Today, the chronicler opened this blog to write on a matter he mulled over for some while and which probably took shape just recently. Lest his acute memory should fail him, he documents it as part of this blog.
Recently, in a wedding, I met a young colleague of mine, Shilpa, who introduced me to her brother who had come along to the party. The guy had typical features with heavy facial hair and was looking quite frustrated. When Shipla told me that he was pursuing his engineering, the fellow seemed to wince a little and I surmised that the reason for his frustration was that he had chosen the wrong profession.
The fellow was thin, dark and looked as if he was either totally drunk or had forgotten to shave for months. Either way he looked really sad. Looking at his pathetic state, I decided not to comment on his appearance and cause myself to be added to his personal hate list and proceeded to give the chap a friendly handshake. However, it appeared that he was too busy toying with the idea of stealing away for a while so that he could enjoy some liqour. Although I was interested in the idea myself, prudence prevailed and I decided not to ask him lest he should take it seriously and assume that I was into drugs as well.
For some while the group was standing and talking about the way we wriggled our vehicles into the parking and soon we drifted to the idea that engineering is perhaps the worst of all professions, perhaps because more than just one person had noticed the serious frustrated expression on this tight chap's guise. In my usual oratorial style, I added my comments after clearing my throat in a majestic way as if I were about to deliver a speech on World peace. "If I were to enumerate the main branches of professions, the ones that I can readily recall, are medicine, law, accounting, engineering, and banking. Among these, in my opinion the engineer is perhaps the most frustrated and perhaps finds it most uncomfortable to socialize." The fact is that unless an engineer has a magnetic personality like mine, he tends to blend with the rest of the environment, losing his own identity and assuming that of the mob.
Perhaps the one place where engineers will find themselves most uncomfortable is a party or a social gathering of people from various backgrounds. I attended one such party a while back, when I found that the majority of the people surrounding me were not engineers. Owing to my magnetic personality, an attractive young female Sonia, approached me. I was unable to categorize her reaction as either contempt or amazement, when she raised her eyebrows upon knowing that I'm an engineer. I normally prefer to use a simple title like that, lest I should scare away lay people with "VLSI Design Engineer". The woman then proceeded to discuss what she did and never did she ever care to ask me anything else except if I would join her for some gin and tonic, for which I was always game.
It is not very difficult to understand why an engineer would never be asked about his profession in social circles. A person's profession - and consequently the person himself - would be considered interesting only if, he or his profession could be of any use to lay people or if people have some general knowledge about his profession. For example a doctor could be of use to anyone having fits in a party and he could also talk endlessly of the human anatomy and the organs that he cuts apart, without boring an audience. An accountant could be of use to all those who wish to save on income tax and a banker is an exciting person to talk to for all those that wish to invest their money. When I thought about it from this point of view, I realized that an engineer, and especially one of my kind, would probably never be asked about my profession, since neither is there adequate general knowledge of the subject among people, nor do we do anything worthwhile for laymen to understand. In fact it is only in a clique of engineers, that one of my kinds would feel in place, which is the reason why most engineers set a perfect example of the saying "Birds of a feather, flock together".
Returning back to our wedding party where I met this queer young man, we also discussed that engineers are probably even abnormally horny. Lest I should appear very prurient to my colleagues, I employed witty euphemism and simply remarked that "there are very few women that turn out to be engineers". The truth of the matter is however that most engineers are sexually frustrated, sometimes perverted and mostly virgin, probably due to the paucity in young attractive women that youngsters their age, would like to flirt with. Sometimes, I wonder why some engineers act like complete morons salivating like mad dogs when they see a woman passing by. Yet, the only emotion that such a sight evokes in me is that of pity, for both the women and the men - the women, because of the cheap company they have to deal with and the men, because of their lack of class. Still, I being an engineer myself am healthily horny! Considering the nature of this matter, I shall not discuss it further and shall let it rest in peace.
