When Vanity demanded action

The dialogue that precedes our social outing is usually something like -

Me: enna ma, readya?

Sindhu (my wife): Yeah. Almost..

...which translates to

Grab a drink, check your Twitter and Gmail, while I come down in 20 minutes.

Recently, the dialogue has changed, with heavy accompaniment of grunts and groans, to:

Sindhu: onnum sariya illa. Nothing fits. ellaan dress'um tight aidthu!

Me: I know! I gotta lose weight too. I am sooo fat. *gasps of pain*... as I squeeze into clothes that appear to have shrunk over the months.

In a sad attempt to lift the spirits, Sindhu would nudge in,

S: Look you shouldn't complain okay. You look fine. It is me. I have to work out.

M: Aiya, no way. You look great!  (A quick nano-second mental word check wisely ruled out "you look fine" - incorrect; "you look okay" - worse; "you look alright" - pochu!). I am the one who needs to lose weight. Look at this thoppai and all. See! *poke finger into the fat guts to illustrate the point*

It irks when someone half your weight complains they gotta slim down. Somehow thin is never thin enough. Neither of us have been eating out much, and have managed to resist that extra spoon of Therattu Paal with Vennila Ice Cream or the extra dollops of Custard with warm Plum pudding, which only adds to the mystery surrounding the condition of shrinking clothes. Whether neither of us recall eating any less is a...well, lets not go there :)

Moving on.

Vanity demanded action. In addition to the daily jog/run, a diet of freshly squeezed juice, I decided, would be the magic solution. We had a brand new juice maker still in the box. One afternoon while Sindhu was asleep, I opened a bag of oranges and grapefruit. Peeling oranges and grapefruit is the most demanding job of the juice making process. Both fruits are strong contenders of "Thick-skinned bastard" title of fruit race. I'd back Grapefruit for the title because its a badass - it tastes like an angry tamarind on steroids.

The juicer was simple to assemble. I was excited as fresh juice and dramatic weight loss were just moments away. Images of orange being devoured by the juicer popped up in my head. I dropped a large chunk of orange down the chute and pressed the ON button...

...and watched in slow motion horror as thousands of fragments of orange pulp and juice flew across the kitchen spraying it 360 degrees. Thwack thwack thwack! A large lump of orange splattered against on my cheek, which shook me out of the freeze and total moment of blankness, I slammed the OFF button.

The kitchen and adjacent living room walls had a newly decorated coat of orange. The original plan of coffee and fresh juice had turned to custard thanks to me not fitting the juicer parts properly.

Sindhu woke up an hour later.

"I made some juice", I said.

"Yeahh. I can smell it. It smells oranges everywhere!"

"Lovely, la?", I said, spotting a lump of orange pulp hanging from the folds of our brand new living room curtain. Damn!

What is Kolaveri?

I don't own a house, yet. When I am ready for one, I would want to build it from scratch so I can mould it to suit my lifestyle and taste. I want to plan, design, choose every minute aspect of its look and feel, and watch it get built from ground up. Heck, if I am gonna be paying a ghastly 6-figure mortgage for the next couple of decades, might as well pay for the house I love, no?

Buck, a friend of mine, is an accountant cum part-time builder. He's a sort of a bloke companies like Hire A Hubby envy. Buck is currently renovating his place, I've volunteered to assist him and acquire some gyan about house-building, renovation etc.

Nothing, I thought, will be as hard, as we had spent a hot afternoon sitting in the roof (where the mercury stood at  outside temp + 30 degC) stuffing Pink Batts. The carpets were going to be laid the next day. So on night one, we moved all upstairs furniture from one side of the house to the other. The next day the carpet layers laid the carpet and we moved all the furniture back on to the new carpet, leaving the other side of the house empty and ready for the carpet layers next day. They arrived the next day with the news that they had come with a different coloured carpet because they ran out of carpet they had laid the previous day, so they had to rip up the already laid carpet which meant shifting ALL the furniture again. Aaaah, you get the picture?

And to add to the fury, apparently one of the carpet guys knew about the lack of stock, but carried on with the job because he thought he could source new stock from other carpet stores only to find later that none of them had that particular colour carpet! You know, sometimes my fellow citizens amaze me by how effortlessly they take slackery and incompetence to levels outside this universe.

I don't know what Dhanush was talking about in that song, but the emotion we felt that particular moment was what I'd call pure, unadulterated, Agmark-stamped Kolaveri. Thank God I didn't have my veecharuvaa, or else...

Sliver of Green Glass

Pizza stone - Heard of it? No? Me too. This, until my good friend, James, called me at work on a Friday afternoon and asked if I want to come over for dinner as he's gonna inaugurate his partner's latest inspired purchase - pizza stone.

