Being the better human being

I’ve always wondered what it takes to inspire people to be better human beings.

The answer to that, is the hardest part of the struggle – being that better human being yourself.

I try. The Lord knows I try.

Like today.

I wake up, despite being tempted for the last one hour to snuggle in bed while the alarm beeped, thinking - the hell with work. I crawl to the bathroom cursing every early bird for being greedy with the worms. I stop. I notice a troop of ants valiantly marching into the little crevices in the washing machine and I instinctively grab a towel and smother those little bastards, making sure not one of them survives to form their perfect little line again. As I raise my hands in vengeful triumph, I notice one single ant timidly crawl out. The temperature rises, steam pours forth, eyes focussed on the enemy and then suddenly - I stop. I realise this isn’t going to make my day work. I give up. I breathe – I let go of the anger – I have to be the better human being.

I have to rush to work these days because the stupid driver – the one who uses his cell phone while driving and plays loud blaring unintelligible noise, has suddenly decided to get to my stop two minutes earlier. Can you imagine the audacity of that man – to ruin my perfect morning routine by two whole minutes!!! Stupid, stupid man. So I’m always running late. (You’re probably thinking if only I had left those ants alone huh?) I walk out, my ear rings, watch, bracelets and other life essentials in my hand, I slam doors and try to lock them, juggling everything, run down stairs and slam the gate shut ..ouch - my finger!! Ugh … if only I had been calmer – calm – yes calm down. I’m the better who?

I can do this. Yes I can. I repeat the better human mantra all the way to the pick up point. The office shuttle arrives and scares the hell out of me by stopping two inches in front of me. The nerve of that cell phone loving, noise playing, stupid imbecile! I slam the van door shut, my head humming in imitation of the keyboard noise as I mentally type out an email of complaint against this vile ---Suddenly (yes in my eventful life, everything happens suddenly), the tiny vehicle is filled with the thrash music that this low life subscribes to and I, with an authoritative tone, dictate to the man in my most condescending manner to turn the volume down. He very respectfully nods and turns it off. I feel stupid now. Yes, low life, scum - you name it. I criticise myself, harshly (as always) for doing exactly what I had wanted others not to do. Forget better – a comparison now is impossible since I have just lost even the right to a “Good”.

I drag my feet to office. By now my day is already half ruined. My finger hurts, my head hurts and I’ve just learned I’m scum. Enter – the colleague who perennially needs help. But this time, see, I’m prepared. I will be patient…. Oh don’t you know the answer to that already – my mind yells out to the poor timid thing. Aloud I say, hmm. I think of how best to answer the question while giving the simple details and not sound condescending. I reply slowly. I emphasise. I speak clearly. Then I wonder, have I done a tad bit too much? Do those eyes that sought help from me, now feel embarrassed at the way I’ve oversimplified the answer? Have I really helped? …. Am I the devil?

As I walk out of office, my mind tries to sort out whether calling myself the devil or the scum hurts more. The worse of the two will remain my torturous title for failing to pass the now “OK” test. The title GOOD has (with good reason) been deprecated. I’m hurrying to get home and then realise – I have to give my new shoes for repair. Yes, my brand new branded shoes. I had paid a lot for them even though I knew I could get a similar pair from a small store for a much cheaper price. But I had slammed the door on the voice of reason by justifying that the expensive pair would stay with me longer. And yet, here they were -- ruined after just a month of use. I was going to let them know what a stupid brand they had and how it lacked quality and all.

I walk in and growl a few sentences as introduction to the ten page sermon I’m prepared to administer when suddenly (yes that suddenly again).. I have a cramp. I limp to the nearest chair and hold on to my foot, frozen and distorted in pain. Those men at the store rush to me. One of them holds my dirt covered foot and gently massages away the pain. They keep trying different methods and ask me if the pain has subsided.

Now how (the ****) am I to tell them that the pain has just multiplied a hundred fold and this time it isn’t my foot that is twisted in pain – it is my soul?

