eyes261181's Blog

Okay, the timing of this blogpost isn’t right. Especially after I declared to the world that I am getting married soon. My global fans were quite sad to hear this news. They simply enjoy my posts about my troublesome girlfriends, and they feared I may stop talking about the lovely girls in my life once I get married. So I decided to write one last post about my (latest) girlfriend.
 
My (latest) girlfriend is sick. And when I say ‘sick’, I don’t mean pathetic or sad. I mean she is literally sick, or unwell. It’s no fun to be unwell. And it’s even lesser fun when your girlfriend is unwell. Since last two days, my girlfriend (I mostly avoid mentioning their names as by the time the blogpost is published, I am dumped by them) has been sneezing and coughing to her heart’s content (if that’s the right proverb to use here). And while doing all that, she has been complaining about her ill health endlessly on phone and through SMSes. As her parents are away, I am the one who needs to run with her to the doc, and buy medicines (of course, on my own credit card).
 
Someone advised her to drink ginger tea. So I made a kettle-full of ginger tea for her quite gingerly. Then her mother rang, and advised her to inhale hot water through a vaporizer. So here I was, in her kitchen (my presence in her apartment was till date restricted to the living room and her bedroom ), trying to locate the vaporizer amid the mesh of utensils.
 
And then, she was hungry. So we ordered food (of course, again on my own credit card) from outside. Whether she is down with cold, cough or fever, my girlfriend’s appetite is affected never (sorry for that poor rhyme effort).
 
After gulping down a bottle of Coke (her cold, cough notwithstanding) and three slices of pizza (its junk food nature notwithstanding), she dozed off, only to get up in the morning. I was there, sleeping (unfortunately) on the sofa, and the boxes of pizza and bottles of Coke still lying on the table. Sensing that I may have to clean up the mess, and even make another kettle-full of ginger tea for her, I decided to quietly sneak away.  
 
Her parents are back home now, and she is recovering fast. She has now decided to break off with me as I am getting married to someone else. Being a boyfriend of a sick girlfriend has taught me one important thing: You are always busier than Santa Claus is on the midnight of 24th of December. But the difference is that Santa Claus gets appreciation. I got the boot.

After reading the title, if you thought I am referring to some celebrity’s upcoming wedding, you are wrong. Of course, if you consider me as a celebrity, then you are correct.
 
Yes!!!
 
I am getting married on April 26th. After carefully considering proposals of hundreds of (beautiful) girls, I zeroed in on one. I chose to announce this good news through my blog as I didn’t want to listen to the sound of hearts breaking.
 
It’s still more than a month to go for my suicide (my close friends, who are already married, use that word to describe marriage). The courtship period has been amazing, with the girl discovering my (world-class, Wodehousian and Mark Twainish) sense of humour, among other things. My credit card bills have sky rocketed. I have been visiting the ATM more frequently than the washroom. I now know almost all restaurants and shopping malls in Mumbai. My parents are in joyous mood, I rarely find time for my friends and my boss has already agreed to my honeymoon holidays.
 
Please don’t ask which girlfriend I am marrying. All my 37 girlfriends (that’s the correct figure; I checked twice) are now history for me. I have informed them all about my decision to get married. I must tell you, they all are really heart-broken. Some are threatening suicide, some are simply weeping whole day, and some are plotting to sabotage my wedding. All in all, a real tough task balancing my heart-broken girlfriends, and my heart-stealer fiancee.
 
And I now hope I will stop getting friend requests on Facebook from single girls (and start getting friend requests from married ones). Though this is definitely not my last blogpost, it’s the last as far as my flirty habits are concerned. No more can I write about my girlfriends and their antics. But on the other hand, I can now write about my wife. I hope she provides me enough fodder for my blogposts. My honeymoon should be an awesome experience. Though I (obviously) won’t narrate ‘each and every thing’ that takes place in my honeymoon, I would definitely come up with some interesting stories in my now-famous world-class, Wodehousian and Mark Twainish writing style.
 
Now you all, get hold of your keyboard and congratulate me and my wife for our upcoming wedding. Any advice from married ladies and gentlemen would be appreciated. Gifts will be appreciated even more. Let me know if you need my postal address. Haha.

Ever since I turned eight, I have heard one dialogue umpteen number of times: You are wearing glasses, still can’t you see this?
 
I am yet to understand why people think that those wearing glasses are able to see more clearly. Some people have even accused me of being able to see more than others: You are wearing glasses, that’s why you could see that.
 
The reason I am getting suddenly personal with my glasses is that my (latest) girlfriend is not happy with them. She wants me to wear contacts. I told her that even Bill Gates and Warren Buffet wear glasses. But then she compares my bank balance with theirs, and renders my argument baseless.
 
In India, contacts are very important. No, I am not referring to contact lenses. I am referring to the acquaintances you need to have to get things done in your favor. If only I had such contacts, I would have been far more successful (or shall I say just successful) today. Alas, what I have is neither those contacts nor the contacts that one wears over the eyeballs. I have my lovely looking glasses, which always manage to grab the wrong eyeballs, especially of my (latest) girlfriend.
 
I was eight years old when these glasses started their love affair with my eyes. Three years from now, the double couple (my two eyes and the two frames of my glasses) would celebrate the silver jubilee of their romance. Doctors advised me to eat a lot of carrots to improve my eyesight. Few days back, I realized I could have bought a Mercedes from the money I spent over the years on eating carrots.
 
After my girlfriend (thankfully) threatened to ditch me over my glasses, I decided to go for contacts. She took me to an optical shop in a sprawling shopping mall. The prices tagged on the lenses were so high that my eyeballs almost popped out. While my girlfriend was eyeing the eye lenses, I was eyeing their prices. She is an expert in choosing contacts, having changed them at least once a year. Her birthday wishlist comprises a set of gifts: a new cell phone, new contacts, new purse, and a new boyfriend. The first three are fulfilled by her dad. The last one by herself. Needless to say, I am the latest and already on notice, thanks to my supposedly stupid glasses.    
 
I just didn’t want to go for contacts. Divorces are bad, and I wanted my eyes to keep romancing the glasses on my nose. So I simply kept on rejecting the lenses that the shopkeeper showed, while holding my glasses close to my heart and gulping down few glasses of water. Finally, my girlfriend got irritated and pulled me out of the shop.
 
“You don’t want to wear lenses, am I right?” she screamed. I could see our break-up.
 
“Fine. You only love two things. The glasses on your nose and the glass of beer you gulp in parties,” she tried to play on words with this master wordsmith. I was a bit worried. She had never got so emotional. I hoped she wasn’t really in love with me.
 
“I think we should stop talking to each other.” She announced the good news with tears in her eyes, and left through the glass door, leaving me with my glasses. Two days later, she messaged me to say sorry. She had to do that. After all, her birthday was months away, and no new boyfriend was in sight so far.
 
I sent her a heart-shaped smiley, and then enjoyed few romantic moments at her house in the evening. That’s the only time I part with my glasses. Boss, I need glasses to read, not kiss.
 

Okay. So now that you have already clicked on the title of this story/blogpost, I want to confess something. This story has nothing to do with Facebook. In the last few months of my (terrible) blogging, I realized that any post about Facebook attracts more readers than posts which don’t blabber about FB. If you don’t believe me, check the number of views I have got for my posts that have ‘Facebook’ in its title. So I just decided to include the word ‘Facebook’ in the title and deceive my universe-wide readers.
 
