Pops – A Heady Shot of Life

For most of my childhood years, I believed with a certain unwavering conviction (that only kids are known to possess), that Papa was no different than one of my bicycle riding, hop-scotch playing, squeals of joy producing little friends. There was something very light hearted and guileless about him that appealed immensely to us kiddies. In a world where most fathers could be slotted in insalubrious categories like – the irritable ones who growled at the drop of a hat, the distant ones who didn’t give a hoot, the strict ones who didn’t spare the rod and the nagging ones whose lengthy sermons could lull the most insomniac ghosts to sleep – Papa shone like a solitary lighthouse whose beacon of light cut through the densest of darkness. Far from being grumpy, nasty or even preoccupied, he was, for the most part, full of life and mirth. Even when ensnared in a complex web of worries – emblematic of adulthood – he somehow managed to keep up a happy demeanour that brightened every room he walked into. Today, as I grapple with worries of my own, I can barely keep up a façade of having my act together, let alone ooze pure contentment and joy from within. How he did it all his life is a confounding mystery.

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A couple of decades later, at my wedding, after a rather hilarious encounter with him, a friend of mine emphatically stated – “Your Dad is super cool!!” Her innocuous little observation made me closely study Papa and his innate ability to build and sustain human ties. Turns out, he is in fact the quintessential ‘Yaaron ka Yaar’. That he can effortlessly wiggle his way into cliques of all kinds and all age groups, acts as an apt attestation of the above appellation. From being a hoot amidst little ones to being a worthy partner in crime to a pack of 20-somethings to being an energy packed ball of witticisms amongst his own classmates and colleagues to being kind and respectful to the oldies, yet bringing a smile to their wrinkled faces by cracking a joke here and a joke there - he is a welcome addition to any gathering under the sun. It is thus not surprising that under every second rock, in every other country around the world; we end up unearthing long lost friends of his. And when Papa meets them, it is almost like they had never parted. Rib-tickling anecdotes flow unbridled and bubbles of laughter permeate every open space and every open heart in the vicinity.

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This is not to say that Papa is just about fun and games. In the face of seemingly insurmountable circumstances, he is like a solid rock that one can lean on without a second thought. I wonder what infinite pool of worldly wisdom and resilience he draws from while patiently (and occasionally impatiently) listening to other’s woes and dishing out sound advice! Sometimes, something as simple as hearing him recite his favourite verse from the Bhagwad Geeta - "Jo hua,woh achchha hua,Jo ho raha hai,woh bhi achchha ho raha hai,Jo hoga,woh bhi achchha hi hoga" serves as a perfect antidote for all maladies. Just like a cup of hot tea, spiced with ginger and cinnamon can get rid of the most stubborn of all sniffles, a dose of Papa’s stoicism laced with veracity and a sprinkle of love can shoo away the fiercest of life’s ogre like troubles.

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Now that the sentimentalities are out of the way, let’s bring back those smiles with an account of some of Papa’s outlandish talents. His snores, for instance, are so potent that even the dead rise from their graves to stuff their ears with balls of cotton wool. If you are still able to somehow fall asleep and wake up in time, you can be privy to a magical sight  – that of him enjoying  a plateful of breakfast – a one-egg omelette, a piece of toast and some almonds. Watching Papa savour his meals can make the fullest of tummies rumble uncontrollably again. After a mandatory one hour nap in the afternoon and a cup of tea, he gears up every day for his favourite time of the day – squash time. On most days he dominates the squash court like a professional player. With the zest of an 18 year old, he smashes the ball against the red-lined wall and mercilessly crushes his opponents. His jubilation was thus not surprising the day Pranay picked up the sport. Not only did Papa gain a lifelong partner to play with but he also passed on the baton and the great news was that it had stayed in the family.

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Thirty two years ago, a pretty Pune-based damsel agreed to give up a cushy job and a cosmopolitan life to marry a strapping young officer whom she had never met. A quick peek at a thumb-sized, sepia toned picture of his was all she had to put a face to the words that consistently arrived wrapped in blue inland letter envelopes. She probably had a stomach full of butterflies and a heart full of anxieties as she read his letters and hoped that he was just as dependable as the frequency of his letters. If only I could travel back in time, I’d hold her hand and assure her of the astuteness of her decision. I would tell her that she is destined to live a happy, fun-filled life with a man who will not only prove to be a good husband but also a loving father. He is going to be the one who will sit by her and watch 3 hour long Hindi movies even though he can barely stand them, just because she loves going to the movies. He is going to share her love for travel, long drives, aaloo bondas at train stations and shelves full of books. He is going to be the one pulling her leg and breaking into loud belly laughs when she reacts and he is also going to be the one melodiously singing her favourite song - ‘Heyyy Neele Gagan ke tale’ to cheer her up on gloomy days. Since time travel isn’t yet a possibility, I will settle for the next best option, which is telling her today – “Ma, you did well!” 

You and I, in this beautiful world - Part 1

It was a fine Sunday morning in February of 2009. After much prodding and coaxing, I had finally given in to my pertinacious mother’s pleas, urging me to reach out to you. This, just weeks before my 25th birthday, did not appeal to me one bit but I could think of no other way to get Ma off my back. Bear in mind that at that age my imagination drew in abundance from fantastical pairs like Scarlett and Rhett, Raj and Simran, Oliver and Jenny and their tempestuous love stories. In contrast, being set up by one’s parents was perhaps the most insipid, unadventurous way to meet someone. With these thoughts playing havoc in my head, I made my way rather sulkily to my neighbourhood’s sorry excuse for a cyber café. From its dingy confines I typed away whatever came to mind on a tattered keyboard, utterly oblivious to the fact that this was going to be the first bridge connecting the two of us. In true Casablanca style ‘This was the beginning of a beautiful friendship’.

Pat came the response the very next day. It was a clean and respectful letter with a distinct honest ring to it. A total antithesis to what I had expected from someone who was about to get a PhD from Stanford! Soon enough, a flurry of e-mails between us started occupying most of my Inbox space. In bits and bytes I sent snippets of me to you and you returned glimpses of yourself to me. With some help from the few pictures you had up on Facebook, I stitched these pieces together and visualized what you might be like in person. Ours was a sepia toned story in a modern world.

We had so much to say to each other in those initial letters. Our mails overflowed with details of books read, movies watched and food sampled. From the word go, it was clear that I was the chatty one who wrote lengthy letters sprinkled with exclamation points, emoticons and little anecdotes. You, on the other hand were the worldly wise, restrained one, always ensuring that your i’s were dotted and t’s crossed. Yet, peeking through lines of modest text, there was always a hint of your characteristic rib tickling humour that I so adore.

