In most stories the morning is usually fine when a character wakes up.
So one fine morning, two years ago, Dan Mullagathanny woke up to find that he was no longer human.
He had belonged to Coonoor, in south India, but that life didn’t exist in anymore. Instead, he had become an inhabitant of this place called The Underground Writers’ Blog. Well, the address said something like that – undergroundwriters at some blog spot.
“Why underground?” was his first thought. “Was this some place of ill repute?” He was to find out soon.
The first person he bumps into is a lady by name Payal. She is knocking around with somebody’s balls. In the world he left behind, men never left their balls unattended, nor did they ever give them away, so how she came be in possession of a pair was unbeknownst to Dan; and what she did with them was a question best left as a question.
Then he met a large gentleman, Rayo, looking for rubber gloves to wear on parts of his body that were not wrists. “Such confusion from a 19-year-old boy was bound to obtain the wrath of a shopkeeper”, Dan thought. He had reason to be pleased with himself right now - he had never been 19 years old.
Looking around, Dan noticed that scores of people came to this place, or, blog, to hear another girl, Preeti, speak about how women adore their sons, which was okay, nay acceptable. But how they described their directions to Google to take them to this girl Preeti’s observations was, nay, unacceptable – women who iron their sons’ underwear.
Gunnupuri, another girl, wrote about a guy who would need a small, portable Gas Effluent Treatment Plant fitted to his posterior – he frequently passed wind.
“Lots of girls in this place”, Dan thought, as he remembered meeting a certain Maru who claimed that people who drive two wheelers are hornier than people who drive three or four wheelers. She had research to back these findings. If she shared this research with the driving public you’d have more two wheelers on the road, and, horny or not, it would’ve eased the congestion.
One of the few respectable things Dan noticed came from a gent, Joshi – he made the F word so respectable, if you used it in a whorehouse the girls there would be confused – What the funk is going on?
Another girl Vidya spoke about her friend who did more time quitting jobs than working at any, and got paid for it.
A Suryawanshi said, I've got to make happening happen to me. That's like saying 'This sadness is making me sad'. And she got a legion of friends to happen her.
Then Dan met the most clueless person he had ever met in this underground basement. Shringy. This guy had an air ticket from Delhi to Calcutta but didn’t know which airport in Delhi to catch the flight from. Dan wondered what he’d do in a similar situation – he’d take a train to Calcutta, return to Delhi by air, so he’d know which airport to go to for a flight to Cal, then take a cab to this airport and catch the flight to Calcutta – rather roundabout, true, but not clueless.
Another frequenter on this blog was a certain Fritz who frequently stuck his over-sized feet into his under-sized mouth and then proclaim, ‘My feet taste good’. In another sermon he told everyone that he is happily unmarried (Dan didn’t believe a word – most men who are happily unmarried are those who are married). So to match his rant, he got a lot of proposals from girls to unwed.
The only upright person Dan met here was a certain bureaucrat, Abhyankar. So Dan thought. In anything he said, wrote, or drafted, he’d ask you to refer to the ‘aforementioned clause’. Dan followed this ‘aforementioned clause’ all the way to the top in one of his drafts and found just that over there - aforementioned clause.
Loitering around this place Dan came to a room labeled ‘Archive’. A few more people there, he noticed. A Malay D. who had won a humour story contest for a shark-tooth satire on his own profession. Then there was a Viraaj, sitting with his feet up on his boss’ table, his boss standing behind him looking down at his own feet wondering whose feet he’s got on.
In a corner there was a guy seated. He introduced himself as Dez.
Dan ignored this introduction, instead was looking at a document there, titled, ‘Dan’s mistakes were not of his own making.’
“So this is where this blog began, is it?”, he said to Dez who was smiling now.
“Happy Anniversary” Dez replied.
Dan looked at the date on that document: 29 October 2007.
Post Script: The Underground Writers' Blog is two years old today. Cheers to everyone who made it grow...readers, write & well-wishers. :) :)
Got a humour story? Dash it off to me at dezymacedo@gmail.com
Saturday 31 October 2009
Tuesday 20 October 2009
I think I should get married for their sake.
Fritz Gonsalves
I’m 30, unmarried and I’m quite happy. But there is this bunch of people who have lost their sleep because I’m still unmarried. I never imagined that being a bachelor would be the cause for concern in the lives of so many people.
Now I’m not perturbed or pissed with anyone. I think I have given them the right to be concerned about me but, at the same time, I have completely forgotten to mention the areas in which they needn’t sweat over me.
What I find amusing is the kind of arguments I get to hear from them. From the stated to the bizarre. And I’ve heard them for so long now that I am writing a post about it for Desmond’s Blog. Darn, my life, nothing but a post on Desmond’s Blog.
Let me start with my married-for-27-years-aunt from Kerala. She got married when I was 3 years old and at that time her husband was working in Dubai. I’m 30 now, he is still working in Dubai, she is still in Kerala, and they are still married. Every year my uncle would fly down with four big suitcases jam packed with Lux international soap, Colgate toothpaste (written in Arabic), stacks of ball-point pens, curtains, bed sheets, chocolates, perfume, Tang orange juice, Citizen and Casio watches and every Malayali household’s favorite Panasonic two-in-one cassette player. Somewhere during these annual trips two lovely daughters happened.
Wow. Talk about long distance relationships not working, we’ve got a long-distance marriage that only God knows how it has worked for so long. Imagine this aunt trying to sell the idea of marriage to me. Like Osama trying to explain non-violence. The first thought that hit me was, “Are you even qualified for this job aunty, because your resume yells something else”. I didn’t ask her the question - I didn’t want to break her illusion of Happily Married Forever. I don’t know whether denial is powerful, but it sure can make long-distance marriages work.
Now most people might question me: “Who are you to conclude that they are not happily married?” Okay, I’m just a post on Desmond’s Blog.
She tried every trick to convince me. “A new person will enter your life and change you destiny” and “This is God’s will”. Nothing moved me. Then she tried her luck with “I want to see you married before I die”. Are you kidding? She must be in her early fifties, doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink, goes to church every Sunday, sings Carols during Christmas, healthier than Tropicana’s Carrot & Beetroot Juice. She is going to be around for a long time.
From my aunt, let’s move to my folks back home. My Dad believes that only faith can sort this stalemate so he has planned a pilgrimage for the family. My mom on the other hand is more concerned about material possessions. She’s clear in her head: no marriage plans will be finalized until a new modular kitchen is installed. So, for the time being, mom is on my side.
Next my younger brother and my cousin. Once I was in the middle of a trying film shoot and my brother called up. He said, “Big brother, get married”. I was too tired to reply so he kept repeating the same line for ten minutes. He lacks convincing skills.
But it’s my cousin brother who came up with this masterstroke. “Get married early. This way you won’t be too old to play cricket with your son.” he said. Wow. That’s some foresight. What if he decides to become an umpire and not a cricketer?
But the mother of all arguments came from my friend’s wife. She said, “Being married is better than being bachelor”. For a second I slipped into a coma. She sounded so cocksure, like she was quoting the Supreme Court verdict in the now-famous Mr. Bachelor Vs Union of India case, the judgment that was passed on the Sixth Day of August, 2009.
