Tag: Humor

Posted in Random Thoughts

I do: The Indian Way (Part 3)

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: Pun intended

If you are intending to go through the madness, I would say, do it thoroughly: Visit the first two parts I do: The Indian Way (Part 1) and I do: The Indian Way (Part 2). It will help you understand the whole song and dance sequence that ensued before we reached this point in an Indian “arranged marriage” where everyone knows everything about the “boy” and the “girl” except the boy and the girl themselves. For the unversed, “arranged marriage” is a complex process to simplify the process of finding a man for every girl and a girl for every man” ((henceforth incorrectly called “the boy” though he is probably in his late twenties or early thirties).

In the previous two posts, we have already covered the first twelve steps of the process.

The boy and the girl are now engaged and are totally unaware of each other, except that their relationship is now official. Infact, if the event wasn’t photographed, you could swap the girl with a cousin and the boy will probably not notice because they met only for 10 minutes, and she was wearing so much make up, he can’t tell her from Lady Gaga. The girl would also not notice swapping the boy because, in all probability, she never saw his face—she was supposed to behave shy and look at her feet all the time.

The family is beside itself with sheer relief that the “whole thing was finally done”—a mistaken belief that is soon broken by the grandmother’s proclamation that they must perform the marriage within three months. “You must not keep a marriage waiting, else something will go wrong!” By ‘something’, she obviously means that the boy will find out about the girl’s motorbiking aspirations and her lack of culinary skills! So, the madness begins afresh.

Step 13: Pandit ji’s approval again

The father, brother and everybody else interested runs to Pandit ji (the priest) and requests him to check the star-chart and decide a date that is within the next three months. 7 times out of 10, there is none. So, they ask him to look more carefully—there has to be something! Rather reluctantly, he then quotes a couple of dates when marriage is possible. The time, for some reason, is always at some ungodly hour of night (or early morning if it is after 3.30 am).

The date is shared with the middleman, who then shares it with the boy’s family. They had been through the same scenario with their own grandmother and had been consulting their own Pandit ji, who had given three totally different dates instead.

To-and-fro ensues between the two parties, both pulling to make sure their own Pandit ji wins. Eventually the boy’s party wins because they are the ladkewala (boy’s party) and cannot be reasoned with.

Author’s note: Unbeknown to the parties, the difference in the number of dates provided to them is due to the availability of the two Pandit jis on the said dates.

You see, the astrological arrangements (which most of us don’t understand) are such that there are only 7-8 auspicious dates every month. Now, you can’t get married in December or January because it is too cold and women have to wear sweaters, unable to show-off the embroidery on their dresses. You can’t get married from April till September because it is too hot and the make-up becomes runny and clothes sweaty. Apparently, there is no water-proof make-up invented yet that can deal with the Indian summer.

So, if a family ever daringly ventures into a marriage in the other inhospitable months, it is forever remembered as a family with bad choices, bad living arrangements, not enough ACs, coolers and water geysers, thoughtless of other people’s inconvenience, supplier of hot drinking water in summers/cold bathing water in winters and, in general, harbinger of bad news. It is a reputation the family is never able to live down and is looked upon suspiciously in all the upcoming marriages in the family.

So, you must get married in Feb, March, October or November. So, there are around 30 suitable marriage dates per year. At least one Pandit ji must preside on the event. Considering that there are millions of marriages every year in India, the competition to book Pandit ji is crazy.

Step 14: The guesthouse owner’s approval

Now the fight for an open venue begins. While the boy’s party is looking for a guest house big enough to house their entire extended family and close friends (150+ guests) for 3-4 days of the various ceremonies. Cramped though they are, all these 150+ people will stay in the same place—inspite of having to share rooms—and not separately at hotels because where is the fun in that?

Rest of the 500+ people are local and will attend the ceremonies directly. The girl’s family is looking for a venue big enough to house the same size of family and close friends for 3-4 days as well. They must also look for a place big enough to allow around 1500 people to mill around, sit, eat and not step on each-other’s shoes. The place must look grand and have good lighting due to the ungodly hours of the marriage.

Unfortunately, many other parties have the same date and hence, such a place is either not available at all or not available on the set dates. So, now they start looking for accommodation for all the five dates from both Pandit jis, never being able find something that fits the date requirements of both parties.

And hence the date with an available marriage venue and guest houses wins. Both Pandit jis give in and agree to the date, even though it wasn’t “half as good as what they had suggested”.