Engineers are rather queer people and electrical engineers are more than just queer. One professor of electrical engineering in a premier school of engineering in India, could teach his students to write computer algorithms without refering a textbook, but could not repair an electrical fitting in his home. My brother was trying to fix our television set and after several vain attempts called the techician to fix it, who simply slapped it twice to display a perfect picture. If one were to wonder where engineers are of any value, we find that they are perhaps good for nothing.
I digress here to a jovial escapade of a probably fictitious story of a man looking with surprise at the price tags of some monkeys in a pet show. One of them cost $500 and the vendor commented that it could program in C (a meaningless mix of computer jargon that blokes like me somehow seem to make some sense out of) and the other that cost $50000 could program in Java. What completely shook the man was another perfectly ordinary looking monkey with a price tag of $5 million. When asked the vendor replied, "I don't know what he does, but he calls himself an engineer!". I also draw the reader's attention to another singular event in which an engineer, when called for an interview and asked to add two and two babbled after much deliberation that the result lay between 3.99999 and 4.00001.
Although, as pointed out in this thesis, engineers are not very smart, they still manage to do a few things sensibly, possibly by some stroke of luck or due to their "sheer mastery" over the method of elimination. It is with this short note on the smartness that engineers display in moments when they start using their common sense, that I should appropriately take your leave.
DISCALIMER: If you think any of the above is true or that engineers are truly useless, you need to meet a psychiatrist! The chronicler has no grudges against engineers and it may be noted that he is himself one as patently discussed hereinabove.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Thursday, January 12, 2006
The terror of marriage
Today's inspiration to write is thanks to Subramanian, a chap in my office who wishes to marry soon and was discussing his ideas on getting married. Any women interested in the chap may contact me at my mobile number. He's about twenty seven years old drawing a handsome salary in a multi-national organization at the position of a Program Manager.
The topic for discussion was a little awkward for a person like me, especially since I have no interest in the institution of marriage. I felt more like a fish gaping and wondering what he meant by terms such as "Emotional Intelligence", "Stability of Relationship" and "Integration of families". Never before in my twenty-three years have I felt so naive and especially ill-suited to discuss a topic. Yet, I wore a straight face and acted as if I knew everything about the issue of marriage. In fact, I pride myself in my acting skills - given an opportunity, I would make a handsome career in acting, since I do it almost naturally and without any retakes! There have been only those few singular occasions when my usually intrepid countenance, betrayed my emotions, which the chronicler does not deem fit to discuss on a blog, considering the embarassing nature of the incidents.
To the uninitiated, marriages in typical Brahmin families are very complex and involve issues that are very often even beyond Providence! It is rather surprising that even in the 21st century, the south-Indian Brahmin community cares about castes (the castes are basically the different levels of ego - I, Iyer and Iyengar), sub-castes, place of origin, horoscope, gotra (This is unique - while all others must match, this one must NOT match!) and so many complex, convoluted ideas that the minds of lesser mortals like me, can hardly fathom. It is but a wonder that indeed the Brahmin folks are still extant today.
I am told that I was particularly against marriage right from childhood. I donot recall events that took place when I was three or four years old, but am told about this so often that I tend to believe atleast part of it.
I have an uncle who is about fifteen years older than me and is currently happily married with two young ones as well. When I was sbout four years old, I beleive he had come to meet my parents before joining a company around Delhi. It strikes me to date that I still remember being used as a kissing duck and that I adopted a reserved attitude towards those that kissed me incessantly when not asked but hated those that would not kiss, when asked.
I digress here to note two girls in my neighborhood that took me to a movie when I was about five on my mother's request to baby-sit me. I enjoyed rides and did not complain about going to watch a movie with them although, I would neither understand nor would I enjoy an English romantic movie. In the hall, I was instructed to keep quiet and given that I was an obedient child, I complied. However, the girls took undue advantage of my docility and kept kissing me for every romantic and steamy scene, without even asking for my permission. Although I donot remember much of the rest of the events that followed consequently, I believe I would have never wanted to meet those girls ever again.
