to those ones who can't get the whole computer thing

Let me say this straight out. I love my computer. I love it like I have never loved anything or anyone before. Or is it the Internet that I love? No I think it is the computer. I love the gentle clickety-clack of the keyboard as each black letter scuttles across the page. My computer is the highway from the wonderful mess that's in my head to get sorted out into order on a white page. I love the mess in my head too, which is what makes me love the order of the computer.

This box, this screen, this keyboard and mouse; these are the tools of my trade and I give due obeisance to them. Give? Pay? Grant? I don't know. I am not an obeisance person. But here's the thing. The computer allows you freedom that you have never, EVER had before. You can travel to distant lands, catch up with old friends, renew relationships, feed that never-possible-to-be-filled maw that hungers for more knowledge and more trivia.

If I am faced with a bunch of brinjals on my kitchen counter and I want to fling them on the ground and stomp them with my feet, I turn to my computer, look for an interesting recipe, get distracted by other great recipes for ingredients I never buy, scribble a few notes and voila. 20 minutes later, there's a great tasting new brinjal preparation placed for family consumption.

Daughter calls up from a different city saying she can't find a f**king place and how she is unwell and how she is f**king going to die and how she wishes she were f**cking dead. I turn to the computer find the place, find a telephone number, get directions to the place, message it to her, call her up and tell her the quickest way to get there. This happened today. Thanks to my computer she is in a good mood because her 58-year old mother uses the computer like that fat blonde chick in Criminal Minds. I like to think I am like the two nerds in NCIS, but still. The main thing is the computer and how you use it.

When I first got my computer it was because an old editor friend asked me to write a gossip column for her for the next five years. If I bought a comp, Husband figured out it would pay for itself, within the  year given the very generous amount she was paying me. So my first computer came into the house and lasted for a good seven years. Bought a second and now it is a much loved part of my life.

I started my own website and send news of my state to diaspora across the world. I place each headline on Facebook and Twitter. Though I can't quite figure out the purpose of Twitter, I use it and apparently it works. But Facebook has opened  a whole other world for me. I was convinced to go on a hike within a couple of weeks of joining FB.

I'll never forget that hike. It cost me huge, because I fell in the river with my camera, walkman and sense of dignity. The video is on FB till today. I was 56 then and 56-year-old women who don't work out except for pretend yoga so that they can catch a snooze in between asanas are not just not fit to go on treks, but they also put others in danger. I took two grown men into the river with me, and one man's little son's terrified scream can be heard on the video. It wasn't even a river. It was one of those stupid white water fast moving streams. I had no respect for it then. I have no respect for it now. It was totally my fault and the fault of the idiots shouting stupid directions on the river bank. "Walk sideways, walk sideways," they said. Pppffft. Walk sideways. Perpendicular or parallel to the demon hissing stream? They thought I was joking and laughed. After gazing gloomily at the video, I realized that all I had to do was LIFT my fat leg up above the raging water and step forward. I was trying to move my unfit and fat leg through the raging water. And said raging water was just lifting my leg like I was doing ballet plies. My groin joint was sore for a full 18 months after that.

Now I know no one will probably read this blog, so I shall put it on my Facebook page. I have an army of friends who I have never seen in my life and have no wish to see either. They stay in Facebook and I look forward to communicating with them there, trading comfort and insults with equal care.

There are many many other fun things I do on the comp. I even learned all there was to learn about porn and my sympathies lie with the porn actresses. Poor poor things. I don't know what the purpose of porn films is, but all it does is make me laugh at the whole ridiculousness of sex. We humans look really silly in the throes. No my addiction is Bouncing Balls. I need to get my score to beyond 60,000.

My dog had a growth on his throat. I was told to ignore it but it grew into a huge heavy ball and the poor guy must have been so tired carrying it around. Who knew also what insults his other dog friends hurled at him because of it. I looked for information of dog tumours on my trusty computer and a week later the mass - weighing almost a kilo - was removed. And my boy was so happy. He could now stretch his neck out and cool the scar tissue on the cool tiles.

