Aah, the mango. Has there ever been such a sublime fruit?
Mangoes are my absolute favourite. They are so versatile. You can have kachha mangoes with salt and chilli that make your face scrunch up all squinty-eyed - or scoop out the sweet parts of the side pieces with a spoon - or cut them into long, elegant slices - or abandon all elegance and make a little hole at the top, and squeeze the pulp out straight into your mouth like a happy little monkey.
On the weekend, I was walking with my husband to the market (how domestic), and we came across a dilapidated fruit shop with boxes of alphonso mangoes and a 'For Sale- Mangoes' sign. How ultimately delightful, I thought - I was just in the mood for mangoes, having recovered from a bad stomach infection that had made everything taste like cardboard.
We approached the shop hopefully, and started picking up fruit randomly. I asked the price of the mangoes, and the man muttered something that sounded like 'thousand rupees'. I nodded wisely and waited for my ears to clear up and asked again. But he repeated 'thousand rupees'. I examined the box. It had a dozen pieces in it. I clarified 'A thousand?'. He nodded. I said 'For a dozen?'. He said yes. I said 'Achha' and wilted.
Vijay had been on the phone during this exchange, and he got off it and said 'What about the mangoes?' in a businesslike fashion. I whispered to him 'The man is saying one thousand'. Vijay sprang backwards and said 'What?' in the manner of the outraged consumer. He turned towards the man 'Bhaiyya? Ek hazaar?'. The man said yes. ' Ek hazaar, ek durzon ke liye?' The man nodded. Vijay bubbled over with indignation and sputtered 'Sone ka bana hai kya'? The man's lips tightened into a fake smile at my husband's razor sharp wit. However, he refused to lower the price, so we left disappointed.
We soon chanced upon an even smaller, more dilapidated shop where the rate was Rs.600 for a dozen. Vijay immediately blurted to this new man 'But that shop over there is charging Rs.1000'. The new man swallowed his emotion and shrugged non-commitally. I looked aghast at Vijay wondering what kind of new bargaining style this was. After some dillying followed by some dallying, we decided to try our luck and asked for just two pieces. The new man protested loudly but eventually, he grudgingly parted with two for a hundred. We walked back with our booty, Vijay holding all the other fruit ( melons, bananas, apples, oranges, etc) in bulging large packets, while I carried just the two small mangoes gingerly.
In the evening after dinner, I cut the mangoes into small pieces, careful not to waste even a bit of the pulp, and we ate them (okay, I ate most of them) with vanilla ice cream. And Oh, they were Heavenly! They were dark yellow, with a melt-in-the-mouth sweetness beyond description. The most perfect dessert ever, and worth every paise, according to me. I went to bed happy that day.
But the mangoes were over.
The next day, we found ourselves outside the second, smaller shop again. Vijay jauntily asked the man 'Aaj kya rate hai, bhaiyya?'. The man replied equally jauntily 'Aaj to sasta hai. 600 rupaiye durzon'. Vijay did a double take ' par yeh hi to kal ka rate tha...'. The man also did a double take, and recoiled as he recognized us 'Oh. Aap! Haan, ek din mein kaisa girega, saab?' He turned his attention to me as I gazed longingly at the mangoes 'Par meetha tha na, Madam?'. I blushed and muttered yes ( I really don't know why I am so coy about mangoes, it's really inexplicably weird). He continued hopefully 'Pack kar du aur?' I nodded assent and he said 'Ek pethi ya doh?'. I said 'Doh'. He beamed for an instant but I clarified quickly 'Doh piece'. He was aghast 'Doh piece? Phirse?'. But then, he noted the steely determination in our eyes and said weakly 'Teen to leh lo'. We took pity on him and bought three for Rs. 150.
The next day, Zareena ruined one of the precious three by cutting it up for us and leaving it in the fridge the whole day and it got all brown and rotty-looking. But in the evening, I salvaged the remaining two with the vanilla ice cream and we enjoyed the sweet sublime perfection again.
If I had known that I would feel this way about mangoes at this point of time, I would have eaten a lot more in those summer days of my childhood. I would have climbed more mango trees. Would have picked more mangoes from those trees. And maybe, would have thrown fewer at my brother and sister, too.
The thing is, I don't know how long I can keep doing this fake-nonchalant 'doh piece dena, bhaiyya' thing - I really hope the prices come down soon. But I have now made up my mind, and I intend to eat a LOT of mangoes this summer season. It just strikes me as one of those things that make this life worth living.
The prices will come down soon.
And I will be waiting.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Ooh - I just love that pink!
Last week, my friend Vani sent out a characteristically strange and flourishy email announcing her decision to hold 'Mural making' art classes. She felt it was time to let loose her more creative side, as a weekend release from the corporate grind, and unleash it upon us lesser mortals. After threatening that she was very expensive and that there would be no discounts for so-called 'friends', she managed to get three confirmations for her first class. She had invited around 200 people but seemed happy at the 'positive response'.
I was one of the three and felt, rather enthusiastically, that this was my chance to rediscover my own creative side. I have always borne a grudge against my art teacher in school, with whom I had to part ways after I apparently 'indisciplined' with him. You wouldn't blame me, if you knew how irritating it was to have a bearded old crony pop up at your shoulder every time you were trying to paint a tree (the only form you could manage), to ask you in a quavering emotional voice 'So what do you want to be when you grow up?'. After changing my answer every class, three times, I lost it and finally told him 'A Woodcutter', which was the only thing that occured to me while painting a tree. After lecture that ensued from behind that quavering beard, I walked out in a huff, never to return or to paint again.
Until Vani, of course. Of course, I had very serious doubts about the whole affair when she sent a subsequent email announcing that the name of the classes would be 'Vani's Arty Tarties' ( I had loudly appealed to get her to change it, but without success), and these would begin at the unearthly hour of 9 a.m. on a Saturday. But my adventurous side prevailed and I went along to her place this morning.
I discovered that the only other student Vani had was Harman, as the third student had got cold feet and needed one more week to 'mentally prepare'. Little Harman had landed up on time, an hour before me, and was sitting on a cushion in the balcony, finishing a colorful painting consisting mostly of large blue stars. She was very proud of it and Vani was quite encouraging. She said 'Oh, I love the fact that there is absolutely no logic to your painting... It doesn't matter that it is daytime and that there are stars in the sky, on the ground....Very nice'. I personally felt that this was a disguised barb but Harman beamed and refused to do any more after that. Vani tried hard to get her to paint something else, but by this time, she had lost interest and preferred to talk on her phone and generally flip through a few art books. 'I am absorbing this', she explained, while listlessly turning the pages and throwing the books aside, one by one. She finally came across one she liked and said to me 'Look, Yash-this 'Nude in Sunlight'. See the way the sunlight is playing over her? Fantastic. She looks like...like...a ...nude ...in sunlight'. I agreed, because it was indeed a penetratingly accurate observation.
