Urban Junkie

For Boogie

2007-12-22T04:47:00.000-08:00

While there's been much to celebrate this year, what remains with me overwhelmingly as the year draws to a close is the sadness of Boogie saying goodbye to us.

We miss you, Boogie. Even after 5 months, I feel strange putting down only one bowl of food, being dragged along the street by only one leash, having only one jaw grip my wrist when I get back home and only one paw urging me to wake up in the morning. Only one tail threatening to knock my martini off the table. Only black hair and none golden on the furniture (yes, well, there are some things I shouldn't complain about. But there it is).

Gypsy misses her buddy and doesn't know where to rest her chin. Cushions are just not the same as a certain comfy back (well, there are probably some things you don't complain about). It isn't as much fun charging down the street if you aren't there to race against. And no fun at all terrorizing the squirrels all alone.

I hope you're happy wherever you are.

As we say goodbye to the year, it is time to say another goodbye to you. Thank you for 11 wonderful years. We love you, Boogie, and always will.

Territorial rights

2006-12-09T04:37:00.000-08:00

A squirrel that has recently moved into our bathroom windowsill has become the source of much friction in the Boogie-Gypsy-Anjali household. Well, it hasn’t quite moved in yet, but it has been proclaiming its intention for several days in the form of an ever-growing nest on the windowsill. It began earlier this week when I noticed a fluffy ball of what looked like cottonwool carefully propped up between the partially-raised glass and the window grill. It was joined the next day by a couple of dried twigs, and shortly thereafter by (I think) bark from the banana tree. And so it went, with grass and leaves (and something unrecognizable that I don’t care to delve into) being added on a daily basis, until quite suddenly a densely woven nest appeared on the windowsill.

The source of the friction I mentioned above is a) my obvious enchantment with the nest building process, which has left B&G mildly irritated and b) my reluctance to dismantle the nest before things go any further – which, according to Boogie, has left them both stunned. Squirrels, as everyone knows, are unequivocally the Worst Enemies of dogs. Not all dogs, of course, but certainly of Dogs Who Are Scared of Cats, Mice and Monkeys. For such dogs (and they are a very special breed) squirrels inspire all known forms of canine aggression that may otherwise have been directed at other animals. Raised hackles, frantic barking, running furious circles around the dining table … deadly weapons, all, brought to the fore by the mere whiff of a certain loathsome bushy tailed creature.

How, then, could I even contemplate letting this squirrel into our home? Besides, says Gypsy impatiently, what is the big deal about building a nest? And how come I’ve never once admired her daily artistry with the cushions and bedcover? Far more complex to weave together, and much more comfortable than a twiggy nest.

I fail to understand this lack of empathy for a fellow creature’s efforts. How would they feel, I ask them, if they’d sweated it out night and day to build themselves a house – and they came back home one evening to find their hard work ruthlessly torn to shreds? And if it was cold and rainy and they had nowhere warm to go? (Actually the weather’s been quite bright and sunny, but nothing like some emotional appeal to win an argument, I always say. Besides, Bangalore can turn cold and rainy any time).

B&G are clearly unimpressed, though. How do you think our neighbors might feel, says Boogie with heavy sarcasm, if you suddenly decided to build yourself a home in their backyard? If you filled up a suitcase everyday and deposited it in their yard? What are the odds that they’d look at the result of your efforts with tear-glazed eyes and say “let the poor thing stay”?

Irritatingly enough, I cannot immediately think of a convincing response to that argument. The matter is far from resolved, though. The bathroom door remains firmly shut, to guard against any unexpected accidents. Perhaps I should put this into an audience vote, seeing as I’m lagging behind somewhat in the rational debate?

Tarot wisdom and other trivia

2006-11-26T04:22:00.000-08:00

A Tarot card told me this morning that I have forgotten how to have fun. That I am so busy holding it all together, making sure things run smoothly, so busy ‘living conscientiously’, that I have stopped ‘living consciously’. Life, it seems, is passing me by and I am in danger of becoming a fossil before my time.

Oh dear.

It gets worse. My self importance, says the Tarot accusingly, has exceeded all reasonable bounds. What makes me believe that I carry the universe on my shoulders? That if I don’t make it to that meeting, answer that email, write that report this weekend … that if I don’t personally polish it all to perfection, it will completely fall apart? Sigh. What, indeed?

Now, the Tarot and I have usually had an uneasy relationship. Apart from having a tendency to pontificate, it is not a great believer in straight talking. It waffles and dithers, it will not take a stand, and it urges me to “look inwards” rather than coming right out and saying what it means. AND it’s a bit of a pompous wiseguy (check out the clever juxtaposition of ‘conscious’ and ‘conscientious’ up there). The vehemence of its no-holds-barred speech this time has therefore startled me. Clearly, I have moved it to speak its mind. Time to pay heed I suppose.

A careful examination of weekends for the last 6 months reveals a remarkable absence of anything remotely worthwhile. No dawdling, no pottering, no reading, no writing, no dancing, no Sudoku, even. No blogging, of course. Have 24 weekends at a trot been spent in the pursuit of (ugh) living conscientiously? It would seem that way.

Time to pay heed, indeed. Step 1 is to write a new post. Not enough to appease the Tarot, perhaps, but a small, firm step towards redemption.

100 things to say after you say Happy Birthday

2006-04-02T00:56:00.000-08:00

Honestly, there should be some more authoritative information on the subject. What do you say after you wish someone a happy birthday? This is something I have struggled with for years, and the content of my birthday greetings is testimony to the fact that I still haven’t figured it out completely.

Me (with hearty, hard-hitting good cheer): Happy Birthday!!!
Birthday greet-ee: Thank you.
Pause. Now what?
Prolonged pause, in danger of becoming an awkward silence.
Me (in unnaturally loud voice): So!
Birthday greet-ee: So?
Me: So what are you doing today? BIG celebration planned?
Birthday greet-ee: Yes, I’m having dinner with a few friends.
Me (even louder): Great!!!

This, of course, is the complete dead-end. Nothing for it now but to excuse myself with impassioned pleas to have a wonderful day and a jaunty ‘catch you later’. There are only two variations I can think of to the above sequence, with respect to how the awkward silence might be filled. The first is a demand for a treat, and the second is a wisecrack about the birthday greet-ee’s age. Neither leaves much room for conversation beyond a couple of exchanges, especially if the greet-ee agrees immediately to the treat and appears unflustered about age.

The problem, I think, is that a Birthday Conversation needs to be conducted at a heightened level of exuberance. It needs to sparkle and shine, it needs to exude hearty good cheer and sunny effervescence. One cannot mix mundane everyday trivialities like “Have you finished the report” or “We’ve run out of toothpaste” or “I have an awful cold” with the liveliness of a birthday greeting. Besides which, a Birthday Conversation needs to be conducted several octaves above the pitch of normal conversation, which puts a further constraint on possible topics that can be covered. How loudly is it reasonably possible to say “Do you want some coffee”?

The difficulty is exaggerated on the phone. Face to face, at least, there is the possibility of enthusiastic thumps on the back, pumping of hands, waggling of eyebrows, and all manner of body language to fill the gaps in conversation. Besides, for reasons that I cannot quite pin down, a phone conversation that is not able to last a minute seems infinitely more pathetic than one conducted in person.

The only solution, I find, is to approach the conversation with pre-set limits on time. Arrange for someone to interrupt almost immediately after the ‘happy birthday’ leaves your lips. Then, by ignoring the interrupter for a few additional seconds, you actually manage to create the impression of wanting to prolong the conversation but (alas) being dragged away against your will. Or there is always the Meeting routine (*Breathless voice* I’m just on my way into a meeting sweetheart, but wanted to wish you first … have a GREAT DAY, catch you later, *kissing sounds* BYEEEE). Quick and painless, and delivered with appropriately forceful heartiness.

I think there is hope for me though … the problem is more widespread than I thought. Having recently been through a birthday myself, I was able to spot (with my unerring eye) several instances of acute birthday greeting discomfort amidst the boisterous greetings that were belted out to me. So someone just might write that book, don’t you think? The market seems ripe for it.

Rightful Reading Rights

2006-03-11T21:28:00.001-08:00

“It has come to our notice that some members are misusing their membership and have been claiming to “lose” some of our precious books with the intention of keeping them for themselves. Such members are not just cheating us, they are depriving other honest members of their rights and reading pleasure. Let us make it clear that we shall not tolerate such behaviour, and all such thieves (yes, we do not hesitate to call them thieves, for that is what they are) shall be dispatched pronto”

Whether you are amused or alarmed by this notice, be assured that Eloor Lending Library means business. Reading this post by The One last night has left me neck-deep in Eloor nostalgia which I feel compelled to share with you.

Eloor Lending Library, as everyone knows (or should know) is the last bastion of Library Excellence. But more importantly, it is a vigilant upholder of Library Morality (for the lesser souls among us who lack an instinctive respect for library membership rules).

Signs such as the one above leap out at you from every corner. They stare at you from both ends of every aisle, lurk behind the Maughams and the Chandlers, and sit primly behind every check-out counter. I have always wanted to meet the writer of the Eloor notices. Compositions of utter brilliance, these signs, combining at once the taut grimness of best-in-class detective fiction and the unwavering sternness of Jane Eyre. No other library, in my view, manages to evoke the same awed respect with its notices. Consider, for example, this one spotted in a Gurgaon library last year:

Look, look, look
Don’t steal my book
Stealing is not a game
It is a big big shame

Just not the same, is it? Hardly the sort of stuff that terrifies truant library-book-pinchers into being on their best behaviour.