Step 15: The caterer’s, tent supplier’s, flower arranger’s, beautician’s, tailor’s, jeweller’s and other approvals

I will not get into the details of a marriage preparation because I love my audience and would like them to be awake by the time this post ends. So, I would just briefly say that now the entire clan of the girl begins hunting for a halwai (cook), tent-chair-bedding supplier, flower arranger, jeweller, beauty parlour, furniture-maker (for dowry), electric appliance supplier (for dowry), tailor, cars and drivers.

There are many layers of arrangements within each piece. Tempers start running high and quarrels break out at the drop of a pin…or a plate…Someone shouts, someone else shouts back. In the end, someone starts crying (“What did I do wrong to end up with this man?”). While venturing to marry someone, many other marriages are put to test.

Step 16: The groom’s brother-in-law’s approval

The boy has, so far, been sulking in silence. In spite of being promised to marry a certain girl, he hasn’t seen her or talked to her and would be totally lost if he is asked to pick her out of the throng of lehenga-clad girls in his own marriage. So, he approaches his brother-in-law to intercept.

So far, the boy’s brother-in-law has been in the background sulking as well since he was informed but not consulted as much as he would like. It hurts his self-esteem. This is his opportunity to shine. So, he concocts this grand scheme.

His wife (boy’s sister, of course) calls the girl’s family and asks for the girl’s phone number to “get her measurements” for dresses to be gifted. They, of course, know such tactics already along with the evils of bride talking to groom, which can lead to uncomfortable discoveries. So, they give her the measurements they already have ready and let her know that the girl doesn’t own a mobile phone.

The brother-in-law rises up to the challenge. He takes his wife to meet the girl in person and “see how she is faring”. And while the girl’s mother is in the kitchen, they slip her a new mobile phone (with unlimited talk-time and on vibration mode). The girl, naturally, hides it, knowing well from her previous experiences (with various non-existent boyfriends) that any mobile phone will be confiscated immediately upon detection.

The brother-in-law, thus satisfied, gives his blessings to the couple.

Step 17: The groom and bride’s true approval

Exactly five minutes after the brother-in-law leaves, the phone rings.

Then onwards, the boy and girl spend a lot of time hiding on the roof, in the bathroom and inside rajai (superheavy cotton-filled blankets meant for weightlifting), talking to each other. By the third day, they are usually familiar enough to plan the honeymoon spot and make bookings. They are extremely excited, though they haven’t seen each other, at least they can tell each other how to spot them.

“I will be in the fuchsia lehenga.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Magenta colour, you know…”

“ummmm…”

“Dark pink, you dork! And make sure your floral veil has magenta roses to match my lehenga.”

Now that they are better acquainted and colour-coordinated, there is only the wedding day to dread.

Step 18: Pre-marriage days

A week before the marriage, the house begins filling with relatives who must be escorted from bus stand, railway station and airport. Soon, it is too full, and people are moved to the guest house where they are happy to “adjust” and live in dorm-like arrangements. No one is ready to go to any hotel rooms booked in hopes that someone will be wise enough.

Mehendi ceremony

The festivities begin with Mehendi ceremony (Henna ceremony where all women of the family get mehendi tattoos done) when someone realises that no one remembered to book a Mehendi artist. The brother-in-law shines again with the proposal to arrange one through his “contacts”. The Halwai decides this moment to drop the bomb and announce that he had forgotten more than half the grocery items and got the quantity of the rest wrong, sending the brothers in a flurry of activity around the city, making you feel truly sorry for them.

The bedding supplier is either late or the beddings are either not enough or smelly. The happy bride has put on weight, and someone must go to the tailor to resize her lehenga-top and all the other dresses that she is wearing in the coming days. Meanwhile, some of the hopefuls have lost weight and someone must get their lehenga-top adjusted as well. Meanwhile, the tailor hasn’t come back with the bride’s wardrobe yet, so someone needs to sit in his shop all day to force him to act quickly.

Someone needs to repack the gift-wrapped dresses for the groom, his father, mother, brothers, sisters, brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, nieces, nephews, cousins, uncles, aunts, grandparents, granduncles and grandaunts because they look just so plain! So, someone needs to get the decoration supplies.

Not to mention that dresses for each occasion need accessories which women have dutifully forgotten at home. The children need diapers of various sizes and do not want to eat what Halwai has to offer. Mothers have started yelling at the top of their lungs as children are ruining their new dresses at the speed of lightening.

The “girl” need to go to the beauty parlour (She has four sessions starting a month before the day, then a week before the day, then three days before the day and the day itself.) Someone needs to drive her to and fro.

