Where there's a leak, there's water

I had my first housewife adventure today. My apartment got flooded :D. And the reason I'm gleeful 'bout this is, as my ever-helpful husband puts it ever so subtly, 'Be...cau...se you don't have to do anything but sit on the couch". Now the question is, what the hell am I doing sitting pretty on the sofa while the house fills its insides with water? Not definitely waiting for a little dinghy to wing by and rescue me.

It all starts when I wash up my dishes and come out into the hall to relax a wee bit and also help myself to a chocolate milano (aaaaaaaah ...) cookie. Unfortunately, the hall decides to wash itself and there's a film of water stretching all the way till the carpet, devouring a bit of it already. After a 45-min session with the mop and the floor, I ditch the milano and decide to go in to the kitchen to replenish my strength with a glass of milk. And what do you know. More water. And I had JUST finished a 30-minute session with the kitchen BEFORE I had that 45-min session with the hall and I CAN'T TAKE THIS ANYMORE!!!

I decide to pop by my neighbour and ask him if he could help me a bit and hey!Its the maintenance guys in there (Empty apartment + place crawling with maintenance guys = relieved and happy me). And before you know it, our place is crawling with the maintenance dudes. By the way, ever since I've moved in here, I have been wanting to mop that hall, but owing to a variety of reasons, mainly laziness, I've been putting that off. And now, that hall's been cleaned five to six times. And I'm not the one doing it!!! :) God bless those maintenance chappies.

The work's still going on by the way, even as I type this. There's a pipe in there that's leaking and the chappies have decided to blow a hole in the wall (not ours, the empty apartment gets the brunt of it. Yet again.) to fix it. I hope it turns out all fine and more importantly, dry.

So that's that. I'll get going now. Have to visit a temple.

PS : Runaway leaks, flooded house and visiting temples. I really AM a housewife.

PPS: Love it.

The strange case of the issue with the tissue.

I'm generally not one for body humour ... especially if its the lower half of the body and its multifarious aspects that's under scrutiny. So it took a long time for me to decide on whether or not to write 'bout whatever it is that I'm about to write now. You see ... its about (hushed whispers) my tussle with the tissue.

I recently got married (normal voice) and like many married women who move to the US 'coz their corresponding pati parmeshwars stay there; I did too. Our flight route took us through London, starting from Mumbai, and finally landing at Washington DC. Now the thing is, just before we left, I had an attack of gastroenteritis, and that meant that I had to rush to the bathroom at the slightest gesture from my poor stomach. So there I was in that constant mumble-y state of mind, and rumble-y state of tummy and it was with that, that I left my beloved Hyderabad. Anyway, we soon landed in Heathrow and nature called, and then eventually started to yell.

I had to rush to the loo, and... no water! And tissue... ewwww. Is it me or does anyone else also find the whole tissue thingy gross? 'Coz using a piece of paper to do away with your job is really not my idea of a job well done. (And I can't believe I just typed that!) Anyway, what happened had to happen. When I came to the US and stepped into my new home however, I decided to put my foot down. No tissue. I lost. Well, not half actually. I got a jar.

Hey its not like I didn't try you know. I did. But I think I stay jarred. The other day, I went out with a couple of friends to play pool. A few half-hours later, my friend G draws me aside and asks me if I'd adjusted with the tissue. As you know, I'm a shy and retiring person, who generally shrinks from discussing stuff like that. I tried to wriggle out of the situation. I know I'm going to regret writing this later, but I think I mumbled something 'bout alternating.

But the question is, is it just me? I want to know if there are other stricken humans out there too who grapple with the issue of the tissue. If I can be brazen enough to write about this fragrant topic, I'm sure the comments can be air-freshener-ed in too.

It’s what they say ...'Speak up Amreeka'.

Dehugging life.

M: I've decided that I shall never speak to all and sundry in Telugu.

V : What happened?

M: A life-altering incident.

V : I repeat ... what happened?

M: Ok ... so I was in Mysore. For my training. On my left sat my good friend (whose name eludes me right now), while on my right, sat... well... a guy who wasn't. After conversing with my good-friend-seated-on-my-left, and realizing a little later, that class was over, I turned to the guy on my right and asked him to move. He looked shocked. Taken aback used in conjuction with scandalized would attempt to convey the general impression he gave. And with all this, he didn't budge but instead coughed a "Sorry?". I repeated my request. The traumatized fish-out-of-water, hunted look still hung on his face. I was beginning to lose my patience. People were queueing up behind me with a "Hoy! Get a move on there!". And in my indignation, I exclaimed "Please move!" to which reason seemed to return to the hapless chap's throne and he ... well ... he moved.