Eloor, on the other hand, has been responsible for remolding many young and misdirected lives. Mine too, I must shamefacedly confess. In my wayward, misspent youth I used to be a Late Returner of books. So late, in fact, that I had managed at one time to be classified as a Thief, having convinced Eloor that I intended never to return a certain book. I still have a copy of the letter that made me see the light. A letter that ended with

“It would be a pity to sever this beautiful relationship. Would you really want to lose forever the joy of borrowing from this library? You will, if you deny others that joy. In your best interests, we urge you to do what is Right and return the books immediately”.

I was, in other words, in danger of being dispatched pronto. Needless to say, the books were returned without further ado. Pronto, as it were.

It is a long time since I have been to Eloor. (Books are much easier to buy these days, now that I am no longer struggling at the bottom of the food chain). I am told the Eloor collection is no longer the same, although the Notices remain. The library has apparently degenerated into a swamp of Mills & Boons. What a pity, if it is true. I like to think of Eloor as the last bastion of Library Excellence, even if I am no longer a privileged member.

9x9 misery

2006-02-25T05:01:00.000-08:00

If I haven’t been posting of late it is because I have lost my soul to Sudoku. Also most of my time, my peace of mind and whatever little I have that can reasonably be called a brain. I know, I know – I have nothing to say in my defense. I am a Sudoku Slave and it is time to freely and frankly own up to it.

But really … you have to try it yourself before you judge me. It has something evil about it, this vile, fiendish, diabolical, infuriating 9x9 numeric configuration, that won’t let you go once it’s got its talons into you. You will only know once you have taken the plunge.

It began innocently enough one morning when I found myself on a longish flight without a book, and nothing other than The Times of India and Jetwings as literary stimulation (a condition deserving of sympathy, you will agree, and one that left me understandably vulnerable to what followed next). What followed next was my First Encounter with Sudoku. Having avoided it thus far out of (a perfectly natural and healthy) distaste for anything numerical, I was pushed into a tentative experiment with it after having finished with the crossword, the Spellathon, the Scramble, the Mindbender and other similar distractions offered by the TOI. And sure enough, my first encounter reinforced the wisdom of staying away from all things numeric. I filled in several wrong numbers in several wrong boxes, scratched them out, filled in some more wrong numbers, and 45 minutes later pronounced it a silly puzzle and stuffed the paper back into the seat pocket.

That, in all honesty, should have been that. But then the Brat next to me picked it up. A child who could not have been more than 7, who asked to borrow my paper, then asked to borrow my pen, and then, with my pen and my paper, over my crossed out wrong numbers, proceeded to fill in the right numbers in less than ten minutes. I saw him smirk as he returned the pen. Really, I would have been ok but for that smirk.

Gentle reader, it was a crushed and despondent me that walked into my house that morning. I eyed the newspaper for a long time before giving in. The smirky child needed to be Put In His Place, even if only in my mind. And so I picked up a fresh clean Sudoku, with a pencil this time.

Five and a half hours later, I emerged triumphant. Aaaah, I cannot describe the elation of that moment. The joy of a filled-in Sudoku, with each row, each column, each cluster of 3x3 boxes perfectly fitting into each other. Nine beautiful numbers, nine times over, blending into each other in 27 different patterns. Magic!

And now, of course, the TOI Sudoku no longer provides the same kick. Nor the one in The Hindu. They are gone in less than 9 minutes. Everyday, I need something stronger. I prowl Sudoku websites for more and more challenging puzzles. I am told it is possible to download one on my phone. Ah, it is a curse, this thing. A curse if you solve it too quickly. A curse if you cannot solve it quickly enough.

Unsuspecting reader who has not yet discovered this self-inflicted torture, I implore you to stay away.

But then again, what a pity that would be.

Abhishek's birthday and high romance

2006-02-06T09:43:00.000-08:00

One fine Sunday morning, on 5th February 2006, several thousand Hutch subscribers were woken up with joyous smses announcing wallpapers and ringtones for those who wanted to celebrate Abhishek’s birthday. At least, I hope it was several thousand subscribers, and not just me who was considered a suitable target for a message that went roughly like this:

“Hot Abhishek turns 30 today. Download ringtones and wallpapers from hot Abhishek movies”

Several reminders through the day, too. Never one to let an opportunity slip by, our Hutch. And AB’s birthday does seem to have got them all aflutter at the marketing possibilities it offers. Oh well. There is undoubtedly a solid consumer insight here which I’m missing at the moment. I do want to know, as an interested consumer at the receiving end of these pleas, why I should be the one downloading the ringtones. I mean, shouldn’t his mother be doing that? Assuming that phones singing hot songs from his hot movies are indeed likely to make him happy on his birthday.

Or perhaps I’ve got this wrong. Perhaps the world is full of Abhishek fans who would gladly play his hot songs on their phones if that’s what he wants for his birthday. Fans who share the Hutch Vision of a million phones belting out ‘Dus Bahane …’ when he drives past them on this special day. Perhaps.

The thing is, AB’s birthday ringtones are part of a larger issue that has been worrying me for a while. Too many of the marketing messages I come across these days leave me wondering who they are meant for. Check this out, for example.

One of the FM stations, I forget which, is running a Valentine’s Day contest, where the avid contestants will have a chance to win (yes, really) the 10 most romantic sayings of all time. So that (it gets better) they are equipped with the tools to win the hearts of their loved ones. Oh wow. The 10 most romantic sayings? I really do want to meet the people who are dashing out to enter the contest dreaming of this reward. And then lying in wait for their beloved armed with the potent list.

Have marketers completely lost it? Or do they think consumers have? Or (most alarmingly for me, given my job) have I completely lost touch with what makes people tick these days?

Update:
On Tuesdays, it appears, we all ought to be downloading Hanuman Ringtones to make the most of the auspicious Hanuman Energy. I am not sure what a Hanuman Ringtone sounds like, but I'm intrigued enough to check it out.

Beam me there

2006-01-29T09:09:00.000-08:00

This post by Sujatha and a comment I wrote on it has had me musing on the ‘beam me up, Scottie’ theme for the past couple of weeks. Does anyone else experience the growing need I do, to shrink the world to city-size? To be able to hop across continents for simple everyday things like having coffee with a friend, going to the supermarket, or eating at a favourite restaurant? We’ve become so accustomed, haven’t we, to having everything a phone call away … or an sms or an email away? On email, there’s really no difference between a friend who lives in Bangalore and one who lives in London. In the virtual world many of us live in, it is easy to forget the limitations of geography. Which is why it is startling – and faintly annoying – when our bodies can’t follow where our minds (or hearts) are.

I remember a conversation with my mother last Diwali … when the whole family was there at her place for the traditional ‘Diwali lunch’ – and I, in Bangalore, was feeling the pangs of being left out. I could have, of course, gone to Delhi for Diwali … but that wasn’t the point. I wanted to be here in my own home, I didn’t really want to go to Delhi … I just wanted to hop across there for lunch, and be back in time to light my lamps in the evening. Why should that still not be possible, when so much else is?

For those of you who hop between cities – or countries – is there a confusion arising from the merging of worlds? Do you make plans to have dinner at a favourite restaurant, only to realize you’re geographically challenged? Do you find you need something that you know is available at the neighbourhood supermarket – but, oops – that’s no longer the neighbourhood you’re in? I want to be able to choose between Karavali (in Bangalore) and the East Coast (in Singapore) for dinner. I want to be able to hop across to The Bisque in Gurgaon for Date & Walnut Cake. I want to work in Bangalore and attend my dance workshops in Delhi. I want to be able to meet a friend in Cairo for a drink after work. To visit a sick friend in Mumbai and be back to walk the dogs in the evening.

High time, isn’t it, that we could do a ‘beam me there …’? Technology has spoilt me, I think. The miraculous leaps that I have been witness to in my lifetime make me believe everything is possible. In the not too distant future. And make me almost impatient about things going too slow.

Come on, all you guys who gave us mobile phones, text messaging, blogs, podcasts, chocolate croissants, (and chewies, prompt Boogie and Gypsy) – ok, chewies, Seinfeld, Friends, The Meaning of Liff, satellite television, Coffee Day, John Abraham and Single Malt whisky. Wave your wand one more time and make it happen. Beam us there.

Grrrr ...

2006-01-06T06:55:00.000-08:00

Put the tip of your tongue against the roof of your mouth and let it go sharply. Involve your teeth in the process if you can. What is the sound that emerges? Something like ‘tch’? Maybe ‘tsa’ or just a softened ‘ta’? Can you manage tsk? I’ve been trying really hard, and I cannot. Not without a vowel involved, in which case I can manage tisk or ts-ka.

The dictionary on ‘tsk’: A sucking noise made by suddenly releasing the tongue from the hard palate, used to express disappointment or sympathy.

I disagree. I don’t think the human mouth is designed to pronounce ‘tsk’, and it is not a word that springs spontaneously from the lips (or out of the hard palate) when in the throes of disappointment.

Then there is ‘pshaw’. Another thorn in my side. Pshaw is, apparently, imitative of a sound made when irritated, disgusted or impatient, made by (get this) “a sharp exhalation and sigh combined into one”. Where did the P come from, I’d like to know. I have exhaled and I have sighed but I can get no further than ‘phoo’ (or ‘pha’) on one hand and ‘shaw’ on the other. Besides, is the P silent or it intended to be pronounced? Why would we have a word imitative of a natural sound with a silent P?

My point is this (yes, I do have one - this wasn’t just a fun game, even if you’re having a good time exhaling sharply and smacking your tongue against your hard palate). Aren’t words like tsk intended to be onomatopoeic? I have no problem if they did not masquerade as natural sounds. Especially natural sounds that we spontaneously emit at times of heightened emotion. Who has the time to struggle with silent Ps when otherwise rendered speechless by extreme disgust? Give me a good old ‘bah’ any day. Or several other unprintables (but easily pronouncables).

And we have an armload of these masqueraders. Take harrumph. Not a problem to pronounce, this one – but only if you don’t know what you’re aiming for.