The brothers and brothers-in-law are running around, playing chauffeur, food arranger, child-handler, delivery man and escort, while uncles are discussing politics and dowry rates while keeping an eye on the Halwai and helpers.

Tilak ceremony

The next day, the girl’s family (except the girl, her mother and the elderly with knee pain) must go for Tilak ceremony at the guest house where boy’s family has arranged a big party. The same routine is followed with increased giggling, yelling and running around. Mothers are now in hysterics since some of the children are nowhere to be found (hiding in the cupboard, playing hard to get). They are finally found, dusted with firm hands (“You dare hide in a cupboard again and you will pray you were never born!”) and changed in fresh dresses again.

The transport is late, as usual, or less spacious than expected. It is also not clean enough and “would certainly ruin the lehengas” of all the hopefuls travelling to the groom’s guesthouse. So, bride’s brothers are cleaning it while grumbling about useless people and bad arrangements while all women are smugly looking at them while holding up their lehengas as an excuse for not helping. The children are held tightly so they are not left behind. As people board bus, someone suggests a game of Antakshari.

People start singing in non-matching voices. Hard to find the rhythm but it is a perfect opportunity for friends of bride’s brothers. They are now making musical passes at bride’s female cousins. The said cousins are now making passes back at these guys discretely, knowing well that there will be more opportunities where they were going.

The journey goes uneventfully, unless it is long enough for a loo break. If it is long enough, people lose several children on the way to loo. They are often found (after a lot of chaos) hiding in their bus. After they have been “dusted” well by weeping mothers [“You dare step out of my sight and I am going to shut you up in a kothari (a small and dark room, which is forever the bane of all Indian children who are never told or shown where this kothari is, keeping it’s terror alive till they become parents themselves)”], the journey is continued. Depending on the number of loo breaks required in the journey, fathers need to step in to stop their wives from entering full-cry mode (thereby ruining their make up and delaying the journey further).

The boy’s family must not see the confusion though, so as soon as the bus enters the premises, everyone becomes a sea of calm.

Some of the female cousins, decked up in their best finery, begin taking pictures of the groom to send them to the bride on her mobile phone. The brothers of the groom edge closer to them, offering food and drinks and trying to get their attention. But the girls are protected by the unyielding wall of male cousins and their friends who, impressed by their earlier passes, now consider them under their protection. So, the brothers of the groom decide to try again on the coming day when these men will be occupied in arranging the marriage.

Sangeet and Ratjaga ceremonies

The same night after the party has returned home, Sangeet (music) and Ratjaga (staying awake all night) ceremonies take place.

Someone realises there is no dholak (Indian drums) and after half an hour of calling all contacts, they give up. Not that they knew how to play a dholak anyway. Someone tries to sing; others join in the chorus. Half an hour later, someone smuggles in the stereo and starts Bollywood songs and that is the end of awful singing. Everyone gets up and dances while the bride sits quietly wondering if they would remember to beg her to dance at all…

By midnight, everyone is too exhausted but must stay awake all night for Ratjaga. People quietly start disappearing on various premises–important phone calls, children needing to lie down, back pain, head ache, call of nature…

Soon, all but the sturdiest stay awake till the sun rises. Of course, all the friends of the bride’s brothers and her female cousins stay awake looking for an opportunity to pass phone numbers. But the elderly mothers and grandmothers with their penetrating gaze and “weak knees” keep them busy.

The D-day–Haldi and Gaurpuja ceremonies

The day of marriage begins really early with Haldi (Turmeric) ceremony. Earlier, turmeric products were used to beautify the brides all month long but now it is a horror show for the brides who have spent a pretty dime on four rounds of facials, pedicure, manicure and probably body polishing as well. The thought of turmeric recolouring their skin or sticking to their fresh perm can lead to a full-scale panic attack.

But it has to be done, so the mother, aunts and especially all bhabhis are conscious to not touch the face and only apply it on the dress for minimal damage. Once the ceremony is over, the bride quickly runs to the bath to take it all off just in case some of the colour has penetrated the clothes.

Gaurpuja (Goddess worship) is next on the list where the entire family offers pre-declared gifts (including pricey ornaments and dresses) to the now-washed girl. The girl is supposed to be fasting (“supposed” being the operative word here) and she is treated as mother goddess. It is an event full of open weeping and downright crying. Because there will be no more opportunity later. The girl is about to set off to the beauty parlour and when she returns with her bridal make-up on, she is not supposed to cry until the time for Vidai (Send-off). (At Vidai, she is supposed to cry in the earnest, else there will raised eyebrows… But that is a story for another day.)