In the meantime, my own 'painting' was getting done. I had announced at the beginning that it would be a gift for my husband and there was a sigh of 'so sweet!' from both of them. When I told her that it would have a window as a main theme, Vani thought it was a great idea. But after talking about it for half an hour, I found I was still staring blankly at a blank sheet of paper. Some encouragement led me to make the first stroke and I began to draw a window. Vani panicked when she saw me draw two straight lines and said quickly opened one of her books to show me 'Look at this, Yash, look - some artists actually use abstraction to represent forms - see this bed here? No straight lines..and here, this one looks like an impression of the outside and inside, without there being a physical window'. I glanced at it and realised that this was her kind but vaguely pathetic attempt at hinting that I clearly sucked. I hesistantly began to start on a fresh sheet of paper, but she must have sensed my disappointment because she then asked me to continue with what I had started. So I happily painted away for the next hour.
Vani's husband, Pranay, who had been despatched to buy vegetables to stay out of her way, returned presently. He said hi from afar and then came up to observe what Harman and I were doing. He recoiled a bit when he saw our creations and then said the only sensible thing 'Wow! It's a real riot of colours out here!' and then retreated hastily, and stayed far away for the rest of the time.
Mostly, Vani pretty much let us do our own thing, saying we were both very creative, and she didn't really have to do anything, and these classes were easier than she thought. Then came the matter of remuneration. When she named her asking price, Harman and I scoffed loudly, reminded her of how creative we were and how she was not doing anything really, and unkindly added that we might as well buy fabulous professional paintings for that much. A bit crestfallen, she reduced her price and without much more bargaining, we agreed. I personally feel it is important to encourage these young folks when they are starting out on new ventures.
Towards the end, Harman announced 'I have decided I can only do abstract' and Vani assured her that it was more difficult to be abstract than to have forms to play with. She then gave us a long list of materials to buy for the 'Actual Murals' - I was a bit disappointed to learn that today's attempt was only a rough version and the actual would be much larger and using a variety of different materials (outside of crayon and poster colours that were so comfortable to use). But I hid my feelings well, and agreed that a 3*3 feet board would probably be more impactful than a crumpled, stained chart paper as a 'mural'. I was further reassured I was a creative genius by Vani exclaiming 'How did you get that wonderful shade of Pink over there, Yash?'. My doubtful response of 'I mixed the red and white together?' met with a serious, silent nod and then a round of uncontrollable giggles.
So the two of us left with promises of returning next week, and happy with the illusion that we can now paint. And Vani, simply by virtue of having created that illusion successfully, earned every bit of the ridiculous price she is charging us.
It's kind of nice when everybody's a winner.
And it really was a pretty shade of pink.
I was one of the three and felt, rather enthusiastically, that this was my chance to rediscover my own creative side. I have always borne a grudge against my art teacher in school, with whom I had to part ways after I apparently 'indisciplined' with him. You wouldn't blame me, if you knew how irritating it was to have a bearded old crony pop up at your shoulder every time you were trying to paint a tree (the only form you could manage), to ask you in a quavering emotional voice 'So what do you want to be when you grow up?'. After changing my answer every class, three times, I lost it and finally told him 'A Woodcutter', which was the only thing that occured to me while painting a tree. After lecture that ensued from behind that quavering beard, I walked out in a huff, never to return or to paint again.
Until Vani, of course. Of course, I had very serious doubts about the whole affair when she sent a subsequent email announcing that the name of the classes would be 'Vani's Arty Tarties' ( I had loudly appealed to get her to change it, but without success), and these would begin at the unearthly hour of 9 a.m. on a Saturday. But my adventurous side prevailed and I went along to her place this morning.
I discovered that the only other student Vani had was Harman, as the third student had got cold feet and needed one more week to 'mentally prepare'. Little Harman had landed up on time, an hour before me, and was sitting on a cushion in the balcony, finishing a colorful painting consisting mostly of large blue stars. She was very proud of it and Vani was quite encouraging. She said 'Oh, I love the fact that there is absolutely no logic to your painting... It doesn't matter that it is daytime and that there are stars in the sky, on the ground....Very nice'. I personally felt that this was a disguised barb but Harman beamed and refused to do any more after that. Vani tried hard to get her to paint something else, but by this time, she had lost interest and preferred to talk on her phone and generally flip through a few art books. 'I am absorbing this', she explained, while listlessly turning the pages and throwing the books aside, one by one. She finally came across one she liked and said to me 'Look, Yash-this 'Nude in Sunlight'. See the way the sunlight is playing over her? Fantastic. She looks like...like...a ...nude ...in sunlight'. I agreed, because it was indeed a penetratingly accurate observation.
In the meantime, my own 'painting' was getting done. I had announced at the beginning that it would be a gift for my husband and there was a sigh of 'so sweet!' from both of them. When I told her that it would have a window as a main theme, Vani thought it was a great idea. But after talking about it for half an hour, I found I was still staring blankly at a blank sheet of paper. Some encouragement led me to make the first stroke and I began to draw a window. Vani panicked when she saw me draw two straight lines and said quickly opened one of her books to show me 'Look at this, Yash, look - some artists actually use abstraction to represent forms - see this bed here? No straight lines..and here, this one looks like an impression of the outside and inside, without there being a physical window'. I glanced at it and realised that this was her kind but vaguely pathetic attempt at hinting that I clearly sucked. I hesistantly began to start on a fresh sheet of paper, but she must have sensed my disappointment because she then asked me to continue with what I had started. So I happily painted away for the next hour.
Vani's husband, Pranay, who had been despatched to buy vegetables to stay out of her way, returned presently. He said hi from afar and then came up to observe what Harman and I were doing. He recoiled a bit when he saw our creations and then said the only sensible thing 'Wow! It's a real riot of colours out here!' and then retreated hastily, and stayed far away for the rest of the time.
Mostly, Vani pretty much let us do our own thing, saying we were both very creative, and she didn't really have to do anything, and these classes were easier than she thought. Then came the matter of remuneration. When she named her asking price, Harman and I scoffed loudly, reminded her of how creative we were and how she was not doing anything really, and unkindly added that we might as well buy fabulous professional paintings for that much. A bit crestfallen, she reduced her price and without much more bargaining, we agreed. I personally feel it is important to encourage these young folks when they are starting out on new ventures.
Towards the end, Harman announced 'I have decided I can only do abstract' and Vani assured her that it was more difficult to be abstract than to have forms to play with. She then gave us a long list of materials to buy for the 'Actual Murals' - I was a bit disappointed to learn that today's attempt was only a rough version and the actual would be much larger and using a variety of different materials (outside of crayon and poster colours that were so comfortable to use). But I hid my feelings well, and agreed that a 3*3 feet board would probably be more impactful than a crumpled, stained chart paper as a 'mural'. I was further reassured I was a creative genius by Vani exclaiming 'How did you get that wonderful shade of Pink over there, Yash?'. My doubtful response of 'I mixed the red and white together?' met with a serious, silent nod and then a round of uncontrollable giggles.