My cure for dengue and chikungunya came through the 'net and was spread through the net. Wedding photographs can be stored. Details of documents can be stored. Jokes, stories, classical literature that would make you broke if you had to buy it, is available at the click of the mouse.

I can keep a check on my bank account. And best of all I can avoid unnecessary conversation by just pretending that I have a lot of work to finish. This computer and all its parts is worth a million times its weight in antimatter. Just saying. I love the computer.

… to Husband who cannot have a normal conversation

What was that all about!  This shouting and screaming and sneering and direct and indirect insults aimed at me is not amusing or cool. Many men, husband types and fathers, do what you do. Maybe it is their male menopause kicking in. Maybe it makes you middleaged  guys feel all manly and your wrinkled little penises get all hard and strong. I don’t know. I’m presuming. But man, it’s annoying. You, Husband, choose meal times to be nasty. Well I can understand why you swing into Hell-And-Damnation mode, because I have raised, avoiding you during the day and night, to a fine art form.

So I pretend to work at the computer till 3 am. Actually, as you have rightly accused me, I AM just fooling around on the Internet. I have told you so, but you think, I’m just being a smart-ass as usual and that I am actually doing some writing. But hey Idiot! There are no cheques coming in, so obviously, I’m not working. If I am, I’m doing it for free. And you know you hate that. But then again, I could be working for free in the hope of getting  a whole lotta moolah when someone decides to publish me for money. So maybe that’s what you’re thinking, during the long hours I spend backing you while you listen and watch depressing news on television.

This is how I avoid you during the day and night. I come to our bedroom much after 3 in the morning. Strange that you still ­ – after 32 years of marriage –  cannot call it our bedroom, to you it is always “the room” not even in capital letters, as if it is just a hole in a wall that you and I happen to sleep in. The room where you play around with crap that you think you are recycling, but crap still retains its essence – which is crap. You think you are cannibalizing all those electronic items for a later date, but you never use them again. You end up with several spare parts and tiny pieces of electronic junk which you carefully put away into old plastic pill boxes. Man, it’s still JUNK!  All those bits and pieces could have been given away to the junk collectors, but they lie broken and forgotten in recycled pill boxes in our store room.

So I come to the room after 3 in the morning; generally after finishing a few chores, it’s closer to 4 am. 

I wake up at 9. Pretend to do yoga till 10 am.  Deep breathing invariably ends up with deep sleeping in between easy asanas. I emerge at 10 am, have my breakfast, read the newspaper so I don’t have to see your face. Sit in the loo for a good half-hour doing interesting things like reading, or playing Sudoku. Then it’s chores time, cleaning, dusting, cooking depending on the day of the week, because I don’t do all every day, much to your annoyance.

I serve lunch at 2.15. I delay my appearance at the dining table by tidying the kitchen and wiping down the sink and counter. If I’m lucky, you are hungry and finish your lunch before I reach the table. Sometimes I’m hungry and I fiddle and fart in the kitchen after lunch. Those are the times when you really let ‘er rip.

By 2.30 pm you head for your afternoon nap happy that you have asserted your position as Boss in the household and I have been duly cut down to size. You don’t emerge until 5 pm. See? From midnight to 5 in the evening, I have had direct interaction with you for a total of 15 minutes. Yes, you make a valiant effort to start a blazing quarrel, by making provocative statements while I am fiddling around in the kitchen. Sometimes your hard work pays off and we are in the middle of a huge argument and you can bring out your vast arsenal of insults against me and my assorted family members. But those days are fewer now. I have grown cunning with age.

I have learned that if I hang on to the computer, I don’t have to have a conversation with you at all, if I just answer your rants as you listen to the news on television with an , Uh, huh, uh-huh, ah, aha. Hey, I’m good at faking interest and not just at tea time.

You go out for your walk at 6.30 and glorious peace reigns until 8 when you are back. I sometimes hear you ranting or insulting the neighbours who have not been quick enough to dive back into their houses before you saw them. You think you are being humourous when you insult them, but they all dislike you and humour you only because they know that when they are in trouble, they know you will help them, even if it means risking your own life. Because that’s the way you are. You are a good man, but a major pain in the ass.

