Limericks for Lali: A Birthday Tribute

Lalita, of Lalita Larking fame, the first friend I made by way of the blog world, celebrates her fiftieth birthday on the 13th September (tomorrow). I have been completely floored by her amazing poetry (she writes in English and Telugu), humour, tremendous musical knowledge, wisdom, erudition, and last, but not least, her consummate ease with cryptic crossword puzzles.

Disclaimer: Although Lalita has inspired these limericks, she is not to be held responsible for them.

Our wonderful Lali turns fifty
with words she is so very nifty
they twist and they turn,
they wriggle and squirm,
as she deals with them all very swiftly.

Greetings to our very own Lali
who with words is exceedingly pally
Her 'ana' can 'gram'
And her verses all scan
She's so brainy, she is, actually.

Not only a brilliant mind
Lali's also exceedingly kind:
A diffident blog commenter
Hesitantly sent her
An invite and she kindly complied.

I've known Lali for less than a year
Bloggers mail her from far and from near
She may meet them or not
But she's there in their thoughts
'cause they really admire her, my dear.

Now that I've got Lali on the brain
I wonder if you can explain
Her kinship with crosswords
She makes easy tough words
and never once does she complain.

Lali's neither 'craft'-y nor artsy
But she's known as the Grammar Nazi.
She knows her dipthongs,
prosody and songs
Bad grammar makes her feel very nasty.

On Lali's fiftieth birthday
Is there anything we can do or say
Some magic, some whimsy
Be it ever so flimsy
to get rid of her painful RA.

On this big day be of good cheer
& look ahead to the forthcoming year
Have lots of fun blogging
Some running, no jogging
And for now, have some more beer.

These limericks, pathetic and flawful
Some of which are truly quite awful
are emerging, of course,
form some underground source
that's beyond me and must be unlawful.

I close with these words, dearest Lali,
I'm so glad you're a friend and an ally.
Knowing you has enriched me
Your words enthrall and bewitch me
Your wonderstruck friend, Dipali

cellephony and the scatterbrain

The trouble with a cellphone is that it is a small piece of equipment and it has no fixed abode, being, by its very nature, mobile.
If it belongs to a somewhat scatterbrained person, much effort has to be made to ensure its optimum use.
It took me ages to remember to carry it with me when I left my house.
I wouldn't even think of looking at the 'missed calls'.
I would be scolded by whoever had tried to call me.
It took me even longer ages to remember to take it out of my handbag when I returned to the said house.
I tend to be rather paranoid about my handbag. So I try and keep it inside my wardrobe as a matter of habit.
So the poor phone would be ringing away inside the cupboard, while I remained happily oblivious to its sound.
More missed calls, and even more scoldings.

Maybe, at some deep, unfathomable level, I wish to remain incommunicado for some of the time at least.

Some of the world wishes to reach me though.
Especially Airtel, my mobile phone service provider.

They remember me at strange times of day. If they are not calling up with some new scheme or other, they are sending me short messages. And the 'sms' beeps have ruined many an afternoon siesta, when the phone is actually not in The Handbag in The Cupboard.

Maybe Airtel thinks I sleep too much.
I have some suggestions for Airtel so that they can give us more personalized service, and for Nokia, so that they can make even more efficient handsets.

Devise a system so that the phone calls that you really want to miss never show up on your phone.

Devise a system so that you always receive a call in case of emergency.
Most times when it's really urgent the network will be congested or the number you want will be switched off or unreachable.

Devise a system so that Airtel knows when the users are either asleep or very sleepy, or deeply involved in the latest Harry Potter and do not wish to be disturbed by either calls or beeps from Airtel.

Devise a system that knows when you are in the bathroom and tells the caller that the dialled number will be accessible only after ten minutes or so. Agreed you will get a missed call, but think of the tension one undergoes while using the facilities with the cell phone merrily sounding off the while. Technology is nowadays so advanced, it ought to know.

Instead of those ghastly low-battery squawks, the cell phone should remind you once a day to charge its battery. A polite message can be worded to suit the user's temperament. ( Like: 'Please charge me, I'm really feeling low now', or, alternatively, for tough cookies, 'Charge me right now or else'.)

A system whereby the phone tells you that its in the wrong place in your handbag. Most ladies' handbags these days come with a special pocket for a cell phone. If you have not put the phone in the special pocket, it should immediately trigger an alarm. This will save you from the embarrassment of fumbling in the assorted junk in your handbag for a full five minutes with your phone ringing away to glory while an entire concert hall/seminar room looks upon you with great disdain.