Once you were done with your qualifying exams (6 months later!), we decided that it was about time we came face to face. How excited I was at the prospect of finally being able to see the man behind the calm words and the dotcom address. At the same time there was a nagging fear – what if I did not take to the real you? Or worse still, what if you did not fancy the real me? Fortunately, minutes into our first Skype call, I felt my fears melt away like butter in the sun. We chatted like long lost friends into the wee hours of that night and the night after that and then the one after and so on.

Very quickly our nocturnal sojourns became a habit. Early morning office buses were missed, friends and parties were forsaken, books were left unread and all semblance of organized living was shredded to pieces and flushed down the toilet. I began turning up to work with blood shot, sleep deprived eyes trying to push my reluctant brain to function. A vengeful to-do list which did not take kindly to the neglect started quadrupling by its own volition. As if the chaos was not enough, a new job offer in a brand new city showed up unexpectedly at my doorstep, reeling me in with promises of more money, fast track growth and the works.

Bangalore – An exciting new city, a shining new apartment, tons to explore........and a satanic new boss added sadistically to the mix. Aargh. She was the devil incarnate who marred the pristine picture of my life like a big bad ink blotch on a fresh white sheet. Those were the days when you generously lent me your two strong shoulders to cry on. And how I cried! Day after day I resolved to do something drastic like flinging sheaves of paper in her smug, pasty face or pouring ice cold water down her head full of greasy red hair and walking away, never to return. Day after day your sensible voice placated me on the phone, gently steering me away from my brash escape plans. Just as I was beginning to believe that mine was the worst, most lack lustre life ever, you suddenly announced your plan to come visit. It was as if the grey clouds had parted, giving way to warm sunshine. The cruel boss was instantly forgotten and travel plans were chalked at a feverish pace.

Away from the virtual world that we had got so accustomed to, we were to meet for the first time at my parents place in Jabalpur – a small town that is your Nanihaal and where coincidentally my father was posted at the time. Instead of seeing pixelated versions of each other online we were going to encounter the real life 'us' with each flaw, each line, each pimple and each insecurity laid bare. In a world where most people are judged by the way they look as opposed to who they really are, I cracked under pressure. “Oh well, it wouldn’t hurt to get one of those fancy facials at this suave salon in Bangalore”, I thought. And so, off I went to get my face kneaded like a piece of dough for an hour and a half. Horror of horrors, the result was three patches of burnt skin on my original blemish free right cheek! Blah! There wasn’t any point lamenting now. This is what happens when tomboys like me try our tree-climbing-hands at feminine fancifulness. On my 24 hour train ride home I constantly dabbed my not one but three scarlet letters with oodles of medicated ointment. It did help in lightening them to a pale smattering but did not obliterate them completely.

Continued here - Part 2

My version of F.R.I.E.N.D.S ....

My blog is now 4 years and 45 posts old. So far, I have written about an assortment of people and experiences that have coloured my life like tiny sprinkles on a cupcake. It has been quite a journey trying to put on paper, as accurately as possible, things that matter to me the most. Despite this, each time I sit back and admire my growing list of posts, an irksome afterthought lingers in the shadows. ‘Why have I not acquainted my readers with those 5 crazy people who have played a pertinent role in the story of my life?’, I ask myself. I cannot come up with a good enough excuse. It is just one of those things that I have unwittingly taken for granted. But not any more. Especially since I have come to realize that it is taking me more than the usual amount of head scratching  to recollect things from the past. Turns out, my memory is just as volatile as  dry ice. Bits and pieces of it will inadvertently dissolve into foggy nothingness. It would be a terrible shame to allow glimpses of kaleidoscopic personalities to fade into oblivion just like that. And so, for the purpose of chronicling, here is an  attempt to cram all the awesomeness of a 12 year old friendship into one post.

A cotton t-shirt pulled over khaki shorts, earphones stuffed defiantly in each ear, cell phone (a very rare and sought after commodity in those days) dangling lazily from a belt loop, Raybans perched on a tiny nose and the constant rhythmic sound of a piece of chewing gum being mercilessly chomped into a shrivelled, juice less mass – this is what I remember of Pali’s first appearance at the gates of our hostel almost 12 years ago. From the moment her freakishly small feet hit the premise, all semblance of sanity was wiped clean. It was as if a mischievous elf with a rich repertoire of pranks had sneaked in and was gleefully wreaking havoc. From emptying the contents of the salt and sugar shakers in the dining room and filling them up with mud to getting back at an annoying room-mate by pasting a rather obnoxious skeleton sticker right in the center of her dressing table mirror and from setting someone’s hair on fire to spilling an entire bottle of oil on another one’s bed – Pali soon became known for all the weird stuff that went around in the hallways and dormitories of our once peaceful abode. There was never a dull moment with Pali around. After 9pm one could find her displaying her prowess at Ludo or egging the rest of us into helping her put up a hammock across her bed or hatching a plan to scale the seemingly indomitable walls of the  hostel simply to go buy dozens of chuskis for the night or tricking us into doing her assignment for her (I still do not know how she talked us into doing that)....and on and on go the fables of Pali’s antics. Even today, her overtly elfin characteristics befool people into thinking that she is all about tomfoolery and horseplay when actually she is much more than just that. Ask her for advice on a serious matter and she will dole out just the right amount of sensible suggestions. There is always one person in a group who has the ability to defuse situations and crack even the most foul tempered person up. For us, that would be Pali.

My most favourite Pali moment - Time spent with her on clear summer nights when not a worry in the world bothered us as we lay on our backs , gazing at the millions of shiny stars glittering in an inky blue sky while occasionally sipping Badam milk from glass bottles.

Tashi ma’am -  What do I write about someone who is known far and wide for her ability to strangle people till their eyeballs pop like ripe lychees. Just when her victims are about to  give up on believing that they would ever breathe again, she releases them and breaks into peals of laughter so intense that tears stream down her cheeks. However, at the risk of losing my own voice box, I have decided to record, for the first time, the life and times of Tashi ma’am. In her heyday, Tashi ma’am was one of the most dreaded seniors around. Minions like us could be seen scampering helter-skelter for fear of being chanced upon by her. Those poor souls who weren’t agile enough to find a hiding place in time would then be systematically subjected to severe ragging, chores galore and the choicest of ridicule. Despite all this though, there was something extremely endearing about Tashi ma’am which charmed even those whom she tortured. Her inability to read and comprehend even the most basic Hindi, her pledge to make the hostel warden’s life as miserable as possible, her absolute black and white theory about people (she either likes someone or completely detests someone) , an undying enthusiasm for chasing and burning mosquitoes one by one with a piece of inflamed kachua chhaap, a penchant for long aimless scooty rides (Tashi ma’am, if you are reading this, you know what I am referring to - wink wink), a sadistic streak which becomes apparent each time she yanks unsuspecting friends out of their warm cozy beds on Sunday mornings and forces them to accompany her (empty stomach) on uphill hikes - and many such peculiar traits make her one of a kind. Over a period of years she has brought defiance, alcohol, night-outs, trekking expeditions, dirt biking on our scooties and other random yet important things into our lives for which we are all truly thankful.