The gifts are then quickly packed by the stylish bhabhi along with other dowry and under custody of the grandmothers and grandaunts, ready to be driven to the venue with the elderly whho can’t move around anyway so will be “willing to stay-put and be useful”.

Meanwhile all the brothers, uncles and male cousins are either at the wedding venue or driving people around or bringing more flowers for the flower arranger or arranging seating. Grandparents and granduncles are together discussing the wasteful and showy marriages now a days and comparing them with their own simpler times…all the while tasting food and arguing with the food caterer about food quantity or quality.

So, now close to the last leg of the Indian Wedding fiasco, the bride boards her car–driven by a male cousin who has been playing driver all day–and realises she has to take 10 tag-alongs with her. But there isn’t enough space for all of them and they will cramp her style. So, there is a lot of negotiations at the door, a lot of crying and name calling. In the end, the stylish bhabhi saunters in, offering her services to the girls who stay back. The offer is readily accepted by those who see no other hope. The car moves towards beauty parlour with the bride and four others (who will likely cramp her style but she can’t shake them off).

There is anticipation in the air that will only be relieved when the marriage is over and approved by the entire guest list.

To be continued if I survive to write the rest of the process. Considering that it has taken me more than 3 months to finish this post, my hopes are not too high. Let me know if you survive it and dare to know more.

Disclaimer: No part of this story is fiction, may be a little exaggerated but, in spirit, is accurate. I have seen it happen to most of my cousins. Lately, I played the part of clueless bhabhi in my brother-in-law’s marriage as well as engagement of one of my husband’s cousin and marriage of another, while my daughter was adding to the general crazydom. These experiences made me believe that no matter the religion, we Indians are united in our love for arranged marriages. The experiences also added finer details to the post.

Posted in Random Thoughts

The Longest Road

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

My father loves traveling and having stayed with him for longer than most kids, I have travelled quite a lot. There is something to be said about long roads. The exciting times when you are drinking every detail slowly gives way to quiet times when you either sleep, write poetry and think of world’s greatest problems. I am sure global warming and world’s hunger issues were realised during such long roads.

But if you ask me about the longest road I travelled, I would say, “The stairs to the washroom on the day I had diarrhoea.”

I remember my entire life running in front of my eyes as I tried to run-walk to the wash, wondering all the time what I did to deserve it. Since I had to rush through that road 11 times in 11 hours, the entire experience was surreal. (Not sure who invented the idea of building washroom on stairs. But I am sure, they help reduce my sins by punishment trip-by-trip.)

During the rush (hours), I went backwards in my life and revisited every single second over and over. I wondered if my actions were bad enough to warrant the punishment; what I could have, should have, would have done. Was it too much oil? Too much food? Lack of healthy food? Lack of liquids? Bread? Yesterday’s paratha? Mango and chilli sauce? Mangoes? Mango shake? (It’s summers. Mangoes are everywhere.)

I experienced the same soul-searching that people do during trips to isolated places. Well, I was travelling to an isolated solace, so it fits, I guess! The road felt so long that the sufferings of Frodo Baggins felt nothing compared to mine.

The plains and hills and valleys were all crossed over and over with such thoughts as, “Will I be able to make it?” “Do I have the power to control what was coming?”

Unlike Frodo, there was no Sam Gamgee to keep me company, which was probably good. This road was not for the faint-hearted, especially once I entered Mordor.

The best I can say about this trip is that it was only one-day-long and I got the day off work. Thank God for small mercies!

Posted in Nature

My Neighbour: The Sullen

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Authors Note: Our dear old delivery guy is grumpier than usual.

I hate these foreigners.

They swoop in, sully our lands, eat our food, and stutter around with their red heads held high as if they own the place. Sometimes I wish I could take them all aside and show them what we do with encroachers. But we have hosted them all our lives. I can’t get on a killing spree…

Not that I am afraid of them! I mean, I know they are bigger and stronger, and their group is too huge, and the raw power they radiate when they descend together on their huge black wings and too long crooked beaks held high is awe-inspiring. And our women “Ooh” and “Aah” as they pass.

Agh! I wish I could take a swing at that massive black one my sweety is pining for. Every time he is around, something comes over her. She has never been clumsy before but when he looks in her direction, she drops whatever fish she is holding and has to brace herself with both legs. You would think we never taught her how to fish.