I know the repercussions of this naughty behavior and how my fans would react. Some polar bear may throw snow at me straight from Antarctica. Some female alien may remove me from her ‘friends’ list on FB (hey, see I talked about FB! I didn’t deceive). The Nobel Prize committee may withhold my name for this year’s Nobel in literature. Steve Jobs may throw a rotten apple at me from the cloud. And Kristen Stewart may dump me.
 
The rotten apple reminds me of Newton. Before defying gravity himself by leaving for the heavenly abode (I believe heaven is somewhere up there in the clouds), he left behind some laws. And in-laws as well. But that’s his personal matter.
 
However, there are some laws that he simply forgot to mention. So I decided to put them into words here. Do let me know if you find these true. I have experienced them myself, and hence this effort (in Newton’s name).
 
Law of Restart: Nine out of ten technical problems with your computer can be resolved by restarting it. Corollary: If you do it yourself, what will the IT guy do? Go for another smoke?

Law of Search: The first place to look for anything is the last place you would expect to find it. 
Corollary: It will still not be there.
 
Law of Laundry: The shirt you desperately want to wear today is in the laundry.

Law of Elevators: The elevator at the farthest distance from you will arrive first. People who stand in front of you are the ones who want to get down last.
 
Law of Salary Hike: The more the increment you get, the more taxes you pay. Consequently, the net income remains the same.

Law of Absence from Work: The fewer holidays you take in the first half of the year, the fewer holidays you get in the latter half of the year due to more work pressure.

Law of Trains: The train traveling in the opposite direction arrives first, while you wait on the platform for yours.
 
Law of Living: As soon as you start doing what you always wanted to be do, you'll want to do something else.

Law of Logging Out: When you leave late from work, there is nobody to notice and appreciate you. When you leave work early, you will meet your HR manager in the elevator.

Law of Cafeteria: The day I carry my own lunchbox to work, there is something very tasty available in the office cafeteria.

Law of Friendship: The friend whom you meet suddenly after lot of years is earning more than you, and has a prettier wife.
 
Law of Blogging: Pretty girls add me on Facebook, and appreciate my blogposts. The rest too do the same.

“Why don’t you take the staircase? A bit of exercise is good,” my mother-plus-health trainer advised.
 
 “No, I will go by the elevator. Climbing four storeys doesn’t seem to be a good idea,” my lazy mind replied. My mother wanted me to deliver a set of keys to a lady, who forgot it at our place when she dropped in for a chit-chat session over the problems faced by our residential complex in the recent times.
 
FLASHBACK!
 
(20 minutes ago….)
 
 When she had arrived at our house with a one foot wide smile, I wondered what could be the reason. It was only after she went into the ‘political mode’ that I realized she was here for campaigning. Her son-in-law is running for the corporation elections next month, and she wanted to grab the precious five votes from our house.
 
She left our house with a victorious smile since my mother assured her that our votes were all hers. Her son-in-law’s list of assurances included a library, garden, and gymnasium in our locality.
 
“The garden will be as big as…….,” the lady was scouting for an idiom.
 
“As big as the potholes in our locality?” my naughty mind was about to ask this question, when my mother chipped in: a lake?
 
“Yeah, yeah…as big as a lake,” the lady agreed shamelessly.
 
After gulping down a glassful of lemonade, she left. But she forgot her keys on our table. So my mother assigned me the task of delivering the keys back to her.
 
“But she will come and collect it,” I tried to avoid the task assigned.
 
“No, you go and give it to her. She is the mother of our next corporator. She will always remember your assistance,” my mother uttered her prophecy.
 
CUT TO THE PRESENT!
 
I was waiting for the elevator patiently. There are three elevators in my building, and all of them are useless. One is always on the top floor, one at the ground and the last one runs non-stop without taking a halt on any floor. I had to wait for at least a couple of minutes before I finally got into one. I was only hoping I meet the same lady-cum-campaigner in the elevator so that I handover the keys there itself.
 
The door opened, and my heart skipped a beat or two. A teen girl, with a book and purse in hand, was standing inside…..alone! I looked left, then right…saw no one else, and joyfully entered the elevator. The girl shifted back and started staring at the indicator above the door. To kill time, I looked toward the board on the right: IN CASE OF POWER FAILURE, DO NOT PANIC.
 
I wished there was a power failure….now!
 
And the elevator stopped. Not on any floor, but in between. I looked back. The girl was looking at me as if I stopped the elevator. I may not be good-looking, but I definitely do not look like a villain. I pressed the emergency button…and gosh! The button just popped out and dropped on the ground. The girl gave me another suspicious look. I checked my cell phone. There was no network coverage.
 
I asked the girl to give me her hair pin. “Why?” she reacted as if I asked for her skirt.
 
“Do you want to get out or not?” I asked in a harsh tone, giving a full stop to my romantic mood. By now, we both had started sweating. I took her pin and inserted in the socket where the emergency button was put up. Thankfully, the bell rang. I hoped there was someone who was hearing the bell, and that particular someone was close to the building.
 
“Thank God!” the girl said. Either I was god for her, or she really thought god entered my brain and made my mouth utter the words “Can I have your hair pin”.
 
“Do you think anyone is hearing the bell?” she asked after noticing that no one was responding from outside.
 
“Do you think they know we are stuck?” “Do you think the power will be back?” I wished the same god that she thanked educates her with the fact that there was no way I could find out the answers to her questions.
 
“What’s your name?” I asked. I was back in my romantic mood.
 
“Meghna,” she replied while rubbing off the sweat from her forehead, but still managing a smile.
 
“You stay in this building? Haven’t seen you before.”
 
“No, I was here to meet my uncle, Mr. Bhoir. He is running for elections, you know. He is going to win from your locality,” she started her campaigning at the first available opportunity. My imagination started running wild. The girl will tell her uncle how helpful I was…then if he wins, he will happily reward me…either with the girl or gold. Either way, I was fine.
 
“Hello, look up!” a voice screamed, breaking my dream. It was that of the security guard. He had opened the door with the emergency key.
 
“You go first,” I showed courtesy to the girl. I held her delicate hand in my hand and helped her climb. When she got out, I handed her the keys.
 
“It’s Mrs. Bhoir’s. She forgot it when she came to our house for campaigning.”
 
“Oh Okay. Thanks. I will handover the keys to her. And thanks for your help. You are a nice person.” I felt blessed. She waited until I was out safely. “I and my family will vote for your uncle. He is a very good person,” I returned the gesture.
 
 She started walking away. I suddenly realized her hairpin was still with me.
 
“Hello, Meghna! Your hairpin!” I screamed. The security guard’s eyes popped out over the thought that how come her hairpin was with me, and wonder what we did in the elevator.
 
“Keep it. Will collect it when I come the next time,” she said turning back smilingly, and getting into a taxi.

Gone are the days when people used to feel the most excited on getting a new job, or attending a birthday party. Nowadays, people are most ecstatic when they have something to post on Facebook – a photo, or a video or relationship status (from single to committed).
 
Agreed Facebook deserves all the success that it has achieved. It cruised ahead of Orkut even before the latter could realize that it was a hare that dozed off and the former was a tortoise who refused to snooze. Its young CEO is a shining example of a creative mind. But still the question that bothered me is that why Facebook is so popular in India. So I put my thinking cap on my head, and without using Google, tried to find out the reasons for its popularity in this billion-strong country.
 