Returning back to our main discussion, recalling this uncle of mine, who started kissing me very early in our rendezvous I am told that I flashed back in Tamil "Poyah! Unnai kalyanam panni vittuduven" (Go to hell man, I'll get you married!) It is only after all these years when I have a nephew of my own, that I realize that children render us grown ups speechless very often and so was my uncle, in that situation - speechless, succeding which he thundered a boisterous bolt of mirth that shook the foundations of the earth.
As a child I had realized that marriage is more of a bane and is best avoided. Yet people get married year after year and even produce offsprings. Although I would not call myself a misogamist, the idea of a traditional arranged marriage appalls me out of my senses, and drives me to run to an asylum for the sane.
Recently however, I shocked my mother with the crazy idea that I would give her a daughter-in-law as a New Year present intending to involve in frivilous bantering. Apparently she took it seriously and enquired after the mate, to which I responded nonchalantly "A girl!". My mother's usual quest for knowledge was aborted abruptly since I allowed her to entertain the idea that if she would not allow me to date women and marry the woman of my choice, I might as well turn out to be gay. The idea that I was I intended to marry one of the opposite sex softened her attitude towards my mate.
I then proceeded to tease her and said that I would present her with a grandchild on her immediately following birthday. My mother's astute mind finally realized that the whole thing was meant only in jest.
It is a pathetic situation where parents start nagging their sons to give them a grandchild on the wedding day itself. How embarassing is that to a man and his wife! Typically, a newly wedded couple simply has no freedom to indulge in the little pleasures of marital life if the parents stay with them. Add to that the peril of arranged marriages where neither of the newly weds may feel very comfortable starting a conversation, let alone living like a married couple, sleeping together and indulging in romantic sequences.
There is no conclusion to this crazy result of mindless cacology that evolved from my mind. I understand that the readers are due an explanation to their torture, but since I have no excuse to offer, I apologize for the inconvenience I have caused them and beseech them to read the other posts, that hopefully entertain them in the right measure.
The topic for discussion was a little awkward for a person like me, especially since I have no interest in the institution of marriage. I felt more like a fish gaping and wondering what he meant by terms such as "Emotional Intelligence", "Stability of Relationship" and "Integration of families". Never before in my twenty-three years have I felt so naive and especially ill-suited to discuss a topic. Yet, I wore a straight face and acted as if I knew everything about the issue of marriage. In fact, I pride myself in my acting skills - given an opportunity, I would make a handsome career in acting, since I do it almost naturally and without any retakes! There have been only those few singular occasions when my usually intrepid countenance, betrayed my emotions, which the chronicler does not deem fit to discuss on a blog, considering the embarassing nature of the incidents.
To the uninitiated, marriages in typical Brahmin families are very complex and involve issues that are very often even beyond Providence! It is rather surprising that even in the 21st century, the south-Indian Brahmin community cares about castes (the castes are basically the different levels of ego - I, Iyer and Iyengar), sub-castes, place of origin, horoscope, gotra (This is unique - while all others must match, this one must NOT match!) and so many complex, convoluted ideas that the minds of lesser mortals like me, can hardly fathom. It is but a wonder that indeed the Brahmin folks are still extant today.
I am told that I was particularly against marriage right from childhood. I donot recall events that took place when I was three or four years old, but am told about this so often that I tend to believe atleast part of it.
I have an uncle who is about fifteen years older than me and is currently happily married with two young ones as well. When I was sbout four years old, I beleive he had come to meet my parents before joining a company around Delhi. It strikes me to date that I still remember being used as a kissing duck and that I adopted a reserved attitude towards those that kissed me incessantly when not asked but hated those that would not kiss, when asked.