My most favourite Tashi ma’am moment – Wednesday mornings at the hostel. The paramount importance of securing a plateful of egg bhurji and bread  for a fast asleep Tashi ma’am before breakfast hours were up & the kitchen was closed. A task even more significant than eating our own breakfast or getting to college in time or perhaps even breathing.

Joti, the youngest of the lot, became part of the group quite by accident. You see, she was hoodwinked by our cunning warden into moving to our dormitory by convincing her that Pali was an artistic genius, Mini and I were conscientious scholars and Arry led the life of a monk. I like to believe that this little lie on our warden’s part changed Joti’s life forever (hopefully in a positive way). Now, Joti is one of those people who unwittingly do things that are hilarious. For instance when she sleeps she reminds me of Count Dracula lying straight as a ramrod in a coffin with his arms neatly crossed on his chest. She also nurtures a bizarre expertise – that of being able to kill rats with just one well aimed blow of her slipper. Most of these rats seem to die of a heart attack (made evident by the look of utter shock on their dead faces) rather than the impact of the said slipper. For a while Joti and Pali shared a room in the hostel. Those were the days when they bickered like a middle aged married couple. Everything ranging from the mess in Pali’s half of the room to the fact that Pali apparently turned a deaf ear to most of Joti’s college stories sparked innumerable comical arguments (each argument had a lifespan of anything between 2 days to 3 months). All of this was massively entertaining for the rest of us as we sat on the sidelines and enjoyed the daily drama. All in all Joti is a bundle of fun because she has a commendable ability to casually brush off all the puns directed towards her and continue being involved in all the legendary escapades . Gate crashing an unknown wedding in an equally unknown city during my bachelorette party or sneaking into the common room late at night to catch forbidden episodes of ‘Sex and the City’ – these stories wouldn’t have been half as juicy if Joti wasn’t a part of them.

My most favourite Joti moment – The time Joti badgered us into watching her favourite Hindi film – ‘Kal Ho Na Ho’ – in a rickety back alley theatre which offered only rock hard wooden benches for us to park our backsides on. Amidst extensive catcalls from a thoroughly tapori audience and a display of kitschy dancing LED lights garlanding the screen, we sat through the painfully over-dramatic ordeal. Later, of course, we had no one but Joti to blame it all on and she never heard the end of it.

Arry  is like a fluffy white cloud floating peacefully in a clear blue sky. Woes and worries afflicting lesser mortals do not seem to ruffle her feathers. There is only the thought of one eventuality that can perhaps bring a furrow to her brow -  the fear of waking up one day to find no hair framing her pretty face. Over years this delusion has made her experiment with several nasty smelling ayurvedic hair oils which have the ability to wake even the dead from their graves. By devoutly believing in the virtue of being the slow and steady turtle that she is, she has earned herself an apt nick name - Slowry. Try rushing her into things and she will probably give you a dazed half interested look. Nonetheless, every now and then she is up for a good adventure (or misadventure in some cases).  A friend who is brutally honest (ye tere haath itne mote kaise ho gaye, mooch oog rahi hai teri), a friend who stayed up an entire night to video chat with me when I was friendless and jobless in a new country, a friend who has lethal bony arms that can cause some serious physical damage, a friend who can never seem to remember where she bought stuff from (arey kahin toh, kabhi toh, kisine khareeda tha – Joti, you know what I am talking about), a friend who is now a model Army wife (dutifully attending AWWA meets, Ladies club sessions, baking classes et al), a friend who does not have a single malevolent bone in her body, a friend who always has the time for a good heart to heart and a friend who has proven to be a worthy accomplice when it comes to activities like sprinkling Bournvita on people’s beds   – that is Arry for you.

My most favourite Arry moment – A day before a terrifying exam. Buried deep under a cozy blanket you can see Arry struggling to keep her eyes open. The textbook is propped at an odd angle in front of her. Suddenly you realize that she has nodded off. Fearing that she would fail her exam because of lack of preparation, you give her a worried nudge. She looks at you with drugged eyes and blurts – “No, no I am not sleeping. I am just resting my eyes’.

There is just so much that I can write about Mini that some time back I decided to dedicate an entire post to her. 'This' is where you can find it. As you would have already guessed (if you have read the tagged post…READ IT if you haven’t!!), I have known Mini for donkey’s years. In the span of these very many years, she has never failed to amaze or amuse me with her anomalous ways. Things like sleeping with her eyes wide open, making the most outlandish ensembles look tasteful, being able to effortlessly spout strings of Hindi expletives, being violently loyal (to the point of blowing her top off at those who speak ill of her pals and then walking off in a royal huff)  – these are things that only Mini can pull off. She has always been my most favourite partner in crime and will remain my most favourite partner in crime even when we are wrinkled, white haired, bent and toothless.

My most favourite Mini moment – ‘So, you are hungry?’, she asks. I nod frantically like a famished street urchin. ‘Well, I have just the thing for you. Take a slice of bread, drape it with a slice of cheese. Now, smear a generous amount of tomato ketchup on the cheese and gently lay the chips (only the Sour Cream and Onion flavoured, mind you)on this bed of cheese and ketchup. Cover this with a second slice of bread and voila…you can now enjoy Mini’s world famous Chips and Cheese sandwich, my friend’.

The tiny blue starfish tattoo on my right wrist – kind courtesy an impromptu urge to mark a much enjoyed reunion -  reminds me every day that somewhere in the world there are a bunch of people who will always have my back. These are my people and by writing about them today I have relived some of my best times with them. It has surely brought a big smile to my face. And even though they are miles away, I know better than to feel dismal about it because good times are merely a video conference away..

Straight from Papa's Mouth - A Comical Wedding

‘It is a quaint wooden chest with rusty hinges and thick metal clasps to fasten and secure the precious booty inside. Its heavy lid, when yanked, gives way with a mighty groan and reveals with a flourish what hides within. Along with wisps of golden light and sparkly stars, out spills a flurry of parchment paper stained blue by neatly stenciled tales which flutter unrestrained like butterflies in a field’ - this is how I imagine Papa’s coffer of stories. What I attempt to narrate today is one of my favourites, picked with great difficulty from this treasure trove of stories that I have grown up listening to.

10 year old R was bored stiff. The wedding preparations had trudged along for several weeks now and it felt as if no one had any time for the one activity he adored the most- frivolous mischief and games. The house resembled a frenetic bee hive with people buzzing around; feverishly preparing the edifice for Chachaji’s much awaited wedding ceremony. Strings of bright orange marigold ran endlessly along the exposed edges, red and yellow boxes of mouthwatering mithai piled high in the store room and an incessant stream of instructions poured out of Papaji’s mouth as he oversaw the activities like a weathered planner.