Given my Einstein + Edison intelligence level, it didn’t take me long to figure out the reasons.
 
Man, it’s free! In a country where fuel is costlier than beer, and vegetables sell at the price of gold bars, people are bound to jump on something that is free of cost.
 
It’s a superb time killing tool for idle minds. The girl in my neighborhood chats for hours on her cell phone with her boyfriend, and when the chat is over, logs on to Facebook from the cell itself to check for any comments. Then again her boyfriend calls back. This goes on until she dozes off (but not before she updates her status to: Going to sleep).
 
For those who like to pass comments on anything that happens in the world, or at least with their friends, Facebook is the ideal place to be. What’s more, there are always few people who would ‘Like’ your comment, no matter how pathetic it was.
 
If you have got something new recently, be an iPad, bike or even a pair of socks, you can put a picture of it on Facebook. Rest assured, you will get a few likes even though no one actually cares whether you travel on a bike or a bullock cart.
 
People who have not yet lost their heart to anyone (or who didn’t find anyone interested in their heart) can spend time on Facebook checking love compatibility and friendship quotients. Moreover, girls that are usually found hanging out with some guy in real life are ‘single’ on Facebook.
 
You can send a friendship request to absolutely anyone and get away with it. What’s more, some pretty girl may even accept it, no matter where you actually stay or how you look.
 
If you are an ugly looking guy or girl, you can modify your snap on Picasa or Photoshop, and then upload it on Facebook. All pimples and dark spots disappear and you look no less than Brad Pitt or Kristen Stewart (depending on your gender).
 
With the arrival of Google+, I do not know how long Facebook will continue to be part of people’s life. Maybe, Facebook will still emerge as the tortoise that never snoozes. We Indians have the habit of trying to copy the western world, be it cinema or everyday lifestyle. As long as the western countries continue their love affair with Facebook, the social network should take it easy in India as well.
 
And those girls who liked this blogpost of mine, why not add me on Facebook? Just type Prabodh Phanse in the search box, and here you go. Lol.

“No problem is so big or so complicated it can not be run away from” – Charlie Brown in Peanuts

Life is full of problems. Well, at least mine is. I don’t know about you. But none of those problems seem to be big enough than the efforts I need to take to save income tax every year. So much so that even my ever-pending marriage seems to be a lesser evil (this statement is also a clue that I am searching for my bride, and you should be searching one for me rather than just laughing over my blogposts and situation).

This year, my company decided to be pro-active. No, not in increasing our salaries, but in levying income tax. We were asked to submit investments proofs by mid-December to avoid being taxed in January 2012. As usual, I slept over the mail until the last moment. It was only a week before the deadline that I realized I was in a soup and that Charlie Brown was a visionary (for proof, read the first line of this blogpost again).

“If you don’t invest your money, you would probably be spending it on useless things,” advised my company’s accountant, in a saintly tone.

“For example?” I asked.

“Like eating and living.”

“Oh my god! Eating and living are useless things? Then what are the useful ones? Playing poker in the club?” I was shocked to hear the accountant’s reply. For a moment, I saw a radical terrorist in place of him. Next, I thought he will say wearing clothes too is useless.

“No, no. I mean eating out at restaurants and paying rent for the place where you live.”

His clarification was a big sigh of relief, and brought him back in the league of ordinary citizens. My parents always advise me to save for my old age. Unfortunately, all that I save is not for my old age but for the dreadful month of March, when we are charged income tax here in India. And by shooting out a mail regarding submission of investment proofs in December itself, the company sent me on a spending spree.

I had read somewhere that people who complain about taxes can be divided into two classes: men and women. So true. Surprisingly, I have noticed that girls and women never complain about taxes. Forget about complaining, they don’t even discuss about taxes. May be they think that income tax too is something that their husbands or boyfriends are supposed to take care of. May be they don’t even check their salary slips. Whatever.

I wish during my school days, they had taught me how to deduct than how to subtract. By the time the deadline arrived, I had invested money in every scheme under the sun. After deducting all my investments from my annual income, I learnt that I will still end up paying six thousand rupees as income tax this year.

My heart sank like the Titanic. But unlike the fateful ship, I noticed the iceberg. Or shall I say, the silver lining. What if I had a girlfriend? I would have spent much more than six thousand rupees every year on keeping her happy and catering to her demands. What if I was married? My wife’s monthly grocery bill and other shopping would have been at least two-fold.

The whole trauma of making investments for saving tax suddenly seemed bearable. What looked like a root canal surgery without anesthesia, now seemed like Santa’s Christmas gift for me. As Charlie Brown could have said:

“No problem is bigger than having to pay taxes, and spending on a partner you can’t run away from.”

“Ask him to get up! It’s 8.30 now. How long does he want to sleep? I need his help.”
 
My dad was firing on all cylinders. Even though Diwali was over, and fire crackers were done and dusted with, explosions happen round the year in my home.
 
After watching a horror movie until late last night, all I wanted is a sound sleep. I got addicted to watching horror movies courtesy my friend, who claims to have a ‘mini library’ of horror movie DVDs at home. The Exorcist, The Omen, The Shining, The Ring…you name it, and I have watched it. And after watching, I have spent sleepless nights staring at the fan above me, and getting up scared even at the lightest movement of the bed sheet or the mattress.
 
But I prefer not let my parents know about it. Else, my mom will never allow me to watch these movies, and I will have to be content with watching the never-ending soap operas on the television.
 
Dad’s bombing waked me up. I have a Christian family staying in the opposite apartment. They spend their Sundays so lethargically. Even at 11 in the morning, they are sipping coffee. After lunch, they take a nap. Then they play some badminton, or just roam around before going to some restaurant for dinner. I always wish to spend my Sundays in similar fashion, just doing nothing productive. However, my dad thinks otherwise. He feels Sundays are for cleaning the house. Right from the store room to the drawers, everything has to be first dusted, and then washed. Both I and my mom are held at ransom by my dad, who arms himself with a broom, a duster, a vacuum cleaner and a wet cloth, and asks us to empty the drawers and other furniture. The slightest laziness we show, he screams like a dinosaur. He does not know how many (chicken) eggs are there in the refrigerator, but he very well knows where cockroaches and mosquitoes exactly lay their eggs in our house. 
 
First step is to empty the place that is to be cleaned (time consumed: 30 minutes). Then, cleaning everything with a brush or a dry cloth (time consumed: 60 minutes). Once manual cleaning is done, take a vacuum cleaner and try to suck in the dust stuck in all nooks and corners (time consumed: 30 minutes). Then, take a wet cloth and try to wipe out stern stains on walls or furniture (time consumed: 30 minutes). Meanwhile, your back announces its pain. Finally, things are kept back into the drawer, etc. and then the floor is mopped (time consumed: 60 minutes).
 
In between all these gruesome steps, I and my mom frequently look at each other as well as at the clock. When finally all the six rooms of our house are cleaned, we heave a big sigh of relief. My dad goes to take a bath. We both look at each other and simply try to convey a message through our eyes, without saying anything: Next Sunday, I am going to run out of the house in the morning itself.