I started digging into my grey cells for a back answer. Anything…a quote, a saying, a theorem, Indian Penal Code, any words of wisdom...nothing came to my rescue. My mind denied me a back answer to her rationale. I looked at my friend who was sitting next to her. He had this look on his face which said, “I want to go home to mummy”. Call it a divine intervention, his Mom called at that moment and I was saved the shame of not having an answer.
It’s been three months now, I still don’t have one.
The Underground Writers' Blog is looking for humour writers. Send your story to dezymacedo@gmail.com
I’m 30, unmarried and I’m quite happy. But there is this bunch of people who have lost their sleep because I’m still unmarried. I never imagined that being a bachelor would be the cause for concern in the lives of so many people.
Now I’m not perturbed or pissed with anyone. I think I have given them the right to be concerned about me but, at the same time, I have completely forgotten to mention the areas in which they needn’t sweat over me.
What I find amusing is the kind of arguments I get to hear from them. From the stated to the bizarre. And I’ve heard them for so long now that I am writing a post about it for Desmond’s Blog. Darn, my life, nothing but a post on Desmond’s Blog.
Let me start with my married-for-27-years-aunt from Kerala. She got married when I was 3 years old and at that time her husband was working in Dubai. I’m 30 now, he is still working in Dubai, she is still in Kerala, and they are still married. Every year my uncle would fly down with four big suitcases jam packed with Lux international soap, Colgate toothpaste (written in Arabic), stacks of ball-point pens, curtains, bed sheets, chocolates, perfume, Tang orange juice, Citizen and Casio watches and every Malayali household’s favorite Panasonic two-in-one cassette player. Somewhere during these annual trips two lovely daughters happened.
Wow. Talk about long distance relationships not working, we’ve got a long-distance marriage that only God knows how it has worked for so long. Imagine this aunt trying to sell the idea of marriage to me. Like Osama trying to explain non-violence. The first thought that hit me was, “Are you even qualified for this job aunty, because your resume yells something else”. I didn’t ask her the question - I didn’t want to break her illusion of Happily Married Forever. I don’t know whether denial is powerful, but it sure can make long-distance marriages work.
Now most people might question me: “Who are you to conclude that they are not happily married?” Okay, I’m just a post on Desmond’s Blog.
She tried every trick to convince me. “A new person will enter your life and change you destiny” and “This is God’s will”. Nothing moved me. Then she tried her luck with “I want to see you married before I die”. Are you kidding? She must be in her early fifties, doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink, goes to church every Sunday, sings Carols during Christmas, healthier than Tropicana’s Carrot & Beetroot Juice. She is going to be around for a long time.
From my aunt, let’s move to my folks back home. My Dad believes that only faith can sort this stalemate so he has planned a pilgrimage for the family. My mom on the other hand is more concerned about material possessions. She’s clear in her head: no marriage plans will be finalized until a new modular kitchen is installed. So, for the time being, mom is on my side.
Next my younger brother and my cousin. Once I was in the middle of a trying film shoot and my brother called up. He said, “Big brother, get married”. I was too tired to reply so he kept repeating the same line for ten minutes. He lacks convincing skills.
But it’s my cousin brother who came up with this masterstroke. “Get married early. This way you won’t be too old to play cricket with your son.” he said. Wow. That’s some foresight. What if he decides to become an umpire and not a cricketer?
But the mother of all arguments came from my friend’s wife. She said, “Being married is better than being bachelor”. For a second I slipped into a coma. She sounded so cocksure, like she was quoting the Supreme Court verdict in the now-famous Mr. Bachelor Vs Union of India case, the judgment that was passed on the Sixth Day of August, 2009.
I started digging into my grey cells for a back answer. Anything…a quote, a saying, a theorem, Indian Penal Code, any words of wisdom...nothing came to my rescue. My mind denied me a back answer to her rationale. I looked at my friend who was sitting next to her. He had this look on his face which said, “I want to go home to mummy”. Call it a divine intervention, his Mom called at that moment and I was saved the shame of not having an answer.
It’s been three months now, I still don’t have one.
The Underground Writers' Blog is looking for humour writers. Send your story to dezymacedo@gmail.com
Sunday 4 October 2009
No one is here and now
Desmond Macedo
Dan had a DVD of the latest Hindi movie, Kaminey.
When he told a colleague about his movie plans at home the colleague said, “This is the Indian Version. You should watch the original non-linear film, Pulp Fiction.”
So Dan hurried back to the DVD man early that evening and exchanged Kaminey for Pulp Fiction.
On his way out of the movie rental he bumped into another colleague who shrugged, “Quentin Tarantino? Oh man, you should watch Kill Bill. His best movie.”
So Dan went up to the DVD man again and requested an exchange.
While at home, and setting up Kill Bill for the night, a colleague called, just like that. Dan told him was going to watch Kill Bill.
“That movie is merely Quentin Tarantino’s tribute to the kung fu genre”, this colleague offered. “You should watch the original kung fu - Enter the Dragon.”
It was too late to go back to the DVD man so Dan watched Kill Bill.
The next morning Dan was thinking.
He remembered one day when he logged in to his Hotmail account somebody had suggested that “You should be on Gmail.” When he opened a Gmail ID soon after, somebody suggested, “You should be on G-Talk.” After he opened a G-Talk window somebody said, “You should be on Facebook.” When he opened a Facebook account somebody told him, “You should be on Twitter.”
When he started Twitter, somebody asked him “Are you following Shashi Tharoor’s tweets?” When he began following Tharoor’s tweets somebody said, “You should read what the columnists say about Shashi Tharoor’s tweets in the daily press. When he began reading these press accounts somebody told him, “You should join the group on Facebook, To Tweet or Not, supporting Shashi Tharoor. When he joined this group on Facebook somebody told him, “You should support R. Gandhi; he is younger, more dynamic and cool.” Dan asked, “Is R. Gandhi on Facebook or Twitter?” “Neither. He writes a popular blog” this somebody told him.
So Dan headed for an internet café to follow R. Gandhi's popular Blog. While he was googling this blog a surfer suggested, “Go to Youtube and listen to his speeches…amazing stuff.”
“Interesting” Dan thought, and ran another example past himself:
If you’re listening to a song, you’ll be told to listen to the live version. If you’re listening to the live version you’ll be told to listen to a cover version. If you’re listening to the cover version you’ll be advised the acoustic, unplugged version. If you’re listening to the acoustic, unplugged version you’ll be told that the rock version is the ultimate. If you’re listening to the ultimate rock version you’ll get a hint that “You haven’t heard the jazz version, man.” If you’re listening to the jazz version you’ll be told to look up Wiki and read about the original blues version. And if somebody sees you on Wiki he’ll tell you to put the question on Yahoo Answers.
Dan Mullagathanny walked out of the net café wondering, “No one is here and now. Every one is elsewhere, at something better, smarter, cooler, whatever.”
“If that’s the case I’m going to stay idle, so nobody can suggest a smarter, cooler, whatever version”, he told a colleague.
“Not idle, dude”, the colleague smiled, “Just chill.”
Post Script: A comment from Rayomand Patell
Someone said i should comment digitally. But then i thought that's so new age. So then i thought i'd leave a post-it. But then someone said that's not environmentally friendly. So then i thought i'd write a note with my fountain pen. But then someone said that was so last century. So i thought i'd SMS, but Vodafone said i should try a rich MMS if not internet access over the cellphone. Which brings me kind of back to the present. Oh well, in the future we're all past it.