The devil or scum?

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9053 days

Have you ever thought about life? I don’t mean in the philosophical way rather in terms of a statistical analysis.

No?

Now, numbers aren’t exactly my favorite – they always evoke the most unflattering expressions on my face like,

“You’re 25??” - my expression : a look of disgust mingled with the strain of trying to keep a neutral enough face to hide the faint (imagined?) signs of ageing.
“5..6..7..” *uff* *pant* *groan* - my expression : a mixture of torture, pain and that dreamy look of one day being fit while doing those stomach crunches. “..8”
“Oh but you missed the office shuttle by 5 seconds during which we have already come 2 kms ahead.” - my expression *wtf*
“But if you can run and get to this place in 2 seconds, I can ask the driver to wait for you”
Sigh.

As you can see, I don't have the best time with numbers. I wouldn’t have ever thought of taxing my rapidly depleting grey cell resource for any kind of statistical analysis, had it not been for an email I got - an excel sheet that was supposed to tell me about myself. All I had to do was to enter my date of birth and it spewed forth details of what were supposed to be my characteristics. Naturally i thought it was a good idea - it was way better than countless hours of introspection and less embarrassing than asking your friends. I was nodding in approval at the excel sheet generated characteristics of mine when i noticed that in one corner it had a bunch of numbers – one of which was my exact age (wrinkle-free ugh look again), and another interesting number – 9053 days. I have been on this earth for just 9000 odd days! That didn’t seem like a lot, did it? As I was just doing my happy jiggle dance – er I mean smiling pleasantly at the happy fact when I was struck by an alarming thought.

Going by a fair and reasonable (read as paranoia filled) estimate, I realised I had only another 9000 odd days more on earth. Suddenly, my glass looked more than half full and NOT in any optimistic way.
What does a creature feel on the verge of extinction?
Despair (tick), disappointment (tick), urge to do a statistical analysis of his/her life (tick).

Numbers. Did you know I’ve always wanted to see those 1000 places before you, you know, conk off?? If I ever manage to do so, lets say I spend 5 days in each place – that would mean I would need.. umm.. err.. ahem.. aa.. 5000 days at least to do that.

Balance – 4000 days.

MS? 1000 days.

Balance – 3000 days

And what about my hopes of contributing to the world a sensible, sweet angelic individual (sounds like me? My kid actually :) ). I would have to dedicate at least 1000 days of unwavering attention to the little one.

Balance – 2000 days.

Other dreams,

Interior designing
Playing the guitar *well*
Learning photography (someday)
Salsa
Reading all classics by all well known (and other) authors.

I could go on and on but the math already doesn’t add up does it?
Sigh.
I always knew numbers weren’t my best friends.
My expression : huge sorrowful face striving to look appropriately grieving and not greedy while stifling my unhappiness by gorging on a bar of chocolate (family pack size).

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A hunting we did go

It has been a while now, that my family has been badgering me about making an important inclusion in my life. My friends, needless to say, were not far behind in making me feel like a social outcast for not consenting to my family’s wishes.

But I must profess to having solid reasons for not relenting. Any decision in accordance to their wishes would take away my independence, reducing me to a slave to a habit that would put an end to all my fancies of someday just walking off into the wild. But being a fair minded person, I wrestled with the thought night and day. At times I would even do a vanishing act when people started up on the subject - such was my distaste for the idea. The vanishing act stood me in good stead but then as the days wore on; my iron wall of conviction was knocked down by the gentle breeze of reason. The arguments I had made about needing my space suddenly seemed lame. I could adjust, couldn’t I? Yes there was that whole issue of never again being able to just pack up and leave as easily as it always has been for me, but then at what cost?