 
Few weeks back, I had written a blog post/story about my experience in a call center, and how I almost had a nightmarish time surviving there. (Those who missed that story can simply type ‘The most read blog post ever’ in Google, and the search engine shall return the appropriate result).
 
In that story, I had mentioned how I underwent a training session for a voice-based job intended to serve customers in the USA. My fans across the world were mesmerized by the way I described my nightmarish experience with the call center. Here are some reviews that I received:
 
“Amazing! Fantabulous! Worth reading a thousand times” – William Shakespeare (via heavenmail)
 
“Brought tears in my eyes. So emotional” – Bhaaloo, the polar bear (from Antarctica)
 
“The new bestseller” – The Newer Yorker Times
 
“So humanly” – E.T., the alien
 
It’s been more than eight years since I left (rather, ran away from) that call center. Has the situation changed today? Perhaps not. Young boys and girls in Indian metros are still competing with owls and nightjars, and working in office even on festivals like Diwali.
 
Will the scenario be same 10 years from now? Definitely not. Going by the way American and European economies are digging their own grave, it seems the script would remain the same but the characters would change.
 
Year: 2021
Location: A call center in Texas, California or New York
Exact place: Training room of the call center
Time: 11.30pm (Of course, American time, not Indian)   
Day: Doesn’t matter
Characters: A trainer, and his trainees (and umpteen glasses of hot chocolate to drive away the sleep)
 
It’s the first day of training. 500 candidates had applied for 20 vacant posts of customer care executives. These 20 shortlisted candidates will have to offer voice-based customer service to customers calling from India. Due to the time difference, the executives would work in night shifts. They would work five days a week (the two-day holiday need not necessarily be on a weekend). They won’t get any other public holiday, be it Independence Day or Christmas. Leaves would be sanctioned, but only in case of a death in the family, or wedding. Rest assured, you will still get a call from your Team Leader during your vacations requesting you to join back early.  
 
In other words, the tables have turned. Outsourcers have now become outsourcees. American companies are earning in rupees. When rupee falls, their revenues go down.
 
The trainer enters. His name is Harry. But for his Indian clients, he is Hari. After a quick round of introduction, he asks every trainee to adopt an Indian name so that they can fool Indian customers to believe that the call center is in India itself.   
 
So Gary chose to be Gursharan, Jack became Jagan and Senorita was rechristened Sita.
 
“How would you greet the customer in the morning?” Harry asked.
 
“Super bat,” Senorita screamed even before others could raise their finger to answer.
 
“I guess you meant suprabhaat. That’s okay. Remember to say ‘No’ at the end of every sentence?”
 
“No?”
 
“Yup. Every sentence in Indian English ends with no…..You are getting me no? You will pay the charges no? I am here to help you no,” Harry was explaining in an animated manner. “You can put ‘no’ at the end of any sentence in the world.”
 
“The next important word is ‘only’. It should be pronounced as ‘wonly’ for a certain section of people.” “Use this word to pass the blame or take credit.”
 
“For example: You only asked me to say that.”
 
“Next very very important word is yaar,” Harry moved on to the next word of wisdom. “Yaar actually means friend. But you can use it for anyone in any scenario. Joy, anger, frustration, appreciation……yaar has to be there.”
 
“Come on, yaar” “What yaar?” “Great yaar” “Shit yaar”
 
“So can anyone use all the words that I taught in a single sentence?” Harry shot a question.
 
“What yaar, you only asked me disconnect the call no,” Jack aka Jagan replied even before Senorita aka Sita could open her mouth.

Apple is a very lucky fruit. Globally, it is the first English word a child is taught in school. A for apple is the kid’s salute to the widely cultivated fruit. ‘An apple a day keeps the doctor away’ goes a popular saying, obviously not endorsed by any doctor. ‘And if the doctor is a lady, keep the apple away’ goes the continuation of the popular saying, probably endorsed by some flirty lady doctor.
 
The world has been deeply defined and influenced by a tale of three apples. First apple was the one eaten by Adam and Eve on the eve of Adam’s birthday (well, not actually. I just tried to pun). Eve said to Adam: An apple a day will keep the doctor away. Adam replied: Since you are a pretty lady, I will (better) keep the apple away. And then they sinned, immortalizing apple as the symbol for knowledge and temptation.
 
Then, there was the second apple. This apple fell on a certain guy called Isaac Newton, following which he discovered gravity. I wonder if it was a coconut that fell on his head instead of the apple, he would have had a memory loss, and not even remembered the spelling of apple.  
 
And then, there was the third apple. This one didn’t fall on anyone’s head. Instead, it came out of the head of a maniac called Steve Jobs. Though I am yet to purchase an Apple product (thanks to its premium pricing), I feel the company has done enough to call itself a true innovator.

The Macintosh is the sleekest computer ever. Even its skeleton must be looking sexier than Microsoft’s PCs.
 
When Apple created the iPod, Walkmans became outdated. The iPhone redefined the look for cell phones. It also spurred China-made clones available at dirt-cheap prices. In fact, if Apple revolutionized phones, China has redefined clones. When a single SIM iPhone was launched by Apple, China came up with dual SIM iPhones. For every Nokia, China has Nokla and for every iPhone, there is an ePhone. These phones are best suited for kids who want to play games, and just find joy in pressing the buttons randomly. My 5-year old cousin has a China-made iPhone (called ePhone), which he uses to give me missed calls. How he manages it is a mystery for me.
 
In my previous organization, one of our clients was O2. The telecom company was the exclusive reseller of iPhones in the UK, and we use to handle their customer care from India. Their executives had flown down to our office to showcase the new iPhone. On the first weekend of their official visit to India, these guys went to Mumbai’s Crawford Market for shopping. One of the guys was proudly displaying his brand new iPhone, expecting admiration in return from the local shopkeepers and onlookers. He stopped in front of a small shop to check out some cell phone accessories such as ear phones and screen guards. To his horror, the shopkeeper’s kid was holding an exact replica of the iPhone, and playing songs on it louder than an amplifier. Needless to say, our client had to keep his ‘original’ iPhone back in his pockets. He was later informed that China-cloned iPhones had hit the markets even before Steve Jobs reached home after announcing the launch of the original iPhone.
 
 Just when I thought Apple had innovated enough, they came up with the iPad. While I gifted myself a simple Nokia phone on my last birthday, my (wealthy) girlfriend got an iPad from her (wealthier) father as her birthday present. She now flaunts the iPad in her hand as if a college student holds a notepad or a book.   
 
Realizing that it takes two to tango, Nokia and Microsoft have joined hands to come up with Windows Mango. While apparently it seems a bit sheepish to call your product Mango just because your biggest rival is called Apple, what remains to be seen is whether Nokia is able to upset the Applecart (pun intended).
 
P.S.: Steve Jobs has reached heaven and is working in alliance with God to launch a product line called iGirlfriend and iWife. It’s a remote that can be used on your girlfriend/wife. It shuts her eyes whenever she approaches a shopping mall, and also has a mute button.

Disclaimer: Though this story talks about American economy, I am not going to bombard you with words such as GDP, recession, Fed, Eurozone, austerity, debt, deficit and default. It’s a view as seen from a layman’s eyes.

==
 
This conversation involves three characters: My cousin Vaibhav (an avid reader of The Economic Times), my mother (a non-MBA, totally naive about the economic terms mentioned in the disclaimer above) and I (who needs no introduction). Most of the conversation took place in Marathi. However, I have translated it in English as this site does not have the facility of subtitles.
 