I found out later that the unfortunate guy was a kannadiga. That's nice. But I still couldn't fathom why he looked like he'd seen a ghost when I asked him to move. And then, it hit me. I had spoken to the guy in Telugu in the first two instances of requesting him to displace himself. But that still didn't explain his outrageous 'Howwwwwwwww could you?' expression.

I bumped into a Kannadiga friend of mine later, and asked him casually what tappuko meant in kannada? He laughed and said not sans a mischevious gleam in his eye 'Why? Have you been using that word lately?' and promptly dismissed my question. Now I knew there was something wrong. This time I sought out a girl friend of mine, another Kannadiga and posed the same Q. Again the m. gleam in the e. Damn. Whaaaaaaaaaaat did I do wrong? And this time, the answer came.

V : What happened?" (Ok ... I think I need a new line)

M: Well ... I was speaking to my friend right? ... in class? I was conversing with her in telugu. And when the class ended, I had turned around and said "tappuko" in the same flow to this random guy. And ... sigh! While tappuko means 'move' in telugu ... (deep sigh) ... that guy heard it as something else... the 'pp' part of tappuko must have sounded like 'bb' to him and ...

V : Ok ... what happened? (I really need a new line now...)

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M : Sigh ... In kannada, tabbuko means "hug me".

V : (Rendered incapable of speech. Current action : ROTFL)

Tagged.

కార్తీక్ గాడు నన్ను tag చేసాడు. So here I am racking my head as to what my idiosyncracies could be. When I really should be sleeping. Grumble.

1. I had this quirk for a very long time ... if someone hit me on my left hand, I'd hit myself on the same spot on the other hand to balance it out. Wierd? Not half. This actually went cantering to such heights that if my foot touched someone's chappal, then I'd use the other foot and touch the second chappal and endevour to displace it by the exact same distance and angle as the first one (which anyway happened by mistake to begin with). Sigh. Poor me in those days.

2. When I see a fold on a garment ... be it a curtain or a table cloth or someone's chunni, I just HAVE to go and smoothen that crease and keep flattening it till my hands have lost a coupla inches.

3. In my world of fantasy, (which I suspect is a customized set of utterly ridiculous but extremely pleasant thoughts), I'm the world's greatest dancer. Kuchipudi is my main stream, but I'm perfectly capable of executing complex manoeuvers in any style of dance known to man. Oh wait, that doesn't include ballet though ... it only limits itself to Indian classical dance styles. And yeah, I've been bequeathed the greatest of the titles from India's Bharat Ratna to France's Legion of Honour (all before I've hit 30). Naaahiiiiice.

4. I like my పప్పు, కూర, సాంబార్, చారు, మజ్జిగ పులుసులు, పిండి మిరియం (That, in the same order is daal, curry, sambar, rasam, and I don't know whatever majjiga pulusu is called (umm ok... its a buttermilk based sambar, poured loosely (no pun intended)) and pindi miriyam( uhh... I think this one's got a lot of urad daal, lots of black pepper( hence the name 'miriyam' ... meaning pepper) , and beans... but beans can be substituted with any other gourd- veggie also I think) to be ever so slightly sweetish. I cannot bear a dish that has the essence of tamarind and the absence of jaggery. Even my pulihora must have have gud in it. I like the mix of sweet-sour in my food, and if you can't manage to bring that out, then don't invite me. So there.

5. I believe that the planets watch over us and especially bow to Hiranyagarbha - He who dispenses with lethary and who has a proclivity to dole out life-giving rays and the whole works. And all this, when I wake up at 12 in the afternoon.

6. When I see a train, I HAVE to count the number of bogies. And woe begone the person who interrupts me.

That's that. I know they're more. But I've to think 'bout them and I'm sure I've better things to do. Like look at the stars outside and think of being an astronaut.

Zero gravity

I don't like weighing scales.

