What would you have done?

There I was, sitting by myself in a corner with my laptop, playing those games I am addicted to. In a misguided attempt to ease myself out of the addictions, I set all my attention-seeking Tamagotchi-style games on quests which keep them off my hands for hours and hours.

With no farms to tend to and no stoves to clear, I was listless. Therefore, I decided to play Scrabble. Online of course. Surely you didn’t think I was going to play on an old fashioned board with a real human being sitting in front of me! Think of it… One would have to pick up tiles with bare hands and move them on to the board, bearing in mind that one errant finger could upset the entire board. All that stress…

Anyhow, since my regular scrabble mate (a very, very competent one at that) was asleep in another continent, I decided to play with strangers. How bad could it be, I thought. I systematically researched the available players and picked one with stats comparable to mine. As my luck dictated, just the very second that I clicked the play button, the players reshuffled and I was caught in a casual game with a beginner instead. Not just any beginner. A complete beginner – as stats showed she had played exactly one game before and lost.

I decided to proceed with this one nevertheless, and tried to pick another player I could play a decent game with. Guess what? The exact same thing happened with players changing just as I clicked, prompting yet another game with yet another beginner. This one slightly better, with a total online experience on that site of three games, out of which only two she’d lost.

Hoping fervently that these two persons had either just reset their stats, or at least had enough experience playing Scrabble in real life, I continued. That wasn’t to be. The poor kids (/ girls/ women/ males-masquerading-as-females, whatever) were so, soo, sooo naive in playing the game. Placing tiny baby words, not taking advantage of the special squares, leaving me with a wide choice of  triple-word-score spots to pick from.

In addition to that, my tiles on both boards were absolutely fantabulous. Great mix of vowels and consonants – high scoring at that; a bingo here, a bingo there. And after the first three moves on each board, I knew I was at a huge advantage. Which prompted the angel (yes, angel. I insist) in me to surface and play down to their levels – deliberately passing up the opportunity to  place high scoring words, offering the use of high score squares to them, etc.

In other words, I was patronising them through out the game. Now I can’t help but wonder if I did the right thing. As in, giving them such concessions isn’t in keeping with the spirit of a game; is it? Not to mention it was rather unfair on me, considering I was trying so hard after so long to wrangle a bit of intellectual stimulation, and ended up spelling rat, cat, mat as opposed to myotic, gizmo and evzone.

What would you have done?

(a) Been “kind” to the stranger, but petulantly whinged about it later to your unsuspecting readers

(b) Been kind to the stranger, derived your kicks out of how wonderful a person you are; stopping to admire your halo in the mirror at every possible opportunity

(c) Gone full monty with your game, availing yourself of every possible double/ triple letter/ word scores on the board, while humming a slightly off key version of Another One Bites The Dust

(d) Never gotten into a situation like this, ever. You would work on a sudoku or a cryptic crossword if you were looking for intellectual stimulation

Tell me. I want to know.

Document Review

A few days ago, He-Who-Does-Not-Want-To-Be-Named-Here came up to me with a request. He wanted me to take a look at an official document he was reviewing, which was meant to be sent out to a client. He asked me to merely assess whether he was within his rights to throw his hands up in the air and wail in despair. (He is somewhat pacifistic. Under similar circumstances, I’d be raging to call a firing squad against the offenders)

I went. I saw. I screamed. What a load of tosh it was! I know the following lines will make me sound about a hundred and twenty years old. Yet, they must be said: in my days, people were just NOT allowed to send out such pointless nonsense. We used to strive to get the words, grammar and content right. And crisp. I am not saying it was all top notch. However it was never this terrible either. We had a sense of pride and satisfaction about a job done well.

Quest for Rentals

Here in England, I live in this upscale, well-maintained apartment complex, in a good sized two double-bedroom apartment, with one bath and one en-suite. The problem is that it is on the wrong side of the tracks – the approach has this slightly decrepit feel about it.

One gets used to it. Especially the corner shop to which you can run, for all emergency supplies from fresh milk to karelas. Yup! One of those ubiquitous shops from our own sub-continent run by illustrious 3rd/ 4th generation Brit-Asians. It is all rather convenient.