Harrumph; intr v . To make a show of clearing one’s throat.

I challenge you to clear your throat and produce a sound remotely resembling harrumph. I clear my throat and I get nnnkrrhhhnnn. I say harrumph and I get ha-rrumf. Or variations, if I play around with the vowels. Haa-rroomf. Hay-rrumf. Etc.

Is this a sign of evolution, do you suppose? Were these at one time actually the natural sounds people emitted when experiencing the said emotion, which over time we have lost the ability to emit? Or is it just a case of very poor dictionary writing?

I am, in any case, collecting these. It has become a personal passion. If you have any, do let me know.

An old one for the new year

2005-12-31T06:06:00.000-08:00

I do love the concept of new year resolutions. Never mind what the cynics say, and never mind what we all know (now that we're all grown up and wise) about every day being a fresh start and why wait for a new year. There is something incredibly wonderful about the naive optimism that accompanies new year resolutions. A new year is a completely new slate, a new page of a diary, a brand new beginning unsmudged by the misdeeds and inertia of the year gone by. Of course it will be much easier this year to do all that we haven't managed for the last 20. This year will be different. This year noble intentions will actually turn into noble reality.

What would we do without the chance to begin afresh every year?

As I sip my last Martini (I'm giving them up from next year) and chomp into my last chocolate (ditto) I choose my words carefully while crafting my list of leaves to turn over. It is a delicate matter, this crafting of new year resolutions. It is a battle of wits between the Noble Self who is bursting with good intentions and the Pragmatic Self who wants to take things one at a time. "Pound away on the treadmill for at least an hour a day", thunders the Noble Self. "Uh, maybe we should aim for 20 minutes a week initially?" says Pragmatic Self coaxingly. And then there is the Wily Self who likes the sound of the noble intentions but wants to get there without the effort. No prizes for guessing which self I like best.

The trick, of course, is in getting the phrasing right. I discovered this purely by chance last year when, much to my astonishment I found myself putting a joyful tick against the Gym Resolution. Been there, done that! The resolve on paper had been to join a gym ... and join I did (pointed out Wily Self). For 3 whole months, I was a bonafide, fully paid-up member of Nirvana - the unfriendly neighbourhood manufacturer of toned bodies and aching muscles. The number of times these limbs actually made contact with those terrifying machines is of course nobody's business but mine. This year, unfortunately, Noble Self has added to the list a resolution to not waste money, which means I can only fork out the gym fees if I intend to put my muscles where my money is. Unless Wily Self can come up with new interpretations of not wasting money.

Meanwhile, the pointlessness of giving up Martinis altogether has just dawned on Pragmatic Self. Perhaps restricting them to one a week is better. Ummm ... maybe two. Besides, giving them up clashes with resolution number 3, to enjoy every moment.

Like I said, this year will be different.

Happy new year everyone, and may all your good intentions turn to reality. Good luck with your resolutions, have fun breaking them ... and may this year truly be different for all of us.

Oranges in the sun

2005-12-18T00:58:00.000-08:00

I always, always miss Delhi in winter. Winter’s a wonderful time to be in Delhi … and Delhi is a wonderful place to be in, in winter. Despite having grown up there, this is possibly the only time of the year I find such nostalgia surfacing for the city.

Think about it. Who could argue with the contentment of long afternoons in the elusive sunshine, ploughing through half a dozen oranges? The sumptuous satisfaction of aloo parathas laden with melting butter? Burrowing deep into the 10 kilo quilt and sleeping late into the freezing morning? Hot buttered rum to take to bed? Chikkis with tea … and gajar ka halwa? And oh, the illicit pleasure of bringing the quilt into the living room on a chilly afternoon and curling up on the sofa. I’m not sure what is illicit about this … but where a nighttime quilt on the bed seems warm, wholesome and motherly, an afternoon quilt on the sofa totally spells wicked indulgence.

I notice at this point that most of my winter reminisces have to do with feeding the body or resting it. I can only say in my defense that winter is a time for doing precisely this. The body slows down in winter (my grandma used to say) and it must be treated gently. The body also dries out … it creaks and groans and freezes over … and must be coaxed back to life with richly sinful food. Butter and ghee are the operative words here.

Amen to that. Does one need a better reason to love winter?

The strange thing is, the images that evoke the most wistful pangs are usually of things that I never actually do, even when I’m in Delhi. I spent the last three years there, and not once did I sit on the terrace and eat an orange … even though that remains my most enduring memory of winter. Between workdays that began at 9 – much before the sun crept out over the fog – and ended at 7 when it was already pitch dark, locked into the comfort of a centrally heated office, I was lucky just to see the sun from my window. Afternoon snuggles in the quilt? Not nearly often enough. Sunday mornings in Dilli Haat? No again, and I really don’t know why not. Aloo parathas? Nah … not in these days of weight-watching paranoia.

The winters I am nostalgic about seem to be from some long-ago, faraway time. I seem to no longer make the time or effort to live them the way I’d like to, even though I love the thought of them. Every year, over the last 3 years, I would look forward to winter … and every year, I would watch the 2 potentially magical months pass by without making the time to enjoy them. And now I’m back in Bangalore, still hungry for my ‘Delhi winter’. What a waste.

I’m going to Delhi for a couple of days this week, and I just got a call from my mother telling me that the first fog has arrived. Wonderful. I am going to pack into 2 days everything I didn’t do in 3 years. I want one thickly foggy day and one faintly sunny one. I want aloo parathas for breakfast and a sunny spot on the balcony to eat oranges on. And yes, I very definitely want at least one afternoon snuggle in the quilt.

If you don't go to the temple ...

2005-12-06T18:57:00.000-08:00

… the temple’s gonna come to you. Right where you hang out – you don’t need to go an inch out of your way. In the midst of mall crawling, multiplexing, coffee-barring and pub-hopping, you can hop over to a readily accessible agent-of-god and get a dose of jukebox religion.

A bit of trivia I read a few days ago but have not been able to dislodge from my mind. The ‘culture ministry’ in Thailand, in an apparent burst of marketing savvy, would like to install monks in malls. Because (allow me to quote) "People nowadays have no time to go to temples, only shopping malls. They can get closer to religion if we provide the opportunity".

Seriously? Well, I know that the barefoot-up-the-mountain pilgrimage is probably passé, but … seriously?

I’m not sure what it is about this that bothers me so. I’m not particularly religious myself – have not been to a temple or any other place of worship in years – and I also don’t need to take up cudgels on behalf of those who do take religion seriously. Nor do I belong to the down-with-the-malls camp (occasional pangs of nostalgia for Sunday mornings at Russell Market notwithstanding). I revel in plush, air-conditioned shopping spaces, I’ve been known to get lost in supermarkets for unrespectable lengths of time and I’m properly grateful for the ease that all-in-one-place malls bring in the midst of an overworked, over traffic-jammed, never-any-parking bustle. I’m delighted to be a mollycoddled consumer, and thank you for all the convenience.

And that is precisely the point. Malls are about making the mundane more pleasurable and easier to get done – but surely not about reducing the potentially magical aspects of life to mundanity? Isn’t there a limit to what we’re spoon-fed in pre-digested, bite-sized doses? I’m also a bit intrigued that the advocates of religion – or spirituality – would think of this made-easy format as a desirable objective. Would this really work as a way for people to “get” religion?

Oh well. If others can benefit from marketing wisdom, why not religion? What’s sauce for the goose, and all that. Distribution, packaging and visibility … aren’t those the mantras for everyone? If shiny gold packaging works for coffee (pouted the priest) why not for me? Why not, indeed?

A young friend who read this snippet along with me had an entirely different take on the issue. The culture ministry apparently wants to “campaign for religion in places where teenagers gather" – a piece of information that caused a spontaneous shudder. “Oh, gross. I hope they don’t get the same idea in India. Imagine having to stub out your cigarette hastily because there’s a pundit sitting across from you in Coffee Day”. Hmmm. There’s a thought there for worried parents, though.

Labrador Wisdom

2005-11-27T04:03:00.000-08:00

Boogie and Gypsy are a bit peeved that they have not been properly introduced on this blog. Although they have been mentioned in passing a few times, they would like to be given a chance to say their piece. So here is their long-overdue photograph (the yellow one is Boogie, the black one’s Gypsy) – and in their own words, the golden rules they live by.

Boogie has distilled the wisdom and experience of nine years into the following words of advice:

1. It is never a bad time to take a nap
2. Melting eyes and a woebegone face can usually get you anything you want
3. If they give you an inch, take two yards. It is the only way to ensure your place on the bed
4. Turning into a dead weight is the most effective way to avoid doing what you don’t want to do
5. The surest way to make sure you have the pillow to yourself is to drool on it
6. When you’re really in trouble, it is best to grovel
7. Be suspicious of anyone who wants to lure you out of the room with a biscuit. In life, there are no free biscuits
8. Be careful of going to sleep with your toes exposed. You never know who may be lurking with a nail-cutter
9. Never, NEVER waste food

Gypsy admires Boogie and thinks she's really cool. But while she emulates her in many ways, she secretly disagrees with Boogie on several important issues. Here is a glimpse of Gypsy's ideology:

1. It is never a bad time for a walk
2. Keep your eyes on the ball at all times
3. Speed and agility are the surest ways to win – and don’t let Boogie tell you otherwise
4. A good tummy rub a day is essential for happiness
5. Cuddling up with someone you love is a cure for all evils
6. Be suspicious of doorbells that ring before 8 am. They usually mean a visit from the vet
7. An outstretched paw can make up for the gravest of misdeeds
8. A bean bag is the best thing ever invented. After chewies.
9. Never, NEVER waste food

Boogie and Gypsy would like to thank you for your attention, and are available to respond to questions, comments and discussion.