I digress here to note two girls in my neighborhood that took me to a movie when I was about five on my mother's request to baby-sit me. I enjoyed rides and did not complain about going to watch a movie with them although, I would neither understand nor would I enjoy an English romantic movie. In the hall, I was instructed to keep quiet and given that I was an obedient child, I complied. However, the girls took undue advantage of my docility and kept kissing me for every romantic and steamy scene, without even asking for my permission. Although I donot remember much of the rest of the events that followed consequently, I believe I would have never wanted to meet those girls ever again.
Returning back to our main discussion, recalling this uncle of mine, who started kissing me very early in our rendezvous I am told that I flashed back in Tamil "Poyah! Unnai kalyanam panni vittuduven" (Go to hell man, I'll get you married!) It is only after all these years when I have a nephew of my own, that I realize that children render us grown ups speechless very often and so was my uncle, in that situation - speechless, succeding which he thundered a boisterous bolt of mirth that shook the foundations of the earth.
As a child I had realized that marriage is more of a bane and is best avoided. Yet people get married year after year and even produce offsprings. Although I would not call myself a misogamist, the idea of a traditional arranged marriage appalls me out of my senses, and drives me to run to an asylum for the sane.
Recently however, I shocked my mother with the crazy idea that I would give her a daughter-in-law as a New Year present intending to involve in frivilous bantering. Apparently she took it seriously and enquired after the mate, to which I responded nonchalantly "A girl!". My mother's usual quest for knowledge was aborted abruptly since I allowed her to entertain the idea that if she would not allow me to date women and marry the woman of my choice, I might as well turn out to be gay. The idea that I was I intended to marry one of the opposite sex softened her attitude towards my mate.
I then proceeded to tease her and said that I would present her with a grandchild on her immediately following birthday. My mother's astute mind finally realized that the whole thing was meant only in jest.
It is a pathetic situation where parents start nagging their sons to give them a grandchild on the wedding day itself. How embarassing is that to a man and his wife! Typically, a newly wedded couple simply has no freedom to indulge in the little pleasures of marital life if the parents stay with them. Add to that the peril of arranged marriages where neither of the newly weds may feel very comfortable starting a conversation, let alone living like a married couple, sleeping together and indulging in romantic sequences.
There is no conclusion to this crazy result of mindless cacology that evolved from my mind. I understand that the readers are due an explanation to their torture, but since I have no excuse to offer, I apologize for the inconvenience I have caused them and beseech them to read the other posts, that hopefully entertain them in the right measure.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
To Kill or not to Kill
It was a fine morning and the sun was shining brightly upon our penthouse after a spell of incessant rains over the last week. The air was full of life and energy, butterflies fluttering in the gardens, and I woke up to begin the day with my peculiar calisthenics and the usual ablutions, singing ‘Dangerous Dan McDrew’.
It was however only when I started my shower singing ‘Oh Willie ol’ bird’, and swaying to the overwhelming musical rhapsody, that I spotted a cockroach on the wall. Instantly I stopped singing. It somehow occurred to me that the cockroach liked the song and was dancing to it.
My roommate, Varun, who was struggling to finish his beautiful dream, all this while was thanking the gods that were so merciful to snatch away my voice in mid-euphony to grant him some peaceful sleep. Yet as it so often happens ironically, he woke up to ask me why I had stopped singing, perhaps with the wish to make sure that I could not sing anymore on mornings.
In my horror, I lost all coherence of speech and what I said slips my usually perspicacious mind, but I vaguely recollect saying something that took my friend into deep waters.
“What’s the matter old man?” asked Varun, sounding most concerned.
Walking slowly to the door of the bathroom I opened it carefully to pop only my head and in a whisper apprised him of the situation.
“Grave indeed!” was his remark
“Grave? My friend, I wish you used the words of the English language more liberally. Yet, I implore you to tell me the solution quickly. Let’s not waste any time. I still have to complete my song.”
With an air of nonchalance he, handed me a broom and turned around. Bemused by this untoward behavior, I flashed back “What the dunce do I do with this broom?”