So the two of us left with promises of returning next week, and happy with the illusion that we can now paint. And Vani, simply by virtue of having created that illusion successfully, earned every bit of the ridiculous price she is charging us.
It's kind of nice when everybody's a winner.
And it really was a pretty shade of pink.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Can you please not shake the hall?
It is not often that I go out for movies with my friends.
And yesterday reminded me why.
After a hard day at work ( well...), we felt we deserved a little recreational entertainment. So a bunch of us decided to go for the movie 'Eklavya'.
The movie goers, in no particular order of insanity:
- Harman: Long haired girl from Chandigarh. Bubbles over continuously with unnecessary enthusiasm. Architect of the movie plan.
- Vani: Strange Indian Girl referred to in earlier posts. Possessor of most clear and penetrating voice in the world.
- Atul: Harassed, mild mannered young man. Always surrounded by powerful women and girl trainees.
- Ruchika: Girl trainee of Atul. In terms of whiny-voice-quotient, beats even Vani.
- My husband: Yet another hapless victim who got pulled along.
- Me: The heroine of the story and all-round good-gal - because I get to write it.
So off we went - Vani, my husband and I went ahead to buy the tickets, and the remaining three promised to follow in ten minutes - which stretched to twenty and caused us to miss many trailers.
Vani and I, offended, bombarded Atul with phone calls and abusive SMS's continuously.
Unbeknownst ( I love that word!) to us, Atul had been accosted, while leaving, by the Head of Sales, and was getting screamed at (What you need to understand about Atul is that it's not just the women that harass him).
Sales Head: Atul! What's happening? Sales are down, shares are down, why is this happening? What's going on? What are you doing about it? I need an immediate review of performance across categories, as well as the correction plans for the next three months. This is apalling performance and I am just not seeing enough accountability amongst the individuals in this system. Well?
Atul (desperately trying to hide buzzing phone behind his back): Uhhh...Boss! I'll talk to you tomorrow, I have to go for a movie now.
Somehow, they made it to the hall after the movie had started. And that's when the real fun began.
I was absorbed in the storyline and wondering how Amitabh can still run up stairs so fast at his age, when the other three landed up, disturbing as many people as humanly possible. They then insisted on saying Hi to each of us individually and demanded to be filled in on the story so far.
Vani obliged penetratingly, getting most of the facts wrong and leaving out the crux of the story. I gritted my teeth and kept watching.
We discovered that the new entity Ruchika, (Atul's trainee) was a talkative young woman who in fact, looked upon this little outing as a chance to socialize rather than merely paying attention to a screen. Every two minutes, there would be a comment from her in a whiny voice, which Vani would happily respond to and take to a full length conversation.
Ruchika was then admonished by the women in the seats in front of us - 'Can you please not shake your legs, my seat is shaking'. Ruchika was naturally aghast at this unfair accusation and retorted 'But the entire hall is shaking. I am not shaking the hall' and then proceeded to loudly protest her innocence every few minutes, and Vani staunchly supported her 'Of course, you were not shaking your legs - the whole hall is shaking. My seat is also shaking'. What Vani didn't realise was that at least her shaking seat was due to my sitting next to her with hands quivering with the desire to strangle the both of them.
It continued, with every tense and important scene punctuated by giggles ( at the emotional scenes), gasps of surprise (minutes after the relevant scene) and inane comments (evenly spread across scenes) from my female companions. At the interval, I cooled off in a corner with a Mangola and was restored to blissful hope that the second half would be better.
This hope was ruined around five minutes after the second half began. I was nervously sipping my drink and watching Amitabh's splendid display of distraught anger as the most key revelation of the movie was made. But the excitement of this scene seemed to make Harman, sitting at the very furthest end of the chain from me, thirsty - because she suddenly shouted in a moment of dead silence 'Hey! Thoda Mangola baccha hai kya?'. I heard her and tried to ignore it and concentrate on the scene, but this was rendered impossible by the fact that this question was then repeated equally loudly by Ruchika, and then by Vani, who turned to face me inquiringly, almost accusingly. I thrust the blasted drink into her hand, and it was passed along to thirsty Harman, who slurped it noisily, shouted 'Thanks'. The bottle ( now left with two drops in it) was then passed back along the group, accompanied by two loudly whispered explanations of 'Mangola'.
The scene was over. I sighed and settled back to more of the same. The second half was as disastrous as the first. A good movie had been ruined. And then we went home.
This experience has placed me in bit of a thoughtful dilemma. I have often gone for movies when other people have been insensitive, loud and brash. In typical style, I have never had a problem with indignantly and righteously telling them where to go. But it's never actually been my own friends who I have wanted to murder.
So perhaps I am taking movie-watching too literally as 'watching the movie'. Maybe it's not about that. Maybe it's about obtaining the DVD first, watching it alone in the peace and quiet of your own home, and then proceeding to the hall in order to loudly exclaim important dialogues a split second before the actors, or chat with your friends, and generally make a nuisance of yourself.
Yes, maybe it's time for me to adjust to a new way of experiencing movies in the hall. In the meantime, the idiot box has begun to look pretty attractive again. So it may be quite a while before I go for the next movie. But probably even longer before I drink a Mangola again.
And yesterday reminded me why.
After a hard day at work ( well...), we felt we deserved a little recreational entertainment. So a bunch of us decided to go for the movie 'Eklavya'.
The movie goers, in no particular order of insanity:
- Harman: Long haired girl from Chandigarh. Bubbles over continuously with unnecessary enthusiasm. Architect of the movie plan.
- Vani: Strange Indian Girl referred to in earlier posts. Possessor of most clear and penetrating voice in the world.
- Atul: Harassed, mild mannered young man. Always surrounded by powerful women and girl trainees.
- Ruchika: Girl trainee of Atul. In terms of whiny-voice-quotient, beats even Vani.
- My husband: Yet another hapless victim who got pulled along.
- Me: The heroine of the story and all-round good-gal - because I get to write it.
So off we went - Vani, my husband and I went ahead to buy the tickets, and the remaining three promised to follow in ten minutes - which stretched to twenty and caused us to miss many trailers.
Vani and I, offended, bombarded Atul with phone calls and abusive SMS's continuously.
Unbeknownst ( I love that word!) to us, Atul had been accosted, while leaving, by the Head of Sales, and was getting screamed at (What you need to understand about Atul is that it's not just the women that harass him).
Sales Head: Atul! What's happening? Sales are down, shares are down, why is this happening? What's going on? What are you doing about it? I need an immediate review of performance across categories, as well as the correction plans for the next three months. This is apalling performance and I am just not seeing enough accountability amongst the individuals in this system. Well?
Atul (desperately trying to hide buzzing phone behind his back): Uhhh...Boss! I'll talk to you tomorrow, I have to go for a movie now.
Somehow, they made it to the hall after the movie had started. And that's when the real fun began.