Sometimes, she stands taller, ruffles her feathers, plumps them up and cleans herself too often, as if vying for his attention; as if this foreigner is going to fall in love with her and stay here forever or take her along with him. He won’t. He is here only for the winters. Come summers and he will fly away leaving her high and dry. Just the thought makes me want to peck him to death.

Not that he is interested in her. For all the attention he gives her back, she could be a mouse in the field. He just flies around showing off, his eyes only for the woman he brought along–never even sparing a second look for my pretty girl. Every time he passes without looking at my sweety, I can see her heart break in the way her face drops, and that too makes me want to break some wings.

I want to peck him to death or, at least, want him to leave the place before my sweety loses it. I wish she would choose a stork who would love her or, better still, stay away from all the storks forever so I don’t have to kill them all…

Sigh! I am not sure anymore what I want anymore. I just wish being a father was easier.

Posted in Life and After, Love

The Bell

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

First line offered by Marina Osipova

The doorbell rang with shrill urgency. I opened the door yet again. No one was there.

Of course, it would be so. My doorbell was having a day. Nothing I did or said could make her let go off her fear. With all the anxiety, she was close to having a cog attack and I wondered if I should get her checked by a professional. Of course, they wouldn’t really understand the problem. They’ll just open her up, oil her, double check her wires for any cuts and, then, return with a suggestion of buying a new, more reliable door bell. And there lay the problem.

May, my girlfriend, had suggested just the thing earlier that day insisting that my doorbell never rang whenever she pressed the button. She believed the thing had a faulty wiring. Well, in a way she was right. It is wired to my jealous dead-wife’s soul.

When alive, my wife would call my office landline under various pretexts to check I was really there and follow me in her car when I was too cheery about the weekend fishing with my friends. But it was nothing compared to now.

Ever since she died, I felt I wasn’t alone; that I was being watched. I would glance over my shoulder so frequently, I had kinks in my neck every now and then.

When a few months later, I mentioned it to a friend, he suggested that the loneliness was probably getting at me. He set up a blind date with his cousin, May.

Once I reached the venue for the date, my car door wouldn’t open. I had to get out by breaking a window. A few weeks later, when my car failed to start every time I planned a date with her, I sold it and bought a new one but the problem continued and I could see a pattern forming. I started calling May to pick me up instead. It was then that my cellphone stopped working whenever I called her or she called me.

I could clearly see the issue now. The feeling of being watched was intense. I craved being left alone. Desperate to get out of the horror show that my life had become, I requested a witch doctor for help. He was quite understanding, having once suffered similar pain (Not my story to tell). He offered to cage my late wife inside a house fixture and asked me to choose one. I didn’t want her shaking the walls or bringing down the pillars, nor did I want lampposts falling on my head or door handles getting stuck. So, I chose the doorbell, which was out of the way, believing it would cause me the least distress.

Well, so we are here now. The felling of being watched is less intense and limited to the area around the doorbell. But ever since my girlfriend’s mention of a new bell, my doorbell has been ringing frantically every five minutes, demanding my presence. All coddling and reasoning have failed. Frustrated in extreme with the constant ringing that kicks up my heart rate and bring my blood to boil, I finally chuck the doorbell out of the door to be rid of her forever. She can spend the rest of her time in a landfill or, maybe, a recycling plant until the day of judgement.

It is quiet now. The feeling of being watched is gone and I am truly alone. I had believed I would revel in the alone-ness, but weirdly enough, I miss it. I look outside and think of my erratic wife lying outside in the snow. True that she couldn’t feel the elements anymore but still…she loves me, even if a little too much. And I still love her, even if she is being insufferable now a days.

Half an hour later, I still can’t get away from the window, watching her protectively. Car headlights flash ahead. What if it crushes her? I rush outside and pick the doorbell up from the freezing road and bring her back in where it is warm. Placing her on the table, I hear her ring without the wiring; a faint call, reminding she was still there. It is time for tough decisions.

I call May one last time and break up with her. Then I pull off the enchanted rope that the witch doctor had used to tie my wife to the doorbell.

The feeling of being watched is back.

I’m not lonely anymore.

Posted in My life, Random Thoughts

Plagiarism with brains: Reuse, Repurpose, Recycle

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

My daughter has got a way of being inspired by other works.

For instance, lately, we have been competing to create stories involving different animals. We give each other random animals and, then, the other had to create a story out of that animal. A couple of days back, my daughter gave me rather a tough combination: Peacock, Hippo and Rhino. I asked her to reduce the number of animals but she won’t relent. So, here’s the story I created.