Got a humour story? Send it to me at dezymacedo@gmail.com
Dan had a DVD of the latest Hindi movie, Kaminey.
When he told a colleague about his movie plans at home the colleague said, “This is the Indian Version. You should watch the original non-linear film, Pulp Fiction.”
So Dan hurried back to the DVD man early that evening and exchanged Kaminey for Pulp Fiction.
On his way out of the movie rental he bumped into another colleague who shrugged, “Quentin Tarantino? Oh man, you should watch Kill Bill. His best movie.”
So Dan went up to the DVD man again and requested an exchange.
While at home, and setting up Kill Bill for the night, a colleague called, just like that. Dan told him was going to watch Kill Bill.
“That movie is merely Quentin Tarantino’s tribute to the kung fu genre”, this colleague offered. “You should watch the original kung fu - Enter the Dragon.”
It was too late to go back to the DVD man so Dan watched Kill Bill.
The next morning Dan was thinking.
He remembered one day when he logged in to his Hotmail account somebody had suggested that “You should be on Gmail.” When he opened a Gmail ID soon after, somebody suggested, “You should be on G-Talk.” After he opened a G-Talk window somebody said, “You should be on Facebook.” When he opened a Facebook account somebody told him, “You should be on Twitter.”
When he started Twitter, somebody asked him “Are you following Shashi Tharoor’s tweets?” When he began following Tharoor’s tweets somebody said, “You should read what the columnists say about Shashi Tharoor’s tweets in the daily press. When he began reading these press accounts somebody told him, “You should join the group on Facebook, To Tweet or Not, supporting Shashi Tharoor. When he joined this group on Facebook somebody told him, “You should support R. Gandhi; he is younger, more dynamic and cool.” Dan asked, “Is R. Gandhi on Facebook or Twitter?” “Neither. He writes a popular blog” this somebody told him.
So Dan headed for an internet café to follow R. Gandhi's popular Blog. While he was googling this blog a surfer suggested, “Go to Youtube and listen to his speeches…amazing stuff.”
“Interesting” Dan thought, and ran another example past himself:
If you’re listening to a song, you’ll be told to listen to the live version. If you’re listening to the live version you’ll be told to listen to a cover version. If you’re listening to the cover version you’ll be advised the acoustic, unplugged version. If you’re listening to the acoustic, unplugged version you’ll be told that the rock version is the ultimate. If you’re listening to the ultimate rock version you’ll get a hint that “You haven’t heard the jazz version, man.” If you’re listening to the jazz version you’ll be told to look up Wiki and read about the original blues version. And if somebody sees you on Wiki he’ll tell you to put the question on Yahoo Answers.
Dan Mullagathanny walked out of the net café wondering, “No one is here and now. Every one is elsewhere, at something better, smarter, cooler, whatever.”
“If that’s the case I’m going to stay idle, so nobody can suggest a smarter, cooler, whatever version”, he told a colleague.
“Not idle, dude”, the colleague smiled, “Just chill.”
Post Script: A comment from Rayomand Patell
Someone said i should comment digitally. But then i thought that's so new age. So then i thought i'd leave a post-it. But then someone said that's not environmentally friendly. So then i thought i'd write a note with my fountain pen. But then someone said that was so last century. So i thought i'd SMS, but Vodafone said i should try a rich MMS if not internet access over the cellphone. Which brings me kind of back to the present. Oh well, in the future we're all past it.
Got a humour story? Send it to me at dezymacedo@gmail.com
Monday 31 August 2009
The Town Planners
Desmond Macedo
(If some of you find this familiar read on; I've diverted the end, shortened and satired it up.)
There used to be a garbage dump just outside this township called Poona Cantonment*. It was a desolate area and just the right location for a garbage dump.
Then the town grew. And soon the garbage dump was inside the town and the stink from the dump was inside the homes of those nearby. When the breeze blew the stink flew into many more surrounding homes.
The people protested to the municipal authorities and requested them to shift the dump. They agreed, and the dump was shifted to a place called Hadapsar, just outside the town.
The stray dogs and cats, bandicoots, crows and pariah kites that lived in and around the dump quietly followed it to Hadapsar and started their new homes there.
Then Poona grew again, by now renamed Pune, and the garbage dump was once again surrounded by homes.
Once again the people protested. Residents of a nearby swanky locality, St Patrick’s Town, also protested because their enviable address had come to be identified as ‘Next to the Garbage Dump’, even by the Post Office.
This time real estate developers also protested since no one wanted to buy flats next to a garbage dump.
And this time the scavengers were frothing mad. The cats and dogs were frothing at their snouts, the birds were frothing at their beaks, the bandicoots were frothing from wherever it is they froth when they are frothing mad. “Not quite our fault if those blokes know buggerall about town planning”, said a crow from the top of a heap of whiffing chicken biryani. A bandicoot was less forgiving. “Since when did St Patrick get choosy about his neighbourhood?” it gnarled, as it jerked sticky rice grains off its whiskers.
The people won again, and the dump was shifted to a place called Vaiduwadi, just outside Pune City. Once again the scavengers moved to their new accommodation. Then the city grew into a metro, and the dump and the scavengers shifted again to Urli Devachi.
One evening, after the dump trucks had tipped their refuse and driven away and the scavengers had their bellyfuls, they decided to meet and discuss their frequent uprooting and dislocation.
“It seems Pune is spreading faster than stink in a breeze”, the kite addressed this gloomy gathering. “Not a lot we can do about this frequent shifting, but we can tell where the next garbage dump is going to be located, so we can at least plan our move there well in advance.”
All the scavengers nodded.
The kite continued, “From Poona Cantonment to Hadapsar to Vaiduwadi to Urli Devachi, the next place in this direction seems to be Yevat.”
All the scavengers nodded.
“We kites and crows will shortly survey the area and identify a suitable spot for a garbage dump, alright? When the municipal authorities see us circling a particular area in large numbers, they will assume there is a garbage dump there and so earmark the area for the same purpose. So we can start shifting.”
All the scavengers nodded.
A few days later, some five hundred meters from Yevat station an unusual group had gathered – scavengers and two men in neat and spiffy formals.
“This is going to be the next garbage dump, after Urli Devachi”, the kite was screeching at the two men. “Now what is your complaint with it?”
The men were representatives of Real Estate Developers. One of them answered, “This will be prime locality, next to the railway station. If a garbage dump comes up here, our prices will be badly affected - a repeat of St Patrick’s Town. We request you please identify another site for the garbage dump”.
A silence came upon the scavengers. The bandicoot began to speak, slowly and clearly:
“Already we have to move from one garbage site to another every two years or so because people complain of the stink. Now, you want us to move from this site even before the garbage has arrived?”
All the scavengers laughed.
[*Note: As the crows fly, Poona, now Pune, is about 90 kms south-east of Mumbai]
Any one want to write a humour story, go ahead, send it to me at dezymacedo@gmail.com
(If some of you find this familiar read on; I've diverted the end, shortened and satired it up.)
There used to be a garbage dump just outside this township called Poona Cantonment*. It was a desolate area and just the right location for a garbage dump.
Then the town grew. And soon the garbage dump was inside the town and the stink from the dump was inside the homes of those nearby. When the breeze blew the stink flew into many more surrounding homes.