“Kill the intruder.”
“Are you crazy? Cockroaches are even more dangerous when dead. One that is alive may even run away if you scare it using the appropriate techniques. A dead one will go on lying in it’s own place, motionless. The worst are the half-dead ones. You think that they are dead and are just about to pick them up to throw them away, when they would move their nasty legs in the air, as if given a chance, they would climb over you. No, my dear, you’ve got it wrong. I cannot do it.”
Varun was rolling over the floor uncontrollably, perhaps delighting in the humor of my predicament and I had the nasty feeling that the creepy creature was listening to this exchange of words and gladdened by the fact that I would probably never kill it, it was perhaps crawling closer to me. I turned around to see where it was and was perplexed to find it missing. I must digress here to note that missing cockroaches are by far, the most dangerous of all. I did not mention this earlier, perhaps in haste to complete my words. It may not occur at first thought, but with a missing cockroach, one can never know where it is. It may as well be climbing your leg! Or may be on your head!
I rolled my eyes searching every inch of the wall in front of me and turned rightwards scanning the surface to make sure the pest was nowhere. Satisfying myself that it wasn’t to be seen for the moment and that perhaps it had found something more interesting than me, I turned to the door to notify my friend, who was perhaps still rolling over the floor, when to my horror and utter dismay, I found the cockroach right on the door. It was wagging one of it’s antennas and salivating the other in the most gruesome and yet so disgusting a manner that I stood there watching it carefully. Suddenly it flapped its wings and made straight for my head. I ducked and saw it fly to the opposite wall.
Shouting an alarm I opened the door and ran out, slamming it behind me as if I escaped from a labyrinth full of minotaurs. I ran from my bedroom to the hall, opened the door to the house and ran straight onto the terrace, stark naked, in a manner not unlike Archimedes, the only discernible difference being, that I was bellowing, “Help!” instead of “Eureka!”
At this juncture, the chronicler beleives that a brief description of the penthouse would serve to explain the preceding and the following paragraphs to avoid any confusion of details. My penthouse is on the fourth floor of a building and the terrace is practically our verandah. My room is one of the three bedrooms we have in this penthouse and happens to be quite spacious and well ventilated while the door to the house opens to the terrace.
In my fright and angst, I had completely forgotten that I had made myself a spectacular caricature for public viewership. My neighbor's daughter, Pooja was on the terrace and here I was stark naked, running in fright, screaming "Help!". It might be revelatory to the reader to know that this college girl is in no way attractive (to me), but unfortunately, has had a historical record of making quite a few passes on me. Seeing me on the terrace, running around carelessly naked, perhaps satisfied her curiosity to an extent, but like a professional actress, with the expertise of one having perfected the art over years of practice, she posed alarmed and nauseated, when her mother was climbing the stairs to join her.
Seeing me naked, her poor mother, fainted on the spot. But seeing her over the terrace, I forgot all about the cockroach and instead concerned myself with this bigger fright. I stopped in my way, and shut my mouth, in almost the same way as I stopped singing, when I first spotted the cockroach. It then then dawned upon me, just like Adam and Eve became suddenly aware of their shame, that I hadn't worn anything and in my fright had forgotten to carry my towel. Blushing red and shyly walking away, I tried to keep my calm and signalled to Pooja to keep quiet.
'A friend in need is a friend in deed' they say, and presently Varun came out to the terrace, walking with my towel in hand, a wry smile on his face telling me that he enjoyed my plight and a concerned look telling me that he understood my unquestionable fright upon seeing Pooja's mother. Grabbing the towel from him, I resumed the status of a respectable gentleman (almost) and looked at Pooja apologetically and began to explain.
"I'm sorry...." I began. "There was a really frightening flying cockroach in my bathroom and it drove me away!"
I am known to be good at cutting a long story short, and there it was. Succint and clear. No more words were required to make my story plausible without getting into the details. Surely if I had tried to explain in greater detail, she would not have understood, for Pooja is known to have an IQ level that is fifty points lesser than that of a jelly fish - and a stunned one at that!