Not so easy after all

2005-11-18T22:22:00.000-08:00

I have a mobile phone that doesn’t work in my bedroom. Or in the kitchen. It just about comes to life in the living room, but the only place it is truly happy and communicative is in the balcony.

This is the first time this has happened to me, in the 6 years that I have interacted with this otherwise wonderful invention. I have heard stories, sure – of phones that charged roaming rates beyond the 6th floor and which lost their signal completely beyond the 10th. Of phones that sulkily went dead if left alone on the table for a couple of hours. Recently I came across a story that made me feel immensely better about my own phone – of a colleague whose phone works only near a flower pot in his house. A finicky BSNL connection, with a refined sense of aesthetics. Calls home are thus prefaced with instructions to “Go to the flower pot and I’ll call back”.

Clearly, I have been particularly lucky with my cellular service providers thus far. I had a blissful time with Airtel in Bangalore and then an equally blissful one with Hutch in Delhi. I regarded as gross exaggerations all tales of woe told to me by friends, and until a few months ago did not fully understand the concept of a ‘call drop’. This time around in Bangalore, however, I seem to have made a mistake in opting for Hutch. (A choice driven, I must confess shamefacedly, by an addiction to their Tarot readings – which I subsequently discovered were not offered in Bangalore anyway. More cause for grief).

And so begins the journey to get a new mobile connection.

A while ago I had written this post about reveling in the convenience and smooth sailing that contemporary life in India seemed to offer. (No more queues at gas agencies, no more struggles to get a phone connection and so on.) Alas, I spoke in haste. The difference between smooth sailing and an obstacle course is how badly you are in need of something. They chase you with offers of loans when you don’t need the money; they chase you with free credit cards when you already have three. And they chase you with an Airtel connection only if you already have Hutch and are not looking to move.

But the act of applying for something – thereby revealing that you actually need it – seems to turn you into an apology for a human being. Not quite the scum of the earth, but just a couple of notches above that. Cellular service providers, at least, seem to be unable to intelligently differentiate between slippery delinquents who will not cough up their dues at the end of the month (not me) and morally upright, law abiding, bill-paying citizens (me, very firmly). The criteria for establishing such a difference do not help either. The concept of an address proof, for example. Is this the address on my passport? No, I’ve just moved into the house. Is it there on my driving license? No, I’ve just moved into the house. Do I have any registered mail delivered to this address? Any electricity bill? Phone bill? No, (patiently, but through increasingly gritted teeth) – I’ve just moved in. Yesterday. Oh well. Do I at least have the lease agreement? Er … no, again. It is in Mumbai, in the company’s name, not mine.

See the problem? No other option, then, but to do a physical verification – i.e. visit me and take a photograph of me inhabiting the house. And ask neighbours who I have not yet met to testify to the soundness of my upbringing. Between 9 AM and 6 PM on a working day, when I am least likely to be at home – which means, of course, that I do not live there after all.

Thus was acquired my Hutch connection. Now, of course, I am wiser. I will not call up Airtel. I will lie in wait for them to call me. I will sound reluctant and dismissive. After the third call I will be mildly interested but will audibly stifle a yawn.

I will wait for them to make me their most luscious offer. And then - grudgingly - allow myself to be persuaded.

The blessings of computerji

2005-11-06T02:07:00.000-08:00

A recent post by manuscrypts – musings on the omnipotence of KBC’s computerji – got me thinking about the absolute power that computerji truly holds over me today, much beyond the domain of KBC. I don’t know about you, but computerji has inveigled his way into the very center of my existence. You know those questions that do the rounds about what-you-would-grab-if-the-house-was-on-fire, etc? Well, no, he’s not the first on the list … but he’s pretty much up there, right after Boogie, Gypsy and the cell phone.

It’s getting a bit out of hand, if you think about it.

For one thing, he seems to have persuaded me to dispense with several previously valued mental (and physical) faculties – or what used to pass for them at any rate. Now, I’m not usually one to boast, but there was a time when the ol’ brain would have been regarded as serious competition to computerji. It could add, subtract, multiply and perform all manner of mathematical gymnastics. It could remember phone numbers and appointments. It could remember spellings of long multi-syllabic words without having to rush to dictionary.com. Modesty prevents me from going on, but I’m sure it is apparent what a marvelous piece of equipment used to reside in this head before computerji took over.

Thanks to computerji and his several lackeys – calculatorji, cellphoneji and i-podji – I can now barely remember my own phone number. I can also barely sign my own name. The fingers that glide so effortlessly over the keyboard refuse to wrap themselves around a pen. Egged on in no small measure by computerji, need I add. Parchment and blue ink may be romantic, he says beguilingly, but they are also messy. And produce an illegible un-aesthetic scrawl that was never pretty at the best of times. True, especially when it is my illegible scrawl we are speaking of.

While the scrawl is no loss to humanity, the same unfortunately cannot be said of phone numbers and sums. A bit tedious to have to look through my cellphone directory every time I’m asked for my phone number. Even more tedious to have to fish out the calculator when counting out change for the dhobi.

Then, of course, there is the social life that lies in an unspeakable mess by the wayside. The amount of time I spend online is beginning to create more than a flutter among friends and family. But an evening spent surfing the net, checking mail, blogging or even simply staring at the screen trying to think of something to write does seem infinitely more alluring these days compared to hanging out at a pub or coffee bar. I’m told that I acquire a vaguely defensive, furtive air when asked about my plans for the evening – a result, no doubt, of wanting to indicate that I’m busy without getting into the exact nature of the busy-ness.

A friend suggests that I observe a computer-less day every week, much along the lines of meat-less and booze-less days. Well, clearly something must be done, but I don’t want to go overboard either. A little light exercise should do the trick, to get the body and mind in shape: a few minutes a day of writing with a pen, a couple of simple sums, maybe … some memory exercises and some conversation practice.

It is such an enticing world that computerji offers, though. Would be a real pity to give it up, wouldn’t it?

Of crackers and compensation

2005-10-31T04:14:00.000-08:00

The labs are irritated with me today.

We had a minor disagreement this morning, on the subject of the number of chew sticks they should be allowed to eat in a day. The usual, negotiated, limit is one a day. It goes up to two each on days of high stress (e.g. when I’m late getting back from work, when I want to go out in the evening, when the rain cuts short their walk, or when the Talking Lift has been particularly voluble). But more than two, it is now well acknowledged, is a road straight to hell in the guise of violently upset stomachs. Years of bitter experiences laced with spoonfuls of Dependal-M have eventually settled down to a more or less amicable agreement to adhere to the rule of two.

It was Boogie who led the assault this morning, with the argument that their particularly mature handling of the crackers this year called for a reward of some sort. It wasn’t just Diwali they were coping with, she reasoned, it was also multiple other irritants that have recently been introduced into our lives.

The Talking Lift, for example, is something that no self-respecting dog should be expected to adapt to at this late stage in life. Anything with a nasal robotic voice that belts out instructions to please-close-the-door every few minutes must be regarded with deep suspicion. As technology goes, this is definitely one of the world’s sorrier ideas. Mercifully, we don’t have to get into the blasted thing because we live on the ground floor. Even so, that voice is a particularly penetrating one and tries one’s patience. Besides, why don’t people listen to it and just close the silly door, Gypsy would like to know. Why must the door be left open to whine at us through the afternoon?

Then there is the Singing Doorbell. Now, nothing wrong in principle with a doorbell that sings, as long as you know that’s what it does. A dog likes to know what’s what – order and predictability are vital, according to Boogie – and if you’ve been brought up to expect doorbells to ring you can’t suddenly find them singing. And a different song each time, too. Leaves no room at all for the conditioned response to develop. Embarrassing for a dog to not realize the bell has rung (or sung, in this case) and not be the first one at the door.

And finally, the biggest outrage of all is that yappy Lhasa Apso upstairs. Never before has another dog lived in the same building as us. And not only does he have a strategic advantage, being on the top floor, says Gypsy indignantly, he is also smaller and furrier and therefore more popular with the younger kids. The only consolation in this sorry state of affairs is that he has to ride in the Talking Lift thrice a day.

Hmmm. It is obvious where this is leading, and I must admit I'm impressed by the force of the argument. They actually have me feeling vaguely guilty, the wily things. The subject of chew sticks has however remained non-negotiable so far. We’re sulking in our respective corners, neither side willing to yield an inch.

And they’ve been behaving perfectly today. No paw marks on the futon. No ball thrown under the bed for me to retrieve. No barking contest with Lhasa upstairs. No arguments with the Talking Lift. Damn.

Why do I have a feeling I’m going to crack under the strain soon?

Why?

2005-10-29T23:40:00.000-07:00

It does seem like we're living in particularly grey times, doesn't it? We barely resurface from one wave of tragic news that another one hits us harder ... if the water doesn't get you, the earth will - and if nature lets us be, it turns out that we're our own worst enemies.

Is it worse that some misguided, brainwashed miscreants decide to kill a hundred fellow human beings amidst a celebration - or that a callous bus driver with no particular motive, godly or otherwise, drives right over someone already fighting for his life? Or that out of a crowd of people witness to that outrageous situation, only one courageous girl responds to the crisis?

Is it worse that no one believes it is their responsibility to help another suffering human being – or that whoever does help faces a backlash from the ‘system’ and from individuals alike? Why, when Varna is able to take courage in her hands and rush a dying man to the hospital, does she face only resistance from the keepers of our law and safety? Why, when Uma sends out an appeal to help earthquake victims, is she subjected to an incomprehensible personal attack?

Is the fight against terrorism – or natural disasters – really the biggest challenge on our hands? Or is it our own sickening apathy, our disconnection from other human beings, our loss of compassion and our startling unwillingness to even support the few who do display some compassion?

There really aren’t any answers out there, are there?

Esoteric, obscure, or just plain useless?