Once upon a time, a peacock was flying. Since they are heavy and not used to flying too far, this one decided to sit down on a rock beside the river. It was a huge grey rock and as soon as he sat down, the huge grey rock began to move. The peacock thought it was an earth quake and flew up lest he would be crushed beneath the now freely moving rock which also sprouted four thick legs. After a few seconds in air, the peacock again felt tired and chose another rock–a huge brown one–inside the river. As soon as he sat down, this rock too gave a huge lurch and started walking out of the water. The peacock took flight in time to see the rock open its huge jaws to display teeth large as daggers. Now, wary of rocks behaving like animals, it chose a fallen log beside the river. He had come pretty close and was really hoping to sit down, since his long wings were now soggy and heavy with water, when the log opened its yellow eyes and bared a log set of sharp teeth. The peacock decided that ground was not safe for beings like him anymore and sat on a tree far away.

My daughter felt the story was not long enough. So, I asked her to create another story with the same combination she gave me: Peacock, Hippo and Rhino. She was not allowed to tell the same story as mine. She pleaded her case as being only four-years-old and requested to reduce the number of animals. I refused, hoping to give her a taste of her own medicine. Here’s my daughter’s story.

Once upon a time, a peacock was flying. Since they are heavy and not used to flying too far, this one He was flying for hours, got tired and decided to sit down on a rock beside the river. It was a huge grey brown rock. As soon as he sat down It sat there for sometime, then, the rock began to move. The peacock thought it was an earth quake and flew up lest he would be crushed beneath the now freely moving rock which also sprouted four thick legs. After a few seconds in air, the peacock again felt tired and chose another rock–a huge brown grey one–inside the river. As soon as he sat down, this rock too gave a huge lurch and started walking out of the water. The peacock took flight in time to see the rock open its huge jaws to display teeth a couple of horns large as daggers. Now, wary of rocks behaving like animals, it chose a fallen log beside inside the river. He had come pretty close and was really hoping to sit down, since his long wings were now soggy and heavy with water, when As soon as he sat down, the log opened its yellow eyes and bared a log set of sharp teeth. The peacock decided that ground was not safe for beings like him anymore and sat on a tree far away. The tree began to move too. It ran in really long strides. The peacock decided that only safe place to sit was bare ground and that was where he stayed for the rest of his life.

I argued with my daughter that this was more or less my own story. But she pointed out that in her story:

  • The Hippo comes before the Rhino.
  • The peacock sits for sometime before it has to move.
  • The crocodile allows the peacock to sit down before deciding to make a meal out of it.
  • And then, there was the bonus animal–the giraffe.

Well, I really couldn’t argue against such a strong case. So, I gave up trying to pry another story out of her. With five animals, her story trumped mine!

It reminded me of remixed songs–add an extra beat, a couple of extra instruments, a few hip-hoppers, and you have a quick hit and a chartbuster.

Plagiarism with brains!

Posted in Life and After, Twisted Tales

Occupational Hazard

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Shivering with cold, he peered inside the window. The tree was ablaze with lights. Gifts beneath it awaited the next morning. One of them seemed like a large jwelery box…

Bracelet?

Necklace?

On the table sat a couple of steaming mugs. Was that coffee?

What wouldn’t he give for that coffee right now? Or hot Cocoa? His ride didn’t have heating and his buttocks got glued to the seat. He felt like he would need an icepick to get him out. His fingers were turning blue. Global warming didn’t seem to be helping him right now. The cold was just as cold now as it was fifty years back. In fact, it seemed to be getting colder each year. Or maybe, he’s getting on with years. Maybe he should just retire…

Anyway, how long are these people planning to stay awake? It was already midnight, but the couch potatoes were glued to the television screen playing a cheesy movie about Christmas with Santa in a red coat, saying, “Ho! Ho! Ho!”. He rolled his eyes. Typical! The movie seemed to have just started, which meant these people would stay awake for another couple of hours.

Utter disrespect for other people’s time!

How on earth would he get inside undetected? He wasn’t exactly a wee mousey. This ample girth wouldn’t hide behind a candy stick.

He was tempted to skip this house and try another? But then, it had been the same case for the past couple of hours. State after state, house after house, people were awake glued to their screens. First, they had set radars across the world, shooting missiles at any flying object, turning traveling at night into a safety hazard. Then, they invented central heating, reduced chimney width to the size of a drainstorm pipe and installed intruder alarms to doors and windows. And now, they stay up all night keeping him out, waiting, and shivering in the cold.

