• You talk about enmity, rather than animosity.
• You no longer shake or nod your head – you waggle.
• You boldly cross the street when traffic is coming from both directions and all places in between.
• You find it just fine, when someone says IN-tes-tine (rhyming with fine).
• You refuse to eat anything without mango pickle on the side.
• You show up, without apology, for a 9 o'clock meeting at 10:45.
• You know the difference between a googly and a leg break.
• You eschew toilet paper, even when available.
• You know that Big B approves of Little B going out with Ash, while Jaya would prefer he woo Rani.
• You keep the bathroom door closed even when unoccupied.
• You are able to tie a dhoti in ten seconds or less.
• You know the answer to 'Kaun Banega Crorepati?' is probably not you.
• You derisively flick your thumb off your front teeth to let someone know you aren't talking to them.
• You motion for someone to come hither with palm down.
• You impulsively laugh when a Sadarji appears on screen.
• You refer to people from Britain as Britishers, rather than British.
• You say something was 'too good' when it was 'very good.'
• You have tried every flavor of ice candy.
• You suck the insides of a massaged mango out a small incision made at the top of the fruit.
• You call Bombay, Mumbai; Calcutta, Kolkata; Madras, Chennai; and Bangalore, Bangalooroo.
• You know what you 'lakh' is 100,000.
• You feel hot at 40 degrees, not cold (it's centigrade, Baby).
• You tip the scales at less than 100, and it's not because of the weight you've lost (talkin' kilos, Baby).
• You can bangra, garba and dandiya until the sun comes up and the cows come home.
• You know Krack cream is for your soles and not your nose.
• You feel that Rajiv Gandhi is predestined to become PM, just as John Jr. was to become President.
• You prefer Limca over Sprite, Maaza over Fanta, and Thums Up over Pepsi.
• You refer to a mosque as a masjid, and a temple as a mandir.
• You know that in Bharat 'Highly Inflammable' means exactly the same thing as 'Highly Flammable.'
• You feign to reach for a rock to scare off aggressive dogs.
• You have flown on Sahara, Jet, Spice and Kingfisher.
• You know that 'kuch daal mein kala hai' when you're offered a free taxi ride.
• You have held hands with a friend of the same sex without getting the heebie jeebies.
• You know all the titillating details behind the DPS, RK Puram scandal.
• You have ridden in a straw-filled bullock cart with a man whose ear hair can be tied secure beneath his chin.
• You know that Bipasha is a babe and John Abraham is a hunk.
• You always choose the upper berth on the train to avoid having passengers trod on you in the night.
• You complain about the meter being 'fast' in your auto rickshaw.
• You walk away from vendors to coax them into quoting the lowest price.
• You prefer to eat by hand off a banana leaf while sitting cross-legged on the ground.
• You have stepped in an elephant pie to avoid being flattened by a Tata truck.
• You can reproduce the inane jingle for Fair and Handsome skin creme.
• You have tried every flavor of Lay's potato chips including Magic Masala, Australian, Latino Salsa, Spanish Tomato Tango, Hot & Sweet Chilli Caribbean, Chaat Street Bindaas Bhel and Golguppa Style.
• You opt for the movie starring King Khan over King Kong.
• You kabadi, kabadi, kabadi in your sleep.
• You have shamelessly relieved yourself on the side of a public building on a well-travelled road.
• You know it's only a matter of time before Salman Khan kills someone, or at least threatens to do so over the phone.
• You have employed a scissors shot in carrom to best the diamond merchant from Surat.
• You know that it's a Hindu in Hindustan that speaks Hindi and not the other way around.
• You can determine whether a person is from Secunderabad or Hyderabad by their accent.
• You whistle the theme to 'Main Hoon Na' while riding a motorbike with five others.
• You know that nine times out of ten your Delhi rickshawala will be from Bihar.
• You have had Corn in a Cup and you want your thunder.
• You know the bewafaa in 'Bewafaa' is Kareena Kapoor, granddaughter of the one and only Raj.
• You have ridden a camel bareback and buck naked through the Rann of Kutchchh (well, at least in your dreams).
• You know Rani and Baps are from Bengal, Ash is from Mangalore, and Mallika from Haryana.