2005-10-24T20:25:00.000-07:00

I am often intrigued by the difficulty I have in explaining to people what it is that I do for a living. It is a truth sad but unyielding that outside of the relatively tiny network of people loosely described as the marketing fraternity, qualitative market research is a concept hard to comprehend. Or appreciate.

There is, for one thing, the problem of distinguishing it from its more widely known quantitative cousin. To do this while simultaneously maintaining at least a modicum of respectability is surprisingly difficult. Particularly when conversing with distant, long-unmet relatives, whose kids have all blossomed into astronauts.

“Aaaah, survey type stuff …” nods your interrogator intelligently on hearing your opening explanation. “So you go house to house?”
Er, no … not exactly, you say. I actually call a few people over to one place and have a discussion with them.
“In one place? Isn’t that difficult? So many people coming over?”
Actually it’s not so many. Just 8-9 people usually.
“8 or 9? But how can you come to a conclusion just basis 8 or 9? What kind of a survey is that?”
This is where alarm bells should start to ring. But you forge right ahead. No, no, you say reassuringly, we have more than one such discussion. We usually do 2 or 3 in a city.
“I don’t understand. That’s still about 25 people. There are thousands of people in a city. What sort of survey are you doing?”

Hmmm … valid point, actually. What kind of a survey, indeed. There are two possible courses of action at this point. Withdraw gracefully, suitably reprimanded for lack of integrity, common sense, intelligence or whatever it is that you are seen as lacking in this pathetic attempt to take short-cuts in your job. Or pull out the dal analogy in your defense (you know, the one about not having to eat the entire bowl of dal to describe its taste and how one spoonful is enough). Neither option is wholly satisfactory, in my experience. The first one for obvious reasons; the second one because it never does come off sounding as forceful as it does in theory. At best, it is an embarrassingly transparent attempt at changing the subject; at worst, a fairly lame defense of your devious (deviant?) handling of your job.

Then, of course, there is the bigger issue of usefulness. One that arises with particular force in the company of artists, writers, dancers, mountaineers, social workers, diplomats … the list goes on, but essentially anyone doing anything without a crassly commercial motive. The need to imbue market research with a noble glow is understandably overwhelming here.

“Market researchers, you know, find out what people feel about various issues” you begin tentatively, and receive a startlingly enthusiastic response.
“Oh, that’s wonderful. Public opinion is so important, and people who help give it form are critical to the system”
“Right” you mumble, caught between gratitude and terror, keenly hoping that the conversation goes no further.

“So what are the ISSUES you research?” (The gods will not have mercy).
“Well, you know, about things that people use everyday … how happy they are with them, what changes they want …”
“Things? How do you mean? What kinds of things, exactly?”
“Ummm … toothpastes. Soft drinks. Mobile phones. Lots of things. Anything at all”
Pause
“Toothpastes??” Faintly puzzled, but clearly intrigued.
“Yes. And lots of other stuff.”
“But what about toothpastes? A dental health campaign?”
“In a broad way. We ask why they like a particular brand. What would they like in a new variant. What flavours, colours …”
Pause.
“Oh”
Longer pause.
“Why?”

The strange thing is, it is straight from the heart, that ‘why’. There isn’t any malice there, or a put-down of any kind. It is simple bewilderment that a job like this could exist.

And looked at from an outside perspective, perhaps it is bewildering that a job like this could exist.

It is no wonder that I find my work shrinking in significance after every such conversation with someone outside the marketing spiral I exist in. And that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Many of us live in such tiny, closed worlds – give the trivialities of our work so much more meaning than they need to have. Always takes an outside view, doesn’t it, to put things into perspective?

The cover of medical science

2005-10-15T23:12:00.000-07:00

The first time I came across the concept of Asperger’s Syndrome I wasn’t sure whether to be miffed, relieved or delighted. On one hand, here was an acceptable medical condition to hang my supposed eccentricities on. Then again, I’m not sure that a collection of minor personality quirks – that do no harm other than ruffling a few social feathers – need to be described as a ‘condition’.

But first, a quick quiz to classify you.

When someone you don’t quite recognize walks up and says “Hi, how are you?” do you respond with
a) A vague smile and “have we met?”
b) A vague smile and “Hi … I’m fine, thank you”
c) A delighted smile, a hearty slap on the back and “I’m great … How are you? Been a long time, where have you been?”

On observing the last kebab left on a platter being shared between friends, do you
a) Pick it up promptly and chomp into it
b) Offer it around, find that no one reaches for it, and then help yourself to it
c) Leave it on the platter to watch it being carefully ignored by everyone while it shrivels up and turns mouldy and is ultimately removed by the waiter

The average number of awkward pauses in your conversations with social acquaintances is
a) Slightly more than the number of words exchanged
b) About as many as the number of words exchanged
c) None

(This one’s for women only) When visiting the homes of elderly relatives and being asked what you want to drink, do you
a) Point immediately to the Single Malt
b) Say “whatever you’re drinking, uncle” and cast a significant look in the direction of the Single Malt
c) Say “whatever aunty is drinking” and resign yourself to watching your spouse knock back the Malt while you nurse a glass of nimbu pani, homemade wine or (if the gods shine on you and aunty is a closet lush) shandy.

For the competitive sorts who are more interested in maxing this test than in earnest introspection, it doesn’t take much to figure out that the ‘c’s are what you should be gunning for. For the others, however, a warning is only fair: any answer other than ‘c’ is likely to land you in ‘Asperger’s’ zone.

The gist of Asperger’s, as far as I can see, is an inability to make small talk and a slight tendency to be oblivious to social sensitivities. I’m not quite sure whether or not to be offended that this is considered deserving of medical attention. But the more I think about it, the more I regard it as a blessing. Having lived with various labels over the years - 'painfully shy', 'a bit quiet', 'slightly aloof', 'a bit weird' and just plain 'rude', I find that the Asperger's label has a lot going for it. There is, of course, the slight unease of living with a chronic medical condition. But consider the advantages. A solid, scientific medical explanation to take cover behind. No longer having to rack your brains to remember who that vaguely familiar face belongs to, while trying valiantly to keep the chatty bonhomie afloat. No longer having to carry around lists of interesting things to say to keep conversations going. Never again having to watch the last kebab wilt on the tray, having been kicked under the table by a well-meaning friend and prevented from reaching out for it. Getting to the Single Malt with minimum fuss, bypassing forever the homemade wine and shandy. Spending as much time as you want on the net without getting friends and family in a twist.

Like I said … the more I think about it, the more it seems like we’re onto a good thing here. Fellow sufferers, what do you say?

Shouting out loud

2005-10-13T09:19:00.000-07:00

I've been following this story for a few days, and perhaps I'm late to the party. But late or not, it needs to be said. As revolted as I am by the distasteful personal attack on a fellow blogger, I am stunned by the rallying cry it has evoked in the blogging world. Not that I doubted the strength of the sentiment that would exist against any behaviour so clearly unjust and reprehensible. But I am awed, moved - and, in a strange way, humbled - by the force with which this collective scorn has been ground into the faces of the offenders.

So this is what it means, to be part of the blogging world. This is what it means, to be able to have your say. To voice an opinion and be heard, to respect every other person's right to do exactly that. To have a platform for debate, exchange and conversation. Civilized conversation. This is what it's all about. Not just freedom of speech, but the right to be heard. Not just being a lone voice in the wilderness, but being an emphatic, resonating force, supported by likeminded voices wherever they can be reached.

If I sound like a novice, it is because I am one. My new toy, which was just about being cool and telling a few funny stories, has revealed itself to be a powerful tool that must be handled with care. It's great to have fun with, but when it bares its teeth it does mean business.

My deepest respects - and a round of heartfelt applause - to all of you. To Rashmi, to Gaurav, and to everyone who has thrown their hats into the ring in support of basic civility and respect for the rules of the game.

Hide and seek

2005-10-07T21:02:00.000-07:00

I want to know why cities are laid out the way they are. Why one-ways always lead away from the direction you want to go in. Why they change direction overnight just when you’ve managed to crack the code. Why U-turns are so few and far between and always creep up when you’re on the extreme left of the road. Why house numbering systems are so virulently illogical. And why a right turn is not allowed just on the street you want to turn into. Having arrived there, need I add, after a long, befuddling and frustrating journey.

As you can see, it has been an unrewarding day.

And this is an ode to all those who have ever set off in search of an unknown address in our maliciously designed cities. May the force be with you. There are many, many tricks our city planners have up their sleeves to lead you astray.

Take, for example, the odds-and-evens game. You will usually encounter this if you are hunting for house number 55 and find yourself in front of number 54. That’s when you hear your malicious city planner say ‘gotcha!’ Because – of course! – this is the ‘evens’ street and number 55 is on the ‘odds’ street across the road. For victims of this game, there is consolation in the thought that there are worse plights. There is, for example (shudder) the-road-ends-at-the-house-before-the-one-I-want scenario. How roads can end just before any house you are looking for is beyond me … they are obviously designed to alter themselves in accordance with (or in opposition to) the needs of any house hunters in the vicinity.

Then there is the skip-an-alphabet game, especially popular in Delhi. If you happen to be looking for P-55, you can be pretty sure that P does not exist at the place where it is supposed to. This is where O ends, that is where Q begins … shouldn’t P be somewhere right here? Aaaah, you poor naïve thing. There is no explanation for this, but P is located right after K, in a completely different colony.

As a child I lived in a house in the unfortunate block P. No one could ever find their way to my house because it was the only block that was an aberration in the otherwise neatly alphabetical sequence. As a result I had very few friends. Kids who couldn’t find their way to my birthday parties imagined I had played a nasty prank on them. When I was older, of course, I learned how to use this unfortunate location to my advantage – but the trauma of childhood never does fade.