To rub salt on the wound, they say, there is no Santa Claus! What do they expect him to do? Send stuff in by Magic?

He sighed. He couldn’t skip the sweet little girl upstairs waiting for her gift. As he had done all night, he placed the package with the teddy bear at the doorstep, hoping to get away without a sound. The intruder alarm went off, waking the entire neighborhood. He ran to his waiting sledge, and his reindeers took off in the sky before the adults could come out.

Panting, he cursed under his breath. He would have to find a replacement next year…maybe those nimble little elfs would be a better match for the exhausting routine. Or may be, just may be, he would join that gym again, and try harder this time…

Author’s note: To find out about Santa’s tryst at the local gym, read Santa’s Sweatshop.

Merry Christmas to everyone stuck at home away from family. Let prayers flow freely today. I truly hope the worse is behind us all and in the new year, we would all wake up to a better, safer world.

Free Photo by Brooks Rice on Unsplash

Posted in Random Thoughts

How to Cook Your Eggs Just Right

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Three Men on a Boat by Jerome K. Jerome (1889) is my lifejacket against all of life’s bad puns. This excerpt gives you an insight into my husband’s attempt at cooking and why he needed a wife in the first place. Mind you, he will never admit it.

Harris proposed that we should have scrambled eggs for breakfast. He said he would cook them. It seemed, from his account, that he was very good at doing scrambled eggs. He often did them at picnics and when on yachts. He was quite famous for them. People who had once tasted his scrambled eggs, so we gathered from his conversation, never cared for any other food afterwards, but pined away and died when they could not get them.

It made our mouths water to hear him talk about the things, and we handed him out the stove and the frying-pan and all the eggs that had not smashed and gone over everything in the hamper, and begged him to begin.

He had some trouble in breaking the eggs – or rather not so much trouble in breaking them exactly as in getting them into the frying-pan when broken, and keeping them off his trousers, and preventing them from running up his sleeve; but he fixed some half-a-dozen into the pan at last, and then squatted down by the side of the stove and chivied them about with a fork.

It seemed harassing work, so far as George and I could judge. Whenever he went near the pan he burned himself, and then he would drop everything and dance round the stove, flicking his fingers about and cursing the things. Indeed, every time George and I looked round at him he was sure to be performing this feat. We thought at first that it was a necessary part of the culinary arrangements.

We did not know what scrambled eggs were, and we fancied that it must be some Red Indian or Sandwich Islands sort of dish that required dances and incantations for its proper cooking. Montmorency (the dog) went and put his nose over it once, and the fat spluttered up and scalded him, and then he began dancing and cursing. Altogether it was one of the most interesting and exciting operations I have ever witnessed. George and I were both quite sorry when it was over.

Posted in Random Thoughts

A Cheesy Tale

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: Here is an excerpt from Three Men in a Boat (1893) by Jerome K. Jerome. I have never been fond of Margarita Cheese in Pizzas. When my husband decided to order a Margarita pizza for daughter, I strongly refrained. Here’s the Cheesy tale that led to it…

I remember a friend of mine, buying a couple of cheeses at Liverpool. Splendid cheeses they were, ripe and mellow, and with a two hundred horse-power scent about them that might have been warranted to carry three miles, and knock a man over at two hundred yards. I was in Liverpool at the time, and my friend said that if I didn’t mind he would get me to take them back with me to London, as he should not be coming up for a day or two himself, and he did not think the cheeses ought to be kept much longer.

“Oh, with pleasure, dear boy,” I replied, “with pleasure.” I called for the cheeses, and took them away in a cab. It was a ramshackle affair, dragged along by a knock-kneed, broken-winded somnambulist, which his owner, in a moment of enthusiasm, during conversation, referred to as a horse. I put the cheeses on the top, and we started off at a shamble that would have done credit to the swiftest steam-roller ever built, and all went merry as a funeral bell, until we turned the corner. There, the wind carried a whiff from the cheeses full on to our steed. It woke him up, and, with a snort of terror, he dashed off at three miles an hour. The wind still blew in his direction, and before we reached the end of the street he was laying himself out at the rate of nearly four miles an hour, leaving the cripples and stout old ladies simply nowhere.

It took two porters as well as the driver to hold him in at the station; and I do not think they would have done it, even then, had not one of the men had the presence of mind to put a handkerchief over his nose, and to light a bit of brown paper. I took my ticket, and marched proudly up the platform, with my cheeses, the people falling back respectfully on either side. The train was crowded, and I
had to get into a carriage where there were already seven other people. One crusty old gentleman objected, but I got in, notwithstanding; and, putting my cheeses upon the rack, squeezed down with a pleasant smile, and said it was a warm day.