On a bright (and surprisingly sunny, considering India’s new-found, never-ending monsoon) Sunday morning, I was busy gathering the pages of The Economic Times scattered all over the living room, courtesy the super-fast fan. My mother dropped in and switched off the fan. As she bagged her Marathi newspaper to read, my cousin entered the scene and took hold of The Economic Times. Left empty-handed, I picked up a pamphlet and joined the reading session.
 
 “Standard & Poor’s has downgraded US’ credit rating from AAA to AA-Plus,” Vaibhav fired the opening salvo. He is in his element while discussing how the US should go for more austerity measures. At the same time, he hates anyone who advises him to cut down on his shopping and fuel expenditure.      
“AAA, AA…..these sound like battery sizes….sort of Duracell,” the non-MBA character in the room said with a poker face. “They are not battery sizes, but credit ratings by a company called Standard & Poor’s,” Vaibhav clarified after recovering from a burst of laughter.
 
“What name is that? How sub-standard and poor the creativity of people who named that company,” my mom continued with her fours and sixers. 
 
The ratings downgrade made me nostalgic. Back in the nineties, in any city in India, when people asked a kid what he wanted to do after growing up, his answer was tailor-made: I want to go to America. Nowadays, I understand, when a kid in Manhattan or Florida is asked the same question, his answer is: Maybe I will go to India. The kid is quite right. Half of American jobs are with us. Perhaps, when he comes to India for a job, he will feel homely while handling calls of his countrymen.
 
As far as Indians are concerned, America has been replaced by Tihar jail as the most sought-after place.
 
“So does that mean the US kept on borrowing for the last 50 years, and never bothered to return the money?” asked my mom.
 
“Yes,” I replied.
 
“Our farmers are better than the US then. At least they commit suicide and put an end to borrowing. US leaders won’t even do that,” my mom.
 
“So when Standard & Poor’s downgraded the US to AA-Plus, I learnt Obama downgraded Standard & Poor’s to AIIC….As If I Care!” I commented, trying to match my mom’s sense of humour.
 
“So the real smart dude in this whole episode has been China. It loaned and loaned to the US until Uncle Sam forgot the count of his debt and the date of returning it,” Vaibhav said, showering his accolades on the inventors of triple shezwan fried rice (though I don’t know whether this menu item actually originated in China or at some road-side Chinese stall).
 
“Now, whenever the US will ask China to improve on human rights, China will ask the US to first return its money,” mom said, indicating that she may be the next subscriber of The Economic Times.
 
Few days back, I saw the movie 2012, which shows the world nearing an end. I think, the movie should have shown America coming to an end and the Chinese flag fluttering over the White House (and on the top of most other nations’ official buildings) in the years to come.
 
“I mean, why did US fight all these wars by borrowing a loan? This is like decorating your girlfriend’s house by borrowing money from your wife,” Vaibhav went wayward with his reasoning.
 
“Yup. So many wars they have indulged in. Vietnam war, Gulf war, Afghanistan war, Iraq war, Star Wars,” I tried to outclass Vaibhav in wayward reasoning.
 
“Hehe!!” Vaibhav endorsed my joke.
 
“So, who is to be blamed for this American mess? Taliban? Al-Qaeda? Or the American government?” he asked me, as if I really knew the answer.
 
“Columbus. He should have kept quiet after discovering America,” I fired the closing salvo, leaving Vaibhav and my mom in splits.

Warning: The scope of this story is strictly local. I am not sure how many readers outside Mumbai will understand the flavor of it. So polar bears, aliens and my international readers, please accept my apologies.

"Mumbai ka king kaun?”
 
Manoj Bajpai, better known as Bhikhu Mhatre, asked (and then himself answered) this question in the 1998 cult classic Satya. That was a time when the city was still not free of gang wars, which made people relate to the movie and the murky underworld. Thirteen years have passed since, and the baton of ‘Kings of Mumbai’ is now with someone else. Long gone are the gangsters. They have now been replaced by the city’s biggest pranksters, who are usually referred to as auto rickshaw drivers. I always wondered why these rickshaws are also called as autos. Maybe auto indicated automobile. I was wrong.
 
Auto means self, me, myself (as in, autobiography or autograph). So there lies the secret of our rickshaw drivers’ manmaani.
 
Somewhere, in some village in India, a proud father must be sitting relaxed in his armchair after learning that his son has decided to ‘stand on his own feet’. The son would be going to Mumbai and driving an auto rickshaw. For that, he does not need to buy an auto rickshaw. He just has to manage a license by ‘helping’ the RTO official with ‘money to buy sweets for his kid’, and the license is in hand without a driving test. Just as he will be sharing a single room with five to six other people (also from his native), he will be sharing the rickshaw as well. The same vehicle will be driven by two-three guys during the day. And mind you, none of them are the owners of the rickshaw. The actual owner of an auto rickshaw can’t be found even on Google.
 
And then, the prospective king of Mumbai joins the bandwagon of his senior pranksters. First, he is trained to say NO. “Kandivli?” NO! “Mulund?” NO! “Vikhroli?” No! “Dubai?” Still the same big NO. Once he has mastered the two-letter word, next up is a lesson in engineering. He ropes in the local Steve Jobs (read: the garage mechanic), who knows how to tamper the meter and make it run like Usain Bolt.
 
Well begun is half done. A breed called traffic police is the next target. While Team Anna is concentrating its efforts on tackling corruption at the highest level, our very own traffic cops continue to rake in the moolah in the form of haftas from the city’s pranksters. Next up is the railway timetable. Yes, my friend. To rule the city, the rickshaw driver needs to know the arrival and departure timings of all long-distance trains. Just as a would-be father waits patiently outside the operation theatre for the nurse to arrive with the baby, our rickshaw drivers wait for train passengers to arrive with their luggage. Honesty be damned, all that the driver needs to know is that the fare to be quoted to the helpless passenger should be at least ten times more than what the actual charge would be. Needless to say, the passenger does not have an option of bargaining as our pranksters always show unity during the passenger’s adversity.    
 
“Strike when the iron is hot, and the fuel price rises.” advices the union leader. “Never show that you are earning well.” “Never repair the torn seat.” The rickshaw driver notes down the ideological gems, while chewing the umpteenth gutkha.
 
All lessons learnt, the city’s blue-eyed man takes his seat, burns an agarbatti, starts the engine, plays his favourite Nadeem Shravan or Himesh Reshammiya number, and declares: Move aside Mumbaikars, here comes the KING. 

I always believed it’s the younger generation that goes crazy behind certain things as if they are as necessary as oxygen and underwear. Take for instance, Facebook and shopping malls. Teenagers spend more time on Facebook than they spend in their classes. They ‘Like’ most of the things their friends post on Facebook but they don’t like to meet those very friends or relatives. Simply because they do not have time.

In India, people are now increasingly getting inclined towards shopping at malls. On weekends, these malls are so flooded with crazy shoppers that the wafer thin customer service girls standing at the billing counter even forget to bill all the items! Few days back, my mom bought a toaster and few other things from an over-crowded shopping mall. The (wafer thin) girl at the billing counter was under so much pressure because of the long queue that she simply (and quite foolishly) did not bill the toaster, and passed it on for packing. When she told the total bill amount, my mom was visibly shocked. She looked at me to find out if I presented any discount coupon to the girl. Understanding the (lucky) situation, I pressed my mom’s shoulder with my fingers and gestured her to be quiet. When we were back home, I told her the story. Now, whenever she toasts bread, she smiles to herself. “Bread is good when the butter is cholesterol-free and the toaster is totally free,” she displays her wit.