And, of course, there is the renumber-the-houses game, especially popular in Bangalore. Stunning in its audacity, this one is designed to outwit the few talented house-finders who do manage to get past previous obstacles. If you happen to successfully find your way to house number 1274, you will in high probability find yourself face to face with an elderly lady who looks quite different from the person you were expecting to meet. Isn’t this 1274, you ask in bewilderment. Yes, she says, equally puzzled. Until light dawns and she asks – “oh, but are you looking for the old 1274 or the new one?” This, you see, is the new one. When people give you addresses that go ‘old 75, new 11’ disregard them not. There is a hidden message there.

I know there is a meaning to this, which will dawn on me some day. Meanwhile, I am becoming skilled at the game, having abandoned the alphabet, numerics and logic in favor of the best direction-finder of them all : instinct.

Liff and junk

2005-09-27T09:17:00.000-07:00

Question: Where would you find half an extension cord, two faded dog collars, 4 antique Good Knight machines, a Scrabble board with no tiles, a set of marbles and a 1999 calendar?
Answer: in a box that you are finally unpacking after having moved back to Bangalore last month.

Ever notice how moving house makes most of our possessions seem like junk? Junk that gets packed in the hurry to get packed but has its revenge on you when the unpacking begins. There is the nostalgia stuff, of course, and there is a bit of the ‘aHA, that’s where it’s been’ stuff. But there is a much more daunting, endless list of ‘don’t know what to do with’ stuff. Having waded through the last of my boxes last weekend, here’s the tally:

The ‘aHA, that’s where it’s been’ stuff : 3 items

The income tax form from last year
The never-used patchwork cushion covers
The leather jacket

The nostalgia stuff : 1 item

The photographs from the trip to Manali

The ‘nostalgia but don’t know what to do with’ stuff : 12 items

A menu from some restaurant in Paris
Bangles from my sister’s wedding
Gypsy’s first ball, chewed beyond recognition
… you get the drift

The just plain ‘don’t know what to do with’ stuff : 55 items

2 burnt-out multi-plugs
the modem from the old computer
audiotapes of music I now have on CD
unusable gifts from important people
3 unidentifiable objects which on close examination turn out to be : 1) a doorknob; 2) an oddly shaped lampshade; 3) half a rawhide bone
3 other unidentifiable objects which remain unidentified
… and so on.

But one of those boxes this time has yielded a treasure that balances out all unpacking woes. Deep in the pockets of a jacket not worn for 5 years, lying inside a box not opened for 3, was my long-missing, believed stolen copy of ‘The Meaning of Liff’.

''The Meaning of Liff'' is possibly one of Douglas Adam’s best books, though I’m often surprised at how little it’s known. It’s a tiny book, not easy to buy at a store these days, a second hand copy of which costs a small fortune at Amazon. Co-authored by John Lloyd, it is a tongue-in-cheek "dictionary of things that there aren't any words for yet". All the words listed are names of places, and describe common feelings and objects for which there is no current English word. For example:

ABILENE (adj.) Descriptive of the pleasing coolness on the reverse side of the pillow.

BODMIN (n.) The irrational and inevitable discrepancy between the amount pooled and the amount needed when a large group of people try to pay a bill together after a meal.

DRAFFAN (n.) An infuriating person who always manages to look much more dashing than anyone else by turning up unshaven and hungover at a formal party.

DUNBOYNE (n.) The moment of realisation that the train you have just patiently watched pulling out of the station was the one you were meant to be on.

And, particularly relevant to me, I suppose
DOGDYKE (vb.) Of dog-owners, to adopt the absurd pretence that the animal shitting in the gutter is nothing to do with them.

I love this book. I’ve never known anyone to not have been reduced to helpless giggles page after page. I’ve made many friends over this book … jointly rolling on the floor screaming with laughter does much to break the ice and dissolve boundaries. For many years, it was my most effective ‘upper’ when I was low.

This week’s for rediscovering (and celebrating!) the Meaning of Liff.

For those who have not yet encountered this delightful book, here’s a link to the online version.

Multitasking and the crowded dictionary

2005-09-25T10:05:00.000-07:00

I remember reading somewhere that one of the unique and defining characteristics of today’s generation is their ability to multitask. They talk on the phone while driving, talk on the phone while exercising, exercise while checking email, check email while driving. Wow.

Let me see if I’ve got this right.

Multitasking (mλlti`ta:skiђ) v. doing several things at once; handling more than one task at a time. As in … keeping an eye on the milk boiling, toasting bread, frying an egg, brewing tea and simultaneously laying the table for breakfast? Or, maybe, doing the kids’ homework while keeping the dog’s head out of the garbage and the toddler’s hand out of the oven?

Many of the women I know would be glad there is finally an official name for this. Many of the men, too, actually. None of them, however, can claim to be Gen-Xers. (Actually I think it’s Gen-Y these days … or do I mean Gen-Z? In a clever deployment of their knowledge of the alphabet, the media keep relabeling the youth … I’ve lost track now).

However. To get back to my point. Why is multitasking a new-age thing? Why is it owned by Gen X/Y/Z? Granted, life is hugely busy these days, work hours are long and there is much more fun to be had. So maybe it isn’t so unfair of them to invent a new word and claim ownership. But it doesn’t stop there, you see.

There is a related concept called ‘multiminding’ that has just arisen. Today’s generation can multimind; that is to say, they have several different things on their minds at the same time. This is what is responsible for their short attention spans, proclivity for soundbytes, channel surfing, poor memory for advertising and so on.

Multiminding (mλlti`maindiђ) v. having more than one thought in your head at any time.

Really?! No, seriously, is this a joke? Is the ability to process multiple thoughts and ideas simultaneously such a marvel for Gen Z that we need to invent a new word for it?

The pressure to rewrite the dictionary to describe the life and times of each successive generation is not new. There is, for example, the concept of ‘quality time’ that dates back a few years. ‘Quality time’ actually has fairly respectable origins, being rooted in the idea that time we spend with / on something we love needs to be of high quality, given the shortage of it these days. The usage of the term, however, leaves you considerably puzzled.

“Sorry I can’t make it for lunch … I need to spend quality time with my son”. Quality time as opposed to what? Why not just say ‘I need to spend time’ / ‘do homework’ / ‘watch a movie’ / ‘go to the park’ etc? But no doubt the word ‘quality’ adds a subtle dimension I have missed.

“What will you be doing?” I asked, keen to get to the bottom of this. “Oh, just homework, and – you know – bonding”. Aah. Just hanging out, chatting, swapping news. What one would usually do, I imagine, when spending time with the kids. I wonder why it needs to be specified.

And there’s another of those words up there. Bonding. If it adds any extra dimension to the meaning of ordinary friendly exchanges, it is clearly lost on me. Besides, “we really bonded” could mean anything from “we had a nice chat” to “we became bosom pals”. Our parents used to meet people, make new friends, exchange gossip, revive old friendships, share secrets, share problems. We, however, ‘bond’.

Aren’t there already too many words for us to remember, without adding more unnecessary ones?

Lake Superior State University agrees. The university annually compiles a List of Words Banished from the Queen's English for Mis-Use, Over-Use and General Uselessness. The top award for 2004, I was delighted to find, went to my old favorite, 'metrosexual’. I quote from the article:

Bob Forrest of Tempe, Arizona, says it "sounds like someone who only has sex downtown or on the subway." Fred Bernardin of Arlington, Massachusetts, asks, "Aren't there enough words to describe men who spend too much time in front of the mirror?"

Amen to that.

Waning wanderlust?

2005-09-23T23:17:00.000-07:00

You know, on paper I often describe myself as a traveler. If I were to flesh out my profile on this blog, there it would be: ‘love to travel’. Most of my friends would say the same about me. And I believe it of myself, undoubtedly. Often when I dream of an ideal life I think of a life spent wandering about the world; my ideal job would be one where I’m paid to travel – I even vaguely remember applying for one as a travel writer.

And yet …

In practice I wonder if I really live up to that. Increasingly, I feel pangs the minute I step out the door. And nothing quite compares with the feeling of getting back home, even if it’s only been a few days. A boisterous welcome by two indignant yet overjoyed Labs, the smell of ghee-drenched rasam and rice, the ability to brew my own tea (thank goodness), my sumptuously comfortable futon to sink into (even if it is suspiciously covered with dog hair - they’ve clearly been having a wild time in my absence). What could possibly compete with this?

A large part of my homesickness is, of course, to do with the Labs. And a substantial chunk of the responsibility undoubtedly goes to hotel tea. But the watering-down of wanderlust runs a bit deeper than that.

More and more, I just can’t seem to get ‘enough’ time at home. About workdays the less said the better, but even weekends go by in a flash – at the movies, at coffee bars, at the gym (ok, not every weekend, but ...), out shopping, out drinking. And there really are no complaints here … I love this bursting-at-the-seams life, would probably pack in more if I could. As much as I love to travel – I have only yet been to a fraction of the places I want to go to, a long list still awaits.

But a parallel me just wants to be at home. To revel in the spaces I’ve created with such care, to enjoy my garden, to light my candles, to romp with the dogs, to watch TV, even just to potter about in my kitchen. What parallel me would really like is a holiday at home.

Is it age? Or just a sign of the stress-and-bustle times we live in?

Of wobbly knees and chattering teeth...

2005-09-16T22:00:00.000-07:00

The BIG conference in Cannes is two days away and the symptoms are beginning to kick in. My teeth started to chatter yesterday, the knees are distinctly gelatinous and my face has acquired that about-to-burst-into-tears look.

I do envy those who present with panache – people with that mysterious X-factor called Stage Presence. They stroll out onto the stage with hands nonchalantly in pockets, they throw a lazy grin at the audience and are immediately granted complete silence and attention. A wink here, an engaging smile there, a witty remark tossed out casually and off they go. They don’t need to clear their throats to silence the room. They don’t tap repeatedly at the mike to ask if they can be heard (they know they can be). They don’t shuffle their notes anxiously, having misplaced the title slide (there is no visible sign of notes). Their audience can intelligently differentiate their jokes from their brilliant points, and does not mix up applause with laughter.