I was absorbed in the storyline and wondering how Amitabh can still run up stairs so fast at his age, when the other three landed up, disturbing as many people as humanly possible. They then insisted on saying Hi to each of us individually and demanded to be filled in on the story so far.
Vani obliged penetratingly, getting most of the facts wrong and leaving out the crux of the story. I gritted my teeth and kept watching.
We discovered that the new entity Ruchika, (Atul's trainee) was a talkative young woman who in fact, looked upon this little outing as a chance to socialize rather than merely paying attention to a screen. Every two minutes, there would be a comment from her in a whiny voice, which Vani would happily respond to and take to a full length conversation.
Ruchika was then admonished by the women in the seats in front of us - 'Can you please not shake your legs, my seat is shaking'. Ruchika was naturally aghast at this unfair accusation and retorted 'But the entire hall is shaking. I am not shaking the hall' and then proceeded to loudly protest her innocence every few minutes, and Vani staunchly supported her 'Of course, you were not shaking your legs - the whole hall is shaking. My seat is also shaking'. What Vani didn't realise was that at least her shaking seat was due to my sitting next to her with hands quivering with the desire to strangle the both of them.
It continued, with every tense and important scene punctuated by giggles ( at the emotional scenes), gasps of surprise (minutes after the relevant scene) and inane comments (evenly spread across scenes) from my female companions. At the interval, I cooled off in a corner with a Mangola and was restored to blissful hope that the second half would be better.
This hope was ruined around five minutes after the second half began. I was nervously sipping my drink and watching Amitabh's splendid display of distraught anger as the most key revelation of the movie was made. But the excitement of this scene seemed to make Harman, sitting at the very furthest end of the chain from me, thirsty - because she suddenly shouted in a moment of dead silence 'Hey! Thoda Mangola baccha hai kya?'. I heard her and tried to ignore it and concentrate on the scene, but this was rendered impossible by the fact that this question was then repeated equally loudly by Ruchika, and then by Vani, who turned to face me inquiringly, almost accusingly. I thrust the blasted drink into her hand, and it was passed along to thirsty Harman, who slurped it noisily, shouted 'Thanks'. The bottle ( now left with two drops in it) was then passed back along the group, accompanied by two loudly whispered explanations of 'Mangola'.
The scene was over. I sighed and settled back to more of the same. The second half was as disastrous as the first. A good movie had been ruined. And then we went home.
This experience has placed me in bit of a thoughtful dilemma. I have often gone for movies when other people have been insensitive, loud and brash. In typical style, I have never had a problem with indignantly and righteously telling them where to go. But it's never actually been my own friends who I have wanted to murder.
So perhaps I am taking movie-watching too literally as 'watching the movie'. Maybe it's not about that. Maybe it's about obtaining the DVD first, watching it alone in the peace and quiet of your own home, and then proceeding to the hall in order to loudly exclaim important dialogues a split second before the actors, or chat with your friends, and generally make a nuisance of yourself.
Yes, maybe it's time for me to adjust to a new way of experiencing movies in the hall. In the meantime, the idiot box has begun to look pretty attractive again. So it may be quite a while before I go for the next movie. But probably even longer before I drink a Mangola again.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
The Idiot Box: Understatement of the Century
No, seriously. The more I watch, the stupider I get. I can feel it happening. I can literally feel the grey cells disintegrating.
But it's so difficult to stop...the easiest thing in the world after you come home from work is to plonk onto your comfortable blue sofa, which, by now, has a gentle, comforting concave indentation in the exact shape of your bottom, and switch on the TV and wait expectantly for your life to become Jinga-la-la..
TV just has to stop for me, though. And these are some of the reasons why:
a. I know who won the Roadies on MTV. I watched the finals.
(SOB! All right! I lied! I watched the finals TWICE!)
b. I derive great pleasure from watching deluded Americans get rejected on American Idol.
(Psychotic wannabe introducing himself to judges (American Drawl): I'm like a singer..dancer..superstar..
Simon (clipped English accent): Hang on a minute they-ah. I can undah-stand you saying you're a singer and dancer. But how can you call youself a superstah?
Psycho: Oh, you can ask anyone...mah friends...mah family...one of mah therapists...
Simon: Hang on, hang on. Just how many therapists do you have?
Psycho (unconcerned about the impression he's making): I have, like, two..
Needless to say, he was rejected within .3 seconds of starting his 'song')
c. I have watched the Friends reruns so many times that I laugh before the joke is made.
And sometimes, I don't laugh at all..but still continue to stare at the TV blankly. I just can't switch it off! It's not an option!
d. I sat and waited one Monday at 9 p.m. to watch the first episode of KBC 3 on Star Plus
And then actually discussed with other people the next day as to how Shah Rukh had performed..Ewwwww...
e. I watched 'America's Next Top model' for six continuous episodes (and even saw 'I wanna Be a Soapstar' twice)
I knew the model's NAMES. Their NAMES! Brittany..Tiffany...Blasphemy!!
f. I watched one episode of Big Boss.
There was some girl on the show called Rupali, who actually made Rakhi Sawant look tolerable. Are you hearing me? I just called Rakhi Sawant TOLERABLE in comparison to someone.
And I saw Rahul Roy on TV! After 10 years! And I know he WON!
You'd think that Big Boss was the lowest I have sunk to. But NOO...for, do not forget, while I am watching these shows, I am also exposed to around a thousand ads per day. And as a marketeer, I KNOW how damaging that can be to the brain.
I Hate TV. I Hate Tata Sky. I Hate Life Jinga-la-la. I am going to read a book tonight. That's it. I'm serious. No, seriously, I am. No wise-crack ending to this post. No, SIR. Sorry to disappoint you.
And it's going to be a good book, too.
And I suggest you also read something worthwhile instead of this blog. (Now, that , you know, I don't mean).
But it's so difficult to stop...the easiest thing in the world after you come home from work is to plonk onto your comfortable blue sofa, which, by now, has a gentle, comforting concave indentation in the exact shape of your bottom, and switch on the TV and wait expectantly for your life to become Jinga-la-la..
TV just has to stop for me, though. And these are some of the reasons why:
a. I know who won the Roadies on MTV. I watched the finals.
(SOB! All right! I lied! I watched the finals TWICE!)
b. I derive great pleasure from watching deluded Americans get rejected on American Idol.
(Psychotic wannabe introducing himself to judges (American Drawl): I'm like a singer..dancer..superstar..
Simon (clipped English accent): Hang on a minute they-ah. I can undah-stand you saying you're a singer and dancer. But how can you call youself a superstah?
Psycho: Oh, you can ask anyone...mah friends...mah family...one of mah therapists...
Simon: Hang on, hang on. Just how many therapists do you have?
Psycho (unconcerned about the impression he's making): I have, like, two..
Needless to say, he was rejected within .3 seconds of starting his 'song')
c. I have watched the Friends reruns so many times that I laugh before the joke is made.