Apart from shopping malls, there is another place where my mom likes to spend her weekends. No, it’s not Facebook or Twitter. Thankfully, my parents are quite uninterested when it comes to using computers. Else, we would have had three laptops in the house, with each family member communicating with the other through Twitter.
‘CURRY WAS SALTY’ – My dad would have tweeted.
‘THEN EAT AT RESTAURANTS’ – Mom’s usual witty reply, also on Twitter.
‘Lol :)’ – My short and sweet tweet.

Scary. Sometimes, it’s good to be illiterate towards technology.

My mom likes to spend time at exhibitions as much as in the kitchen. In India, we have these exhibitions almost every week. And these are not science exhibitions or an automobile expo. Most of the times, these exhibitions host non-branded day-to-day products. These products include clothes, kitchen appliances and toys. Nowadays, it’s a fashion to exhibit. Some exhibit joy, some display sorrow, some show-off their financial well-being, while some like to showcase their intelligence wherever they go. Needless to say, all these exhibitions draw attention. Add to that, exhibitions of non-branded products.

So what exactly is available in these exhibitions? Singapore sarees, Australian t-shirts, American glasses, Thai juice makers, Chinese briefs, and what not. Location of the exhibition: Either a playground (which is never available for children to play, thanks to political addresses and exhibitions) or a school premises. A banner saying ‘Hurry Up! Last three days left’ is displayed at the entrance. This banner is placed for the whole year. The last three days never seem to finish.

The quality of clothes sold in these exhibitions is as pathetic as the English speaking skill of the salesgirls. They start speaking in English first, but eventually turn to the local language after realizing that their English is confusing the customer more. Clothes are just piled up on tables or baskets. Some over-enthusiastic people would never pick the ones on the top of the pile. They would overturn the whole pile and pick the one at the bottom. With a sense of pride, they put the cloth on their body, only to realise that it has a big hole. They look here and there, and swiftly put the cloth back from where they picked it.  

Some people enter exhibitions for the mere joy of window shopping. They already know what is not available there, and would deliberately ask for that. This gives them the license to roam around. Some pick up shorts or inners from the pile of clothes and keep stretching the elastic unnecessarily. I never understood what joy they get out of it.

One of my friends once picked up a chequered shorts from the pile of clothes. Merrily, he placed it on his thighs and asked the sales girl, “Do you have a larger size for this?” The sales girl replied, “Sir, this is a ladies shorts. Men’s section is over there.” Needless to say, he did not go to the men’s section. We were out in a flash.

However, there are few people who shop whole-heartedly in these exhibitions. These include girlfriends and wives who are on a mission to force their partners to file for bankruptcy. They will buy items at double prices, won’t bargain at all, and even let the cashier keep the change. Away somewhere, in an air-conditioned office, a boyfriend or a husband is sweating over the prospects of facing a huge credit card bill.

Some sellers are quite smart. They shout tricky slogans. “Come here. Find out how to stay fresh for the whole day.” That itself is enough to attract customers, who think that the guy may be referring to some cosmetics. However, when they approach the stall, they learn that the guy is selling some China-made kitchen appliances. “With this appliance, you can cut onions in 15 seconds and get a glassful of lemon juice in 25 seconds. Save your time and stay fresh all day long.” Nobody believes him since the appliance is destined to last only for a couple of hours. However, the seller would still manage to fool someone with his skills. The buyer opens the appliance enthusiastically after reaching home. When he tries to use it, he realizes that it can’t be used as swiftly as the seller was displaying. Having realized that he has been conned, he places the appliance back carefully in the box, gift wraps it and patiently waits for someone’s anniversary.

Some exhibitions totally defy the concept of ‘sale’ or ‘discount’. Products seem to be over-priced rather than discounted. A huge bare chested and moustached man made of bronze and carrying a spade is often displayed at most of the exhibitions. Price: Rupees 12000!!! I wonder who buys such items. Maybe those who go for it, buy it to scare thieves or naughty kids.  

Few people lose theirs senses in such exhibitions. They complete one full round of window shopping by holding their hands at the back as if they are strolling in a garden.  Then they start another round without realizing that they have entered the exhibition again through the ‘In’ gate. If the exhibition is for items especially for ladies, you may find more men there. This gives them the opportunity to enjoy the eye candy.

With all these plant exhibitions, dog exhibitions, house exhibitions, auto exhibitions happening, I wonder if it is possible to hold a bride exhibition. Just walk in, examine, inspect, inquire and pick the girl you want. For life. No returns policy. No resale. Life would be so joyful then. At least mine.

 
Disclaimer: This is not humour. This story is about a tumour that just doesn’t seem to get out of my life.
 
I am turning 30 in a couple of months.
 
Now please do not shoot back with questions and statements like: 
When are you getting married?
Are you getting married at all?
Why are you still single?
Are you kidding?
Look at your friends, they are all married.
You are the only one left.
Are your parents looking for a girl?
Have you registered yourself on this particular matrimonial site?
Shall I find a girl for you?
 
All these questions and statements sting me so badly that I may any day prefer bees and porcupines stinging and shooting at me in tandem. But alas, life has taught me lot of lessons in the last 30 years. And most of these lessons I have learnt in the last few years. I have never experienced the phrase ‘An empty mind is devil’s workshop’ more than in the last few years, when almost all my friends got married and settled in life. That left me with ample time to think and ponder, as I spent most of my time alone and at home.
 
In the last few years, I stopped mingling with people. I realized that there were many positives and negatives in me. Future started worrying me by the day. I now always imagine where I will be five years from now. Two years back, Orkut and Facebook were a rage for me. Today, I have realized that most of the ‘friends’ on my friends list are not actually my friends. They are just random additions. People I lost touch with are the ones who are still the closest to my heart. But these people were perhaps never mean or rude or unfaithful. They too may be as confused, and hence don’t know how to approach me.
 
When I look at my job, I feel this is not even close to what I felt I would be doing after I passed out from the college. Changing a job gives me a scare….a fright of having to start from the bottom again.
 
Life is a roller-coaster now. One day, I am happy. The other day, bad luck strikes again. Sometimes, people remember me all of a sudden, and sometimes, I spend days at home all alone and confused. I want to go back a few years, change few things and start all over again. But then I realise that the past is now gone and the only option left is to look forward to the future.
 
One night stands and hook-ups sound cheap to me. I look at the pictures of people whom I loved dearly, and wonder how they could leave me alone even though they always said that I was a good person. I lie on my bed and dream of meeting someone of very decent nature. Sometimes I ponder as to whom I actually love.
 
I worry about my bank balance, my finances, my future and becoming rich. Though I want to emerge as a winner, I am just as happy with what I am getting as of now in the form of money.
 
Perhaps, whatever I have written above is everyone’s state of mind. I don’t know. I only know that I am waiting for my life to take a new turn. Fingers crossed, since years.

 
Wait! Wait! Wait!
 