A system wherein the phone knows when you are leaving the house. If you even try to step out of the house without it, maybe it can yodel out a little tune: "Yoo hoo oo, you've forgotten something important" or " What'll you do without me, Babe".
You should also be able to deactivate this system when required.
(It should also be able to tell you not to lock it up in your wardrobe in your handbag).

Cell phones should, generally, refuse to accompany you on morning walks.
Or when you are going for yoga class, or for a swim.
They Ought to Know when they are not welcome.

The scatterbrain has put in enough thought for the day.
We hope to find new and improved handsets and services.
Your valuable suggestions are most welcome.

Y have you tagged me?

Y, I insist that I'm really very non-compulsive. I guess that's a quirk, or does everyone insist that they have no OCDs?
However, some thinking took place,
Some thoughts were thunk
(No matter what you're thinking
I know I'm not drunk)

Somebody stop me. Caught myself by my metaphorical collar and am now serious.
1. I share the obsession with reasonably correct grammar and spelling with you and many others out there. I have friends whom I love very much, but whom I would prefer to talk to on the phone than ever receive letters from them, since I get so put off by poor writing skills. My husband is a brilliant thinker and speaker, but doesn't write well by my standards, so I tend to edit all his personal mail. ( I seriously wondered whether or not I should marry him because I didn't like his handwriting. A good friend whose brothers had equally unbeautiful handwriting convinced me of how trivial an issue it really was. Of course there are days when I wonder why I ever listened to her, but that is neither here nor there).
What to do- I seem to have the soul of a sub-editor.
( I also know that I can make weird mistakes myself. Kindly do not point them out)
It also helps me make an idiot of myself in judging people- they may be complete so-and-sos, but if they speak good English I tend to like them even against my better judgement.
2. Related but different: would love to correct each and every mis-spelt sign board I've ever encountered. ( Neha- I can never forget the CHILD BEER)!
3. If, as my kids insist, talking to inanimate objects is the first sign of insanity, well.... I talk to some weird things, particularly the cobwebs in my house. (Not out loud, for goodness sake, only inside my head). Sample: Yup, I've got my eyes on you, Mister. One of these days I'm gonna get you. ( The villains in my life are inevitably male: now what does that tell you about me?)
My eldest daughter gets it from me: she spotted herself being looked at askance by passers-by when she was talking to the flowers in her balcony.
4. I have a high tolerance for dust. I would like my house to be self-cleaning, but since it isn't, I dust only when the spirit moves me. (Usually once in three/four days). I tidy up, make beds, sort out laundry etc. quite regularly, but dusting is somehow low priority, which is ridiculous because dusting the drawing room wouldn't take more than fifteen minutes.
It helps that my husband leaves before any self-respecting household ought to be dusted, and comes back when the dust has the inalienable right to have settled again. I no longer squirm and feel guilty when I see him pick up the Colin and some cotton wool and clean the various remote controls that we have. Good for him. Once again, this is something I have my eldest child to thank for: in her house, whosoever comments on the dirt has to clean it. Don't talk about it and you are safe! No guilt anywhere in the picture.
As I said, 'tidy' is my stronger point: I actually fret and fume until I have achieved 'reasonably tidy'. I do dust when I know that someone is coming over. I can also make out if your house is dusty, but I promise I will not hold it against you- the world needs many more tolerant people like me.
5. If someone tries to bulldoze me into anything it puts my back up, and then even if I need something I just refuse to buy it. I'm getting very upset with the vegetable sellers whom I frequent since they start yelling and screaming and insist on showing me vegetables which I mostly don't need. Goddammit, I'm a grown up woman who's been running her household for decades. I don't need to be told what vegetables to buy. I can see them. And my poor brain has no tolerance for heavy sales-pitches. The trouble is that the super-markets never have such fresh stuff. I often scold the poor chaps and they shut up for a bit, but their habits of screeching die hard.
I'm also one of those weirdos who is not happy unless the fridge is loaded to bursting.
Major conflict-of-interest here. Bah.
( Again, the eldest daughter figures: we were buying sarees for her s-i-l's wedding, and the salesman was a royal pain in the butt. She almost walked out on the whole deal. I (patting myself on the back) was the one who told her that the salesman would not come home with us, while the sarees would. Why doesn't it work for me and my wretched vegetables?

I tag
Neha
Anand
Salil
Kiran
Lalita
Choxbox
Usha
Minimum five quirks/obsessions/OCDs.