And sometimes, I don't laugh at all..but still continue to stare at the TV blankly. I just can't switch it off! It's not an option!
d. I sat and waited one Monday at 9 p.m. to watch the first episode of KBC 3 on Star Plus
And then actually discussed with other people the next day as to how Shah Rukh had performed..Ewwwww...
e. I watched 'America's Next Top model' for six continuous episodes (and even saw 'I wanna Be a Soapstar' twice)
I knew the model's NAMES. Their NAMES! Brittany..Tiffany...Blasphemy!!
f. I watched one episode of Big Boss.
There was some girl on the show called Rupali, who actually made Rakhi Sawant look tolerable. Are you hearing me? I just called Rakhi Sawant TOLERABLE in comparison to someone.
And I saw Rahul Roy on TV! After 10 years! And I know he WON!
You'd think that Big Boss was the lowest I have sunk to. But NOO...for, do not forget, while I am watching these shows, I am also exposed to around a thousand ads per day. And as a marketeer, I KNOW how damaging that can be to the brain.
I Hate TV. I Hate Tata Sky. I Hate Life Jinga-la-la. I am going to read a book tonight. That's it. I'm serious. No, seriously, I am. No wise-crack ending to this post. No, SIR. Sorry to disappoint you.
And it's going to be a good book, too.
And I suggest you also read something worthwhile instead of this blog. (Now, that , you know, I don't mean).
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
Ladiess OKAYY!
It was a balmy evening in Colombo. Our team from office was there for some arbit meeting. (Literally: it was a Regional Brand Team meeting, or RBT for short, or Arbit for slightly- longer-but-more-accurate).
Anyway, after we finished the meeting, it was time to experience Sri Lanka's capital in all it's glory. We realised that we had only twenty minutes to do our shopping at Odel, one of the higher priced malls in Sri Lanka, where the stuff is still low priced when you compare it to India (wow!). Our group of seven people descended unabashedly like a pack of hungry wolves onto the merchandise at 7:40 p.m. and emerged flushed and triumphant, laden with bags, at 8 p.m.
Now, it was time to PARTY.
Except, we didn't know where. We had never partied in Colombo before. But hey, we thought, our driver will know the hip and happening joints.
We had this one monster-van type taxi, driven by a constrastingly mousy driver, who understood no language that we could speak. But this has never deterred us in the past, and it never will. We drove off and this is what ensued.
Anand (sitting in front seat and thus naturally assuming leadership of situation, says to driver): You take us good place? Dinner?
Driver: (Blank look)
Anand: Dinner? Food? (signals eating)
Driver: (Dawn breaking over the horizon) Raja-bhoju! Famous restaurant.
Me (protesting, from the back seat) : Raja-Bhoju? No Raja-Bhoju! Sounds shady. Do we even get drinks there?
Anand (attempting to help): Drinks? Drinks? (signals drinking)
Driver: (Silent Conspiratorial nod: Seems to interpret this gesture as 'the loud lady in the backseat is a tad drunk').
Rakesh (is next to Anand on front seat, leans over to talk to driver and clarify): Drinks, drinks, Rajabhoju? (Waggling hands around unnecessarily, as usual)
Driver (Seems scandalized at this blasphemy): No drinks Raja-bhoju. Pure vegetarian restaurant, good food. Famous.
(Immediate groan at this from the group as a whole)
Ashwani pipes up ( Is from Lucknow, but despite this, a rather rude specimen on most days): Look...listen...Boss! Boss! You take us to some good place, with food PLUS drinks, that is, BOTH, so to say. ( Believes in being clear on these issues).
Driver: (Very perplexed) Raja-bhoju going?
Everyone in chorus: No! No Raja-bhoju!
The driver, clearly hurt, but determined to earn his tip, continues to drive around Colombo. At various intervals, he keeps pointing out restaurants, bars, pubs, discs to us -but we keep rejecting them on the basis of their looking suspiciously like garages.
Finally, we spot one garage from which multi-colored lights are emanating. We point to it and ask the driver 'What about this one?'.
The driver pulls over and looks askance at the proposed establishment which we now notice has a small crooked sign near the front which says 'Pier 3 boat'. His already shady demeanour now takes on a deeper shade of shadiness. He looks meaningfully at Anand and says 'Drinks, yes, yes this place...but you want go here?'.
Something in his manner makes us all a little wary. What kind of place is this joint, anyway, we wonder? After hurried whispered conference, we nominate Anand (for a variety of reasons, better left unmentioned) to clarify whether the place is 'respectable' enough for all of us, especially the female contingent, which typically needs to be 'protected' in such situations.
But in typical, unique style, Anand chooses to pose his question about whether the place is suitable for us women, in the following manner:
Leaning in closer to the driver, lowering his voice to a whisper, sticking out his right hand in a Thumbs-up gesture, he asks
' Ladies OK?'
The driver (delighted and relieved expression at being understood correctly - mirrors Anand's gesture - in fact, holds both hands out in Thumbs up, and affirms loud and clear, with a leering expression):
'Ladiess, OKAYY!'
Now, Anand seems quite satisfied with this and says to the rest of us 'Let's go!' and bounds out of the vehicle, bustling Rakesh out with him.
The rest of us take a minute or two to recover from the shock of witnessing this surreal interaction and then call him back
'Hello? Did you see the way he just said ''Ladies, okay?'' ...
'What kind of question was that anyway! It's clearly a shady place!'...
'Forget it, let's just go somewhere else..'
But Anand is adamant on checking out the place. He doesn't perceive his way of phrasing his question as objectionable. He says he will look inside and then tell us whether it is indeed 'Ladies, OK' or in fact, 'Ladiess, Okaayyy!'.
He re-appears after a minute and says 'Chalo. It's fine. I told you, it's an okay place'.
We hesitate, wavering. He insists 'Come on! There are families there - I saw children too'. Now we are reassured, and clamber out of the car and head in to the garage.
The garage entry opens out into a small bar, which actually is on the lakeside and therefore offering a decent view. But once we settle into our seats around a large-ish table, we gradually take in our surroundings and many events follow:
a. We see that there are no children and/or families for miles around. The 'one small child' that Anand claims later that he saw turns out to be our small and offensive waiter.
b. We quickly notice that the ladiess there are definitely Okayyy - and on the lookout for business. They are obscenely dressed and made up and delighted to see the fairly affluent-looking men amongst our group and send them coy, inviting smiles, occasionally breaking into strange contortions in the name of dance. They think it's going to be a good night, but little do they know.
c. The music is decent enough in the beginning, english retro stuff - but soon after our entry, it is changed to Hindi film music. Despite all our protests, we are forced to listen to Bollywood songs, which seem to be centered around Mithun's works.
d. The small waiter seems taken aback when we try to order food. Apparently the menu was just for show as food is hardly the main source of business for them. It takes him twenty minutes to understand the order, and then he ends up taking the whole evening to provide us with what is essentially a plate of cucumber sandwiches, which incidentally, arrives after we have paid the bill.
e. The menu itself makes for interesting reading because it contains obscure items, which the disgruntled small waiter, is most unwilling to explain for our benefit. These include things like 'Brakages - charge Rs.300'. We are left to the mercy of our own imaginations, which is never a good thing.
f. The high point of the evening is when we noticed that the pictures Ashwani is taking of us, actually contains less of our group and more of the ladiess behind us. (He thought he could get away with it, but didn't reckon for the technological advancement of digital cameras). Ashwani is promptly demoted from position of cameraman and retires hurt.
g. The other high point is when a scantily clad woman sidles up to Sunil, asking if she can have a cigarette. She waits, clearly expecting him to jump up and light it for her. What she has not reckoned for is Sunil's innate suavity and charm in such situations, and overridingly, his innate laziness, which causes him to coolly roll his eyes towards the table and say 'Help yourself'. She does, and leaves a tad upset, much to the delight of the less mature at our table (all the other men).
