The Foot-In-Mouth Chronicles - Part 2

As more than three months have strolled by since Part 1 went live, it is only fair that all due apologies be tendered to the handful of good men and women who've believed I was AWOL. I attribute the hiatus to my recent proclivity towards this medical drama, which has had me pretty much under House arrest, inviting approving aaha's from a few enthusiastic and like-minded work colleagues and grumpy looks from a few other I-don't-care-about-you-and-your-House-minded academics. Anyway, like all rib-tickling sitcoms, we head forward. I feel duty-bound to cater to popular requests and persuasions that have come my way after Part 1. So, another day, another story, and another foot lands in the mouth.

********************************

March 2006.

I happen to be heading the college's Literary Club. My tasks as Secretary primarily involve delegation, but the fact that only a modicum of trusted juniors and batchmates show up under the working umbrella meant that the head of the club has to masquerade under multiple guises - that of the finance manager, inventory manager and sometimes poster-boy, as the situation demands. During one such occasion when I'm busying myself running glue over a poster, the Pharaoh saunters past, and in the process tips me off about an unscheduled appointment with The Goon, effective immediately. 

The Goon. Aah. Not good news.

The Goon calls the shots in my college. He currently heads the Division for Student Welfare, and is known to have a fearsome reputation. An intimidator extraordinaire, The Goon has a past record that boasts of smoking into a student's face thereby meting out a similar treatment in kind to the student, who had himself inflicted it upon an innocent fresher. The Goon had graduated from one of those TN colleges known for producing the vilest of rogues. A rendezvous with The Goon two days after he had entrusted me with the forgotten task of inviting a well known writer over was going to be pleasant by no means. 

The security guard outside The Goon's office finds a jittery young man sweating profusely. Two minutes later, I walk in, my kerchief dripping. Crackers are about to wreck havoc on me. Please just let it get over, God, I pray.

The Goon is poring over The Elements of Physical Chemistry by Peter W Atkins, making notes for his next lecture. He looks up questioningly as my footsteps carry across the room. In a sudden moment of confessionary instinct, I decide to break it to him. 

'Sir, I am sorry I couldn't get through to Mr. Writer. I was held up with my mid-semester exams.'

And I stand there.

'I told you to talk to Dr. Bhat about his contact details. Have you got the contact details at least?

'Yes sir. I have.'

'Fine, mail him today and get back to me.'

With this he goes back to Atkins.

At this point, I heaved and began to relax. No wait, relax would be a mild word. I over-relaxed. And I over-relaxed so much, that you'll see why this incident found its way here. The enthusiastic Secretary in me shot up.

'Sir, don't you think inviting the writer over during the tech-fest might not invite so much participation? I mean, we could have him over some other time during the course of the semester, and I am sure there would be a lot of students attending.'

You think he got angry there? Wrong. He was not just angry. He was raving mad. You don't say things like that to The Goon and get away with it. Nobody does. Even on their luckiest day.

'Who do you think you are?'

A drop of fresh sweat trickles down my forehead.

'Sir...'

'No, tell me this, who the hell do you think you are?'

Darn, he's gone to using 'Hell' in under five seconds. I advise myself, say Sorry and get out of here. Fast.

'Sir, I am sorry...'

'You think you're a Dada huh? Who the hell asked for your bloody opinion?'

Dada and Bloody. Another couple of attempts at diatribe against the uncouth Secretary. The growing rate seems exponential. Situation getting out of hand.

'I am sorry sir...'

'No! I am sorry I am wasting my time with juvenile fools who have no idea where to poke their bloody noses into!'

My mind goes, 'Juvenile?! Where have I heard that word?' By the time I manage to dig up the word's meaning he's let out a dozen more abuses. 

When my feeble attempts at apologising finally chunk his armour a good part of 20 minutes have trudged past. I walk out with a picture of Larry David prancing in my head, shouting three words out loud: Curb Your Enthusiasm.

Footnote: 

This incident happened when the Club was slowly finding its feet thanks to my batchmates and a few extremely reliable juniors. I learnt a lot from the experience of heading the club. Fellow clubbers with reasonably good brain cells might recollect the purpose served by the year-long stint during one of my job interviews. For the uninitiated, my revelation that went along the lines of 'I am the Club' to the tall IIM-A grad interviewer sealed the job ;) 

Part 3 shall follow in good time. 