The people protested to the municipal authorities and requested them to shift the dump. They agreed, and the dump was shifted to a place called Hadapsar, just outside the town.
The stray dogs and cats, bandicoots, crows and pariah kites that lived in and around the dump quietly followed it to Hadapsar and started their new homes there.
Then Poona grew again, by now renamed Pune, and the garbage dump was once again surrounded by homes.
Once again the people protested. Residents of a nearby swanky locality, St Patrick’s Town, also protested because their enviable address had come to be identified as ‘Next to the Garbage Dump’, even by the Post Office.
This time real estate developers also protested since no one wanted to buy flats next to a garbage dump.
And this time the scavengers were frothing mad. The cats and dogs were frothing at their snouts, the birds were frothing at their beaks, the bandicoots were frothing from wherever it is they froth when they are frothing mad. “Not quite our fault if those blokes know buggerall about town planning”, said a crow from the top of a heap of whiffing chicken biryani. A bandicoot was less forgiving. “Since when did St Patrick get choosy about his neighbourhood?” it gnarled, as it jerked sticky rice grains off its whiskers.
The people won again, and the dump was shifted to a place called Vaiduwadi, just outside Pune City. Once again the scavengers moved to their new accommodation. Then the city grew into a metro, and the dump and the scavengers shifted again to Urli Devachi.
One evening, after the dump trucks had tipped their refuse and driven away and the scavengers had their bellyfuls, they decided to meet and discuss their frequent uprooting and dislocation.
“It seems Pune is spreading faster than stink in a breeze”, the kite addressed this gloomy gathering. “Not a lot we can do about this frequent shifting, but we can tell where the next garbage dump is going to be located, so we can at least plan our move there well in advance.”
All the scavengers nodded.
The kite continued, “From Poona Cantonment to Hadapsar to Vaiduwadi to Urli Devachi, the next place in this direction seems to be Yevat.”
All the scavengers nodded.
“We kites and crows will shortly survey the area and identify a suitable spot for a garbage dump, alright? When the municipal authorities see us circling a particular area in large numbers, they will assume there is a garbage dump there and so earmark the area for the same purpose. So we can start shifting.”
All the scavengers nodded.
A few days later, some five hundred meters from Yevat station an unusual group had gathered – scavengers and two men in neat and spiffy formals.
“This is going to be the next garbage dump, after Urli Devachi”, the kite was screeching at the two men. “Now what is your complaint with it?”
The men were representatives of Real Estate Developers. One of them answered, “This will be prime locality, next to the railway station. If a garbage dump comes up here, our prices will be badly affected - a repeat of St Patrick’s Town. We request you please identify another site for the garbage dump”.
A silence came upon the scavengers. The bandicoot began to speak, slowly and clearly:
“Already we have to move from one garbage site to another every two years or so because people complain of the stink. Now, you want us to move from this site even before the garbage has arrived?”
All the scavengers laughed.
[*Note: As the crows fly, Poona, now Pune, is about 90 kms south-east of Mumbai]
Any one want to write a humour story, go ahead, send it to me at dezymacedo@gmail.com
Sunday 9 August 2009
Polished Parvathi
Aarthi Gunnupuri
(Set in Tamilnadu, this little story has a few local words which may need translation. Meen Kolumbu - fish curry. Paruppu Kolumbu - lentil curry. Pongo – go. Palmyrah – palm tree. "Dai, na yenna pandliyein!" - "I didn’t do anything!")
Parvathi glared at her father as he belched loudly. If looks could kill, but her father didn’t even notice. The little shanty that they lived in now smelt of the meen kolumbu that he had eaten an hour ago. She looked at her mother resting on the hard ground not far away. “Surely, she must have heard it, or smelt it” Parvathi thought to herself. But there was no change in her expression. No sign of disgust or even a mild irritation, just a look of weary relief as she continued fanning herself with the hand-fan, made of dried palmyrah leaves. Parvathi didn’t know whether to be disgusted with her father or disappointed in her mother.
The next afternoon at lunch, she watched sweat dripping from her mother’s body as she served her father – heaps of rice with a watery paruppu kolumbu. There were beads of sweat on her forehead and above her lips. Streams of sweat trickling down her cheeks, her back and down her cleavage. As she got close, Parvathi grimaced at the foul odour of sweat mixed with spices and kerosene fumes. Recollecting how her mother slaved over the kerosene stove, hitting the tiny pump repeatedly till the flames were strong enough. “She had had enough time after cooking before appa came home” Parvati thought, “and yet she had not bothered to wash and change. I would have lent her my talcum powder if she had asked!” She looked at her father who was relishing the kolumbu, oblivious to Parvathi’s disappointment at his wife.
Soon after, it was her father’s turn to be subjected to Parvathi’s silent ire. He farted. A loud and smelly one. Parvathi, who was now using her mother’s fan, increased the speed rapidly and shot him a deadly look. He didn’t notice, instead, let out another one, this time longer. “There wasn’t even much paruppu in the kolumbu” Parvathi muttered to herself. She turned to look at her mother, whose eyes were closed but suddenly she moved a little. Was there hope? Alas! She only wanted to scratch her armpit.
At what point in a marriage does love make way for indifference, belches and farts?
Parvati was disappointed. She was 16 and soon going to be married to Shanmugham, from a few shanties away. They met at the bus stop every evening. For the past few days, the poster of Rajnikanth’s Kuselan adored the sides of the stop with Rajnikanth sitting on a throne flanked by the beautiful Simran. But Parvathi and Shanmugham had eyes (and hands) only for each other.
Surely, Shanmugham and her life would be different. They would excuse themselves discreetly from their own little shanty to go out and pass wind. She would not scratch her armpits in front of him. She would change and put lots of Cuticura talcum powder on her face after she cooked. So she would not be sweaty and sticky when he came for lunch. And if Shanmugham wanted to relieve himself he would make the effort to walk a little away from their home so his wife wouldn’t hear his urine hitting the ground. Surely, her Shanmugham, who was trying so hard to cup her right breast now, was different. She pulled away and hit him on his arm lovingly. “Pongo!” she scolded him. “Dai, na yenna pandliyein!” he protested, grinning wickedly. His hands now rested on her shoulder.
Shanmugham was mischievous but he was a gentleman. How lucky Parvathi felt. They were sitting close to each other on the hollow steel rods, which made for seats at the bus stop, that suddenly, she felt a vibration and heard a muffled ‘purr’. Shanmugham had just let one out.
About the Author: Aarthi Gunnupuri is a copywriter who did the rounds with advertising agencies and is now with a TV Channel.
(Set in Tamilnadu, this little story has a few local words which may need translation. Meen Kolumbu - fish curry. Paruppu Kolumbu - lentil curry. Pongo – go. Palmyrah – palm tree. "Dai, na yenna pandliyein!" - "I didn’t do anything!")
Parvathi glared at her father as he belched loudly. If looks could kill, but her father didn’t even notice. The little shanty that they lived in now smelt of the meen kolumbu that he had eaten an hour ago. She looked at her mother resting on the hard ground not far away. “Surely, she must have heard it, or smelt it” Parvathi thought to herself. But there was no change in her expression. No sign of disgust or even a mild irritation, just a look of weary relief as she continued fanning herself with the hand-fan, made of dried palmyrah leaves. Parvathi didn’t know whether to be disgusted with her father or disappointed in her mother.