• You have been to the CID to file an FIR with the KBC-viewing SI who belongs to the BJP.
Those who have marked the passage of twelve full-moons whilst trekking the jasmine and pee-scented byways in the hallowed land of techies, thuggis, and Tamilians, are cordially invited to append to the list.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Evil Happy Birthday
"Mark Uncle, Mark Uncle! Sing a song. Sing a song," comes the hue and cry from the ravenous pack of Nav Jeevan scallywags. I have already performed my limited repertoire of Hindi numbers innumerable times and now my adoring audience's appetite will be satiated with an English tune only. The problem is I don't think I know any English songs, or at least not beyond the first two lines or so. The pathetic truth is that my lyrical memory is about as sharp as a Nerf ball's edges. After false starts with "My Country Tis of Thee" (sung in mock operatic style), "America the Beautiful" (chest puffed out and arm raised in a salute), and "This Land is Your Land" (much knee slapping and foot stomping as if auditioning for Country Bear Jamboree) I default to singing "Happy Birthday." The rousing accolades engendered by the first three offerings give way to expressions of ennui. Ho hum. Been there, heard that.
Sensing my sterling reputation as a paragon of entertainment is about to be irreparably tarnished, I improvise. I pull Ajma to me, as she is closest of the ten or so kids that fall within a three-foot radius of my person. I focus my complete attention on her and allow my eyes to glass over while my vocals grow raspy and slightly menacing. Much giggling ensues, but some of it is clearly tinged with anxiety. The younger children have already guessed as to the tragic transformation that is underway deep within my bowels. Yes, my precious little dearies, I am going bad fast – succumbing to the dark side. I curl my upper lip back in a devilish sneer and my hands, once soft and tender, turn into claws gripping Ajma's fragile arms with increasing threat. Despite it being midday a shadowy unease spreads across the room. The lyrics are now being delivered with the guttural ferocity characteristic of the unfortunate progeny of demon seed and the faintest members of my audience peel away screaming in terror. This triggers wide spread panic and there is a mad scramble for the two exits. A terrified Ajma is the last to escape after wresting herself free from my clutches. With an irascible roar I lurch to the doorway and claw at the sky.
The devilishly robust kids, only minutes removed from having been frightened out of their wits, gather their peers and drag them to my room demanding an encore performance. I claim complete ignorance as to their petition.
"Is it somebody's birthday? Who's birthday is it? If I had known I would have bought a cake. I feel really bad. Well, I'll just go now to the bakery." I rise as if prepared to exit, but am rudely thrust back onto my cot by a multiplicity of tiny hands.
Haritha, who along with Shalini, is the only orphan able to understand some English, explains my subterfuge to the others gathered. The miniature mob waxes tempestuous.
"No, Mark Uncle. You sing. You sing Happy Birthday now!" Haritha demands.
Resigned to my lot I launch once more into the tired hallmark of the birth anniversary. The veterans of my drama shift uncomfortably waiting for Mr. Hyde to appear. The others are similarly restless – they were called here for this? What was all the excitement about? Then it starts. My right hand starts to twitch spasmodically. I look to it first and then to my audience with obvious concern while continuing to sing, albeit somewhat hesitantly. The ones in the know, know what I know, while the newcomers look to the knowers wanting to know what they know, but cannot, themselves, possibly know: Something wicked this way comes. The left hand joins the right in it's unnatural vellication and then my entire torso becomes afflicted with the malevolent twitching. My face registers panic and moments later the singing turns shrill. The youngest cannot bear to witness the complete transition to evil and slip out the door to relative safety. Second row viewers push the front row forward and chaos reigns. I screech the refrain now with unmitigated malice while clawing wildly into the fray. I cackle with such diabolic conviction that I manage to give myself the creeps.
The third iteration of my iniquitous rendition of "Happy Birthday" draws an even greater audience, but this time one of the girls is blocked from easy exit and turns to defiantly face my screeching tirade. She crosses her arms across her chest and squints confidently a la Clint Eastwood. What can a demon do in the presence of such a penetrating gaze? I make as if I am about to pounce on her, but she remains intrepidly unflinching and steps forward to hug me. She has stared fear directly in the eye and is going nowhere. The curtains have been pulled aside and the Wicked Wizard of Oz has been revealed for what he really is. The gig is up.
With some embarrasment, I am forced to repeat the song for the orphan's twenty-something Tamil tudor and finally for a visiting priest who can only look at me quizzically and wonder why today, of all days, he failed to pack his holy water. At the conclusion of my farewell performance no one bothers to run. Even Monkey, the most diminuitive of orphans, simply jumps hyperactively in place, pumping her arms with fists clenched tightly, and anxiously grinning like there's no tomorrow. She too has learned something of defusing terror and disarming the terrible.
Sensing my sterling reputation as a paragon of entertainment is about to be irreparably tarnished, I improvise. I pull Ajma to me, as she is closest of the ten or so kids that fall within a three-foot radius of my person. I focus my complete attention on her and allow my eyes to glass over while my vocals grow raspy and slightly menacing. Much giggling ensues, but some of it is clearly tinged with anxiety. The younger children have already guessed as to the tragic transformation that is underway deep within my bowels. Yes, my precious little dearies, I am going bad fast – succumbing to the dark side. I curl my upper lip back in a devilish sneer and my hands, once soft and tender, turn into claws gripping Ajma's fragile arms with increasing threat. Despite it being midday a shadowy unease spreads across the room. The lyrics are now being delivered with the guttural ferocity characteristic of the unfortunate progeny of demon seed and the faintest members of my audience peel away screaming in terror. This triggers wide spread panic and there is a mad scramble for the two exits. A terrified Ajma is the last to escape after wresting herself free from my clutches. With an irascible roar I lurch to the doorway and claw at the sky.
The devilishly robust kids, only minutes removed from having been frightened out of their wits, gather their peers and drag them to my room demanding an encore performance. I claim complete ignorance as to their petition.
"Is it somebody's birthday? Who's birthday is it? If I had known I would have bought a cake. I feel really bad. Well, I'll just go now to the bakery." I rise as if prepared to exit, but am rudely thrust back onto my cot by a multiplicity of tiny hands.
Haritha, who along with Shalini, is the only orphan able to understand some English, explains my subterfuge to the others gathered. The miniature mob waxes tempestuous.
"No, Mark Uncle. You sing. You sing Happy Birthday now!" Haritha demands.
Resigned to my lot I launch once more into the tired hallmark of the birth anniversary. The veterans of my drama shift uncomfortably waiting for Mr. Hyde to appear. The others are similarly restless – they were called here for this? What was all the excitement about? Then it starts. My right hand starts to twitch spasmodically. I look to it first and then to my audience with obvious concern while continuing to sing, albeit somewhat hesitantly. The ones in the know, know what I know, while the newcomers look to the knowers wanting to know what they know, but cannot, themselves, possibly know: Something wicked this way comes. The left hand joins the right in it's unnatural vellication and then my entire torso becomes afflicted with the malevolent twitching. My face registers panic and moments later the singing turns shrill. The youngest cannot bear to witness the complete transition to evil and slip out the door to relative safety. Second row viewers push the front row forward and chaos reigns. I screech the refrain now with unmitigated malice while clawing wildly into the fray. I cackle with such diabolic conviction that I manage to give myself the creeps.
The third iteration of my iniquitous rendition of "Happy Birthday" draws an even greater audience, but this time one of the girls is blocked from easy exit and turns to defiantly face my screeching tirade. She crosses her arms across her chest and squints confidently a la Clint Eastwood. What can a demon do in the presence of such a penetrating gaze? I make as if I am about to pounce on her, but she remains intrepidly unflinching and steps forward to hug me. She has stared fear directly in the eye and is going nowhere. The curtains have been pulled aside and the Wicked Wizard of Oz has been revealed for what he really is. The gig is up.
With some embarrasment, I am forced to repeat the song for the orphan's twenty-something Tamil tudor and finally for a visiting priest who can only look at me quizzically and wonder why today, of all days, he failed to pack his holy water. At the conclusion of my farewell performance no one bothers to run. Even Monkey, the most diminuitive of orphans, simply jumps hyperactively in place, pumping her arms with fists clenched tightly, and anxiously grinning like there's no tomorrow. She too has learned something of defusing terror and disarming the terrible.
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