Had R been permitted to ransack the boxes of mithai, he would have been contentedly occupied. Gorging on syrupy sweet, butter soft, crumby laddoos from the famous Bahadura Sweets would have kept him engrossed for hours. Alas, this was not to be as he and his three impish brothers were advised in rather ominous tones against pillaging the sweet meats which were meant to be served during the wedding reception. Dragging his feet in a display of exaggerated despondence he made for the playground cooking up elaborate schemes to kill time.

As the sky turned a deep shade of violet, the shehnai waalas arrived dressed in their blue and gold band uniform. The evening air stirred as the first shrill notes of the customary wedding tunes sliced through. Everything seemed to be in order. The mandap was set on the terrace under a canopy of pretty rose buds and giant banana leaves. Panditji had been busily arranging haldi, kumkum, ghee, rice, sandalwood, copper pots and earthen lamps in a semicircle around him. Pink cheeked children (including R and his brothers), freshly scrubbed and dressed in fine clothes of velvet, silk and muslin sat cross legged on the maroon rugs encircling the mandap. They ached to run around and play noisily although under the strict watchful eyes of their parents they had no other choice but to behave themselves.

Soon enough the bride and the groom took their places on the low wooden pedestals set next to the mandap. The bride was a petite girl who looked uncomfortable under the weight of the heavy ornaments adorning her. Wrapped in a rich red and silver Banarsi saree with the edge covering her tiny head, she looked radiant albeit exhausted. Perhaps the strain of the past few days of ceaseless ceremonies had taken its toll on her. Her slight frame made the groom look all the more strong and masculine. He too was eager to get this last obligation done with, for weddings maybe tons of fun for everyone else but for the two people caught in the eye of the storm – the bride and the groom – they can get quite onerous.

Plastic cups of sweet milky chai were handed out as Panditji began the ceremony by reciting chants from the Vedas. This was going to be a long night and the guests were fortifying themselves with deep fried delicacies and chai. R squirmed restlessly from time to time craning his neck to catch a glimpse of what his older brother; S was up to a few rows ahead. ‘Maybe I could annoy S by tickling him with a stray leaf lying on the floor’, he thought gleefully. And thus R began spoiling for a fight. Having devoured a slice of juicy red water melon he proceeded to spurt the seeds on S who at first was amused but then as R persisted, started to get angry. R pulled faces at S instigating him to retaliate despite Papaji’s admonishments. What started out as flippant playfulness was slowly turning into a menace. Just when he thought he had run out of ideas, R’s eyes fell on a copper pot sitting solitarily at arm’s reach. As a final grand gesture against S and Panditji’s soporific soliloquy, R grabbed the copper pot and flung it at S.

Now, what ensued is stuff that great anecdotes are made of. It is stories like these which are narrated over and over again with each version being more colourful and vivid than the previous. Almost as if in slow motion, Papaji, Ammaji and other bewildered guests saw the copper pot flip a few times on its fateful trajectory, miss S (who had ducked) by a whisker and land with a sick thud on the frail bride’s head. The poor girl opened her mouth in a silent gasp and promptly fainted in a heap on the floor. At this point utter chaos had engulfed the arena. The women crouched next to the slumped bride, trying to revive her by sprinkling water on her face while the men including a furious Papaji tried to catch hold of the rabble-rouser who anticipating his doom had bolted like lightening.

One can imagine what was in store for R when he was ambushed and outnumbered. I am told he fought valiantly before giving himself up, trying to thrash and claw his way out. He even threatened to repeat his folly by throwing the copper pot on the people chasing him. Needless to say, Papaji returned to the wedding venue with a sheepish black and blue R in tow. Thankfully, the bride had risen from her blackout and even though she had turned a shade paler, her eyes danced and a shadow of a smile played at the corners of her mouth as she forgave R for his errant deed. It is hard for me to believe that this devilish miscreant whom everyone talks of in every family gathering is now one of the most quiet and docile people I have ever met – he is none other than my father’s older brother Raju Tauji!!! 

Letters

Remember English class in school? Excerpts from famous books and plays served as lessons, the blue and red Wren and Martin tome taught complexities of grammar, poetry hardly made any sense and there was always the nagging urge to read all the stories in the textbook before the term started. The English test was always as predictable as a Karan Johar movie – Reading Comprehension, Grammar, Literature and Writing. Like many others in my class, I too composed dozens of letters to imaginary recipients and spewed hundreds of essays on timeworn subjects, hoping to score the most elusive cent percent in the Writing section. I remember those long gone English lessons, tests and the Writing section today by drafting the following missives:

A complaint to my high heeled shoes

Hello High heels,

I am sure you are warm and cozy in the pretty pink shoebox under my bed. Our last trip together was quite eventful but I must tell you that I am a little annoyed by your behavior. While it was somewhat vile on your part to lure me into dumping my faithful, feet-friendly flat pumps for your trendy Mt. Everest like elevated heels, what was even more exasperating was your attitude once I chose you. Just when I started feeling chic and in-style you tightened your death-vice, cutting all blood circulation below the ankles.

You squeezed my feet like lemons and I could barely feel my toes once you were done juicing them. You then clamped your jaws on them as if they weren't just feet but a couple of McDonald’s burgers. My feet have revolted against your tyranny by sprouting angry red welts all over and they have assured me that they will not get back to business if it meant having to cooperate with you! As if this wasn't enough, my calves are also supporting the feet-union and are gearing up by tightening their muscles and sending me signals in the form of sharp pain. I fear that it isn't long before my knees decide to join the rebellion.

I am terribly disappointed by your lack of concern and I am considering relegating you to the confines of your shoe box for eternity. Your smooth patent leather charm comes at a very high price which I do not wish to pay any more. I hope you find someone who can overlook the discomfort and appreciate your beauty nevertheless.

Regards,

-A disgruntled girl

A love letter to chocolate chunk cookie:

Dear Cookie,

I write to you today to express my deepest love for your sugary rich countenance. You have stood by me through many a rough patch and with this letter I wish to thank you for all your kindness.
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Your pretty brown face embellished with pieces of chocolate is a sight for sore eyes. With the right degree of crunch, your delectable flavor is just what I need when I am down the dumps. You are very dexterous too as you can be enjoyed with milk or tea, at breakfast, lunch or dinner, before a party or after one, to beat stress or to celebrate success and on many such contrasting moments. Pages and pages can be written in your praise and yet not suffice.

Even though I have been warned several times about your hidden evil persona – the one that ensures that each bite poisons me with infinite calories and sugar, making my heart let out a silent groan – I cannot imagine a life without you. How can someone so lovely have a malevolent side?

I hope you keep sweetening my life for many more years to come. I shall be your faithful patron for as long as I live.