All the same, with impending visits from both sets of parents, I have this strong urge to move into
(a) a house with some more shelves and storage – every inch of storage in my apartment has been filled with clothes, accessories, shoes, makeup, sports equipment and such paraphernalia. Not to mention stuff lovingly (and not so lovingly) left behind by friends who went back to India.
(b) a house where it is not verboten to fit a little dish for receiving Indian channels on telly.
(c) a house with a little garden to which the parents can retire for some fresh air, were they bored with the aforementioned Indian channels.
(d) most importantly, a “foreign” neighbourhood, instead of this one which could pass for a dilapidated town in the Northern part of India.

Just a phase…

It had better be. If this new (and rotten) brain-warp is not going away, I am doomed.

Before I go any further, you are going to have to put up with a bit of rambling:

Do you remember dictation tests from your younger days? I vividly remember one when I was 7 years and a few months old. Out of the 15 words the teacher called out, I was very confident about one teaser, because my mum had drilled, and I mean drillllllled, that particular spelling into my head. I knew mum would be very cross if I messed it up.

I was sitting next to this very sweet and kind girl. I wrote the correct spelling – “GIANT”, and this kind girl nudged me and whispered, “You’ve got number 4 wrong. It is ‘gai’, not ‘gia’.” I knew I was right and she was wrong. I protested but she genuinely looked like she wanted to help me. Since I didn’t want to rain on the kind little girl’s parade, I changed the spelling.(I used to be such a pushover, I tell you!) When we swapped books to mark the answers, well, we were both wrong. Only about a handful got that one right. My really very sweet and kind friend looked so horrified and apologised profusely. I hardly paid her any attention as I was worried sick about the repercussions I’d have to face from my very-genial-except-when-you-mess-up-in-acads mum.

10 or so, in just 2?

I’ve been in hiding. Also, I’ve been sad. And sulky. (Well, not really. But a little drama never hurt anyone; did it?)

It is no secret that I’m on the wrong side of the big three oh. Much as I hate to admit, I have been here nearly two years now.

Three days after that milestone birthday, I was shopping by myself for a dinner party at my place. I picked up the party necessities – food and drink – at a supermarket and headed to the till. The check-out clerk said, “Can I see a photo id please?”. I couldn’t believe my ears. I stared for a second and blurted, “I turned thirty a couple of days ago!”. She didn’t bat an eyelid. “Consider it a compliment, ma’am.” she said dryly, “It is our policy. I do need to see an id before I can let you buy these bottles.”

Tough Art

Hospitality, I can do. Quite passably. Make no bones about it. I am not rude or anything (Except perhaps to some who are too pesky). When someone comes home, I am capable of welcoming the person with a smile, taking their coat and politely asking if they’d like a drink.

Typically, it goes like this.
Me: Would you like something to drink?
Guest: No. No. It’s ok.
Me: Some coffee or tea or juice perhaps? Water?
Guest: Illa. Paravaala
Me: If you are sure. Do let me know if you change your mind.

Conversation, check. Later, cook or order in. Offer the guest a plate and on the whole make sure he/ she is comfortable. I also sincerely say, “Please feel at home” and mean it. Well, I admit that means they can make their own breakfast when they stay over. Yet, not bad at all; is it?

However, where typical Indian ethos is expected, the whole “typical hospitality” thing whizzes way above my head. Well, true; it is not rocket science… I find it tougher. Science, no problemo! Not too much indeterminacy; follows rules most of the time. Positive means positive, and negative means negative. Not much complexity. But hospitality with Indian overtones? That is a whole new ball game. Finally, only now, after many, many years, am I reflecting on what I’ve seen. Also understand that I am expected to have absorbed all this through observation long ago!

Journey to Crowning Glory

Ever had bad hair days? I have had decades – two point something. There either were no hair serums back then, or I was just too ignorant (or miserly… or both).

Well, this post (which is destined to be filed under rants) is brought about by question 2 of Apar’s “Interview”. When I asked myself that question – “What advice would you have given to your fifteen year-old self?”, the answer was “Girl, there is something called Anti-frizz serum. Go get it. Or just ask one of your firangi cousins for advice and free sample. It will save you from years and years of ridiculous pictures.”