This is just a general appeal, not an offer. So all you female readers, please put back your swords in place. I am still the ultra-decent, clean-minded blogger of yours. If you find any word with a ‘double meaning’, it is purely coincidental and accidental, and you need not go for my dental.
 
What I meant to say is that we all need to get enough sleep. At least eight hours in a day. You all may be wondering why I have suddenly started talking about health. Even my most ardent fans (including polar bears and aliens) won’t expect me to talk about health. After all, I am the world’s most famous humorist (after P.G. Wodehouse). I am supposed to talk humor, and not discuss things about sleep, heart or tumor.
 
But tell me, what do you expect of a man who used to get only five hours of sleep until recently. A man whose girlfriend worked in the night shift, while he himself worked in the day. My girlfriend gave me missed calls at 2am in the night, the reason being her break time. So she wanted me to talk to her while she gulped burgers and colas in her office cafeteria. Fed up of all this, I decided to dump.
 
No, not my girlfriend. I asked her to dump her job, which she described as ‘graveyard shift’. I learnt all witches and black magic magicians have gone out of business ever since these call centres with graveyard shifts mushroomed in India. Nights no more belong to the ghosts in white cloaks or to the screeching owls. In cities like Mumbai, you will see people roaming or smoking even at 2am in the night. Dinners happen at midnight and breakfasts at 4am. My girlfriend too had a similar lifestyle which was taking a toll on my life and was a result of my sleep deprivation.
 
Finally, sanity prevailed and she quit that job. She has found a better one now. A day shift job with an Indian company, which, for a change, does not survive on outsourced work from the USA. Now, my girlfriend gives me calls during the afternoon, which I royally disconnect citing an important meeting (either with the hot receptionist or my ultra-sexy colleague who thinks tank tops and mini skirts are too much of a clothing, and that the management should be more liberal towards the dress code).
 
So what I was saying is that sleep is very necessary for all. At least eight hours in a day. Just like we need eight glasses of water every day. I don’t know what’s with this figure 8 that scientists find it so special. Eight hours of sleep, eight glasses of water, eight types of yoga, eight types of anger, eight wonders of the world (I being the eighth). I hope no scientist comes up with a research that concludes that eighth is the best year to lose virginity or get pregnant.
 
I realised the importance of sleep when I started losing it. Many people sleep for just 4–5 hours in a day. This includes those who are awaiting their ticket for the heavenly abode, and also those who work more than required for making their ends meet. Some sleep for twelve hours in a day. Needless to say, this includes bureaucrats who doze during office hours, as well as our dear politicians (I am avoiding using the word ‘leaders’), who sleep for five years only to wake up when the next elections are round the corner.            
 
During those night shift days (of my girlfriend), I used to feel very irritated throughout the day. I could not tell my boss that I did errors in my report because I could not sleep well last night, thanks to a romantic chat over the phone with my girlfriend at 2am. Sometimes, I dozed in the office only to be caught red-handed by the CEO, who happened to pass from my desk whenever I took my power nap. I overslept on weekends to take revenge on the amount of sleep I lost during the week. It was not just me but several others who behave strangely due to sleep deprivation only to find themselves in embarrassing situations. One day, I happened to touch the shoulder of the hot receptionist in my office since I found her dozing at her desk. She woke up suddenly and replied, “Please darling…not tonight. I am having a headache.” Needless to say, our CEO passed from there at the same time and he heard it. Since then, he gives me a suspicious look whenever he passes from my desk. Sometimes I feel I should go and clarify to him that I am not having any affair with that (hot) receptionist, and it was all due to sleep deprivation on the part of the (hot) receptionist.
 
Once my girlfriend quit her graveyard shift job, I started getting a peaceful sleep at least in the night. The best way to sleep on time is trying to do the thing you usually hate, like cleaning your cupboard or studying. Within no time, your brain will cooperate with you and your eyes will start inviting sweet dreams. Sleeping at work can be helpful as well, especially for newly married couples. They can stay awake at night and do more productive stuff.
 
I really feel sad for those who are not able to sleep properly due to different reasons, especially night shifts. I always believed only owls stay awake at night, and this skill should not be matched with by humans. My mantra of life can be summed up in three sentences of wisdom:
 
Live and let live
Love and get loved
Sleep and let sleep
 
Yawn……………………!!!!!
 

‘There are some things money can’t buy. For everything else, there is…….’ goes the tag line of a renowned credit card issuer. I liked this tag line very much. But only until last month. I now want them to change this tag line to something like this:
 
‘There are some things money can’t buy. And we will bill you even after you die’
 
One old man staying in my neighborhood passed away last month. He was a very enthusiastic person and never missed an opportunity to advice me on the ill-effects of smoking and drinking even though I never had those habits. His son was a heavy smoker and maybe that was the reason he did not want me to go the same way his son did. He collected my letters from the common letter box and dropped them at my place. And to return his gesture, sometimes I delivered his letters to his home.
 
“I am waiting for the day when you come with an invitation card of your wedding,” he used to say often. “My one foot is already on the banana peel and the other in the grave.”
 
His son and daughter-in-law both were employed and the old man used to stay at home alone. Two months after he passed away, I was checking our letter box when I came across a credit card bill in his name. Since it was Saturday, his son Sebastian was at home. I went upstairs and handed over the bill to him. He asked me to sit for a cup of tea since it had been quite a few days we had talked. After his dad passed away, I never felt like going to his home.
 
While I was sipping on the tea, he opened the bill. He had an amused look on his face. With a slight smile, he handed over the bill to me. The bank had billed the old man with the monthly service charge on his credit card. And to complete the joke, they had charged a late fee and interest on it. So his two-month bill read:
 
Purchases – Rs. 0/-
Service charge – Rs. 25/-
Late fee – Rs. 50/-
Interest – Rs. 1062/-
 
I grabbed the phone and dialed the bank’s customer service. After surviving the recorded templates of ‘press 1’, ‘press 2’, I finally reached the operator and tried to brief her about the scenario. I almost feel like winning a 400 meters hurdles race after successfully getting connected with the call girl (I mean, the girl on the call).
 
“Sir we can’t discuss the account details with anyone other than the card holder,” she said in a victorious tone.
 
“But the card holder died two months back,” I tried to bring her face-to-face with the facts.
 
“We will have to first confirm the card holder’s identity first. Only then, we can discuss the account details.”
 
“The card holder, Mr. Vivian Pereira, PASSED AWAY,” I was trying my best.
 
“Sir, can you confirm some account details?”
 
After answering few security-related questions, I finally managed to (probably) convince her that Mr. Pereira had left for the heavenly abode.
 
“Sir, this account was never closed by him. Can you please tell him to close the account?”
 
“He passed away two months back,” I said, showing supreme level of patience.
 
“Oh yes, you said that. I am sorry. But since the account was not closed, he was charged with late fees.”
 
“But the outstanding was zero. So what are the late fees for?”
 
“Sir, late fees are for not paying the monthly service charge on time.”
 
“The person who was supposed to pay died two months back. So since there is no service to that man anymore, why would you charge a service charge?”
 
“Sir, this is our procedure, Sir. You can ask the card holder to pay the service charge and then fill a small form to cancel the card.”
 
“He passed away two months back,” I said taking patience, tolerance and endurance to the next level.
 
“Oh yes, you said that. I am sorry again. His wife can pay the charges.”
 