Love,

-Me

Eviction notice to a pimple

Mr. Pimple,

You are hereby being notified to evacuate your current quarters i.e. my cheek within the next half an hour. As per the contract relevant to this premise, you were permitted to use my cheeks as a temporary dwelling during my teen years (from 1997 to 2003). However, you have been found prowling on the aforementioned location even today i.e. 10 years after your lease lapsed.

As a result of this breach of contract, my cheeks have filed a complaint against you and it has been decided that any further misdemeanor on your part would be treated as a serious offense leading to harsh punishment. I might consider subjecting you to a strong dose of clindamycin phosphate gel. Please be warned, your present good health and rosy-red, well fed appearance will get affected and you will experience lack of appetite, severe weight loss and even death as a consequence.

While I appreciate that with your presence you want me to believe that I have taken a dip in the fountain of youth and emerged frozen in teenage, I no longer wish to live this charade. I urge you to take this letter seriously and vacate the area which you have unlawfully occupied for over a decade now.

Your landlady,

-Me

A request to my curly hair

Hi Curlies,

I hope you are curling smoothly these days. You seemed pretty miffed the last time we spoke especially because you were down with the ‘frizz’. I know how terrible that can be especially with its signature symptoms like dryness and rough edges. Are you feeling better after applying the prescribed conditioner?

Well, let me get straight to the point. I was hoping you could do me a huge favour this week by behaving in an orderly fashion and not twisting and curling asymmetrically. I know you have a mind of your own and that you like to do as you please but I would be really obliged if you do as I tell you this time.

It is come to my notice that you do not like being tied in a tight pony-tail. Unfortunately I have to resort to doing so because letting you free is getting harder as you grow longer with each passing day. However, I am on the lookout for some good clips which would let me leave you free and at the same time maintain a semblance of order.

I also understand your aversion to these newfangled dryers for curly hair. It must be very difficult to have hot air blow right into your face after a shower. This is why I have decided not to invest in these machines and instead implore your good sense to help me look neat and tidy and not like a total hippy.

Consider this as an honest appeal to make life easier for the both of us. I hope to hear a positive response from you.

Thank You!

-Me

An Obsessed Organizer

My name is Preeti Sharma and I am an Obsessed Organizer. There, I have said it! I can almost hear a collective sigh emanating from harried souls around the world – half a dozen ex room-mates who sacrificed many a weekends to the crack of my cleaning/dusting/arranging whip, a bunch of friends murmuring ‘we always knew’ under their breath, a set of parents who cannot stop blaming each other for passing on the ‘hyper-organized' gene to me and finally one poor husband who has to deal with it for the rest of his life.

At first my symptoms mushroomed as seemingly innocent quirks. Arranging my dolls in a perfect straight line so that they sat in ascending order of their heights on top of the olive green cupboard in my room gave me immense satisfaction. Inside this cupboard was a treasure cove of books which also adhered to one of my many patterns of organization-alphabetical, author-based, subject- based……..What passed off as adorable nuttiness should have set a hundred alarm bells ringing and perhaps the condition would have been nipped in the bud.

As I left the pristine boundaries of home to hunt for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, I found myself staring at a big, bad, MESSY world which lay like a repugnant pool of spilt tea on a marble floor, waiting for me to wipe clean. I began yearning fervently for a world where pairs of shoes were organized in neat stacks on shelves instead of lying asymmetrically crooked on the floor, a world where coats and shirts were hung separately instead of mixed together, a world devoid of specks of dust enveloping all exposed surfaces, a world where dishes were done immediately after a meal and dabbed dry before being replaced in designated spots inside cabinets, a world where clothes always smelled laundry-fresh and tidily occupied allotted slots…my wish list went on.

I walked a tightrope for many years, trying to balance work, friends, hobbies and my unrelenting fetish for patterned harmony in spaces I called my own. Truth be told, I was always happiest when I was engaging in some good old fashioned housekeeping. An ensemble comprising a pair of comfy pyjamas circa 1998, an over sized tee from the same era and a head scarf to keep the powdery dust off my crown of curls easily kicked the rear end of pretty dresses and dainty heels. And eventually I started trading in parties for spending time dolling up my house. Since my most favourite section at the super market has always been the one which stores all sorts of cleaning products, I invariably possessed a plethora of objects to help achieve my standards of perfection in the task at hand.

State of the art mops and brushes, surface cleaners which promise a spotless clean house - fragrant like flowers in spring, glass cleaners to scrub window panes so perfectly that for a minute one would wonder if there was any glass at all, thick blue toilet bowl cleaners and a multitude of detergents (one for keeping my woollens supple, one specializing in retaining colours, a fabric conditioner to pamper my favourites, starch for my cotton 'kurtis', a stain remover for times when clumsy people subjected me to the horrors of their gaucherie…..) - This was my ammunition to wage a personal jihad against the forces of filth. When I was done banishing trash to the confines of a trash bag, I focused on arranging furniture, books, clothes, accessories and other things in exact locations and positions, just as my heart desired.

They say ‘Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned’. My private version is: ‘Hell hath no fury as when you spoileth what Preeti arrangeth’. Loved ones understood and resorted to rolling their eyes and toeing the invisible line I drew. In return I sometimes offered to do up their rooms for them. Like a whimsical artist I admired my handiwork every few hours for the next couple of days till my almost satanic arch nemesis - dust and grime - found its way through cracks and fissures and lay dirty, mangled, gaunt fingers on my spick-and-span dwelling. And then the entire cycle repeated itself.

After years of filth-fuelled crankiness and working myself to death, I have finally realized that sometimes it is all right to coexist with a tiny modicum of clutter instead of driving everyone, including myself, insane. To be honest, despite this epiphany, I still jolt out of deep sleep once in a while to stow away a pair of errant socks which somehow found their way on the living room couch or to wipe off ring-shaped coffee stains left behind as a stubborn mark of defiance by coaster-less mugs. I suppose the journey to a neurosis free life is long and difficult. But I am determined to reach my destination and am slowly inching forward.

Now that I have written this cathartic article and the weight is off my chest, I want to get back to what I was doing earlier – polishing the kitchen counters till I can see my reflection smiling back at me, giving me the thumbs-up... Satanic grime, here I come!

Straight from Papa's mouth - The Gum Boots

I have sometimes wondered how I came to possess a fervent imagination, one which is constantly itching to get down to business. The answer perhaps lies in the fact that I was born to parents who placed a high premium on good reading, listening and regaling skills. I grew up hearing Papa narrate comical incidents from his own childhood with such merry abandon and animated gesticulations that no matter how many times they were repeated, these tales of mischief would always manage to gather an avid audience. Mummy ‘s bed time tales from Aesop’s Fables, Grimms Brothers’ Fairy Tales and Mahabharata were also recounted with such aplomb that it was difficult not to picture the quixotic characters and places. Enraptured, I would listen to both sets of stories, building corresponding images in my mind while dreaming of someday being able to recapitulate with just as much gusto.