My family (they love you by the way, they don’t know you detest them) tell me it is my fault. They tell me  you are not as sharp of tongue as I am. My wit is hurtful they say. Maybe they are right. Maybe you should have married a deaf and dumb woman like the deaf-mute down the road who has the hots for you. Only a deaf-mute would have the hots for you, because she cannot hear what you say. You insult her too, but you smile your nasty smile while doing it and the poor woman thinks you are just joshing.

But back to avoiding you. I get dinner on the table, cunningly I time it for 21.51 hours. I need just 8 minutes to finish eating dinner. I carry my dessert to the sofa on time to watch my TV programme at 22.00. You move to the computer, self righteously, because you are paying for the electricity and you damned well have earned the right to use the computer. You play Free Cell until midnight and then retire for the night. I get back to the Internet at midnight and fool around until 3 am. 

As marriages go, this is an awful situation, but unavoidable since you are highly uncomfortable with pleasant happy conversation. You are only happy watching the smile run away from my face, and to be fair, anyone else’s face. That’s the way you are.  As far as I am concerned, it’s an excellent system for my peace of mind. Like with a snarling dog, direct eye contact must be avoided at all costs.  I have reduced direct eye contact with you, Husband. to just 24 minutes in 24 hours. Not bad I say. Not bad at all.  Less hassling than taking the cleaver to you.

To the cliche "You are born alone, you die alone"

Someone was whining about how her friends had dumped her when she most needed their help and support. I fed her you, the old cliche about how we come into this world alone and depart alone. Then my old problem kicked in. It's terminal I'm thinking. This problem. I say something deep or stupid depending on the situation, and you have to agree, some so-called deep sayings are pretty stupid. But I digress. And I can digress because this is my blog, and if you don't like it you can just ____. No, no, come back. I didn't mean that. You are my only reader, so stay, okay?


I was thinking we are not alone when we come into this world. Adam, if the story of Creation is not a load of hoo-ha, arrived in this world with the hands of God himself around him. Ditto with Eve, though she was cloned from a rib of Adam, which is why I say, that story of creation? Maybe, just maybe, could be a load of hoo-ha. 


But take you and me. We had our moms holding us and pushing us out of their unmentionables. Honestly, whoever thought up how reproduction apparatus has to be set up in the animal kingdom, must've really hated females. One bad-ass all mighty misogynist. The point is, we are not alone when we are born. Even if we are born in a forest, we have our mothers cheering us along the birth path. Well my mother was swearing in Portuguese and when I gave birth to both my girls, I just bellowed. But my point? The baby is not alone at birth.


So it's settled then? You agree? We do not come into this world alone? 


Now about departing this earthly realm. If you depart alone, that's entirely due to poor planning on your part. Or if it happens when you are sitting on the crapper while on a business trip, just pure bad luck. Actually choices you make from the time you emerge from Mom to the time you're emerging from a freezer in the morgue, will determine whether you die surrounded by those you love who love you back. 


If you are a nasty, mean, petty, or creepy person, chances are you won't have too many people around you when you die. Unless along with your filthy mind you are filthy rich.


But if you've been an okay type warm, loving, taking people at face value, not trying to change the world too much, but going with the flow, you are so going to die of an overdose of carbon dioxide with the vast number of people sobbing around your death-bed.


And after you're dead, why should you care anyway? You're free. Finally. Wheee.

To The Idiot Who Said You Have Made Your Bed, Now Lie In It

This confuses me.  It’s one of those smarmy metaphors on life decisions that looks like butter wouldn’t melt in its mouth. You swallow and there’s a big fat pin in it. Lying in the bed you made is the final idiotic act after a series of actions and stupid, stupid decisions. Been there, done that, idiot who thought up this idiom.