In short: we ended up having a great time, despite the incredibly shady environment. As we finally wrapped up a fun filled evening and headed out towards our shady, smirking driver, we couldn't help but feel grateful for our night out in Colombo.
After all, it could have been much worse - We could have gone to Raja-bhoju.
Maybe next time.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Notice anything different?
In a woman's life, her hair is extremely important. A good hair day unleashes a world of possibilities. A bad hair day means 'let's stay at home - preferably wearing a hat'. Compliments about her hair make her glow and blush - she feels two inches taller when her hair looks great - and small changes in her hair make a world of difference to her mood.
To a man, or at least, the men I met when I was growing up ( meaning, till yesterday), their view on hair can be summarized as 'Mine is short and I like it that way. Your hair is long and I like it that way. I will get my hair cut every month. You don't ever cut yours, though. Okay?'
My hair is mid length and dark brown with an annoying wave. My hair experimentation started in college a few years back - I colored it 'Dark Copper' and it became a strange shade of Red, I was called 'Lal-baal' for a year. But that's after I pointed out the change to my male friends. My female friends had picked up the change immediately and squealed with delight; my male friends took a long hard look and said 'But it was always this color, no? Brown only.'
A year later, as my hair grew out, I got annoyed with the half brown-half red effect and decided to color it all Deep Black. Again, my female friends and associates all exclaimed how different and nice and elegant it was looking. My male friends took a long hard look and said 'But it was always this color, no? Black only.'
The next year, I thought, enough of coloring, let's just straighten out this messy wave and go for Rebonding (Straightening, for the men reading this) . I happened to be in China at the time and found a street parlor which did a fabulous job for pretty cheap - unfortunately because they weren't used to the strange behaviour of Indian hair, they had to keep their shop open for an extra two hours to do just my hair through repeated applications of their products. The result was great, I loved it; My female friends went 'Wow!'. My male friends said 'Huh? You paid Rs. 2 thousand? For what, yaar? Your hair looks the same. Straight only.'
The really annoying part came a year later. After I got tired of the super-straight look and decided it was time to go back to the original natural, wavy look that I had grown up with -I painstakingly grew it all out and then chopped off the straight bits. It took a while, but I was finally happy and felt like my old self again. My female friends appreciated it; and my male friends said 'Hey! What happened to your hair? It was NEVER like this! Why's it all curly and stuff?'
I later figured I needed some style quotient to go with the natural look. What better than highlighting this time? I argued with my stylist about red streaks but he insisted that those were were darker skin tones than mine and I could 'carry off' blonde highlights well. I grumbled and mumbled 'But who wants to, anyway', but he had mixed the colors and started already, with the casual disregard for the customer that is the hallmark of any successful stylist.
The effect was reasonably striking. My female colleagues said it was very trendy and cool. But my husband looked at me with a mixture of fear and awe - pretended to like them at first and then later blurted out that in a certain light, 'They look almost white' and make me look 'older'. He has been unsuccesfully trying to back-track on the statement ever since but the damage was done. It's only my prior experience with the boorish nature of men when it comes to hair that led me to take the remark good-naturedly (Well, we're at least still married, aren't we? Let's not push it).
However, I was pleasantly surprised to find that one of my friends, Gaurav, had evolved into a metrosexual male. He spotted me across the road while waiting for me in a Taxi. He immediately picked up on the latest set of changes and said 'Hey, Lal! It's looking super cool, yaar! Where did you get it done?'. He liked the highlights, he liked the waviness, he liked the shorter cut. But it was later, when he was deeply engrossed in saying 'You know, I have finally found the perfect conditioner that doesn't make my hair feel all stripped off moisture after a shampoo', that I began to have my doubts.
This just wasn't right. A guy was supposed to look dumbly around and say 'Huh? Your hair looks the same. I don't know why you waste your money. I get my hair cut for Rs. 30'. And a part of me actually preferred it that way. At least, they were being their stupid, honest selves -clearly, the females had been lying all along, and I always knew that too. I began to look at Gaurav askance - he was the aberration - it's just that it was strangely disconcerting to hear him speak passionately about a conditioner and I just didn't like it. Let the men be men and let the women be women, I say.
Just to let you know, I usually dislike stereotypes, but I think they just make life more comfortable. Or perhaps, to end with another stereotype- maybe women are just never satisfied....
Or possibly, it's just me.
To a man, or at least, the men I met when I was growing up ( meaning, till yesterday), their view on hair can be summarized as 'Mine is short and I like it that way. Your hair is long and I like it that way. I will get my hair cut every month. You don't ever cut yours, though. Okay?'
My hair is mid length and dark brown with an annoying wave. My hair experimentation started in college a few years back - I colored it 'Dark Copper' and it became a strange shade of Red, I was called 'Lal-baal' for a year. But that's after I pointed out the change to my male friends. My female friends had picked up the change immediately and squealed with delight; my male friends took a long hard look and said 'But it was always this color, no? Brown only.'
A year later, as my hair grew out, I got annoyed with the half brown-half red effect and decided to color it all Deep Black. Again, my female friends and associates all exclaimed how different and nice and elegant it was looking. My male friends took a long hard look and said 'But it was always this color, no? Black only.'
The next year, I thought, enough of coloring, let's just straighten out this messy wave and go for Rebonding (Straightening, for the men reading this) . I happened to be in China at the time and found a street parlor which did a fabulous job for pretty cheap - unfortunately because they weren't used to the strange behaviour of Indian hair, they had to keep their shop open for an extra two hours to do just my hair through repeated applications of their products. The result was great, I loved it; My female friends went 'Wow!'. My male friends said 'Huh? You paid Rs. 2 thousand? For what, yaar? Your hair looks the same. Straight only.'
The really annoying part came a year later. After I got tired of the super-straight look and decided it was time to go back to the original natural, wavy look that I had grown up with -I painstakingly grew it all out and then chopped off the straight bits. It took a while, but I was finally happy and felt like my old self again. My female friends appreciated it; and my male friends said 'Hey! What happened to your hair? It was NEVER like this! Why's it all curly and stuff?'