Trial Rooms

Are a trial!
Apart from the fact that they manage to make even the reasonably slender look podgy.
( The SRE peers over my shoulder and laughs aloud at 'reasonably slender'- I should only try and write once he's left the house).
No, I'm not talking about myself- I'd settle very happily for pleasantly plump.
(Which becomes disgustingly obese in those damn mirrors).
No, we aren't talking sizes and shapes here, we're talking facilities.
A good trial room in my book has sufficient hooks to hang things on, plus a decent shelf or ledge.
Why shelf/ledge? Because there are people like me who wear glasses, and need somewhere to park the said glasses when they are yanking garments over their heads.
Westside had a delicious sale wherein I tried plonking my glasses on the edge of my handbag which was hanging from one of the two hooks they so kindly provide. I don't know of too many people who religiously carry their spectacle case with them. ( My handbag is usually too full of arbit junk to have room for either spectacles or case, anyway). I ended up with an armful of clothes and a smashed lens. Alright, the specs were old, it was time for an eye-check up anyway.
(I survived the next few days thanks to an old pair of glasses with a crooked frame).
Shopper's Stop and Pantaloons pass muster- Pantaloons has a chest high shelf, SS has a biggish kind of stool in a corner, besides the mandatory hooks, of course.
Now, in case you think that I live to shop, I don't. (I do 'sometimes only', but not most of the time). We (the SRE and I) were looking for stuff to send a friend in the US, who happens to be somewhat thinner than I am. What feels tight for me is right for her. One Sunday we land up in Fab India and I'm back in my not-so-favourite place, the trial room. Which in Fab India also has a biggish moorha in the corner as well as hooks. What do you call a person who carefully puts her
glasses on the moorha next to her handbag, successfully tries on whatever had to be tried on, and then sweeps up her handbag, chipping off part of one of her brand new spectacle lenses as they fall the few inches to the floor?
Two words come to mind- positively challenged. Bah!

Cabbage, or Old Habits Die Hard

As unlikely a title for a post as any! I grew up wondering what the Brits had against cabbage- the hallways leading to their bed-sits were always supposed to be smelling of boiled cabbage. Didn’t sound very good to me. But then who on earth ate boiled cabbage anyway? (Apart from the Brits, that is, who are not really famous for their culinary skills). Like any good desi, we ate cabbage cooked in various ways- either tempered with asafoetida and cumin seeds and then steam-cooked along with fresh green peas, or sautéed with mustard seeds and green and red chillis, or made into koftas, or a cabbage and grape/apple raita. And shredded into salads. And of course the left over cabbage sabzi tasted wonderful on toast, or stuffed into parathas. Useful stuff to have left over.
Munching raw cabbage was a part of my childhood and my children’s childhood. The mother or aunt or elder cousin would be sitting with a large thaal and a sharp knife, and the all important cabbage. I was fascinated by an aunt’s technique. She used to cut a whole cabbage into really fine shreds using the edge of a steel tumbler. (I digress: ‘steel ka gilaas’ as opposed to ‘kaanch ka gilaas-a glass made of steel, not a glass glass! Sounds pretty mad). Chopping boards were not part of the kitchen scene in those days. All good housewives in our community at least had knife scars on their cutting thumbs!
Whatever the chopping technique used, begging for raw cabbage or swiping it from the person cutting it was an integral part of childhood. (My younger son would add salt, chilli powder and lime juice, concocting his own version of kimchi). If one was feeling particularly civilized, a small bowl or katori was brought from the kitchen for the shredded cabbage. If one was a more normal kid, the preferred technique consisted of swiping a handful and running off, and getting yelled at in the process. It was part of the fun.
But, now that our world has become even filthier than it used to be, raw cabbage is no longer safe to eat. I personally know of two people who have had tape worm larva infestation in the brain, brought on by eating raw cabbage. Vegetarians are no longer immune. The gory details are in the excerpt below. I do the cooking in my house, and find it so difficult to shred a cabbage without keeping some aside to eat raw. Another one of life's simple pleasures bites the dust.....

This article is from The Tribune, Chandigarh, May 2006

Cases of tapeworm infection on rise

By Rashmi Talwar

There has been an alarming rise in the number of tapeworm infection cases in the city in the recent months.

The disease manifests itself in epilepsy-like seizures when the worm settled in the brain releases certain toxins, causing severe trauma to the patient.

According to Dr Prabjit Singh, a neurologist with Escorts Multi-Speciality Hospital and Adlakha Hospital, 2-3 cases were being reported in both these hospitals daily.

The neurologist said he had treated almost 100 cases in the last six months. The medication for the disease needed to continue for two years to eradicate the worm from the body, he added.

The worm completes its cycle in the pig. The faecal matter or stool of pork/ pig-meat consumer carries the worm to the sewerage. The water contaminated by this kind of sewerage disposal is mostly used to irrigate fields. The worm then settles in vegetable leaves.