 

Credits:

The three-month hiatus, Poets of the Fall and O'Hare, Chicago. And oh, The Goon as well. :)

The Foot-In-Mouth Chronicles - Part 1

Pleasant Wednesday night. The bus rumbles on the giant freeway that is Mount Road, inviting wafts of breeze potent enough to disorient my hair (Yes, it's grown back alright, after this escapade. I am glad to say I've gotten back to using a comb since the past week). I point my gaze towards the biker speeding past my M7 bound for Thiruvanmiyur. He's clad in a T-shirt that says 'Drive like you've stolen it'. Three seconds later, he's flown out of sight like a jet. So have the past 365 days. It's exactly a year since I bade goodbye to college life. I've come across a few extraordinary people while I was on campus. And bus journeys like these spanning an hour or so provide just the right amount of time for me to reflect on the happenings, particularly specific incidents when I was made to look like a joker with rotten eggs spattered all over my face. 

*****

September 2007. I've just ordered a Shikanji at Skylab and taken my usual place under the usual tree, looking for the usual dog that haunts the joint for crumbs. I look around me, and spot The Samurai beckoning towards me. I seat myself beside her, and indulge in smalltalk for a few minutes before she decides to deviate to a more interesting topic, although in good time it would retrograde into something that might have made a lot of people raise their eyebrows everytime I walked past.

The Samurai : You know, sometimes I think I love sloth. What a vetti sem da! I mean, look at all the movies I get to watch and not feel an ounce guilty about not having to study! That's psenti-sem life, in a nutshell!

I nod my head in reply. Aah, of course. Sloth. I tell her about my latest blog post, where I've conveniently listed my activities for the world to read and envy. The conversation continues.

The Samurai - You know, given the choice of a Deadly Sin to bring about my death, I'd probably pick sloth! 

"Ahem, really? I don't think I'd choose sloth if I were you..."

"You wouldn't? Which one, then?"

Me: (without waiting for the next millisecond to end) Gluttony...!

Looking back, that was when I thought the engine caught fire. I should have just shut up and let things be right where they were, but no, I had to say it. What was at the tip of my tongue had to be spat out...

"...or you know, lust wouldn't be such a bad thing to die of...."

The Samurai stares at me. Blinks to check if she's heard right. Lust, I'd just said. 

The bout of laughter that follows turns quite a number of heads. And when she comes to, she gives me a sorry look.  

"But you're incapable of lust!"

Sheesh. While such candid statements put you in the good books of any onlooking 45 year old woman who's looking for a nice, home-grown, incapable-of-nefarious-activities-match for her daughter, it is downright insulting coming from a woman who's your age. I choke on the Shikanji and cough for the next five minutes, and tell her that I need to fix an appointment with the physician, excuse myself and leave. 

*****

October 2007. The cultural festival is here. My best friend and advisor the Pharaoh (who, by the way, can be found here) is in the room giving me company by helping me tick all those movies off my still-to-watch list. It's Scent of a Woman tonight. We watch the blind Al Pacino doing one of his masterful dance moves, taking out any visible trace of effort. Flawless swings. Our jaws drop. After the movie, the Pharaoh reminds me of the Salsa Workshop, and tempts me to venture into something bold and daring, by asking Violet out for a dance. 

It takes me three walks around the hostel to make up my mind. I nervously dial a number which I've never dialled before. 10 rings and out. The bird's not near the phone. Ah, this makes things much simpler. I leave a message. No reply for the next half an hour. And then the beep, or the kela as campus lingo goes. She's really sorry, she just got asked out by someone else. But she says that the Jam Queen is still not taken, and I could ask her. All the nervousness drains itself in a split second. I redial confidently this time, and mutter that it's okay. I later ask the Jam Queen out for the dance over a pre-arranged dinner, and she's gracious enough to say yes. 

Turns out, the dance involves a lot of really complicated body maneuvers that would never have crossed my imagination. Nevertheless, it opens out into a real fun session, where couples start fabricating the moves to suit their respective body capabilities. The initial tension about the dance now non-existent, lots of jokes follow from my end in between all the dancing. And stories about last year's Salsa too, about how the Pharaoh had screwed up his face in concentration, making his lady copy the movements of the instructor precisely down to the last detail. The Jam Queen giggles, and mentions something about 10 pointers being the conformist type. Maybe the Pharaoh mind-read her. He made a 7.5 that sem.  