"Okay! I'll.... take my mom back to our apartment...." she stammered and slipped away as if I were a giant cockroach trying to roach-handle her, if roach-handle is the word I wish to use. At this juncture I must mention that cockroaches are, in my opinion the scariest of creatures - with the exception of Pooja's mother, of course. I would perhaps have the courage kill a tiger, but faced with a cockroach, I wilt like you've never known.
Finally, I went back into the penthouse, water still dripping from my swarthy body. Still thinking of the danger of the cockroach in the bathroom, I told Varun, "I'll have to use the other bathroom today, chum. You saved me at the nick of time. What happened to the cockroach? "
"Still there. I understand your problem, my boy. That's why I present to you this insecticide spray. " he replied encouragingly.
I beleive that I should not describe the killing of a cockroach, especially since the environment activists might find it most displeasing and would perhaps sue me for that. It is rather surprising that people have time and money to sue an innocent man, who just intends to have a good bath, when there are so many more problems in this world. Yet, I conclude here the saga of my tryst with this demon. It may be added as a sidenote that I have never sung 'Oh Willie ol' bird' in the bathroom again and have made a tacit resolve to reserve it for moments of nostalgia and friendship of the 'good old days'.
It was however only when I started my shower singing ‘Oh Willie ol’ bird’, and swaying to the overwhelming musical rhapsody, that I spotted a cockroach on the wall. Instantly I stopped singing. It somehow occurred to me that the cockroach liked the song and was dancing to it.
My roommate, Varun, who was struggling to finish his beautiful dream, all this while was thanking the gods that were so merciful to snatch away my voice in mid-euphony to grant him some peaceful sleep. Yet as it so often happens ironically, he woke up to ask me why I had stopped singing, perhaps with the wish to make sure that I could not sing anymore on mornings.
In my horror, I lost all coherence of speech and what I said slips my usually perspicacious mind, but I vaguely recollect saying something that took my friend into deep waters.
“What’s the matter old man?” asked Varun, sounding most concerned.
Walking slowly to the door of the bathroom I opened it carefully to pop only my head and in a whisper apprised him of the situation.
“Grave indeed!” was his remark
“Grave? My friend, I wish you used the words of the English language more liberally. Yet, I implore you to tell me the solution quickly. Let’s not waste any time. I still have to complete my song.”
With an air of nonchalance he, handed me a broom and turned around. Bemused by this untoward behavior, I flashed back “What the dunce do I do with this broom?”
“Kill the intruder.”
“Are you crazy? Cockroaches are even more dangerous when dead. One that is alive may even run away if you scare it using the appropriate techniques. A dead one will go on lying in it’s own place, motionless. The worst are the half-dead ones. You think that they are dead and are just about to pick them up to throw them away, when they would move their nasty legs in the air, as if given a chance, they would climb over you. No, my dear, you’ve got it wrong. I cannot do it.”
Varun was rolling over the floor uncontrollably, perhaps delighting in the humor of my predicament and I had the nasty feeling that the creepy creature was listening to this exchange of words and gladdened by the fact that I would probably never kill it, it was perhaps crawling closer to me. I turned around to see where it was and was perplexed to find it missing. I must digress here to note that missing cockroaches are by far, the most dangerous of all. I did not mention this earlier, perhaps in haste to complete my words. It may not occur at first thought, but with a missing cockroach, one can never know where it is. It may as well be climbing your leg! Or may be on your head!
I rolled my eyes searching every inch of the wall in front of me and turned rightwards scanning the surface to make sure the pest was nowhere. Satisfying myself that it wasn’t to be seen for the moment and that perhaps it had found something more interesting than me, I turned to the door to notify my friend, who was perhaps still rolling over the floor, when to my horror and utter dismay, I found the cockroach right on the door. It was wagging one of it’s antennas and salivating the other in the most gruesome and yet so disgusting a manner that I stood there watching it carefully. Suddenly it flapped its wings and made straight for my head. I ducked and saw it fly to the opposite wall.