The neurologist, who had undertaken research in this field in the All India Institute of Medical Sciences, says, “Cabbage is the most vulnerable to house this worm. Since the vegetable is used in raw in salads and fast foods much washing, the worm continues to subsist in its womb.

The consumer of the infected cabbage thus gets infected when the worm lodges itself in the intestines, he adds.

“The worm can also affect any and multiple muscles in the body and cause seizures, frequent headaches and loss of vision when lodged in the eye. The disease is referred to as Nuero-Cysti-Cercosis (NCC) in medical terms, which also manifests itself as frequent body aches and swellings under the skin.”

The life cycle of the worm can only be cut by controlling the population of pigs, hygienic disposal of faecal waste and checking samples of pork sellers, say experts.

The farmers too need to be made aware of not irrigating their fields with untreated water, they add.

From the Sometimes Resident Engineer

Who is in residence today. A lazy Sunday morning when the wannabe golfer rose at the crack of dawn, went for his golf coaching, came home, and is still wide awake at ten-thirty a.m. Miracles will never cease.
I felt that he has been eyeing my blog space recently, so I'm being nice and letting him say a few words here. This is a copy of the letter he wrote to his IITK mail group, the redoubtable class-of-75 who will figure here occasionally. So here's sharing his no-longer-innocent query:

Sunday mornings is the time to laze around coupled with the chai cuppa. Top it with a mix of old Hindi songs and it can be nostalgic bliss.

The lyrics of some old Hindi songs have me totally baffled at times, poetic license is so intelligently used that one keeps wondering why the Censor Board stays totally silent on such matters. Probably it's the language issue, for example a Bengali friend of mine for years could not understand how a ladies petticoat could follow a man

every where the man went, a very poor adaptation of Mary's little lamb.

It was much later in life he learnt that "saaya" in Hindi meant shadow. The song I am referring to is one from the movie "Mera Saaya".

What baffled me for years as a kid was this one,

Do badan pyar ki aag mein jal gaye , ek chameli kai mundawe taley,

How could two bodies burst into flames,under the chameli shrub? I was obviously very innocent then (bhola bhaala)!

What takes the cake though is the Geeta Dutt song from the movie "Sahib Biwi aur Ghulam":

Na jao Saaiyan ---Chhudah kai Baiyan---- Main ro Padoongi-

"Machal Raha hai Suhag mera"----I don't know how you would explain to a ten year old, in whatever language you

choose, Hindi, English, Bangla, Punjabi, how does the Suhag Machlo?

Gyani log please help,

Abodh Balak

the reason for my existence

It's pretty clear to me. I exist for the amusement and edification of my family.
Not only am I dinosaur, I'm a dinosaur with four kids, two girls and two boys.
So I have a larger target group to amuse than most. None of them live with me now, but I still manage to amuse them with my exploits over the phone. I continue to fulfill my purpose in life, my raison-de-etre.
My children are not dinosaurs, they know/use most/all of the functions on their cell phones.
They are not challenged by their computers either. They can even select the files they want to burn onto a CD. I can copy CD to CD in toto, and feel very proud of myself.

Once upon a time I borrowed a DVD from the girls as my parents wanted to see 'Baghban'.
My parents settled down in front of the TV, I pressed the right buttons, and nothing......
Nothing on screen. Now I feel less challenged by VCDs somehow, they seem to be a little nicer to me. DVDs are not really my scene. So I called up the girls and asked them if there was some different kind of technique to playing DVDs. "Of course not,Mom, just try again, and let us know"- my wicked girls were certainly waiting from some entertainment from me, and were not disappointed.
Well, I decided to turn up the volume: I could hear some faint music. Which didn't sound like the opening bars of any Hindi fillum music that I'd ever heard. I turned it up some more- it was Rashid Khan, singing Raga Kirwani. Had the system learned the music last played on it? You never know with all this high-tech gadgetry- why, movies start off where you'd left them, sometimes. Anything is possible. Why wasn't the $@*# movie playing. In the meantime my parents were getting restless. Immediate solutions needed to be found. (The Occasionally Resident Engineer was non-resident at the time- if he'd been around there would have been no movie show that evening). I decided to take out the $@*# DVD and try a sensible VCD instead. I open the cover, take out Baghban, and find, to my chagrin, that I hadn't taken out the Rashid Khan CD from the system. I'd been trying to play Baghban while it was sitting on top of the audio CD!
Bah- how challenged can you get? I can get even more challenged: I promptly called up the girls and told them what I'd done.