  

Towards the end of the dance, the woman is supposed to nest herself in the man's arms at the sound of the last beat. So far things have gone off well. Yes, clumsy, but no major mishaps. Unlike last time. Subconsciously, I smile. This prompts a questioning look from the woman. 

(Looking back, I should have said nothing and continued. But no, I had to say it. When things that are at the tip of my tongue...you get the drift) 

I let slip that during the previous year's Salsa, Good-Golly-Miss-Molly had rammed into the floor, after my fresh and slippery hands had failed to grip on to her waist. That was it. The dance met with a premature end. I guess I should have held my tongue, but well. Where's the fun without a little screw-up!

*****    

As I alight at Thiruvanmiyur, I snigger to myself. I am reminded of a couple of other instances that might make me stick my foot in my even bigger mouth, but they shall wait for another day. 

Credits: 

1. The Samurai, who I hope, has no longer any questions about my virility.

2. The Jam Queen and Good-Golly-Miss-Molly, with whom I've shared very clumsy, albeit awfully entertaining dances. 

 

A Tryst with Cutting-Edge Technology

When I started this blog last June, I had something in mind when I chose the blog header and the link. Back then I was quite a keen follower of Prison Break ( I still am, but I've not yet gotten my hands on Season 4 ). So I thought anagrams of the names of the lead characters Scofield and Sara would be a good idea for the blog. So the blog kicked off, and I started writing about things that interested me. Music. Crosswords. Cricket. Humour. Food. But I never thought I'd get a reason to post something that would have the remotest of semblances to Prison Break, considering I don't do reviews.

I was wrong.

October 18, 2008.

5:45 AM. It is a chilly morning in Bangalore City.

I alight from the bus, dodge the Autowallas ushering me, and march towards the opposite side of the road. Koramangala 2nd Block. Shortly one of those BMTC buses comes along, and 10 minutes later I find myself outside TGI Friday's on Airport Road. I cast a doleful look at the building and plug my headphones back on. Three Air Supply numbers later, I knock on Heaven's door, the entry to my abode during the course of my internship until June past.

My sisters are finally back in the country. It's a family reunion after more than a year. Understandably, there's a bit of emotion surrounding all this, but since that's a family affair, we'll just let that be. This post is not about the reunion.

My Dad is the first to notice it.

'You've gone down alright, but you'd look smarter if you got rid of your unkempt hair. Why don't you get it trimmed?'

Smarter? I think it over. Sure. Why not.


8:00 AM.

I head towards the nearest saloon, mutter 'Short' to the barber like I always do, and set my specs aside. It's usually a peaceful process, a consequence of which is everyone's happiness. The barber gets his due, my head becomes lighter and well, honestly I think Bangalore's Radio Indigo 91.9 plays pleasant English numbers which you can almost doze off to.

I notice that the scissors are conspicuous by their absence. Machine, the barber complies. Go ahead, I tell him. I close my eyes. These guys are pretty adept at what they do, I mumble to myself, and recalled the last time my haircut had gotten screwed up.


Sometime in 1993. Lazy Sunday evening.

You need a haircut.

Dad, no. I have homework!

Trust me, you need a haircut. Let's go.

But it's a Sunday. Saloons are not open today!

And sure enough, no saloon is open. We go back home. Dad is disappointed. And then he takes matters into his own hands.

Scissors. Comb. Anyone can do a haircut, he says.

Twenty minutes later, he examines my head. First this way, and then the other. I have no idea how I look, yet. Mum happens to walk in, and she gapes at me. A hollow patch on the right side of my head greets her. I am perplexed, Mum is shocked, and Dad is sheepish. Anyone can do a bad haircut, Dad corrects himself.

Just to screw things up further, the class photo-session is scheduled for the next day. Later, looking at the snap, my friends would scorn at my novel hairdo while I hung around peevishly.


'Done, saar.'

The barber removes the shroud off me. I put on my specs.

It's hard to exactly describe my reaction. My face expressionless, I manage to mouth 'How much?' and pay him.

'Saar, if you want Ghajni style, I can do that also. Five more minutes.'

I shake my head vigorously, unable to utter a word. I get back. My knock is greeted by one of my sisters.

'Hey, look who's home! It's Michael Scofield!'

Guffaws follow. I am perplexed, Mum is shocked, but this time, Dad is overjoyed.

'15 years ago, this is EXACTLY what I intended!'


Addendum:

October 20, 2008. Monday.

Seen on the work-board of my cubicle: