Friday, September 26, 2008
And yaa pets...when I see a dog on a leash being walked by somebody and when they come under proximity, a mild tension creeps in uninvitingly. I make all efforts to conceal my fear, or for lack of a better word, restlessness. Yet I resort for a detour. The other day, I saw Chandler saying in 'Friends' sitcom that one can never say what a dog thinks. How true!
Whenever I visit people who own dogs and consider them as more than family members, I make sure that the dog keeps a safe distance from me. Howmuchever they find it difficult to understand, I keep emphasizing 'dogs have to be kept where they should be'. I have a strange feeling that most dogs in this world hate me and somehow or the other, plan on attacking me one day.
One of my friends (while being caressed all over her face by the tongue-lick of whatever-dog-she-has) offers me an explanation. For her, the dog is more than a sibling. The only companion who can identify her. The only comrade who never changes color. The only friend who is loyal, honest and trustworthy. I laugh her out. Considering me, other than the reality that a dog can never talk back, I find nothing spellbinding.
During many of my regular visits to Central park in New york, I have wondered how small a grown-up dog can get and how much of love and affection can it withstand, no matter how small it is. No exaggerations - I have seen dogs smaller than the size of my sneaker. And it is funny when they bark. I laugh at my own joke of imagining telling one of such dog-owners to take the dog out of my way or I might mistakenly stamp on it! As per many of my friends, 'Stamp on it' is considered a blasphemy. Should be 'stamp on him or stamp on her'. It is amazing how much of affinity, love and affections humans show for pets.
And yesterday, the salesman at the guitar shop while talking to me and walking, tripped and fell on the floor. One of the on-lookers mockingly offered a comment that the salesman has the eyes of a cat. He gets up and asks her not to compare him to a cat. Per him, the cats are partially blind. He extends an unsolicited explanation - how his pet (a cat) runs across his living room and the kitchen at lightning speed when there is no need for such a real hurry. And most of the times, he says the cat at such a blinding speed would go bang herself straight on to the door. Not a glass door, not a transparent door - but a plain hard wooden one. BANG! He says he can never explain such a behaviour. One more person joins in saying how his lazy dog would be sleeping in the couch - And all of a sudden, out of the blues, she would toss herself up from the couch and sprint like a lightning.
Such maddeningly-crazy-running-episodes in the house are okay. And so are the annoyingly jarring barks. But there is much more pets can do. As much as they invite incredible love and affection of some people (like these babies do), they lead to the opposite too for others.
Without even their knowledge, pets can easily give one a phobia, one is not born with. Funny. Indeed.
[P.S : Pet lovers, please take this post in the lighter sense, as this is my 150th post!]
Monday, September 22, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
But perceived with the truest of the thoughts, one feels a little untold pride. And the haze of being called a 'loser' fades away in the pride. One personally enjoys whenever people invite for arguments centering on the 'beaten-to-death' topic of drinking Vs abstaining. Such arguments are delightful and that too, it becomes all the more funny when the arguing person’s blood is so filled with ethyl alcohol.
Talking about drinkers, the other day I went out with a couple of friends to a local Italian restaurant. I was having regular coke and they were having wine. As soon as they said the wine is just so perfect for the evening, I added saying Coke is definitely better at that restaurant. They didn’t seem to understand. In fact, for somebody who drinks, it’s hard to appreciate the 'kick' of a non-alcoholic drink. One of my friends, for the sake of argument, asks me for one good reason for me being a teetotaler and I tell her honestly that the pride of not having touched alcohol yet makes one a stronger abstainer.
She could not readily agree, my other friend joined her and both of them were enjoying this 'lets-convince-Arun-today' business than the wine in the first place. I was having equal fun, trying to come up with answers for all the 'otherwise-valid' questions. After some 20 minutes of vain attempt, one of them showed a little frustration and resorted back to the wine. The other joined. For me, the pride sneaked in. I smiled.
I have always been the solo non-alcoholic person in a alcoholic group. I accompany folks to bars/hotels and invariably hog at the side-dishes meant for the drinkers. And as soon as the drinking starts, if any of the guys talk, I keep telling them to stop the gibber-talks. And if one of the guys walks to the restroom, I mockingly warn him not to dance along the way or bang the waiter.
As more alcohol mixes with the blood and as the guys get 'high' by the drink, triggering them to unexpected expressions and ridiculing is what makes me high.
In spite of the sporadic kicks and blows one might receive, such attempts of ridiculing a drunkard is the funniest experience one can feel thru. Not even watching all the seasons of Seinfeld in one shot can come close. Of course the side and the after-effects of the 'puke' episodes would be like interrupting ESPN abruptly and switching to Doordarshan.
Yet, what I missed to figure out was why some women have a strange attraction towards guys who drink. Maybe they mistakenly think drinking has got to do with manliness or something. Or that’s what I assumed.
But a few days ago, a few of my friend were saying that their strategy is to 'go out' with guys who drink, who dance, who smoke and who call them 'babe'. But at the end of it, they settle down for a guy who symbolizes 'chamathu' types. As much as that logic is confusingly stupid, it blurs me as I don’t fall in either of the cults. And all this when I'm not drunk.
I'm sure only women can confuse and increase the thinking time of men. Not even alcohol!
Friday, September 12, 2008
Monday, September 8, 2008
One finds the subject of being busy, as a matter of fact, very immanent. But in the general notion, the definition pertains to one's work. The work, which pays for the bread and butter, which in turn leads to the want of more bread and butter. And when one is occupied with heaps of work, everything else seems to shift to lower gears. The frequency of hectic days spilled with strenuous schedules in crescendo turns one to be habituated to the same.
The journey of 'work for home' to 'work from home' seems fluid. The occasional scream of the US open applauses amidst rallies on the TV does not seem to bother, strangely. The saga of such feverish days makes one a little upstage from an otherwise social life. One finds it difficult to fit the tasks of writing stories or tweeting, in the always-less-than-sufficient 24 hours. Needless to say, the whole befalling leads one to hope for a serene weekend.
Oddly, the thirstily anticipated weekend ends up less placid than the weekdays. And the weekend radar is replete with variegations of flashing laziness by idling away comfortably in the couch, watching TV aimlessly, staring at the clouds from the balcony, listening to music avidly, fiddling with the phone for hours, talking on the phone for minutes and the likes. Some might call exactly this a defined form of relaxation. Yet, one considers doing all these diligently as being busy and absorbed.
However occupied weekends are with aforesaid activities, just to think of Monday morning and the week ahead rapidly throws up a flare of alarm. Life suddenly seems brilliantly mundane. But this seemingly incidental thought is attempted to be hazed under the hoods of being busy.
Yet another week beckons. One teaches oneself the art of being busy.