“His wife passed away long time back.”
 
“Sir, you said the card holder passed away.”
 
“THE CARD HOLDER AND HIS WIFE ARE NO MORE IN THIS WORLD,” My tone rose to such an extent that our neighbors rang our doorbell to check if everything was okay.
 
“Oh Okay. I am sorry to know that. Please accept my heart-felt condolence, Sir. I understand what you must have gone through,” the girl showered sympathy and empathy, making optimum utilization of the templates given by her team leader.
 
“They were not my parents. They were my friend’s parents. I am sorting out this issue for him,” I tried to clear the eternal cloud of confusion.
 
“Oh Okay. Will you pass my condolences to him?”
 
“Yes, I will. Now will you please tell what the charges are all about?”
 
“Sir, because the service charge was not paid, the late fees were applied. And because the late fees and service charge both were not paid, interest was levied, Sir. And because interest, service charge and late fees were not paid on time, interest on that interest was levied, Sir. And then again that was not paid. So more interest, Sir. So service charge plus late fees plus interest plus more interest plus more interest totals up to Rs. 1117/-, Sir,” she heaved a big sigh of relief. “I hope you are not confused, Sir. Shall I repeat it again, Sir?”
 
“No, it’s okay,” I had surrendered to her bombardment of words. All I could remember was service charge-fees-interest-and more interest.
 
“Sir, the card holder….oh sorry…his wife…oh sorry again….someone else can settle these dues, Sir.”
 
“What if the bill is not paid?” I asked.
 
“We will report the card holder to the Frauds division and then to the Credit Bureau. That will affect his credit rating.”
 
“Whose credit rating?”
 
“The card holder’s. It’s a criminal case.”
 
“The card holder is no more.”
 
“Oh yeah, correct. Sir, can you fax us the death certificate?”
 
I noted the fax number. Fax machines seem to be never prone to quality checks. First time, the fax will go incomplete. Second time, the fax will be blank. Third time, the other person will run out of fax paper.
 
Finally, we managed to fax the death certificate.
 
After a lengthy discussion with her team leader, the call center executive came back on line.
 
“Sir, we will continue billing the card holder until the charges are paid and the card is canceled.”
 
I looked at my friend. “I don’t care if they continue billing. It’s the height of stupidity,” he screamed.
 
“Would you like to note her new billing address?” I asked, with my next reply in mind.
 
“Sure, Sir,” she uttered the word ‘Sir’ for the umpteenth time.
 
"St.John the Baptist Cemetery, Bandra West,” I said with a sarcastic smile.
 
"Sir, that sounds like a cemetery!"
 
"In my religion, in my country, dead people find themselves in the cemetery. WHAT THE HELL DO YOU DO WITH DEAD PEOPLE? FREEZE THEM???"
 
My voice seemed to have reached the bank’s headquarters. My friend informed me that he has not received a new bill since.

ARIES
You have a tendency to be pigheaded and premeditated in your actions. Basically, you don't give it a damn. Most people want to kick your ass but you are least bothered about it. You are the kind of pathetic person who will crack jokes at funerals.
 
TAURUS
Team player and cooperative are your most charming qualities. You gel well with everyone in your office because you are bisexual. You never wear clean clothes and save money on laundry by wearing jeans at work.
 
GEMINI
You are affected by multiple personality disorder. Your friends call you schizophrenic at your back. The number of sick leaves you take at work are more than the number of diseases that exist in this world.
 
CANCER
To err is human, to forgive is divine is your motto. People call you a dumb ass. Any Tom, Dick and Harry can come and pull your leg. I doubt if anyone will attend your funeral unless you announce free lunch before your cremation. 
 
LEO
You are the go-getter type of person, always ready to experience new thrills of life. In other words, you are a flirt. You have been kicked like a football by most of the girls but you still (shamelessly) jump from one flower to another like a butterfly.
 
VIRGO
You have a businessman-like acumen. You try to make money out of anything so much so that you are ready to sell your neighbor’s kidneys for that. You are lucky to be still alive as most of the people are hungry for your blood. You may be murdered anytime.
 
LIBRA
You appreciate whatever comes your way. In other words, you are an idiot. You think bullshit is a fertilizer. Your IQ level is lower than that of two cockroaches together.
 
SCORPIO
You are a true romantic at heart. You have a huge DVD collection of romantic movies. Most of these DVDs are pirated ones. In short, you buy cheap roadside stuff. You are planning to rent an apartment where you can stock your collection of porno CDs.
 
SAGITTARIUS
Books are your best friend. You read till you drop. Probably, you will become a lawyer and help criminals escape death sentences by preparing false evidences. You may be loved. But only by a dog.
 
CAPRICORN
Laziness is your virtue so much so that you sleep even in your dreams. You are good at multi-tasking. In other words, you screw up several things at once.
 
AQUARIUS
You are a foodie. You are so much obsessed with eating that you have named your male dog ‘candy’. You exercise everyday so that you can die healthier.
 
PISCES
You are a die-hard internet freak. You kiss your girl friend’s Facebook homepage everyday. Your dog has his own website. You never drink and drive, for the fear that you may bump a tree and spill your drink.

Which is the place you hate to visit the most? Graveyards? Workplaces? Hospitals? Government offices? Jails?
 
If you ask me the same question, my answer would be wedding ceremonies. No, I am not against marriages. In fact, I have been the most ardent supporter of this divine ritual. But somehow, in the last few years, I have started hating wedding ceremonies as much as criminals hate jails. I am all of 29 now and still unmarried. Most of my friends have already got married. Whenever I attend any wedding, people who meet me there ask me when I am getting married. And I simply get mad at this. Neither Google, nor Wikipedia and nor any astrologer in the world has so far been able to tell me when I will get married. It’s something that just does not seem to happen for me right now. I thought I would get married before Bush finds Saddam and Obama finds Osama. Now both Saddam and Osama are in the clouds, probably planning a cosmic terror attack but I am still unmarried. I have hence revised my target. I plan to get married before Facebook closes down. Now, this gives me lot of breathing space.
 
Most of my friends are females. However, they are strictly my friends. None of them has been bold and brave enough to say ‘I do’ to me. They all are either married or committed and keep on poking me on my single status. So I have prepared an ‘Answernaire’ (just like a questionnaire) for myself, which I unleash whenever any of my female friends asks me this question: Why haven’t you got married yet?
 
Answer No. 1: You have not asked me to get married to you yet.
2. Maybe I am plain lucky.
3. I can see what your husband is going through.
4. What? And end my great freedom?
5. I saw your husband at a divorce lawyer’s office last week. Is everything okay?
6. My fiancee is in jail. I will marry her as soon as she is acquitted of murder charges.
7. I don’t want to double my laundry and credit card bill.
8. My female boss does not want me to get married.
9. Government is soon to announce zero income tax for singles.
10. I want to but my girlfriend’s husband won’t agree.
11. I am married to my job.
12. If I get married, I will have to forfeit the millions of dollars my soon-to-die uncle plans to leave for me.
13. Because I simply love hearing this question from you.
 
Ever since I started giving the above rude and arrogant answers to my female friends, they have stopped questioning me. Now, whenever something goes wrong in their life and I come to know about it, I simply text them: See I told you, don’t get married to this guy.
 
I wonder how many of these friends will attend my wedding. Everybody is invited, though. You too.