The next afternoon at lunch, she watched sweat dripping from her mother’s body as she served her father – heaps of rice with a watery paruppu kolumbu. There were beads of sweat on her forehead and above her lips. Streams of sweat trickling down her cheeks, her back and down her cleavage. As she got close, Parvathi grimaced at the foul odour of sweat mixed with spices and kerosene fumes. Recollecting how her mother slaved over the kerosene stove, hitting the tiny pump repeatedly till the flames were strong enough. “She had had enough time after cooking before appa came home” Parvati thought, “and yet she had not bothered to wash and change. I would have lent her my talcum powder if she had asked!” She looked at her father who was relishing the kolumbu, oblivious to Parvathi’s disappointment at his wife.
Soon after, it was her father’s turn to be subjected to Parvathi’s silent ire. He farted. A loud and smelly one. Parvathi, who was now using her mother’s fan, increased the speed rapidly and shot him a deadly look. He didn’t notice, instead, let out another one, this time longer. “There wasn’t even much paruppu in the kolumbu” Parvathi muttered to herself. She turned to look at her mother, whose eyes were closed but suddenly she moved a little. Was there hope? Alas! She only wanted to scratch her armpit.
At what point in a marriage does love make way for indifference, belches and farts?
Parvati was disappointed. She was 16 and soon going to be married to Shanmugham, from a few shanties away. They met at the bus stop every evening. For the past few days, the poster of Rajnikanth’s Kuselan adored the sides of the stop with Rajnikanth sitting on a throne flanked by the beautiful Simran. But Parvathi and Shanmugham had eyes (and hands) only for each other.
Surely, Shanmugham and her life would be different. They would excuse themselves discreetly from their own little shanty to go out and pass wind. She would not scratch her armpits in front of him. She would change and put lots of Cuticura talcum powder on her face after she cooked. So she would not be sweaty and sticky when he came for lunch. And if Shanmugham wanted to relieve himself he would make the effort to walk a little away from their home so his wife wouldn’t hear his urine hitting the ground. Surely, her Shanmugham, who was trying so hard to cup her right breast now, was different. She pulled away and hit him on his arm lovingly. “Pongo!” she scolded him. “Dai, na yenna pandliyein!” he protested, grinning wickedly. His hands now rested on her shoulder.
Shanmugham was mischievous but he was a gentleman. How lucky Parvathi felt. They were sitting close to each other on the hollow steel rods, which made for seats at the bus stop, that suddenly, she felt a vibration and heard a muffled ‘purr’. Shanmugham had just let one out.
About the Author: Aarthi Gunnupuri is a copywriter who did the rounds with advertising agencies and is now with a TV Channel.
Wednesday 22 July 2009
One Day We All Met On Facebook
[Some days ago a few of us friends met on Facebook. Save a few spellchecks and minor editing, this is a pristine account of what started in the Status Box of Desmond Macedo, followed by comments]
Desmond Macedo
Now we can stop complaining about lack of rain and start complaining about floods; after the floods come, we can complain about poor administration to tackle the floods. July 8 at 10:48am
Ayesha Maya, Rochelle Potkar and Fritz Gonsalves like this.
Kashyap Joshi
By the time we finish doing all that, we'll have the October heat again to grumble about. July 8 at 10:54am
Desmond Macedo
And then we will complain about a late winter, or no winter at all. July 8 at 11:01am
Kashyap Joshi
And in winter we'll complain about colds and fevers and throat infections. July 8 at 11:08am
Desmond Macedo
And how pollution, too, is adding to the problem. July 8 at 11:20am
Fritz Gonsalves
And then we'll be so sick of complaining that we'll start complaining about everybody complaining all the time. July 8 at 11:42am
Desmond Macedo
And newspaper columnists will write about how we Indians are very good at complaining...meanwhile, we are already complaining about a water shortage and how people are using three buckets of water each to wash thier cars. July 8 at 11:51am
Shilpa Doshi
Sure enough...now that you have complained, drawing attention to the fact that a car can be washed in less than 3 buckets. Will try to find out how many buckets my car washer boy uses and give him some gyaan (scientific advice)....if needed. Long live the complainer! Anything to disassist Global Warming! July 8 at 11:55am
Kashyap Joshi
And then the residents of Bandra will light candles in their balconies and pray so people stop complaining. July 8 at 12:19pm
Fritz Gonsalves
Then VHP, Jamait-e-Whatever and the Catholic Sabah will complain that no one is paying heed to their complaints. July 8 at 12:24pm
Kashyap Joshi
And then advertising agencies will be inspired by all the complaining so they'll make campaigns like "Complain India" and "If India Complains India will Progress" and contests like "Complain Boy & Complain Girl" sponsored by Compla(i)n. July 8 at 12:25pm
Desmond Macedo
The VHP, Jamait-e-Whatever and the Catholic Sabah will complain that Advertising Companies in India are glorifying the plight of the comman man. July 8 at 12:45pm
Fritz Gonsalves
Then the political parties will propose a Bill to give 33% Reservation to all those who complain... soon Mayawati will ask for 10% additional reservation for Dalit Complainers, Lallu Yadav for Bhaiya Complainers, Jamait-e-whatever for Muslim Complainers, Catholic Sabah for Catholic Complainers (Protestants, Syrian Marthoma, Jacobites, Pentecosts … too bad, you need to get organised), and then the RSS and VHP will complain that the majority is being sidelined to please the minority and start burning buses, about which everybody else will complain. July 8 at 3.07pm
Hemant Shringy
And then advertising agencies will complain about not having creative liberties.. . and Madhur Bhandarkar will make a realistic movie about the complaints that the Advertising Industry has. That's when the agency people will complain about being stereotyped about their genuine complaints. July 8 at 3:09pm
Desmond Macedo
Meanwhile, the Mumbaikar has forgotten about his first complaint, about the lack of rain, and then the floods, but he is happy that he has a new complaint, that political parties are turning complainers into Vote Banks. July 8 at 3:31pm
Priyankaa Jain
How can u guys forget Facebook. There will be QUIZZES, WHAT KIND OF COMPLAINER ARE YOU? July 8 at 3:42pm
Kashyap Joshi
And then the PM will come on FB where he will get msgs like "Fritz Gonsalves has poked the Prime Minister with a complaint." July 8 at 3:51pm
Priyankaa Jain
Users will complain about FB not having enough quizzes for them to take. July 8 at 4:05pm
Kashyap Joshi
By then parents, colleges and institutions will complain that teenagers are spending too much time complaining on FB. July 9 at 3:30pm
Kashyap Joshi
And by now, my boss has pretty much started complaining that I'm spending too much time on FB complaining. July 9 at 3:30pm
Desmond Macedo
Perhaps you should complain that he is complaining about you. July 9 at 4:12pm
Priyankaa Jain
OR u cud complain about getting unnecessary advice from DESMOND MACEDO. July 9 at 5:03pm
Preeti Sharma
Huh? No one's complaining that we have not met in a long time? July 9 at 5:12pm
End
Desmond Macedo
Now we can stop complaining about lack of rain and start complaining about floods; after the floods come, we can complain about poor administration to tackle the floods. July 8 at 10:48am
Ayesha Maya, Rochelle Potkar and Fritz Gonsalves like this.