If you're still wondering what a pizza stone is - it's a hot plate that heats the pizza base, just like an oven. It's a neat replacement for an oven. Don't have an oven, still want to make pizzas? This is your tool.

I reached James's place. After chatting a bit, we rolled our sleeves and entered the kitchen. James's partner, Sarah, was happy that the boys were in the kitchen for a change and she was in the lounge watching TV with a glass of Shiraz. It was my first time making pizzas. Having flipped the odd Dosai at home with grace and panache, I thought making pizzas should be as easy as eating them. And it wasn't hard. James did most of the work by topping the pizza, all I had to do was take the pizza off the oven with the enormous spatula when the edges turned brown.

"Ah this must be the best bit...", I told myself as I slid the big spatula under the crusty brown base, expertly lifted it off the plate, turned towards the kitchen benchtop and....thwwap. I watched in disbelief as the friggin pizza landed face down on the kitchen floor!

Now.

When two men are at work in the kitchen, sudden silence means trouble. And women can somehow hear this loud silence very well.


"Howssit going?", Sarah enquired from the lounge.

"Er. Yea almost done. mm..lemme top up your glass", James said in a calm tone but a bit louder than normal and quickly walked out with bottle of Shiraz, his eyes still fixed on the bums-up pizza.

I immediately rescued the pizza. Removed chunks of pineapple, tomato paste, jalapeños, onions from the floor. I had to use the knife to remove the cheese as it stuck to the floor like a bubble gum. I redressed the pizza again but it still looked messed up. James and I made an echicootive decision to convert the vegetarian pizza into a Pepperoni Pizza so we can cover the messed up parts with Salami.

"All done. Ready!", James beamed as he walked into the lounge with two plates. One Pepperoni, and another Vegetarian pizza.

"Mmmm...yummm!", she said taking a bite.

Phew.

Later that evening, James and I were in the kitchen as he was doing the dishes. He picked up a green crystal bowl, held it, and just like that, it leapt from his hand and crashed onto the floor into several thousand pieces. He was holding it one moment, the next moment I watched the slow motion disaster unfold with my ever widening eyes.


Sarah was asleep upstairs. We thought she might've have heard it, but nope, no sign of her.

"Man. That bowl looked expensive. She's gonna be mad at you", I said.

"yea. We'll clean it up right. She wouldn't know"

"She'll know", I said grimly.

"Okay. Just dont say anything in the morning okay.."

We swept, re-swept the floor to remove any vestige of evidence. We ruled out vacuuming as the noise may wake up Sarah.

Next day morning.

Brunch over. I was solid, didn't say anything when the topic of pizza came up.

Then after a while, Sarah cornered James in the kitchen. "Okay. What happened here yesterday? "

"er..what?"

"Did you have an accident in kitchen?", she said giving him the look.

"We may have...why?", James said, his gaze shifted to me quickly and back to Sarah. I had the "I told you so" look.

"How did you know?", pleaded James.

"Well, you see that tiny shard of crystal at the corner of the pantry...that thing has been reflecting light from the kitchen".

"Ugh! You're good!", James said as he left the kitchen shaking his head.

Sarah will never find out about the pizza...um, until now.

The days without her

The last time it happened, I was a final-year University student. It was during exams - the time I needed her the most. But I lost her. She slipped out somehow. I felt handicapped in her absence. Maybe she was fed up with me. Probably pissed off with my incessant requests and favours. I dunno. I was looking for her everywhere like Moondram Pirai Kamal searching for the mentally-challenged Sridevi. Remember that scene? Balu Mahendra was a legend. Like that scene in Moondram Pirai, my search for her had a happy ending. I got her back when I heard the librarian read out her name over the PA system asking her to be collected. The librarian added in her usual grumpy tone that her owner has kept THE most annoying ringtone she has ever heard. My cell-phone. My darling. I got her back then.

Fast forward 3 years...

This time I left her in the cab. I perhaps didn't search for her like Moondram Pirai Kamal...but it was more like Nagarjuna in Idhayathai Thirudathey. I hopped from one place (read: cab office) to another in a Jeep till late in the night searching for my 97-gram chellam. The only thing that lifted my spirits after going through buckets of ownerless phones was the realisation that I wasn't the only idiot to leave a mobile phone in a taxi. There are bucket loads of us!

The next day I decided to punish myself by not rushing out and buying another handset. Suddenly phoneless I wondered how I'd cope. I felt uneasy to step out of the house. It felt like going out without any pants on. Still, I ventured out. Every now and then, I'd tap my pant pocket to check for the non-existing phone. oh yes. no phone. yea, fantastic!