I later figured I needed some style quotient to go with the natural look. What better than highlighting this time? I argued with my stylist about red streaks but he insisted that those were were darker skin tones than mine and I could 'carry off' blonde highlights well. I grumbled and mumbled 'But who wants to, anyway', but he had mixed the colors and started already, with the casual disregard for the customer that is the hallmark of any successful stylist.
The effect was reasonably striking. My female colleagues said it was very trendy and cool. But my husband looked at me with a mixture of fear and awe - pretended to like them at first and then later blurted out that in a certain light, 'They look almost white' and make me look 'older'. He has been unsuccesfully trying to back-track on the statement ever since but the damage was done. It's only my prior experience with the boorish nature of men when it comes to hair that led me to take the remark good-naturedly (Well, we're at least still married, aren't we? Let's not push it).
However, I was pleasantly surprised to find that one of my friends, Gaurav, had evolved into a metrosexual male. He spotted me across the road while waiting for me in a Taxi. He immediately picked up on the latest set of changes and said 'Hey, Lal! It's looking super cool, yaar! Where did you get it done?'. He liked the highlights, he liked the waviness, he liked the shorter cut. But it was later, when he was deeply engrossed in saying 'You know, I have finally found the perfect conditioner that doesn't make my hair feel all stripped off moisture after a shampoo', that I began to have my doubts.
This just wasn't right. A guy was supposed to look dumbly around and say 'Huh? Your hair looks the same. I don't know why you waste your money. I get my hair cut for Rs. 30'. And a part of me actually preferred it that way. At least, they were being their stupid, honest selves -clearly, the females had been lying all along, and I always knew that too. I began to look at Gaurav askance - he was the aberration - it's just that it was strangely disconcerting to hear him speak passionately about a conditioner and I just didn't like it. Let the men be men and let the women be women, I say.
Just to let you know, I usually dislike stereotypes, but I think they just make life more comfortable. Or perhaps, to end with another stereotype- maybe women are just never satisfied....
Or possibly, it's just me.
Friday, January 5, 2007
It All Began with Nursery Rhymes
Remember when we were but little children? Going to school in our cute little uniforms? Ah, those were the days...
Or were they? Were they perhaps, instead, when the evil was seeded?
After all, was this not the exact time when our young, impressionable minds were bent out of shape through the well-disguised evil of: Nursery Rhymes.
Oh, yes. Have you ever really thought about it?
'Rock a bye, Baby,
On the Tree Top,
When the wind blows,
The cradle will Rock,
When the Bough breaks,
The cradle will Fall
And Down will come Baby
Cradle, and all'.
Hellooo? Has anybody noticed they are talking about babies falling from tree tops? What kind of a mother would put the baby on the tree top anyway? What's the point? Is it a poorly disguised threat?
'If you're a bad baby, I will put you on the tree top ....ha ha ha ha ha ha (diabolical laughter)'.
This rhyme disturbed me a lot in my formative years. But then there was the short but ominous:
Jack, be Nimble
Jack, be Quick
Jack, Jump over
The Candlestick.
Why? Why should Jack be asked to jump over a candlestick? How tall was the candlestick in relation to Jack? Why would anyone want an innocent little boy to undertake such a dangerous task? There is an implicit 'Or' at the end of this rhyme. Jump over the Candlestick...OR...an equally dangerous torture task will be assigned to you, perhaps even less pleasant. And was this the same Jack, who was also Little Jack Horner, who sat in a corner? Was he put in the corner because he didn't jump properly over the candlestick?
It goes:
Little Jack Horner, Sat in a corner,
Eating a mincemeat pie.
He stuck in his thumb, And pulled out a plum,
And said, "What a good boy am I!"
Apparently, if Jack was being punished, he didn't know it - he thought he was a good boy. But he was obviously dumb - just like the load of us, who unthinkingly and unquestioningly chanted these nursery rhymes. Can you imagine having a plum put in your mincemeat pie? And eating it with your thumb because you weren't even given a spoon? Yuckk! These characters were so ill-treated, and didn't even know it.
Jack in particularly, was a victim throughout his life. Leave us not forget:
Jack and Jill
Went up the hill...etc.
He broke his crown that time! And just because we thought as kids that his 'crown' meant he was a prince, and probably spoilt and would anyway get another crown to replace the one he broke on the hill, this doesn't take away from the fact that the Crown in question was actually a part of his head! Such violence!
Might as well make us all watch Bart Simpson's antics from the age of 2. Anyway, Jack got what was coming to him in later life. He was quite Jacked, so to speak.
Jack Sprat could eat no fat,
His wife could eat no lean,
And so betwixt the two of them
They licked the platter clean
So, Jack was obviously a poor, thin guy with a dominating fat, wife who sat on him, and made him change his name from Horner to Sprat; and they were so poor they had to lick the platter clean.
Jack met his end in Nursery Rhymes with a really passive mention in the never ending 'This is the house that Jack built'. There is no personal mention of Jack in this rhyme apart from the fact that he built a house. He obviously had no personality, no sense of self, after a clearly traumatic childhood.
I know I should stop now, but I'm really in the flow.
So , guys, guys, remember Little Miss Muffet, who sat on a Tuffet? What's a Tuffet, you wonder today, but did you think to ask when you were three? A tuffet is a low stool, which housed the bum of Little Miss Muffet, who was eating Curds and Whey ( I don't care what Whey is, okay?), before this really nasty, icky, large spider came and grossed her out, causing her to flee the scene - and in all probability, subsequently lose her lunch of Curds and Whey.
Why did they do this to us? Why? We were disappointed enough to learn about London Bridge falling down, and also that poor, unfortunate Little Bo Peep had lost her sheep. But the ultimate in creepy rhymes was the story of poor demented Mother Hubbard, and her pschyo Dog. Check this horror out, in case you've forgotten:
Old Mother Hubbard
Went to the cupboard
To fetch her poor dog a bone;
But when she came there
The cupboard was bare,
And so the poor dog had none.
(Till now, you feel sorry for both M.Hubb and Dog)
She took a clean dish
To get him some tripe;
But when she came back
He was smoking a pipe.
She went to the grocer's
To buy him some fruit;
But when she came back
He was playing the flute.
(You're like: Dog, what the hell are you doing to that old lady? Stop playing with her mind!)
She went to the baker's
To buy him some bread;
But when she came back
The poor dog was dead.
(You gasp sorrowfully! You had misjudged the poor dog! Never speak ill of the dead)
She went to the undertaker's
To buy him a coffin;
But when she came back
The poor dog was laughing.
(By now, you're like: Hey, you dog! What's your game? Leave that old lady alone..)
She went to the hatter's
To buy him a hat;
But when she came back
He was feeding the cat.
The dame made a curtsey,
The dog made a bow;
The dame said, "Your servant."