Kashyap Joshi
By the time we finish doing all that, we'll have the October heat again to grumble about. July 8 at 10:54am
Desmond Macedo
And then we will complain about a late winter, or no winter at all. July 8 at 11:01am
Kashyap Joshi
And in winter we'll complain about colds and fevers and throat infections. July 8 at 11:08am
Desmond Macedo
And how pollution, too, is adding to the problem. July 8 at 11:20am
Fritz Gonsalves
And then we'll be so sick of complaining that we'll start complaining about everybody complaining all the time. July 8 at 11:42am
Desmond Macedo
And newspaper columnists will write about how we Indians are very good at complaining...meanwhile, we are already complaining about a water shortage and how people are using three buckets of water each to wash thier cars. July 8 at 11:51am
Shilpa Doshi
Sure enough...now that you have complained, drawing attention to the fact that a car can be washed in less than 3 buckets. Will try to find out how many buckets my car washer boy uses and give him some gyaan (scientific advice)....if needed. Long live the complainer! Anything to disassist Global Warming! July 8 at 11:55am
Kashyap Joshi
And then the residents of Bandra will light candles in their balconies and pray so people stop complaining. July 8 at 12:19pm
Fritz Gonsalves
Then VHP, Jamait-e-Whatever and the Catholic Sabah will complain that no one is paying heed to their complaints. July 8 at 12:24pm
Kashyap Joshi
And then advertising agencies will be inspired by all the complaining so they'll make campaigns like "Complain India" and "If India Complains India will Progress" and contests like "Complain Boy & Complain Girl" sponsored by Compla(i)n. July 8 at 12:25pm
Desmond Macedo
The VHP, Jamait-e-Whatever and the Catholic Sabah will complain that Advertising Companies in India are glorifying the plight of the comman man. July 8 at 12:45pm
Fritz Gonsalves
Then the political parties will propose a Bill to give 33% Reservation to all those who complain... soon Mayawati will ask for 10% additional reservation for Dalit Complainers, Lallu Yadav for Bhaiya Complainers, Jamait-e-whatever for Muslim Complainers, Catholic Sabah for Catholic Complainers (Protestants, Syrian Marthoma, Jacobites, Pentecosts … too bad, you need to get organised), and then the RSS and VHP will complain that the majority is being sidelined to please the minority and start burning buses, about which everybody else will complain. July 8 at 3.07pm
Hemant Shringy
And then advertising agencies will complain about not having creative liberties.. . and Madhur Bhandarkar will make a realistic movie about the complaints that the Advertising Industry has. That's when the agency people will complain about being stereotyped about their genuine complaints. July 8 at 3:09pm
Desmond Macedo
Meanwhile, the Mumbaikar has forgotten about his first complaint, about the lack of rain, and then the floods, but he is happy that he has a new complaint, that political parties are turning complainers into Vote Banks. July 8 at 3:31pm
Priyankaa Jain
How can u guys forget Facebook. There will be QUIZZES, WHAT KIND OF COMPLAINER ARE YOU? July 8 at 3:42pm
Kashyap Joshi
And then the PM will come on FB where he will get msgs like "Fritz Gonsalves has poked the Prime Minister with a complaint." July 8 at 3:51pm
Priyankaa Jain
Users will complain about FB not having enough quizzes for them to take. July 8 at 4:05pm
Kashyap Joshi
By then parents, colleges and institutions will complain that teenagers are spending too much time complaining on FB. July 9 at 3:30pm
Kashyap Joshi
And by now, my boss has pretty much started complaining that I'm spending too much time on FB complaining. July 9 at 3:30pm
Desmond Macedo
Perhaps you should complain that he is complaining about you. July 9 at 4:12pm
Priyankaa Jain
OR u cud complain about getting unnecessary advice from DESMOND MACEDO. July 9 at 5:03pm
Preeti Sharma
Huh? No one's complaining that we have not met in a long time? July 9 at 5:12pm
End
Tuesday 9 June 2009
You have your cake, I'll eat it too
Desmond Macedo
“It is easier for swine flu to travel around the world than for Indians”, Dan Mullagathanny was thinking, as he read about the racial attacks on Indians in Australia.
“With so much talk of a globalised world, these racist vibes seems contradictory” he wondered.
“So what is globalisation after all?” Dan decided to give this thought. And here he went:
Nike is globalised, Google is, Hollywood & Bollywood are, Pepsi, Pink Floyd and Metallica are, Youtube is.”
Scandals globalise easily, like the topless women found in the house of the Italian prime minister. Scandals are welcome everywhere, even in a monastery. So you read or hear of them everywhere.
The subprime crisis globalised the fastest. The bankers in the US who started it wanted everyone to share the blame and the losses, so they sent it around the world via the stock markets, which again are delicately globalised.
A by-product of the subprime crisis, bailouts also globalised easily - even India contributed its share.
Chain mails! The same person sends the same mail to all the people he knows all over the world, twice a week, after he gets the same mail, twice a week, from all the people he knows, all around the world.
Jargon globalises. "Going forward, we see our gross margins increasing as our new high-margin products gain traction" will go round and round the world until it gains traction and is monetized.
Migratory birds travel so does Kentucky Fried Chicken.
Blogs globalise, even humour blogs. A half-wit blog will go at least halfway around the world.
So anything under the sun can globalise, except people. And among people, these days most countries are touchy about the Indian.
The Australians think that the Indians are going to take away their jobs. Funny, the Australians want the revenue that Indians pay for top-class education, but they don’t want the Indian students taking up jobs there.
“That is so much like ‘You have your cake, I’ll eat it too’”, Dan concluded.
Got a funny story? Send it to me at dezymacedo@gmail.com
“It is easier for swine flu to travel around the world than for Indians”, Dan Mullagathanny was thinking, as he read about the racial attacks on Indians in Australia.
“With so much talk of a globalised world, these racist vibes seems contradictory” he wondered.
“So what is globalisation after all?” Dan decided to give this thought. And here he went:
Nike is globalised, Google is, Hollywood & Bollywood are, Pepsi, Pink Floyd and Metallica are, Youtube is.”
Scandals globalise easily, like the topless women found in the house of the Italian prime minister. Scandals are welcome everywhere, even in a monastery. So you read or hear of them everywhere.
The subprime crisis globalised the fastest. The bankers in the US who started it wanted everyone to share the blame and the losses, so they sent it around the world via the stock markets, which again are delicately globalised.
A by-product of the subprime crisis, bailouts also globalised easily - even India contributed its share.
Chain mails! The same person sends the same mail to all the people he knows all over the world, twice a week, after he gets the same mail, twice a week, from all the people he knows, all around the world.
Jargon globalises. "Going forward, we see our gross margins increasing as our new high-margin products gain traction" will go round and round the world until it gains traction and is monetized.
Migratory birds travel so does Kentucky Fried Chicken.
Blogs globalise, even humour blogs. A half-wit blog will go at least halfway around the world.
So anything under the sun can globalise, except people. And among people, these days most countries are touchy about the Indian.
The Australians think that the Indians are going to take away their jobs. Funny, the Australians want the revenue that Indians pay for top-class education, but they don’t want the Indian students taking up jobs there.
“That is so much like ‘You have your cake, I’ll eat it too’”, Dan concluded.
Got a funny story? Send it to me at dezymacedo@gmail.com
Saturday 16 May 2009
Why don’t we have a 10-day week?