The following day, I felt slightly liberated. I slowly found out why. Firstly, I didn't have to worry about answering calls when I was in the Mens room. I strongly I believe I share a toilepathic connection with most people who have my mobile number. The blimming thing, yes my mobile, would stay quiet for hours on my desk and ring the moment I step into echo chamber that is the office loo. "Hi! yes. I am good thanks. Hey, listen, umm...can I call you right back? I may sound as if I am speaking sitting inside a big empty drum or something, but I'm actually in the toilet". The caller would pause momentarily, then mumble an apology while my mind will go into overdrive imagining the caller rushing off to wash their hands. Ahh..personal hygiene. I likey!

The urge to check for txts and missed calls every 3.12 minutes remained, but with no mobile, it was slowly but surely fading.

While travelling to work next day, I couldn't help but to observe the mobile in everyone. I saw people in the streets, in the train, with their hands clasped to their ears. I experienced a feeling of disconnection. It felt like I was living in a bubble. A strange sense of freedom enveloped me. I floated like a butterfly basking in this glorious isolation. It was a curiously gratifying sensation!

On a serious note, I got my mobile back the next day. Thanks to the gentleman who returned it. Mate, you are a gem!

--

Aside:

After linking the clip from Moondram Pirai in the first para, I watched the whole movie again. I am glad I did. Watta masterpiece by Balu Mahendra. I heard Kamal Hassan won a National award for it but Sridevi didn't. Even the Kamal fan in me reckons Sridevi deserved the award more than Kamal. She was simply brilliant as Viji. Perhaps people were bowled over by Kamal's performance in the climax scene. Honestly, I cant think of any current Indian actress who could match or better Sridevi's performance. Ms Mukharjee? or Mrs Saravanan? Hmm...I doubt it.

Like every blue-blooded Kannadasan fan, I love Kanne Kalaimaaney song for its lyrics. However, I like Poongatru Pudhidhanadhu song better both for its music & visuals. It does not have profound lyrics like Kanne Kalaimaane. But there is something about this song - is it Ilaiyaraja's music or Yesudas's voice or Balu Mahendra's photography or cute moments like where Sridevi tries to listen to the train sound from thandavaalam (railway track) through Kamal's ears...I dont know. The whole package...it's just beautiful.

The trauma of see-through shorts

I had a lazy weekend last week. After a three straight weeks of hectic work (incl weekends), I was letting my hair down. It was nice to relax and not to keep pace with the clock. Time sometimes runs too fast for me.

Thanks to the lazy weekend I didn't get any of the regular household stuff done (e.g. ironing clothes). At the dawn of Monday, I was hunched over the Ironing board wrestling with a business shirt which I had to excavate from the bottom of a big pile of washed, yet-to-be ironed clothes. The shirt I was ironing had a tag which read "wrinkle free". The shirt looked as if it had been rolled in a ball and been sat on by a Hippopotamus. I flattened the sleeves, straighted the collars, bssked bssked some water to subdue the material...and the brain did its thing as usual by going back to my school days when Kalai akka, our housemaid when I was in Madras (her name was Kalaiarasi), used to iron my school uniforms. I never had to worry about the clothes side of things. She took care of it. Akka, you are a legend!

So, the shirt was ironed. Pant was ironed. Someone was winning! I still had time to do couple more shirts so I don't have to endure this torment for the next two days. Just then, my flatmate popped in, his nickname is Tubs, and said in a stressed tone "O thank God. You are ironing. I am in a rush eh. Could you Iron this for me man, please?". "Of course. Give me.", I said, feeling happy that I could help someone in their Monday morning rush. Tubs gave me a black Adidas shorts to iron. Shorts are easy peesy compared to the beast of a shirt I ironed just now.

I laid the shorts on the ironing board. As I began to iron, I realised the Iron wasn't moving smoothly. "enna aachu?" (what's happening?), I thought, pressing the Iron a little harder. The Iron was stuck to the cloth. The blimming thing wouldn't move. I could sense a burning smell as well. I lifted the Iron, it had a black patch on the hot plate. Wisps of black smoke spiralled from its base. Sure enough, it had left a triangular shaped hole on the shorts. In a very short period of time, my brain went from horror, denial to plain blankness. So much for a Monday morning!

I walked towards Tubs's room holding up the shorts. I could look through it. It looked funny and I was almost about to laugh. I bumped into Nellie, my other flatmate. Nellie saw the shorts, laughed, and said "it's synthetic, Sriiii! you never iron them!".

"Oh. Is that right?"

I reached Tubs's room. Standing on the doorway holding the shorts aloft, I said "Man. I am really sorry. I burnt the arse out of your shorts". Tubs looked at the shorts in disbelief. He gave me a pained look. Oh the trauma of the burnt shorts.

As a guilt-stricken flatmate, I shouted him a few beers this weekend. It's the best therapy for this type of trauma.


Moral of the story:

1. Never, never iron synthetics.
2. Iron your own clothes. If you do burn/ruin them, atleast you'll have satisfaction that you killed it and not the other person.