If ever there was a contraption whose mere sight was enough to make me teeter on the icy brink of deep blue funk, it is that. Over the years, I've come up against many of their kind. From the uncertain pappa-gimme-a-1rupee-coin-no?-i-want-to-check-my-weight weighing scales to the heck-you-ARE-overweight ones lounging about at a doctor's.

The one I hate however, is in my gym. A friday evening, after a gruelling workout, when I step onto the offending machine, it says 53.2. I had the best weekend ever. I come back on Monday and it reads 55.8. Sigh. I don't starve myself (anymore) but I'm not that gutsy an eater either. Fishy is what is written all over that WS and all in all, I'm thoroughly justified in looking at the thing askance when I step into the AC environs which house it.

Today was no different. Workout wise I mean. After an hour's 'am-sooooooooo-dead' exercising, I gathered myself and started to crawl out of the place. I tried not to look at the weighing scale which had mysteriously appeared (it wasn't there when I walked in) at the entrance. But a gaggle of giggling girls had that machine at their mercy and its hard to ignore a gaggle of giggling girls at any rate. So I stepped into the circle. One girl said, 'I don't trust this scale an inch. I showed my weight as 53 one day, and the very next, 58'. I had company.

Wait time. My turn now. Weight time. 0.1kg. I get down, hit the thing and again, it shows 0.1 kg. Now I know that that's not possible. And yet, I think I'm beginning to like this thingy. I feel light-headed. Happy. I think ... I'm floating. Zero gravity, here I come.

వివాహ భోజనంబు... I think not!

N: Once you come here, we must invite people home.
V: Gulp. Am I to cook?
N: Ummm...yeah.
V: But I can't cook! I mean ... I can't cook for too many people. I mean ... its not that I don't want to ... I mean ... I can't! I'll burn everything! Or undercook it. I'll put too much salt or too less of it ... I caaaaaaaaaaan't! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh! (Running away flailing arms.)
N: Oh relax! We'll order it from the desi restaurant around the corner, and pass it off as yours.
V: Chee. That reminds me of a too-hep-for-household-bahu who picks up the phone to order stuff off a menu when family members come home. I don't like characters like that.
N: Ok, first of all ... there aren't any family members coming. And second of all, you aren't hep.
V: Great. I burn food annnnnnnnnd am not hep.

Cookery classes, me thinks.

Of cals and chocs :)

'Twas a funny evening that I found myself in. I generally like to head for my session at the gym by 4.45 PM. 'Coz with the gym, the ol' FCFS rule rules. 15 minutes later. I'm all set to give a pricey treadmill some wear for its value. I turn the knob and ... oops. The gym door is locked. Another lady comes in. She's a regular. Hell or high water, she comes as sure as Rani Mukherji's films flop. :D. Ok... that was rude. As sure as the sun rises in the east. There ... better. I think.

Anyway, the regular comes in, all set to do her set of pumpin' and ohohoho - locked. Soon there's another lady joining us. And another. And into our motley group, walk in three assorted gentlemen, none of whom have the all-too-important key to unlock the door to our dreams (of looking toned and fit and what not .. you know!).

Before we know it, there's a crowd milling around impatiently heartily cursing
a. the instructor who bloody well should've been here by now
b. the security guard who wore an expressionless face and a spare key that unfortunately could not be spared until the instructor had arrived.

The clock strikes 5.20 PM ... 20 minutes ... that would have meant nearly 100 calories at least. All lost. In the meanwhile, the girls are swapping stories on how a couple of guys almost came to blows. Here's a story that did the rounds. Chap A had apparently 'booked' his slot on the treadmill (which means, he asks the girl using it "How much longer? Oh k ... I'm after you" and then rushes to grind his muscles on some other heartless contraption) and a second one B, not choosing to utilize his time elsewhere just hangs on to the treadmill, billowing great waves of "That's enough ... gerroff now willya?". Obviously, there came a point, when the girl does get off the t.mill, B jumps at the opp. A comes fuming and starts arguing ... then A and B get together and fire away at the girl. Sigh. People.

Anyway, amidst all this, the key-chap (no pun intended), comes in, unlocks the door. And here a mini-race takes place. Everybody scrambles (pretending to amble along casually of course:D ) to get the best machine, me included. Ahh ... all's well that ends well and I came away with 300 calories burnt.
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I treated myself to a milk chocolate later to celebrate that. Guess some things never change eh? :D