So let’s do the metaphor. The making of a bed, good or bad is not easy. Decisions come into play here. First tough decision is should it be a bed for one or two? That’s a lifestyle choice. If it is a bed for one and there are no plans to double its size, that opens a whole other set of issues. If it is a bed for two, you are going to be lying in it with someone else. So the designing and ordering of the bed comes from this decision – single or double.

How much can you budget for it? Jungle wood, jackfruit wood, teak, rosewood, mahogany? These are life choices. You want it to last for two years or three generations? Then there are the bed boards. Ply? Block board, Marine Ply, teak planks, rosewood or mahogany. Buy it readymade? Or hire a carpenter?

You have to decide on the mattress – soft? Hard, firm, thin, thick? Cotton, coir, foam?

The pillows are another big decision. Thick, thin, hard soft, many or one per head?

Sheets, rough unbleached, cotton, fine cotton, rayon, silk, satin? Bedpread or coverlet? Brocade, knit, candlewick, embroidered? Duvet or eiderdown? It’s all about actions and effects. It could freak you out properly. How do you get that mahogany bed?

You have to make life decisions that won’t give you a crick in the neck or a back ache. And then you lie on it. So Idiot Who Thought Up This Idiom, it’s not as easy as you seem to think it is. There’s a lot of bad decision-making that goes into the making of a bed. You could sleep happily in it or it could give you curvature of the spine.

I remember one of the best sleeps I had on a mud road off a field in a Goan village. I was 10 and tired after a hard day of non-stop playing. There was a folk theatre playing on a makeshift stage in the field. The adults settled down to watch and my cousin and I wandered off for some unrelated entertainment. But we were both tired. It was dark and there was a bullock cart parked on the mud road. No bulls. The yoke was resting on the ground. The village drunk was sleeping in the body of the cart, so us two ten-year-olds sat on the yoke, we chatted drowsily and slowly lay down with our heads on the hard wooden yoke as pillow. The stars twinkled above, the theatre was in full voice and we slept, a deep, wonderful sleep. Hours later the adults woke us up, dusted us off and we trudged back home.  

There is an answer for you Idiot Who Thought Up This Idiom. Rural India has an answer for you. We don’t need beds or mattresses, or eiderdown quilts. We just roll out a rattan mat. We eat on it, we work on it, we dust it off at night and sleep on it. It is our dining table, our dining chairs, our work table, our bed. We wake up early morning roll it up, prop it against the wall, so snakes don’t crawl in for a quick snooze and go about our merry way. It’s cheaper, no huge decisions to be made, no laundering, no lumpy mattresses after a year.  Less is more. We won’t have to lie on our bed, if we don’t have one, suckerrrrrrrr!

SIMPLE, INEXPENSIVE AND SO BLOODY HEALTHY

Dear Government Servant who prefers being called government official

At the outset let me apologize for getting mad at you Government Servant. I now realize that it is impossible for you to understand why we, non-government servants, get mad at you.

We happen to belong in the private sector, some of us used to belong in the private sector. We are now sitting at home in a post-retrenchment haze wondering what’s going to happen if we don’t get a paycheck this month.

Now you, will never have this problem. When we, the Indian Private Sector, hereinafter known in this epissle as (ips) in lower case, because, let’s face it, in your eyes we are. Not like the IPS, in upper case. That’s the one which struts it stuff on our streets with absolutely no idea of what a police force is actually supposed to do. As I said, I cannot blame you for behaving in the constipated fashion you do. I will explain at the end of this missive why I use the word ‘constipated’*.

I cannot blame you; neither should any of the ipses in the country – because you have been born into this workaday world with bureaucratic red tape in your mouth. You earn a salary way beyond the level of your productivity. Your department is overstaffed, yet no work is done.  You have paid a huge bribe to get the job, so when you do have to move a file from Point A to Point B you sit on it laboriously until the ips pays you to get off your butt and move it. You have to recover your bribe money with more of the same.

Meanwhile your paycheck comes in with great regularity. If it does not, you run gibbering to the local media and sob about hungry mouths at home. And your paycheck comes in.

