of love and doing the dishes reminds me of that feminist slogan:
“It starts when you sink into his arms and ends with your arms in his sink!”
Be warned!
© Sosha Srinivasan
By Jove! Or should I say “B(u)y Zeus!”?!
We’ve seen it all… First it was “definitely male”, followed by unbridled “Passion” and open “Ambition”. I expected liberation from the name games Indian 2-wheeler manufacturers play, but had to be content with “Libero”. Finally, we were expected to take a “Shine” to a recent offering!
Last month my husband literally took the “Heat” – bought the latest 125 cc bike from the Suzuki stable – I lost no time in teasing him mercilessly about being in the hot seat – enough to get him hot under the collar – I backed off when I thought I saw steam emanating from his ears!
But “Wind”, I think, takes the cake. The producer of the mobike obviously hasn’t thought of the other connotations of the word. And if it weren’t enough, tacking the number 125 onto it! A 125 mph gale force wind? Breaking – er – news?!
© Sosha Srinivasan
On one of our evening outings in late 1995, I suddenly clutched my husband’s arm.
“Oh! The poor, poor man!” I exclaimed, indicating an individual who stood on the curb, half turned away from us, talking to himself and gesticulating wildly with his left arm.
Obviously a schizophrenic, abandoned on the streets by his family. The same thought seemed to have crossed hubby’s mind, judging from the sympathetic expression on his face. But wait… he seemed too well dressed and well groomed to be a candidate for the lunatic asylum! Oh well! Perhaps the condition was in the initial stage…
I burst out laughing and hubby couldn’t help but join in because just then the man had turned and we both saw what he held to his right ear… Sure, it was the size and shape of a brick… but the cellular phone had arrived in India!
~~~~~~~~~~
Fast forward to the present. I can hardly believe I actually went and bought one of those “things” – a Nokia 6233! Not after my rant against them in a previous post: Whatever it is, don’t call…! Several reasons why I did though:
1. I’d accompanied my son and hubby on a pilgrimage to a hill temple 100 km from Chennai last December and really felt the lack of a camera to capture some truly scenic shots.
2. I thought it was time I upgraded my mobile telephony skills – I don’t know how to make or receive calls on one – no kidding!
3. I finally allowed sonny boy to talk me into it – he should consider becoming a lawyer/negotiator! One of his most convincing arguments was that I could change the ringtone from the traditional, irritating one to a softer, more pleasing one of my choice!
The verdict? I’m quite amazed at the services and features.
I didn’t take the mobile to work the first week as I still operate it with a great deal of trepidation. If it had rung, I’d probably have handled it like a live grenade and chucked it out of the nearest window….! It is now on silent mode at work.
I find Generation Y so much more tech savvy – I read through the instruction manual several times and got totally lost… my son doesn’t touch the manual but seems to intuitively absorb how the phone works and then transfers the knowledge to me by a process I call “reverse osmosis!”
© Sosha Srinivasan
Sonny boy, all of seventeen, recently offered to buy me a cellular phone with his first salary a few years down the line. There was a wicked glint in his eye and he laughed as he promised… knowing full well how much I detest the telephone. I tell him in no uncertain terms that I’d probably smash it to bits (and grind it underfoot for good measure) on the very first day… or I’d end up a raving lunatic!
I can trace my aversion to the sound of the ringing telephone back to my days as a management trainee in a hotel. I was rotated on the 9-6 shift through the various departments, of which the front desk was one. The mornings would be just hunky dory. The trouble would invariably begin when my colleague on the 7-4 shift, as well as the manager, would disappear for their lunch breaks at 1 pm. The lady on the 2-8 shift wouldn’t have put in an appearance yet.
A typical scenario: All alone and the lobby looked so peaceful… Suddenly the calm is shattered by – you guessed it – the old fashioned rotary dial telephone shrilling loudly. I’d pick up – only to get a earful about another department’s deficient service from an irate guest. I’d be trying to get a word in edgeways when the second telephone right next to the first one would begin to ring insistently. Accomplishing the next-to-impossible task of putting Mr. Irate on hold, I’d answer #2, and go through the whole rigamarole again (this time: “Why do you people take so long to pick up…?!”). I’d suddenly become aware that a guest had materialized, seemingly out of thin air, and was tapping the counter impatiently. I recognize the guest, paste what I hope is a welcoming smile on my face, and lean over to try and retrieve his room keys from the slot. After a minute of acrobatic contortions that would put Houdini to shame, I notice the look of unalloyed shock on the guest’s face – as I almost lose my balance – and give up. I put down the receiver, do a strange sideways shuffle, retrieve and hand over the keys in record time. I take a step towards the two receivers – when the third one rings. Unfortunately, it’s at the other end of the counter, about 10 feet away from the first two… I’m able to deal with it in ten seconds flat and am hurrying back to #1 and #2 when yet another guest pops up. “Just my luck!” I groan inwardly while a polite smile stretches my orbicularis oris muscles. I know from experience that the chap, out of boredom or love (of his own voice) or whatever, just adores talking. He launches into one of his stories as I try to inch toward the telephones. He seems oblivious to my travails, so I excuse myself and pick up #1 – only to be lambasted once again… I juggle the receiver to my left ear and pick up #2. Just then #3 rings again… and a large group of guests walks through the lobby doors towards the counter…
So now you know why the sound of the ringing phone arouses the worst in me…
My son mesmerized, as is his entire generation, by mobile phone technology, has been pestering me and pleading with me – and when that failed – appealing to logic and reasoning to persuade me to buy one of those, those… thingummies! I certainly don’t fancy being on call 24/7, at the mercy of cellular phone service providers, insurance agents, banks and the like, invading my privacy and monopolizing large chunks of my time, both of which I value and treasure. Sonny tells me I can switch off the danged thing, but still… no thanks!
© Sosha Srinivasan
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