I looked down at my hands, coarse and calloused from all the work, so unfit to be given to anyone in marriage. Gulp. I knew I was delaying the inevitable. The longer I held up, the worse things would get. I finally consented. Everyone agreed I was doing the right thing. It would take the burden off my hands, they said. They even assured me that I would feel pampered and spoilt. But I had my conditions. I would pick the winner on my own terms.

Having said that to all concerned, a hunting we did go.

And then it happened - that heady feeling you get when you know you’ve met the perfect match. They started talking business but I was just waiting to sign on the dotted line, waiting to embrace what would soon be mine – all mine. A date was fixed. When the ceremony was done with and I was all alone, I realised that I didn’t know how to do it. Embarrassing though it is to admit, I was totally clueless. It took a few minutes to find out and a whole hour to get it done.

But now I must admit it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

Having said that, I have dutifully enrolled myself in the army of people who will try to convince you to buy a washing machine. Sure it takes up space and it makes you so dependent on it, and shifting homes, packing up is a hassle and all that stuff, but surely you can adjust, cant you?

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Mind Bloggling presents

I was all excited about my first post of the New Year, so much so that the grey cells had to work extra shifts and finally having collapsed due to exhaustion, have planned to sue me under some work trauma act. The aftermath of the incident was the arduous task of making a post without my grey matter to help me.

I did what we all do when we need a miracle, I turned to Google.

The ever dependable Google introduced me to an outstanding director named Ekta Kapoor who apparently has been churning out entire episodes of zillions of popular TV soaps without so much as putting one grey cell to work.



“Hmm”, she said, “You need one episode, new year special, but no work force?”
“Erm”, I replied unable to follow her mumbo-jumbo, “Something like that”
She then proceeded to explain this special episodes routine that she does, where the viewers are subjected to a get-to-know-the-people-behind-the-scenes thing. She even offered to send one of her many assistants to help me out. He would ask me a few simple questions and I could stretch the answers out for one post.

Sounded like a good idea at that time but being temporarily deficient in grey matter makes me a little unsure of the ‘goodness’ of my decision. The finished feature follows.




Update:
Received a call from the director woman who is apparently furious at me for having given her the credit for such a paltry piece of work which she says lacks suspense, designer saree clad women with outrageous makeup, and no marriages and definitely not enough divorces in it. She has vowed to give me a lesson or two on how to get the comments rolling on this blog. So stay tuned.

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Merry Christmas

* Drunk *

Drunk on a tablespoon full of wine, sipped with a heavy heart and a mind full of troubled thoughts injected by the Grinch who stole my Christmas.

Note to self: When you are a twenty something single girl with ‘Be swept off feet by Lochinvar’ on your itinerary for the future, do not take long vacations home.

What a merry thing I was those first few days of being home, prancing about looking twenty five, acting five and doing the difficult math of counting down the days to Christmas. It was heaven – or something close to it.

Enter the Grinch.

Fifty something female, heavyset, brown skin grown coarse with years of slogging away in the kitchen making seeming edibles to be sold to supplement an insufficient income squandered away by boozing husband, comes bustling in. I put on my signature 100-watt oh-i-couldn’t-have-been-happier smile and said “Hi Aunty” with genuine, well meaning, neighbourly love on perceiving an old acquaintance.

She sidelined all the initial queries to her family’s health and got to the point that had been gnawing at her overtly concerned heart. “When are you giving us some good news?”, she asked. As you can see my aunt, grinch-woman, can be quite tactful at veiling her shamelessly curious question by making such a subtle, completely unobvious reference to my wedding. I played along and patted what my colleagues often describe as the non existent tummy and said that I had had no such luck. The stork had not visited me yet. Apparently that isn’t the line to use with aunts eh? Sigh. It plummeted downhill from there. She wouldn’t leave me until I had promised her that I was going to make the wise choice of getting married soon, since she had had such good fortune in her wedded life and would hate to see me deprived of such happiness.

I admit I handled it badly. I got drunk on a tablespoonful of wine.

Oh well, Merry Christmas you all.

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