Now for us in the ips, we have no way of knowing whether that envelope we get at the end of the month will hold a paycheck or a pink slip. A large amount of that paycheck goes to paying your salary, so the ipses are actually feeding not just their families, but yours too. Because it is ips money that puts food in the mouths of your ugly looking family. That’s another thing I will never understand. Why are government servants so damned ugly?

WHERE'S THE BUZZ? Yes this pic is stolen, so sue me.

I gave the matter some pretty deep thought. Because to me, this is a serious problem.  Not only are the government offices, dusty, dirty and ugly, but the occupants exactly match the interiors. 

Look at private banks. Their surroundings are exquisite, their staff very attractive, dressed beautifully, always courteous and they screw you out of your money much more efficiently than the government servant does. But it’s such a pleasure getting screwed by a professional.

But you, Government Servant, you have it easy. You can never be sacked. You don’t have to account for your actions. Even if you are so wicked that even your seniors decide to bung you in jail, your family continues getting your paycheck. Truncated a bit by 25 percent, but your meals and stay is taken care of in prison, so it’s even-stevens for your ugly family at home. They continue laughing all the way to the bank.  That's right. I cannot blame you. But I can still hate you. And I do.

*I used the word ‘constipated’ because you’re so full of crap, Government Servant. All you can think of is how to cover your ass, grabbing as much grease as you can without it showing on your uniform.

Dear Tourist in Goa

A little common sense and courtesy is all we ask for. Oh yes, our tiny state is blessed with all that is fine and good, hills, dales, forests, rivers, fields, beautiful beaches, lovely people, PCOs and broadband. Okay, if you insist, it’s a gift from God. Kerala claims to be God’s own abode, but everyone knows when God needs a holiday He comes to Goa.

We understand that there are other beautiful places with similar features all over the Konkan coast; all over the country; all over the world. We understand that Goa is cheap, gives you great value for money and that you can get your eyes, teeth and several other body parts fixed for a fraction of the amount it would cost you in your place of origin. We understand that you have looked forward to this holiday for a long time, that you have planned it down to the last detail. That you will be talking about this perfect holiday till the cows come home. We understand all that, but we need you to remember certain things.

We need you first to respect this beauty that you come to revel in, so when you buy overpriced bottles of mineral water, canned juices, wafers, ice creams and snacks, remember to carry a bag to stow away all your empty containers. The beach, roads, gutters are not the place for it. Put it all in a bag and deposit it in the bin at your hotel.

When you buy paan from any of the vendors, remember our money has gone into the painting of our lovely heritage buildings all over the state and spitting red paan saliva on them does not merely distress us, it makes us mad as hell. If you must chew paan, then carry a small tin or container or portable spittoon, spit into that and empty it out in your hotel bathroom.

When you come here all shiny-eyed and bushy tailed ready for the holiday of your life, it’s okay to let your hair hang down, but don’t let all your body parts hang out also. It does not only embarrass us, it puts our girls in danger when the creepy crawlies who cannot lay their hands on you decide to get their jollies by molesting our girls.

Again, bras and badly fitting shorts crawling into every crevice and fold of fat, exhibiting angry red, wrinkled, freckled skin is enough to put a normal person off their feed for a week. Do yourself a favour; look at yourself in a full length mirror before setting off for the city, wearing beachwear. When you visit our churches and temples, a little decorum to clothing and behaviour is of the essence.

And to our country cousins… When you come to Goa from other parts of India, especially the landlocked areas, remember the sea is deceptive. It contains all sorts of threats that can snuff out your life in the most implacable way possible. The rip tide slides in from anywhere in any depth of water and will drag you far out to sea and drown you. When the lifeguards tell you not to swim in certain areas, listen to them. They are curt with you when they come out with their second and third warnings because they know that when you are being sucked down into a watery grave, they will have to risk their lives and limbs to come out to save you. And their lives are not worthless as you may think. They have families depending on them returning home whole after their day’s work is done.