Desmond Macedo
It was a usual Monday morning in office and somebody asked somebody else, “How did your weekend go?”
Somebody else answered “God don’t ask, the weekend flew so fast I am left behind in Sunday. In the first place, Saturday flew so fast I was caught on Sunday morning holding a beer."
“If I go backwards, I left office very late Friday night so the whole weekend got pushed forward.”
"And now I’m caught on Monday morning looking for a lazy breakfast of steaming hot idlis like I usually have on Sunday mornings. God, don’t tell me I’m going to be one day behind this whole week. I’ll be the only jackass in the office chasing yesterday”, somebody else whined and grumbled.
Dan was listening to this whine and grumble. The problem he felt was, today 5 days are no longer enough for work. So working days spill over into weekends and weekends spill over into the next working days.
So Dan thought, why not have a 10-day week, with seven working days and a 3-day weekend?
In the present system neither does the work get completed, nor does the holiday. With a 10-day week he felt there will be enough time for both. And work and weekend will be kept where they belong. Apart.
Dan called the people who print calendars and made the suggestion to them. He went on to explain: “A month has 30 or 31 days, Feb excluded. Within practical limits, how we divide those days is left to us. No one is interfering with the time the earth takes to go around the sun, so it’s alright.”
The people who print calendars looked as blank as a Tuesday morning.
Dan Mullagathanny spoke slowly. “Listen gentlemen” he said, “in a 10-day week, at least people won’t come to office on Monday morning looking for steaming hot idlis.”
Idlis: a sort of cake made from a mixture of rice & gram flour.
Want to write a humour story here?: Go ahead, and send it to me at dezymacedo@gmail.com
It was a usual Monday morning in office and somebody asked somebody else, “How did your weekend go?”
Somebody else answered “God don’t ask, the weekend flew so fast I am left behind in Sunday. In the first place, Saturday flew so fast I was caught on Sunday morning holding a beer."
“If I go backwards, I left office very late Friday night so the whole weekend got pushed forward.”
"And now I’m caught on Monday morning looking for a lazy breakfast of steaming hot idlis like I usually have on Sunday mornings. God, don’t tell me I’m going to be one day behind this whole week. I’ll be the only jackass in the office chasing yesterday”, somebody else whined and grumbled.
Dan was listening to this whine and grumble. The problem he felt was, today 5 days are no longer enough for work. So working days spill over into weekends and weekends spill over into the next working days.
So Dan thought, why not have a 10-day week, with seven working days and a 3-day weekend?
In the present system neither does the work get completed, nor does the holiday. With a 10-day week he felt there will be enough time for both. And work and weekend will be kept where they belong. Apart.
Dan called the people who print calendars and made the suggestion to them. He went on to explain: “A month has 30 or 31 days, Feb excluded. Within practical limits, how we divide those days is left to us. No one is interfering with the time the earth takes to go around the sun, so it’s alright.”
The people who print calendars looked as blank as a Tuesday morning.
Dan Mullagathanny spoke slowly. “Listen gentlemen” he said, “in a 10-day week, at least people won’t come to office on Monday morning looking for steaming hot idlis.”
Idlis: a sort of cake made from a mixture of rice & gram flour.
Want to write a humour story here?: Go ahead, and send it to me at dezymacedo@gmail.com
Sunday 12 April 2009
Ten Random Things About Myself
My name is Dan. My full name is Dan Mullagathanny.
No, I am not the same person who appears in a humour-story blog called The Underground Writers' Blog.
I do not accept humour stories from people. I do not accept any stories from anyone for that matter. All stories are verified by the police.
I think writing a blog is a silly waste of time. Of course, I agree, if you didn’t waste your time, what else would you do with it?
I believe there are two kinds of people in the world: those who blog and those who do not have an internet connection.
I love the words leverage, synchronization, paradigm shift and holistic. Best of all, I love synergistic. I carry a picture of it in my wallet.
If I write random things about myself on Facebook it’s because I wish to know more about myself and not about you. If you wish to know more about yourself, you write random things about yourself. And if I tag you it’s not because I wish to know more about you, it’s because you owe me money.
One recent story on this Underground Writers' Blog says that I, Dan, met St Valentine on Hill Road. Now as far as I know there is no Hill Road in Poona where I stay. There is no Poona there anymore for that matter; that old, tiled-roof cantonment was shifted elsewhere long ago. There is a Pune there now.
On this same blog I came across a story saying, ‘People who honk are horny’. I would like to clarify that, by and large, I use a bicycle and I usually do ‘tring tring’…I mean, I do not do ‘tring tring’ when I’m bonking, I do ‘tring tring’ when I’m cycling. You see, I’m usually not bonking when I’m cycling nor am I usually cycling when I’m bonking. I hope this clarifies everything.
People say I have two left feet. Rubbish. I do not have two left feet and I can dance very well, salsa or jive, thank you. I admit I have two left brains, though, so one half of my head is vacant.
Write a Humour Srory?: Send it to me: dezymacedo@gmail.com
No, I am not the same person who appears in a humour-story blog called The Underground Writers' Blog.
I do not accept humour stories from people. I do not accept any stories from anyone for that matter. All stories are verified by the police.
I think writing a blog is a silly waste of time. Of course, I agree, if you didn’t waste your time, what else would you do with it?
I believe there are two kinds of people in the world: those who blog and those who do not have an internet connection.
I love the words leverage, synchronization, paradigm shift and holistic. Best of all, I love synergistic. I carry a picture of it in my wallet.
If I write random things about myself on Facebook it’s because I wish to know more about myself and not about you. If you wish to know more about yourself, you write random things about yourself. And if I tag you it’s not because I wish to know more about you, it’s because you owe me money.
One recent story on this Underground Writers' Blog says that I, Dan, met St Valentine on Hill Road. Now as far as I know there is no Hill Road in Poona where I stay. There is no Poona there anymore for that matter; that old, tiled-roof cantonment was shifted elsewhere long ago. There is a Pune there now.
On this same blog I came across a story saying, ‘People who honk are horny’. I would like to clarify that, by and large, I use a bicycle and I usually do ‘tring tring’…I mean, I do not do ‘tring tring’ when I’m bonking, I do ‘tring tring’ when I’m cycling. You see, I’m usually not bonking when I’m cycling nor am I usually cycling when I’m bonking. I hope this clarifies everything.
People say I have two left feet. Rubbish. I do not have two left feet and I can dance very well, salsa or jive, thank you. I admit I have two left brains, though, so one half of my head is vacant.
Write a Humour Srory?: Send it to me: dezymacedo@gmail.com
Sunday 29 March 2009
Mothers of Sons
Preeti Sharma
"It's a boy."
That statement sets off a series of lifelong changes for a mother whose apron strings gently, but tenaciously, wind themselves around the tiny boy-child's body. Her heartbeat resigns itself to be wholly dependent on his, her self-worth now judged only by sacrifices she can make for him, her heart vows to cook his favourite foods, wash his clothes, keep shrewd girls (that includes all girls, duh) away from him and keep track of his multiple fungal infections until her own body is lowered six feet under.
Her dying breath will be all about who will comb her baby boy's hair just right and who will heat milk with turmeric for him, every morning. Meanwhile, the baby boy who may have just celebrated his 38th birthday will sit wondering morosely, darn it, ‘who will take my clothes to the laundry and wash me behind my ears?’ He may also realise sadly that he will have to be nicer to his wife (yes, she does exist, but you wouldn't know it) because she would now go from being part of the wallpaper to being his surrogate mother.
I wonder about mothers who are obsessed with their sons. Take my friend Ashish's mother:
"I am telling Ashish to get married," says Mrs. Girodia.
"Does he have a girl in mind?" I ask cautiously.
"No, no, I only will select the girl for him. Problem is he is so good looking and smart, any girl will be so lucky to have him", she says and her eyes glaze over him as if she has inhaled Grade A cocaine.
I look at Ashish closely: he still looks like a mouse with constipation. The last time he smiled was 2004.
"There are very few boys like him now," she says wistfully. I nod wisely and bite my tongue.
Ashish got married 8 months later. His poor wife looks only downwards now and his mother is still the only woman in his life.
It's much more pragmatic with girls. True, many mothers are obsessed with their daughters' virtue (sic), but there comes a point when mothers just let their daughters be. They are allowed to manage their own eating habits, pack their own suitcases and make their own beds. Show me a twenty-five year old fellow living at home, and I'll show you a mother who is still making his bed.
My friend Prerna had a child very young, but she got married recently to a man in his 40s. She ended up learning all about men only after they were married.
- His mother irons his underwear.
- His mother goes with him for his physicals with the doctor, irrespective of the body part being examined.
- His mother decides when he needs privacy and when not. She questions why the door to his room stays locked longer these days.
- His mother needs to be the last person to hug him before he leaves the house. She says it brings him good luck. As far as Prerna can see, it has caused him to lose two jobs, one car and one expensive watch.
"Why is she so damn possessive of him?", Prerna fumes.
I cannot answer because I am now distracted by what Prerna is doing. She irons her fourteen-year old son's underwear. As he bounds into the room she hands him a freshly ironed one, still hot, and looks at him with abandon joy before he disappears to change. Why do mothers think their sons' underwear should be like a chappati, best when it's hot. Since everyone is in the throes of maternal love I refrain from pointing out what warm underwear can do his sperm levels.
And so the circle of possessive and obsessive mothers continues.
"My son is very fond of me. He calls me every week from London." Her son has taken truckloads of money from her, claiming to study in London. His phone calls are camouflaged requests for money.
"All the girls who meet my son want to marry him. But that silly boy is so romantic. He is still looking for that special someone." He has been rejected by over twenty five girls because he proudly informs them that his mother, occasionally, still ties his shoe laces for him.
“When I’m around my son lets me do everything for him.” He is actually useless at all times, but his mother will never get it.
"My son is so good looking. A little plump but so handsome. He looks
just like me." Mother and son are both 110 kgs. Nothing personal against weight, but I have yet to find a mother who says her 110-kg daughter is so good looking.
A relative sums it up. She has a twenty-eight year old son who travels the world, sits at board meetings, manages mind-boggling dating schedules. Yet, she needs to tell him when to change his bedsheets (sheesh…you would think a Standford MBA would have enough common sense to tell a dirty sheet from a clean one) and then, before he can move his lazy arse, she has already jumped up and done it for him and is basking in the gratitude she imagines she can see in his eyes.
"If I can do it, he cannot."
Famous words from the proud momma.
About the Author: Preeti Sharma is a runner up of the last Humour Story Contest.
"It's a boy."
That statement sets off a series of lifelong changes for a mother whose apron strings gently, but tenaciously, wind themselves around the tiny boy-child's body. Her heartbeat resigns itself to be wholly dependent on his, her self-worth now judged only by sacrifices she can make for him, her heart vows to cook his favourite foods, wash his clothes, keep shrewd girls (that includes all girls, duh) away from him and keep track of his multiple fungal infections until her own body is lowered six feet under.
Her dying breath will be all about who will comb her baby boy's hair just right and who will heat milk with turmeric for him, every morning. Meanwhile, the baby boy who may have just celebrated his 38th birthday will sit wondering morosely, darn it, ‘who will take my clothes to the laundry and wash me behind my ears?’ He may also realise sadly that he will have to be nicer to his wife (yes, she does exist, but you wouldn't know it) because she would now go from being part of the wallpaper to being his surrogate mother.
I wonder about mothers who are obsessed with their sons. Take my friend Ashish's mother:
"I am telling Ashish to get married," says Mrs. Girodia.
"Does he have a girl in mind?" I ask cautiously.
"No, no, I only will select the girl for him. Problem is he is so good looking and smart, any girl will be so lucky to have him", she says and her eyes glaze over him as if she has inhaled Grade A cocaine.
I look at Ashish closely: he still looks like a mouse with constipation. The last time he smiled was 2004.
"There are very few boys like him now," she says wistfully. I nod wisely and bite my tongue.
Ashish got married 8 months later. His poor wife looks only downwards now and his mother is still the only woman in his life.
It's much more pragmatic with girls. True, many mothers are obsessed with their daughters' virtue (sic), but there comes a point when mothers just let their daughters be. They are allowed to manage their own eating habits, pack their own suitcases and make their own beds. Show me a twenty-five year old fellow living at home, and I'll show you a mother who is still making his bed.
My friend Prerna had a child very young, but she got married recently to a man in his 40s. She ended up learning all about men only after they were married.
- His mother irons his underwear.
- His mother goes with him for his physicals with the doctor, irrespective of the body part being examined.
- His mother decides when he needs privacy and when not. She questions why the door to his room stays locked longer these days.
- His mother needs to be the last person to hug him before he leaves the house. She says it brings him good luck. As far as Prerna can see, it has caused him to lose two jobs, one car and one expensive watch.
"Why is she so damn possessive of him?", Prerna fumes.
I cannot answer because I am now distracted by what Prerna is doing. She irons her fourteen-year old son's underwear. As he bounds into the room she hands him a freshly ironed one, still hot, and looks at him with abandon joy before he disappears to change. Why do mothers think their sons' underwear should be like a chappati, best when it's hot. Since everyone is in the throes of maternal love I refrain from pointing out what warm underwear can do his sperm levels.
And so the circle of possessive and obsessive mothers continues.
"My son is very fond of me. He calls me every week from London." Her son has taken truckloads of money from her, claiming to study in London. His phone calls are camouflaged requests for money.
"All the girls who meet my son want to marry him. But that silly boy is so romantic. He is still looking for that special someone." He has been rejected by over twenty five girls because he proudly informs them that his mother, occasionally, still ties his shoe laces for him.
“When I’m around my son lets me do everything for him.” He is actually useless at all times, but his mother will never get it.
"My son is so good looking. A little plump but so handsome. He looks
just like me." Mother and son are both 110 kgs. Nothing personal against weight, but I have yet to find a mother who says her 110-kg daughter is so good looking.
A relative sums it up. She has a twenty-eight year old son who travels the world, sits at board meetings, manages mind-boggling dating schedules. Yet, she needs to tell him when to change his bedsheets (sheesh…you would think a Standford MBA would have enough common sense to tell a dirty sheet from a clean one) and then, before he can move his lazy arse, she has already jumped up and done it for him and is basking in the gratitude she imagines she can see in his eyes.
"If I can do it, he cannot."
Famous words from the proud momma.
About the Author: Preeti Sharma is a runner up of the last Humour Story Contest.
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