Shouting an alarm I opened the door and ran out, slamming it behind me as if I escaped from a labyrinth full of minotaurs. I ran from my bedroom to the hall, opened the door to the house and ran straight onto the terrace, stark naked, in a manner not unlike Archimedes, the only discernible difference being, that I was bellowing, “Help!” instead of “Eureka!”
At this juncture, the chronicler beleives that a brief description of the penthouse would serve to explain the preceding and the following paragraphs to avoid any confusion of details. My penthouse is on the fourth floor of a building and the terrace is practically our verandah. My room is one of the three bedrooms we have in this penthouse and happens to be quite spacious and well ventilated while the door to the house opens to the terrace.
In my fright and angst, I had completely forgotten that I had made myself a spectacular caricature for public viewership. My neighbor's daughter, Pooja was on the terrace and here I was stark naked, running in fright, screaming "Help!". It might be revelatory to the reader to know that this college girl is in no way attractive (to me), but unfortunately, has had a historical record of making quite a few passes on me. Seeing me on the terrace, running around carelessly naked, perhaps satisfied her curiosity to an extent, but like a professional actress, with the expertise of one having perfected the art over years of practice, she posed alarmed and nauseated, when her mother was climbing the stairs to join her.
Seeing me naked, her poor mother, fainted on the spot. But seeing her over the terrace, I forgot all about the cockroach and instead concerned myself with this bigger fright. I stopped in my way, and shut my mouth, in almost the same way as I stopped singing, when I first spotted the cockroach. It then then dawned upon me, just like Adam and Eve became suddenly aware of their shame, that I hadn't worn anything and in my fright had forgotten to carry my towel. Blushing red and shyly walking away, I tried to keep my calm and signalled to Pooja to keep quiet.
'A friend in need is a friend in deed' they say, and presently Varun came out to the terrace, walking with my towel in hand, a wry smile on his face telling me that he enjoyed my plight and a concerned look telling me that he understood my unquestionable fright upon seeing Pooja's mother. Grabbing the towel from him, I resumed the status of a respectable gentleman (almost) and looked at Pooja apologetically and began to explain.
"I'm sorry...." I began. "There was a really frightening flying cockroach in my bathroom and it drove me away!"
I am known to be good at cutting a long story short, and there it was. Succint and clear. No more words were required to make my story plausible without getting into the details. Surely if I had tried to explain in greater detail, she would not have understood, for Pooja is known to have an IQ level that is fifty points lesser than that of a jelly fish - and a stunned one at that!
"Okay! I'll.... take my mom back to our apartment...." she stammered and slipped away as if I were a giant cockroach trying to roach-handle her, if roach-handle is the word I wish to use. At this juncture I must mention that cockroaches are, in my opinion the scariest of creatures - with the exception of Pooja's mother, of course. I would perhaps have the courage kill a tiger, but faced with a cockroach, I wilt like you've never known.
Finally, I went back into the penthouse, water still dripping from my swarthy body. Still thinking of the danger of the cockroach in the bathroom, I told Varun, "I'll have to use the other bathroom today, chum. You saved me at the nick of time. What happened to the cockroach? "
"Still there. I understand your problem, my boy. That's why I present to you this insecticide spray. " he replied encouragingly.
I beleive that I should not describe the killing of a cockroach, especially since the environment activists might find it most displeasing and would perhaps sue me for that. It is rather surprising that people have time and money to sue an innocent man, who just intends to have a good bath, when there are so many more problems in this world. Yet, I conclude here the saga of my tryst with this demon. It may be added as a sidenote that I have never sung 'Oh Willie ol' bird' in the bathroom again and have made a tacit resolve to reserve it for moments of nostalgia and friendship of the 'good old days'.
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