This is my first attempt to put on paper these tit-bits from the past and I hope that you enjoy reading them as much as I have enjoyed listening to them.

It was one of those late December evenings in Gwalior when merciless gusts of cold wind threatened to freeze those who dared to venture out and cups of hot masala chai (masala tea) and pakoras were handed out to those ensconced in the warmth of Buaji’s house. Three generations of family huddled around an old heater which barely managed to spout enough hot air to warm ice cold fingers and toes. Enveloped in sweaters, scarves and shawls, we braved the sub zero temperature that night with chai, pakoras, a rickety heater and an inevitable round of storytelling. Fuelled by the sweet gingery kick of chai, anecdotes and real life incidents soon started flowing in copious amounts. Several stories branched out, multiplying like neutrons in a nuclear fission reaction.

4 brothers (my father being one of them) – the biggest mischief makers of their time- figured in more than one tale. A story of one of these brothers, brother number 3 to be precise, who will be referred to as P (a respected doctor in today’s day and age) left everyone laughing so hard that tears trickled down most cheeks. Here goes……. Summer vacations had begun and the first day dawned bright and sunny - simply perfect for all the tomfoolery already mushrooming in his head. With much effort P shook off the drowsiness which lay heavy on his eyelids and looked around to check if he was the last one to get up. As conscientious as ever, his oldest brother S was sitting at his study deeply immersed in a book while brother number 2, R was nowhere to be seen. His youngest brother, brother number 4, also known as my Dad or D, sat on his bed fiddling around in general.

‘Let’s play Hide and Seek today!!!’ exclaimed P jumping out of bed in one quick leap and landing right in front of S. Keeping his book aside, S appraised him from top to bottom and replied with great disdain ‘At least brush your teeth and drink your milk before you begin hatching plans for the day’. P turned a questioning gaze towards D who was already nodding excitedly, giving his consent for a game of Hide and Seek. Within minutes all 4 brothers were outside in the courtyard along with their friends from the neighborhood all set to kick off the vacations in style. With a whole lot of cheating and some luck P managed to avoid being the Seeker and couldn’t help making fun of his poor slob of a friend who was conned into being one. As the Seeker turned his back to the rest of the boys and began counting, the group scattered in an instant. A few crouched behind nearby stone pillars while others slinked into the recesses between houses.

P took off as quickly as his legs could take him, determined to find the most ingenious place to hide. Soon he found himself standing at a road construction site a little further away from home. The place was littered with empty cylindrical cans of coal tar (dambar in Hindi) which were almost as tall as P himself. But crouching behind one of these cans seemed too clichéd to P. Just as he was about to take off once again in search of a perfect hiding place a glimmer of an idea lit up in his head bringing a broad smile to his face. He checked the can in front of him and found it devoid of its usual content: molten coal tar. Having checked a few more cans he was convinced that all the cans were empty and would serve as an ideal hiding place.

With great dexterity P hauled himself over the can kept at the far end of the construction site and swiftly lowered himself inside. All this while, he did not take his eyes off the road as he knew that by now the Seeker would be roaming around like a wild animal searching for his prey. When he had almost sunk to the bottom of the can he happened to look down at his body inside the can and couldn’t believe his eyes. His lower body, beyond the waist, was submerged in a shiny jet black viscous solution of coal tar! ‘How could this happen?’ he thought in dismay. In his hurry, he had not checked all the cans and had assumed after looking into a few that the rest were empty as well. A little shred of panic wriggled its way into P’s heart as he sank deeper into the quick sand like coal tar. ‘This is no time to panic’, he told himself sternly. The gears in his brain started creaking and grunting as he mulled over plans to get out of his predicament

A few hours of struggle later an exhausted P heaved himself out of the can. Huffing and panting he stood on the road now but his troubles had not ended just as yet. His legs were covered in a thick layer of coal tar and it appeared as if he was wearing knee length dark black gum boots which stuck to the hot road as if they had adhesive on their soles. Slowly he inched back home as each step felt like a mile. ‘Maybe this is how it feels when one is walking on an iron road wearing magnetic shoes’ he imagined. Thoughts of super heroes swooping in and carrying him back home crossed his mind along with images of his favorite halwa-poori which painfully tantalized his fast building hunger.

Needless to say, P reached home and was received by a stunned group of brothers and friends. Not wanting to look like a complete fool in front of everyone, P began boasting about his adventures and clowning around showing off his coal tar boots. I can only imagine what must have transpired between him and his mother (my Dadiji) when she found out what had happened but I am cent percent sure that he wasn’t rewarded with halwa-poori. I am told that it took all of her patience and a gallon or more of kerosene oil to peel off the adventures of the day. In that moment all characters of this story must have been unaware of the number of times this incident was to be recounted in years to come and the generations ahead who were going to hear about it on cold winter nights drinking chai and devouring pakoras.

An ode to the Birthday Girl......

There she stood, her eyes framed in a pair of gigantic glasses, wearing a baggy brown t shirt over equally baggy dark brown corduroy trousers and a wide smile stretched across her face. “Hi I am Manisha, you can call me Mini” she bubbled. Hearing her effervesce, I couldn't believe my mother had coerced me into befriending her simply because her parents had moved next door. From the moment we met I knew that the bully inside me could finally be unleashed and let loose on this unsuspecting simpleton. While hatching all the devious plans to trouble her (tricking her into believing that I had original autographs of the entire Indian cricket team, making fun of her low grades in Polynomials and so on),  little did I know then that she was soon to become a permanent and irreplaceably important fixture in my life.

Two very tumultuous years later, Mini and her family moved to another city. This inevitably spelled ‘The End’ for our blow-hot-blow-cold friendship, or so I thought. Owing to the fact that we weren't big on snail mail and also perhaps as neither of us had anything great to exchange, we lost contact and moved on with our lives.

I never imagined that our paths would cross again but as luck would have it, not only did we bump into each other in a new city where we were off to start our lives as college students but we also began a brand new experience of hostel life together. And so, on a very warm night in June of 2002, we found ourselves at our new hostel, shivering at the mere prospect of getting ragged by a bunch of formidable seniors. Since Mini had an elder brother who had gone through his days of ragging a few years back, she had been counseled on how to survive the much feared first month of ragging. With his advice as her mantra, she appeared calmer. ‘Don’t worry Preeti’ she said valiantly, “Just do whatever they ask you to do”. By the time we reached the staircase to hell which was our common room, her pep talk had given me just enough courage to get by. However, I may have sucked all her valor because she suddenly froze on the last step and mumbled “I cannot do this Preeti. They are going to butcher us”. Thus began a cycle of mutual motivation and consolation which was to last for several years to come. Through countless moments of feeling lost in the crowd and agonizing over growing-up pains I found Mini by my side making things a tad bit easier. We got through the night albeit with a painful introduction to the ‘chawanni athanni’ dance and an interaction with the much dreaded Tashi ma’am who was soon to become our nemesis.