I, sadly, do not belong to this privileged club.

Not only do I lack the mysterious X-factor, the presence of a stage seems to bring out in me an entirely detestable Y-factor which consists of a carefully measured mix of incoherence, monotony and idiocy. I would come across much better if I could just present from behind a curtain, but for some reason they insist on a clear view of the speaker.

This time, however, things will be different. I have been programming my unconscious for two weeks. For those who belong with me in the Y-factor zone, here are a few instructions I have been sleeping with under my pillow, which would have hopefully seeped by now into my mind and altered my default responses.

Do not babble. The audience is not filled with morons, and they do not need you to repeat everything thrice and examine it from multiple angles. Also, stories from your childhood will not make the conclusions of your research more forceful.
Do not, on the other hand, swallow up half your intended presentation. You have 20 minutes to fill up, and if you wrap up in 7 minutes you will face the prospect of standing in agonizing silence for the remaining 13. Should this happen, however, resist all temptation to go back to the first slide and begin again. Hopefully some generous soul will have mercy and ask an intelligent question.
Do not believe people who say that imagining the audience naked is a cure for stage fright. Sometimes the grotesqueness of the image can actually induce stage fright.
Remember the mike lurks below your collar. When you curse in an undertone to yourself, you are also speaking to the entire room.
If you MUST faint in relief after the presentation, it is better done at the chair than at the lectern.
If they don’t get your joke the first time, don’t repeat it or try explaining it.

As you can see, the preparation this time is strong. So … deep breath, and here goes. Hopefully I will return victorious, having kept Y-factor completely at bay.

Push-button wonders

2005-09-09T22:03:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time the ultimate tech fantasy was the humanizing of computers. Bright-eyed engineers plowed their genius into the creation of the perfect robot with no room for human error: someone who could take over all tiresome human tasks efficiently and uncomplainingly. Then an awful truth dawned on someone somewhere: if computers became human, what would humans do? Where would our jobs go? And so began the reverse invasion – if THEY could mimic us, WE would mimic them. If THEY became more intelligent, WE would become less so. If THEY acquired greater flexibility, spontaneity and complexity of responses, WE would become perfectly predictable, simplified automatons. Ha!

Nowhere is the success of this strategy more evident than in the world of customer service. Try if you can to alter the following greeting:
“Good-evening-Dominoes-pizza-Chetan-here-may-I-help-you-would-you-like-to-go-for-our-free-coke-offer-please?”
This is a response programmed to go off at the ring of a phone followed by the sound of a customer’s voice. And go off it will, no matter what. Speaking from the experience of a seasoned pizza orderer I can tell you it is pretty near impossible to stop it, change it or interrupt in any other way. I have tried many tricks, including beginning with a pre-emptive ‘no, I don’t want your free coke offer’ – but the speech above is relentless and will run its course.

The only strategy that is partially successful is to dial the number and remain absolutely silent. I stumbled upon this purely by chance, but having tried it a few times I am delighted to say it works most of the time. At the absence of a customer’s voice some sort of error seems to register and what we get is
“Good-evening-Dominoes-pizza-this-is …er, hello?”

The human automaton was actually invented by Indian Airlines many years ago, though it has been a largely unsung pioneer. Remember the steady monotone of ‘tea-please-coffee-please’ as the airhostess made her way down the aisle? Or the masterfully consistent delivery of ‘veg non-veg?’ without as much as a change in inflection? The newer airlines have built a bit of courtesy into the programme but the original principle remains intact. So now we have “may I offer you some coffee ma’am” delivered in a bright and cheerful voice rather than “coffee please” in a grim and threatening one.

Today, of course, the automaton industry is a booming one, exemplified by call centers. The new world is full of twice-born wonders who have mastered a handful of perfect responses to a handful of triggers – often in an alien language, sometimes in an alien accent. At times I suspect they may not even fully make sense of the questions they are trained to recognize and the responses they are trained to give – but what does meaning matter as long as the delivery is correct and the job gets done?

The strange thing is that our own responses become automatic in response. I switch off for 15 seconds after dialing the Dominoes number, knowing I have to give Chetan time to finish his pitch before I can begin. I sometimes forget I am talking to a ‘person’ when I dial-in a call center – forgetting the basic greetings and social courtesies. I rarely listen to the security warnings at the beginning of a flight, even though I am urged to.

This is not really a criticism of slick-and-automated customer service. There is no denying the jobs created by call centers or the lives that have been transformed. I don’t even deny the huge difference the call center industry has made to customer service – from no service at all (the bank queues, the engaged telephone lines, the dour voice telling you to ‘come personally to the shop’) we now have at least the possibility of a solution at the push of a button.

But can we go a step beyond the automaticity that we now witness? Do we have examples of people remaining engaging, spontaneous and human, even while delivering standardized responses? I love the anecdotes of Southwest airlines … the humour built into the in-flight announcements, the sense of fun, and the sheer innovation underlying all interactions. I wonder if it is possible to extend this spirit elsewhere ...

2005-09-03T02:34:00.000-07:00

The next time I hear a mobile phone ring just as the plane is tilting off the runway I swear I will leap off my seat, hunt out the errant phone, rip it off its owner's ear, throw it to the ground and grind it to as fine a powder as the heel of my shoe can manage.

This is not an innate disrespect for other people's space. And while it may seem like a somewhat unreasonable display of intolerance, I assure you it has come to this after a prolonged, slow, simmering boil. Listen to the following conversation and perhaps you may pick up on some of my distress:

"Oh hi ... long time no hear"
"________" (person on other end, presumably asking 'whatcha doing?')
"No, nothing much - what are you doing?" (Nothing much? How about "I am taking off to Mumbai, will call you later"?)
"_____________" (person on other end, presumably commenting on the weather)
"Yup, it's been really hot. No electricity too last night"
"________________________________" (person on other end, apparently talking about a movie he / she is currently watching)
"Wow, I've been dying to see it. Is it good?" (Now that is anybody's guess. If it was good, would he / she be calling you? On the other hand ...)
"____________________" (person on other end, apparently indicating that the movie is excellent. What do you know.)
"Great, I'll watch it this weekend. Will you call me when they come to that song I told you about? Actually, call me later - I'm off to Mumbai right now" (Finally!)
"________________________" (person on other end, tenaciously hanging on)
"Yes, I know ... were you there at Rakesh's party?" (Dear god.)
"_______________________" (well I clearly cannot blame the person-on-other-end, he has been given no hint of our man's whereabouts - except for the fleeting reference to Mumbai)

All this while the air hostess tells us of the perils to the flight navigation system (and by a logical extension, to our lives) if all phones are not switched off NOW.

I am not against technology. I love the miracle of mobile telephones. I love the fact that it is possible to talk to anyone, anytime and anywhere. I love the feeling of being connected, of being at the other end of the world and yet being 'home' at the push of a button. I love the personalization of phones - the one-to-one contact without a 'may-I-speak-to-xyz-please' ... the knowledge that when you call a number you will hear a specific voice ... the caller identification possible through not just flashing names but also personalized ringtones.

Like I said, I am fully appreciative of the joys of mobile technology and do not grudge anyone else reveling in them.

I have come to tolerate meetings being interrupted by calls. I don't mind (not terribly, at least) the shriek of a mobile ring piercing through a quiet restaurant. I even smile bravely when I hear one during a movie ... presumably there are important things that motivate people to pay for a movie and not watch it. One could even argue that their ringtone sometimes has more entertainment value than the soundtrack of the movie.

But my deep affection for mobile technology is overruled by a healthy respect for aeroplane technology. If the aeroplane does not want to fly when a mobile phone is on, I have no wish to argue. And honestly, I cannot understand people who do want to argue. While some may be dismissive of the aeroplane's touchiness about mobile phones, surely they recognize that it has the upper hand when we are airbound? Of all the possible ways to die, I can think of none more unseemly than "killed by aeroplane's reaction to ringing mobile phone".

I have just gotten off a traumatic flight from Delhi where no less than 7 phones rang just after the airhostess had finished with her dire warnings. Are we witnessing a new kind of thrill-seeking behaviour? Is there a 'keep your phone on' challenge that I am unaware of? Roll over bungee jumping, white water rafting and dirt track racing : the brave new breed keeps their phones on longer while flying. Having puzzled extensively over possible reasons for this widespread flouting of mobile phone rules, I find I can think of nothing plausible. Any ideas, anyone?

The Sexual Suffix

2005-08-25T22:48:00.000-07:00

Have you noticed how the term ‘sexual’ has become an appendage to quite an unexpected variety of words? In the beginning there were heterosexuals and homosexuals … and yes, right, bisexuals. We lived for many years fairly content with this three-way segmentation of human beings, with maybe an occasional ‘asexual’ popping up periodically. Then someone decided this was too simplistic a description of human sexual orientation – and so we had metrosexuals. Now there is a flood of diverse sexuality – there are technosexuals, chocosexuals, retrosexuals, frustosexuals, autosexuals (this one gave me a start until I realized auto meant automobiles, not automatic) and cosmosexuals.

“Cosmosexual, that’s me” read the caption under the photo of John Abraham in The Times of India last weekend. “Really?”, I thought, partly curious and partly appalled at the thought of the unquestionably kinky secret that was about to be revealed. A furtive scan of the article however brought forth no secrets, kinky or otherwise. The origin of the caption, it transpired, was the poor chap’s description of himself as cosmopolitan – having been born to a Christian father and Iranian mom and raised in a rather liberal, inclusive culture.

Why should The Times of India decide this was actually a confession to an offbeat sexual orientation?