A few moments passed, and then the old gentleman began to fidget.

“Very close in here,” he said.

“Quite oppressive,” said the man next him.

And then they both began sniffing, and, at the third sniff, they caught it right on the chest, and rose up without another word and went out. And then a stout lady got up, and said it was disgraceful that a respectable married woman should be harried about in this way, and gathered up a bag and eight parcels and went. The remaining four passengers sat on for a while, until a solemn-looking man in the corner, who, from his dress and general appearance, seemed to belong to the undertaker class, said it put him in mind of dead baby; and the other three passengers tried to get out of the door at the same time, and hurt themselves.

I smiled at the black gentleman, and said I thought we were going to have the carriage to ourselves; and he laughed pleasantly, and said that some people made such a fuss over a little thing. But even he grew strangely depressed after we had started, and so, when we reached Crewe, I asked him to come and have a drink. He accepted, and we forced our way into the buffet, where we yelled, and stamped, and waved our umbrellas for a quarter of an hour; and then a young lady came, and asked us if we wanted anything.

“What’s yours?” I said, turning to my friend.

“I’ll have half-a-crown’s worth of brandy, neat, if you please, miss,” he responded.

And he went off quietly after he had drunk it and got into another carriage, which I thought mean.
From Crewe I had the compartment to myself, though the train was crowded. As we drew up at the different stations, the people, seeing my empty carriage, would rush for it. “Here y’ are, Maria; come along, plenty of room.”

“All right, Tom; we’ll get in here,” they would shout. And they would run along, carrying heavy bags, and fight round the door to get in first. And one would open the door and mount the steps, and stagger back into the arms of the man behind him; and they would all come and have a sniff, and then droop off and squeeze into other carriages, or pay the difference and go first.

From Euston, I took the cheeses down to my friend’s house. When his wife came into the room she smelt round for an instant. Then she said: “What is it? Tell me the worst.” I said: “It’s cheeses. Tom bought them in Liverpool, and asked me to bring them up with me.” And I added that I hoped she understood that it had nothing to do with me; and she said that she was sure of that, but that she would speak to Tom about it when he came back.


My friend was detained in Liverpool longer than he expected; and, three days later, as he hadn’t returned home, his wife called on me. She said: “What did Tom say about those cheeses?” I replied that he had directed they were to be kept in a moist place, and that nobody was to touch them.
She said: “Nobody’s likely to touch them. Had he smelt them?”

I thought he had, and added that he seemed greatly attached to them.

“You think he would be upset,” she queried, “if I gave a man a sovereign to take them away and bury them?”

I answered that I thought he would never smile again.

An idea struck her. She said: “Do you mind keeping them for him? Let me send them round to you.”

“Madam,” I replied, “for myself I like the smell of cheese, and the journey the other day with them from Liverpool I shall ever look back upon as a happy ending to a pleasant holiday. But, in this world, we must consider others. The lady under whose roof I have the honour of residing is a widow, and, for all I know, possibly an orphan too. She has a strong, I may say an eloquent, objection to being what she terms ‘put upon.’ The presence of your husband’s cheeses in her house she would, I instinctively feel, regard as a ‘put upon’; and it shall never be said that I put upon the widow and the orphan.”


“Very well, then,” said my friend’s wife, rising, “all I have to say is, that I shall take the children and go to an hotel until those cheeses are eaten. I decline to live any longer in the same house with them.”


She kept her word, leaving the place in charge of the charwoman, who, when asked if she could stand the smell, replied, “What smell?” and who, when taken close to the cheeses and told to sniff hard, said she could detect a faint odour of melons. It was argued from this that little injury could result to the woman from the atmosphere, and she was left. The hotel bill came to fifteen guineas; and my friend, after reckoning everything up, found that the cheeses had cost him eight-and-sixpence a pound. He said he dearly loved a bit of cheese, but it was beyond his means; so he determined to get rid of them. He threw them into the canal; but had to fish them out again, as the bargemen complained. They said it made them feel quite faint. And, after that, he took them one dark night and left them in the parish mortuary. But the coroner discovered them, and made a fearful fuss. He said it was a plot to deprive him of his living by waking up the corpses.


My friend got rid of them, at last, by taking them down to a sea-side town, and burying them on the beach. It gained the place quite a reputation. Visitors said they had never noticed before how strong the air was, and weak-chested and consumptive people used to throng there for years afterwards.