An era of life changing endeavours had begun. Each day would bring with it weird experiences which later made for great anecdotes. Be it the time when we were sent to get a dirty movie for the seniors from a nearby movie library and wanting to believe that we were as inconspicuous as possible even with the  helmets and terrorist like scarves tied around our faces-which we refused to take off even when inside the shop (now come on, this was the first time we had laid hands on something as despicable as an X-rated movie let alone having seen one before), or the time when our God awful warden cornered us into almost giving away the seniors in our dorm for having a midnight alcohol party the previous night (Mini’s valour, which made itself evident in flashes, did a guest appearance again that day)or the time when we got into trouble for returning 30 minutes after the hostel in-time, each incident was one of a kind. What was common though among these seemingly diverse events was the fact that Mini and I were always at the epicenter together. Somewhere along the way several nicknames were bestowed upon us like Pinki-Rinki, Pinty-Minty and so on.

The excruciating torture of semester exams became tolerable with Mini being there to share the suffering. Being a part of an ever shrinking bunch of engineering students in the hostel, we were always unfortunate enough to have our exams during those times of the year when the rest of our dorm mates would be free as birds and as a result prone to creating ruckus ad infinitum. Often, one or both of us would succumb to the notorious examination blues. Such times called for desperate stress busting measures - the ‘Friends’ marathon or the 60 buck delectable dinner at our filthy road side Chinese ‘tapri’ (this comprised mountainous portions of vegetable noodles and chilly chicken followed by a single scoop of ice cream split in two). The ‘Friends’ marathon always started with a mutual agreement over watching only one episode but both of us had such wavering will power when it came to studies that we would end up watching an entire season or more only to realize that half the day had gone by (the exam being the next day) and we had barely covered the tip of the iceberg which was our syllabus for the exam. The Chinese tapri on the other hand aside from being just as dirty as any other roadside fast food vending cart, provided us the crucial spirit lifting tasty treats. Braving all fears of jaundice ridden livers and diarrhea ridden guts we would devour the meal as if it was our last meal before being executed.

As we slowly climbed the seniority ladder, we added new experiences and new friends to our kitty. The time we ragged our juniors, the time we sneaked into the common room through the window to watch ‘Sex and the City’ and then scurried out the same way, the time we stayed up all night trying to develop a taste for a terrible concoction of vodka and Milkmaid, the abnormal jubilation we felt after watching ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’, the terrible trauma we went through while watching ‘Kal ho na Ho’, our astonishment when we saw Mini’s hair ablaze as part of an unexpected prank, the unusual strength she exhibited during the ‘Maro-Maro’ fights, the midnight ludo or even the time we waged war against an uber snooty group of girls in the hostel are stories worth a million.  

Today as I try to encapsulate these memories for Mini’s birthday write up I find it difficult to pick only a handful because, cheesy as it may sound, each and every story is just as dear as the other. Times have changed and we all seem to have grown up which means that we now have clouds of mundane worry hovering incessantly over our heads. Yet, thankfully, each time I speak to Mini we embark upon an insane giggle trip which lasts for anything between 15 minutes to an hour. Our inane chatter is so rejuvenating that even on a cloudy day I feel a warm, golden sun shining upon me. She has an ingrained ability to crack me up with her comical stories and antics.  From being my sounding board to being the crazy clown in my life and from being someone whom I can trust my darkest secret with to being my practical touchstone and gossip partner, Mini has always been there during the good and not so good times and I love her for that. Oh and before I forget, I also give her credit for a whole lot of important milestones in my life, the most vital one being pruning my caterpillar shaped eyebrows to a more acceptable earthworm like shape. On her birthday today, I wish her all the giggles, craziness, happiness and love to last her a lifetime and more………Mintyyyyy, have a blast, cannot wait to start a new chapter of our lives in ‘phoren’ land together!!

Pranay's Mango tree

Bright yellow mangoes with their characteristic heady aroma and juicy sweetness occupied most of little Pranay's thoughts these days. This was not an out of ordinary occurrence given that Pranay and his family were major mango fanatics. Year after year along with the summer heat a certain mango mania descended upon the Sharma household.

Mummy being the sanest of the lot had realized early on in life that the only way she could deal with her family's crazy love for mangoes was by ensuring that the brown wicker basket adorning the dining table was forever groaning under the weight of several varieties of the coveted fruit. However, despite her best efforts, Pranay who was the youngest in the family, suffered from a nagging apprehension that one day he would come home from school to find an empty wicker basket and no mangoes to sink his teeth in. What with a bully of an elder sister who shared his maniacal love for the fruit, he could well imagine his worst fear coming true any day.

As he sat one day contemplating this terrible consequence a sudden bright idea struck him like a bolt of lightning. What if he planted a mango tree of his own? Then all the mangoes borne by this tree would technically belong to him, thought a jubilant Pranay. Proud of himself for having hatched such a brilliant plan, he quickly approached his sole counsel for all affairs-Mummy.

What ensued was a rather long drawn process with an air of urgency making it resemble a high priority project concerning state security. The best mango of the lot was prudently chosen and sliced. Its oval seed was extracted and washed with utmost care almost as if a new born baby was being cleaned post delivery. After Vishnu Bhaiyya, the sahayak detailed to Papa (who was more a family member than a sahayak), had dug a pit of exact dimensions in the backyard, Pranay placed the dried seed in Mother Earth's womb. The cherished seed now tucked in folds of soft black mud was to be guarded and nurtured by Pranay.

Each day Pranay would eagerly rush back from school to water the seed and feed it manure.This ritual went on for over two months and as each day passed without any trace of the much awaited tiny sprout pushing it's way out of the layer of mud, Pranay's disappointment grew. Finally, no longer able to see him downcast and distraught, Mummy asked Vishnu Bhaiyya to dig out the errant seed so that she could figure out the problem. Vishnu Bhaiyya rummaged through the mud and pryed out a half rotten mango seed studded with nasty worms feeding on it. Mummy looked at the find in dismay. She couldn't help but picture Pranay's crestfallen face when told about the horrible end suffered by his beloved mango seed.

Making up her mind, she rushed Vishnu Bhaiyya to the nearest nursery instructing him to get the tiniest mango sapling available. Vishnu Bhaiyya returned shortly with a 4 feet tall plant which was nowhere close to the tiny sapling that Mummy was expecting. "There were no tiny saplings in any of the nurseries. I checked all the nurseries around this area", he said helplessly. "Pranay will never buy this tale", despaired Mummy.