Who is a cosmosexual anyway? I have pondered this long and hard, and I can tell you the concept does not lend itself to easy interpretation. Is it someone who is irresistibly attracted to anyone from a different culture? Someone not attracted to his own kind? Someone who gets a buzz from people with a mixed genetic history? All are possibilities I suppose, but vaguely unsatisfying. The most sensible interpretation, of course, is that of someone who doesn’t let differences in religion, community, race, nationality, language or culture stand in the way of attraction. Noble, but too general a description to be useful – not sufficiently distinct from ‘secular’ (or, in fact the literal interpretation of ‘heterosexual’) to warrant a separate place in the dictionary.

I quite like ‘chocosexual’, though. Clear and precise – no ambiguity there. Backed by science, too … haven’t chocolates been proven to be an excellent substitute for the real thing? Something about serotonin, if I remember right. Not that it matters, but it is reassuring to have your kinkiness grounded in biology.

‘Technosexual’ is at once alarming and evocative. It seems quite focused conceptually (someone who prefers technology to men, women and chocolates) … but try to think through the practical implications and you’ll be lost. What does ‘prefer’ mean, exactly? And what does ‘technology’ mean, for that matter? No doubt the technosexuals can clarify, but the mind is definitely challenged...

Frustosexual conjures up quite a sad image, although I quite enjoyed Jayesh's take on it.

One has to wonder, though, where this re-writing of the dictionary is leading. Will there ultimately be a sexual suffix to everything? And to what end? Is it an indicator of our willingness to embrace our individual kinks? A boredom with the limited possibilities that biology and society allow? A backlash against the rising population leading to non-reproductive modes of pleasure? Or perhaps just at long last a desire to wear Freud proudly on our shoulders. If Freud was right and everything is sexual, why not proclaim our unique expressions of it with pride?

Single at the movies

2005-08-20T07:13:00.000-07:00

One of the abiding joys of modern living is the multiplex. In the days gone by (and not completely gone yet) movie-going was a creaky, crowded, smelly, sweaty experience which only the diehard film buffs were willing to brave. Now of course the tables are turned and the air conditioned, alluringly lit, popcorn-and-Pepsi-abundant movie theatres are the perfect refuge from the creaky, crowded, smelly, sweaty world out there.

I discovered multiplex haven a couple of years ago when I was temporarily yanked out of Bangalore and re-planted in Gurgaon (which has lately emerged as the undisputed winner in multiplex proliferation). For many blissful months now I have been on a steady diet of two-movies-a-weekend, sometimes on the same day. Balancing my Jumbo Popcorn and equally Jumbo Pepsi, and reclining almost 45 degrees in plush, well upholstered seats, I spend most weekends cocooned in a stupor of sensory gratification, emerging replete with my wellness quota for the week.

I have noticed however that my solo movie-going tends to evoke reactions of sympathy and concern among friends and acquaintances. I am deeply puzzled by this, but I suspect that being single at the movies is regarded as a cry for help of the highest order – a shout to the world that you are alone and friendless, with not a soul who is willing even to accompany you to the movies. It also seems to induce faint embarrassment, even guilt, among those who regard themselves as close friends (“You went alone? Why didn’t you just call me? I’ve seen it before but for you I would have come along again…”)

So deeply entrenched is the apparent indignity of solo movie going that nothing you say can convince them that you actually want it that way. But I like watching movies alone, you say in response to commiserating pats on the back and ‘chin-ups’. “Poor thing”, you hear them whisper as they turn away. “But at least she’s putting a brave face on it”.

I find this not just annoying in the extreme but also incomprehensible. The way I see it, the best thing about a multiplex is that you can dive into it alone with equanimity. It is true that I would not have ventured into old-world theatres on my own … but for some reason a multiplex induces a feeling of heightened well-being and independence, obviating the need for company.

Besides, I take movie-going quite seriously and am picky about my companions. At the very least, I look for an appreciation of the following movie-going principles – which I have found sadly lacking in a surprising number of would-be companions.

The objective of going for a movie is to watch the movie. Social engagement is a peripheral benefit and cannot come in the way of the primary objective. Therefore mid-movie conversation is entirely unwelcome. I cannot stress this enough.
We are not in a competition to guess what is going to happen next; nor are we there to beat the hero / heroine to a particular dialogue. The idea (unthinkable as it may be) is to watch passively as the plot unfolds.
Before commenting negatively on the movie or lapsing into hoots of derisive laughter it is advisable to check companion’s reaction to movie. If companion seems engrossed and appreciative, keep opinion to self.
Food and drink needs to be purchased before the movie or during the interval. Under no circumstances whisper ‘do you want a chicken hotdog’ while the protagonist battles for his life.
Keep loo breaks to a minimum. Especially if they entail climbing over companion’s knees and spilling her popcorn.

Of late I have been carrying a printout of these simple principles along with me to a movie, to keep would-be sympathizers at bay. Usually I find people disappearing quite hastily after reading them, which in my view only points to the extent of non-compliance with basic movie etiquette.

Movie-going for most people, I suspect, is a social experience. For me it is clearly a personal one. And so goes my pursuit of single-dom at multiplexes … with half an eye out for the perfect movie companion.

Unplugging

2005-08-18T23:29:00.000-07:00

The simplification fanatics are at it again. Unplug your life, they say. Simplify. Get rid of clutter, complexity, gadgetry, technology … get rid of the life-corrupting unauthentic xyz. Go back to your roots, get out of the concrete jungle, retreat into the silence of the mountains. Unplug.

Unplug? I clutch worriedly at my Home Theatre System and spirit my Nokia 3230 out of sight. It disturbs me, this kind of talk. Aren’t we just about getting complex enough for life to be fun? As far as I am concerned, I have nowhere near had my fill of life-corrupting complexity. These are the days of miracles and wonder, and nothing you say will convince me otherwise.

After all, if you’re as old as I am, the days of unplugged existence are quite fresh in memory. I still remember when acquiring a gas connection was a lifetime achievement. (I am proud to say that I am one of the lucky few who have experienced such triumph firsthand. Oh, those years of toil – when being ‘unconnected’ had a wholly different meaning. I queued up, I groveled, I sidled greasily up to social acquaintances whose uncles owned gas agencies, I cultivated an unspeakable oily charm to endear myself to gas dealers. And oh, the euphoria when the first gleaming red cylinder finally arrived at my doorstep. I almost feel a pang for the young of today who will never experience such magic).

But I digress from my point. My point is the cocooning comfort of my now state-of-the-art kitchen. LPG is the last thing on my mind as I bask in the glow of my microwave oven, hum along with the whistle of my electric kettle, and switch deftly between gas and electricity on my dual-fuel cooking range. Never again will I go without my morning tea because the gas is over; never again will I wait with diminishing hope for the gas man to arrive. If simplification involves dismantling my kitchen I think I’ll give it a miss.

And then there is 24-hour electricity supply. For those as yet inexperienced in its pleasures, this is a nifty concept called 100% Power Back Up discovered by the more unapologetic urban junkies. Largely pioneers who have ventured into the concrete jungles of DLF, having given up bungalow dwelling, kitchen gardens and other such bounty offered by the good earth. I must admit, though, that this can cause more than a pang and almost swing you irrevocably into the simplification camp. But only until you experience Power Back Up, I promise.

In 100% Power Back Up zones, the electricity never goes. This is more addictive than you think possible. Imagine. Imagine never knowing or caring what time the load-shedding is scheduled. Imagine not being stranded without water in the midst of a shower, unable to switch on the pump. Imagine not going to office with un-ironed clothes and wet hair, having been unexpectedly deprived of iron-and-drier. Like I said, you need to live it to know it. Last summer a couple of friends came over with pillows and pajamas to sleep on my carpet, exhausted by an 18 hour power cut. They stayed on for two weeks. And no doubt will shortly be looking for a place in my concrete high-rise.

Nostalgia for the fresh earth and greenery is all very well. But better nostalgic and air-conditioned, I say, than hot, sweaty and swatting mosquitoes.

Recently I came across a more enlightening perspective on this whole issue. Simplification, it seems, is not anti-progress or anti-technology. Or even anti-possessions. It is about the ability to let go … about the absence of attachment, as the spiritually inclined say.

Oh. Aha.

So simplification doesn’t mean we must throw the Flat Screen TV out of the window, it just means we must not mind terribly if someone else does. Yes, well … I can see where they’re coming from there. Detachment from worldly possessions has apparently been proven to lead to higher levels of inner fulfillment than attachment. I can probably handle that fairly well actually; better than might be suspected basis prior evidence. When you live in the company of two Labrador Retrievers with a sharp eye for clutter, you learn to let go pretty rapidly.

My younger, Gypsy, is a high energy black Lab who regards as clutter anything that obstructs her view of her b-a-l-l (it is safe only to spell that word in our house). She recently simplified the bar area from which the b-a-l-l was a pain to retrieve. Where once stood a crystal and booze laden cupboard there is now uncluttered wall. Only a faint smell of Single Malt mingled with vodka wafts up from the carpet occasionally as a reminder of more complex times. Boogie, the elder one, is a lazy 9 year old who now is driven primarily by comfort – but she has many past glories to her credit. Her list of simplification triumphs include two bean bags, seventeen cushions, a washing machine (don’t ask), an antique writing table and several pairs of shoes.

If detachment is the measure of simplification, I think I am a strong contender for the top award. I still love my Labs, I have not thrown out Gypsy’s ball, and I willingly climb a step ladder to pour myself a drink from the bar in the loft. I have done away with the bed rather than bother with replacing chewed up legs. The bean bags were the most difficult to detach from, but I’m proud to say I now only dream of them once every six months.

But of course, I do this under duress. Detachment I do practice, but my urban junkie soul plots and schemes to hold on to my urban junk. I think the microwave is safe, because the Labs have astutely connected it to their meals. I really must get them around to my point of view on the rest …