The dog said, "Bow wow!"
(So now, you're like: Screw the lady, screw the dog, where did the bloody cat come from anyway? They're all nuts!!).
Now, I know I'm taking this too far, but what the heck! How can I not mention the Three Blind Mice and the sadistic Farmer's wife?
Three blind mice,
See how they run!
They all ran after a farmer's wife,
Who cut off their tails with a carving knife.
Did you ever see such a sight in your life,
As three blind mice?
Am I supposed to be delighted by this gory picture? Is it supposed to help me sleep better at night? I think NOT.
You think I'm imagining this, folks? Let me now tell you the mother of all conspiracies.
When you are small, they teach you the following three, seemingly innocuous and unconnected rhymes - We've all learnt them by heart.
- Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star....
- A, B, C, D, E, F, Geeee...
- Baa, Baa, Black Sheep....
How long was it before you realised your mind was being played around with, yet again? The TUNES are all the SAME. It's ONE TUNE, for three rhymes. Not feeling so smart about mugging them up now, are we? Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha....
(Psychotic laughter fading into the night....
Sweet Dreams, childrens....
Ha ha ha ha ha ha...)
Or were they? Were they perhaps, instead, when the evil was seeded?
After all, was this not the exact time when our young, impressionable minds were bent out of shape through the well-disguised evil of: Nursery Rhymes.
Oh, yes. Have you ever really thought about it?
'Rock a bye, Baby,
On the Tree Top,
When the wind blows,
The cradle will Rock,
When the Bough breaks,
The cradle will Fall
And Down will come Baby
Cradle, and all'.
Hellooo? Has anybody noticed they are talking about babies falling from tree tops? What kind of a mother would put the baby on the tree top anyway? What's the point? Is it a poorly disguised threat?
'If you're a bad baby, I will put you on the tree top ....ha ha ha ha ha ha (diabolical laughter)'.
This rhyme disturbed me a lot in my formative years. But then there was the short but ominous:
Jack, be Nimble
Jack, be Quick
Jack, Jump over
The Candlestick.
Why? Why should Jack be asked to jump over a candlestick? How tall was the candlestick in relation to Jack? Why would anyone want an innocent little boy to undertake such a dangerous task? There is an implicit 'Or' at the end of this rhyme. Jump over the Candlestick...OR...an equally dangerous torture task will be assigned to you, perhaps even less pleasant. And was this the same Jack, who was also Little Jack Horner, who sat in a corner? Was he put in the corner because he didn't jump properly over the candlestick?
It goes:
Little Jack Horner, Sat in a corner,
Eating a mincemeat pie.
He stuck in his thumb, And pulled out a plum,
And said, "What a good boy am I!"
Apparently, if Jack was being punished, he didn't know it - he thought he was a good boy. But he was obviously dumb - just like the load of us, who unthinkingly and unquestioningly chanted these nursery rhymes. Can you imagine having a plum put in your mincemeat pie? And eating it with your thumb because you weren't even given a spoon? Yuckk! These characters were so ill-treated, and didn't even know it.
Jack in particularly, was a victim throughout his life. Leave us not forget:
Jack and Jill
Went up the hill...etc.
He broke his crown that time! And just because we thought as kids that his 'crown' meant he was a prince, and probably spoilt and would anyway get another crown to replace the one he broke on the hill, this doesn't take away from the fact that the Crown in question was actually a part of his head! Such violence!
Might as well make us all watch Bart Simpson's antics from the age of 2. Anyway, Jack got what was coming to him in later life. He was quite Jacked, so to speak.
Jack Sprat could eat no fat,
His wife could eat no lean,
And so betwixt the two of them
They licked the platter clean
So, Jack was obviously a poor, thin guy with a dominating fat, wife who sat on him, and made him change his name from Horner to Sprat; and they were so poor they had to lick the platter clean.
Jack met his end in Nursery Rhymes with a really passive mention in the never ending 'This is the house that Jack built'. There is no personal mention of Jack in this rhyme apart from the fact that he built a house. He obviously had no personality, no sense of self, after a clearly traumatic childhood.
I know I should stop now, but I'm really in the flow.
So , guys, guys, remember Little Miss Muffet, who sat on a Tuffet? What's a Tuffet, you wonder today, but did you think to ask when you were three? A tuffet is a low stool, which housed the bum of Little Miss Muffet, who was eating Curds and Whey ( I don't care what Whey is, okay?), before this really nasty, icky, large spider came and grossed her out, causing her to flee the scene - and in all probability, subsequently lose her lunch of Curds and Whey.
Why did they do this to us? Why? We were disappointed enough to learn about London Bridge falling down, and also that poor, unfortunate Little Bo Peep had lost her sheep. But the ultimate in creepy rhymes was the story of poor demented Mother Hubbard, and her pschyo Dog. Check this horror out, in case you've forgotten:
Old Mother Hubbard
Went to the cupboard
To fetch her poor dog a bone;
But when she came there
The cupboard was bare,
And so the poor dog had none.
(Till now, you feel sorry for both M.Hubb and Dog)
She took a clean dish
To get him some tripe;
But when she came back
He was smoking a pipe.
She went to the grocer's
To buy him some fruit;
But when she came back
He was playing the flute.
(You're like: Dog, what the hell are you doing to that old lady? Stop playing with her mind!)
She went to the baker's
To buy him some bread;
But when she came back
The poor dog was dead.
(You gasp sorrowfully! You had misjudged the poor dog! Never speak ill of the dead)
She went to the undertaker's
To buy him a coffin;
But when she came back
The poor dog was laughing.
(By now, you're like: Hey, you dog! What's your game? Leave that old lady alone..)
She went to the hatter's
To buy him a hat;
But when she came back
He was feeding the cat.
The dame made a curtsey,
The dog made a bow;
The dame said, "Your servant."
The dog said, "Bow wow!"
(So now, you're like: Screw the lady, screw the dog, where did the bloody cat come from anyway? They're all nuts!!).
Now, I know I'm taking this too far, but what the heck! How can I not mention the Three Blind Mice and the sadistic Farmer's wife?
Three blind mice,
See how they run!
They all ran after a farmer's wife,
Who cut off their tails with a carving knife.
Did you ever see such a sight in your life,
As three blind mice?
Am I supposed to be delighted by this gory picture? Is it supposed to help me sleep better at night? I think NOT.
You think I'm imagining this, folks? Let me now tell you the mother of all conspiracies.
When you are small, they teach you the following three, seemingly innocuous and unconnected rhymes - We've all learnt them by heart.
- Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star....
- A, B, C, D, E, F, Geeee...
- Baa, Baa, Black Sheep....
How long was it before you realised your mind was being played around with, yet again? The TUNES are all the SAME. It's ONE TUNE, for three rhymes. Not feeling so smart about mugging them up now, are we? Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha....
(Psychotic laughter fading into the night....
Sweet Dreams, childrens....
Ha ha ha ha ha ha...)
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