Guess what..this is what the crazy boy looks like now

 Nevertheless, Mummy and Vishnu Bhaiyya proceeded to place the plant in the exact same location where the erstwhile seed was buried. As soon as Pranay returned, he was welcomed with more than usual exuberance and a tall glass of his favourite mango milk shake. Unsure of what he had done to deserve it, Pranay habitually made way to the backyard to water the mango seed. Mummy and Vishnu Bhaiyya followed him shakily and waited a few steps away as Pranay stood rooted in his place staring at the mango plant which had magically appeared. A soft breeze made the long green and brown leaves of the plant sway. Pranay snapped out of his trance and let out a sharp squeal of joy. "Mummy, look my mango seed has sprouted and has grown so quickly!! I always knew that the manure meals will pay off someday" And just as suddenly Mummy and Vishnu Bhaiyya's grim faces broke into big smiles.

It has been 12 years since then and little Pranay is no longer little. He acts all macho and manly showing off his Elvis like side burns and his toned muscles but there is one thing that brings back the 6 year old boy in him-complete with a toothy grin and dimples. Till this day he firmly believes that the mango seed he had lovingly planted, miraculously grew into a fine looking 4 feet tall plant overnight all because of his love and care.

Santa Claus, the Tooth fairy, Christmas elves and the likes-that is the list which Pranay's mango tree belonged to. It was an innocent child's figment of imagination which proved to him how perfect the world was.
I wish this was something grownups could do as well. It would make each day so much easier to get by, won’t it?

The Auto Rickshaw tales

Autorickshaws are to commuters in developing countries what cabs are to those in the developed countries. At first, they resemble tiny insects trying not to get squished under the large ungainly tyres of other co habitants of Indian roads but beware, do not get fooled by their harmless demeanor. More often than not these bright coloured seemingly innocent three wheeled capsules are operated by greasy haired, roguish Autorickshaw Waale Bhaiyyas who have the ability to ruffle the calmest of feathers. In the past 7 years, especially after me and my beloved Scooty parted ways, I have had the misfortune of availing the services of these strange characters to drive me around the city. There are several categories in which these people can be profiled. Here is an ode to some of my favourite ones  :)

1) The one with the verbal diarrhoea: I would like to confess at this point that I am absolutely not a morning person. In fact I usually try to fight the morning blues by keeping quiet and steering clear of potentially explosive encounters which can bring out the worst in me. So, one typical Monday morning (morning blues accentuated manifold by virtue of the fact that it was a Monday), I scrambled into an ordinary looking autorickshaw driven by a chubby overgrown child like bhaiyya. As soon as the three wheeled contraption whirred to life, the aforementioned man-child fired a volley of questions at me:  "Madam, kaun sa raaste se chalne ka? Left'aa'? Straight'aa'? Aajkal baut baut traffic aane laga hai ma?"…he driveled on in broken Hindi as I felt myself being sucked into a vortex of question marks. I stuck to monosyllabic answers in a desperate attempt to dissuade him from further verbal assault but did my ploy work? No sir, my Auto waale Bhaiyya was determined to use me as a piece of sandpaper to polish the rough edges of his Hindi language.By the time I reached my destination, my head was spinning. Viva exams from my engineering days weren't half as grueling as the past one hour in the autorickshaw from hell. Ever since that fateful day, I say a silent prayer each time I get into an autorickshaw, hoping that I do not have a similar experience again.

2) Schumacher ke bhatije: Now these are the weirdest of all specimen. They like to believe that their green and yellow toy vehicles are just as good or perhaps even better than the Ferraris and Jaguars driven by the likes of Michael Schumacher. They fly over speed breakers, zip through potholes and swerve between lanes to avoid traffic with the dexterity of a cheetah. As the unsuspecting passenger is flung mercilessly from one corner to the other the Auto waale Bhaiyya  races towards an invisible finish line. Maybe it isn't a race, maybe the Auto waale Bhaiyya  has bad memories of a swarm of angry bees chasing him and he just cannot get over the trauma. Whatever be the reason, at the end of the day, yet another poor commuter is left with a mutilated back bone and a fit of nausea.

3) The one with the Tsunami in his mouth: Of all the repugnant people on earth, this one is the worst. The road, to him is a giant wash basin in which he constantly spits. One might wonder from where he gets this unsual quantity of spit in his mouth. I personally believe that it is a disease which causes Tsunami like waves of spit to burst out of the patient's mouth at regular intervals. Much to the horror of the passengers, who may conclude that the poor Auto waale Bhaiyya has tuberculosis or some other ghastly disease, he continues to cough and spit violently while somehow managing to steer the auto rickshaw through traffic. Made popular by Leo di Caprio as Jack in Titanic, spitting while emanating a sharp guttural noise has taken the fancy of many Auto waale Bhaiyyas . I wonder if they also believe that it would help them bag a voluptuous Kate Winslet a.k.a Rose look alike. After several encounters with this variety, my self defence mechanism now includes an ipod and a set of headphones which not only safeguards me from them but also from their 'verbal diarrhoea' cousins.

4) The ugly one: Just when you are about to conclude that all Auto waale Bhaiyyas fall in one of the above three categories only, the most vicious fourth category attacks. Step aside for the expletive spouting devil who exudes a repulsive arrogance and reeks of greed. The first question he asks you when you hail his auto is where exactly do you want to go. If where you want to go is not where he wants to go, he will give you such a dirty look that you would want to evaporate into thin air. In the rare circumstance that he agrees to take you to your destination, he will proceed to run some complex arithmetic in his head which would result in him quoting a ridiculously high fare. Incidentally this figure has nothing to do with the black fare meter installed inside or the actual distance between the start point and the end point. Try haggling only if you are thick skinned enough to stand resolutely as a tide of abuses washes over you. Also, never ever expect him to return the 5/4/3/2 rupee change that he owes you. If you do, he will give you a mean smirk and ride away leaving you standing on the road, palm stretched out, feeling like a beggar. While dealing with this variety, fortify yourself with Glucon D and take deep breaths to keep yourself focused else you might lose the battle. The I-know-the-ACP-so-you-better-get-your-act-together bit usually works wonders with them. However, I do hope that this variety is soon extinct.

5) And finally the good one…I never thought that I would have an opportunity to come face to face with a specimen from this variety but lo and behold just like a specter he appeared in front of me one fine day. His fare meter was perfect, the passenger seat was not broken and I did not have to worry about sliding off each time the auto rickshaw went over a speed breaker, he spoke little but whenever he did he was polite and last but not the least he was perhaps the most well behaved and immaculately dressed Auto waale Bhaiyya  I had ever met. That day there was no blaring music hurting my ears, no hurling on the road and no broken bones after the ride. There wasn't even a photoshopped Karishma/Aishwarya/Sushmita, bearing leech like eyebrows, staring at me from a poster taped to the interior of the auto. This was an auto rickshaw straight from Paradise. Had I died and gone to heaven? When I received the exact change for the 100 rupee note I gave, I couldn't contain myself and blurted out, "Bhaiyya, this has been the best auto ride I have ever had.  Thank you ! ". He beamed at me and rode off into the horizon in search of yet another lucky passenger.