There’s so much booze available in Goa and you sip and stagger like there’s no tomorrow. Do that by all means, but don’t harm others, or put yourself in harm’s way. If you cannot hold your liquor, cease and desist, have a mocktail instead. It costs a little less and looks more impressive. And for heaven’s sake, do not drink alcohol and swim, it’s as dangerous as drinking and driving.

We know our people are naïve, warm and welcoming. That our girls have a serene Polynesian kind of beauty, but like you they are just trying to get on with their lives. They are not prostitutes either professional or free-lance. Don’t ogle them; don’t fondle them; they don’t like it. Neither do the common folk.

Also leave our little children alone. When Goans get angry they will punish you.

Enjoy your holiday and return to your home state or country. Don’t visit real estate agents and try to buy land here. We have very little of it and we need it for ourselves. Also, there’s no guarantee that you won’t lose your life’s savings. Come back again and again. Goa will welcome you in her warm embrace every time. Just don’t abuse that welcome. We have a way of life here, we are desperately trying to save. It is this way of life that makes Goa so special. Help us to protect it. And Goa.

Dear Bladder,

There is a time and place for everything. Everyone has a job to do and your job is vital. You sit there right inside my insides and think no one can see what you do, or do not do. I have to tell you Bladder that I am not happy. Not happy at all with your behavior. Hence, please find, this memo to you.

I cannot abide slackers and since you have been with me for more than 50 years I can tell you we have both grown together. Oh yes there are times when I have not noticed you since I had to pay close attention to your colleagues at different parts of these 56 years. I know you are growing old, but there is no retirement plan when you are in my company.

When we first started out, we were young, very young. It was okay if you slipped up occasionally and did not do your job of holding water properly. Heck, we were both young and I remember how much fun it was jamming with you and playing with people’s minds. Just when they were all smiling and relaxed, bang, you’d open the floodgates and I would smile sweetly into their eyes while we gave them a total washout.

Ah,  those were good days, but at night when we were both asleep, you would not keep an eye on things, and I too was a very deep sleeper. I would wake up only when I found myself chilled to the bone, wet and cold.

But we both got the hang of things and then it was no longer a huge joke to smile over later. People would laugh at me, not at you, remember.  In the classroom; in the playground and that terrible, terrible day in the school bus.

But we learned control, you and I. Actually it was I who was controlling you. I thought you knew what was expected of you, and you gave me no cause to doubt, except when I pushed you beyond the point of no return. But you held in there and did not embarrass me. You did your job well.

Now I am appalled at your lack of control. I have noticed you going to rack and to ruin in these last few years. I think it was after my 54^th birthday. I find it strange to have to tell you your job. All you have to do is shut your mouth. It's simple, bladder. No leaks.

Added to that Bladder, you are aware of Husband, that blithering goop who insists on leaving the seat up in the bathroom. We really need a bathroom of our own, but what to do. So we improvise. I told him that you were not as young as you were. Neither am I for that matter, you and I are the same age, but one does not want to ruin one’s image in the market.

One can be patient and make excuses the livelong day, but there comes a time in a woman’s life when she must  teach Husband a lesson or two. Telling him to place the seat down again 17,875 times was not good enough for him. So I decided to teach him a lesson, where he would pay attention. I fitted clear plastic wrap tightly around the toilet and placed the seat down over it.

Right enough he whistled his way into the bathroom and I heard the zipper go with a flourish. I heard the seat go up with a bang against the flush tank and then a startled, “WOHOAA!” followed by a string of really strong language. He rushed out wet as to trousers and bulging as to eye.

Now I hear Husband too has worries about his bladder control and that delicate thing called a prostrate. I heard somewhere that when men pee sitting down on the toilet bowl, it keeps their prostrate small and healthy.  I just mentioned it to Husband and now the seat is down, well most of the time.

I have been told to exercise you often, do something called Kegel’s exercise, to contract and 

relax the urethral sphincter while peeing. It’s an interesting feeling, but you have to play ball too. Get active once again.

You have to get your act together Bladder. You have to be very careful to not embarrass me.