A Germaphobe named Viral

by Bindi Mehta, posted in fiction, humour, Uncategorized

Last year, I was bombarded with this song called ‘Apna Time Aayega’ and I knew it spoke my truth. My time has come! So turn on your blacklights, and bang on those thalis, because it’s my time to shine! (Insert Shahrukh pose here.)

My name is Viral Desai and I’m a germaphobe. Mean kids have been pointing out the irony of that since 4th standard when we learnt what viruses were, but long before we knew what it meant to ‘go viral’. Btw, my name is pronounced ‘Vee-ral’, which in India means ‘precious’ or ‘priceless’. Not that you care. You’re still gonna call me ‘viral’, you cold-hearted cows!

You must be wondering how an Indian person can even have such a first world problem, living in a country where we take cleaning tips from Rang Barse. Where the most polluted river in the world is worshipped to death. Literally. (Until recently anyway.) Where spitting is a sport and we often find tobacco spit stains on the ceilings! Not rooftops, ceilings!

Well…get your Dalgona and sit back, because I have a story to tell. 
Poe is about to meet Kafka. 

It was the summer of ’89. I was 9 years old and had gone with my family to Shimla to stay at our uncle’s farmhouse. We called it a farmhouse but it was more of a cottage in the forest. One evening, I was playing hide and seek with the household help (there were no other kids to play with) and I decided to hide in the basement. I had just discovered the basement to my delight and I was so sure that no one could find me there. Never have I ever hated being right so much.

I hid under a dusty table and waited for them to start looking for me. But it so happened that my uncle had spotted a snake in the garden just then, and the help had gone to catch it and dispose of it in the forest. The rest of my family had gathered outside to discuss whether a nagin dance can truly hypnotise a snake and they never wondered why I wasn’t part of the general white noise. 

Soon I got restless and it was already pretty dark in there. I decided to peek outside to see why I was being introduced to an eerie silence. To my utter horror, I had locked myself in there!

The fear I felt that day is something that even Alfred Hitchcock can’t manifest. That day I realised what an infestation felt like. Creepy crawlies all over me, in the dark, and my muffled screams going unheard for what felt like an eternity! Excuse me while I take a paper-bagging break. 

So where was I? Ahh, at the beginning. Since that day, as you can imagine, my germaphobia was born (also known as mysophobia, verminophobia, and bacillophobia). Over time, despite all the therapists, antihistamines, and the hospital grade accoutrements, my family and close friends have learnt to deal with my isolated lifestyle. No man is an island, but yours truly was. I started taking social distancing tips from Robinson Crusoe. My room turned into the most isolated and sterilised haven in the four-hospital-radius. 

Going to school was no longer an option for me. Being so lovingly called not just ‘viral but ‘Keeda’, ‘Nirma’, ‘Bai-saab’, ’German’ and such, were just perks compared to the dust, the loos, the sweaty shovelling, and the worst of all – the sports. It’s a time I will always remember warmly.

My parents were not equipped to home-school me. Very generously, my school teachers offered to give me private tuitions. It wasn’t a Zoom Classroom like these privileged kids have today; but it was still better to have to deal with only six snotty kids in a class instead of 40. 

I had no choice but to become a recluse, which in India is considered just a step below being possessed. Aunties invited themselves over to suggest jaaps and havans. Uncles came to offer me beers and ‘man me up’. Can you imagine drinking anything that fermented, that’s just been sitting collecting germs!? I’d rather have a visible stain on my whites. Actually no, that’s painful too.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, my existential pity party. I’ve had the most thoughtful friends, who used to gift me cleaning supplies on my birthday. I could’ve become a poster child for the AAP govt, had it existed back then. It’s not as if I didn’t have hobbies and dreams! I used to daydream of becoming an astronaut when I grew up and live in my own happy little bubble. While you ‘germies’ wanted to be a superhero or a porn star (assuming this is true for all boys), my fantasy was rife with the idea of floating around a shiny white breathable suit, where no one would expect me to touch or be touched!

Being normal or treated normally has never been an option for me. The closest I got to normalcy were just the jokes I was subjected to. I once dated an older woman and my friends called her ‘anti’-viral. Get it? Being called Shiney Ahuja throughout my college days was not cool guys. Not cool.

After years of therapy, medications, lifestyle adjustments, taunts from relatives and memes from friends, I can say I am finally well-adjusted into being just a normal germaphobe.

I’m not entirely alone in this perverse world you unhygienic lunatics occupy. My fear of invisible microscopic germs festering and procreating at the rate of Tiktok videos is shared by a few others. But none of them feel as strongly as I do and to remain socially acceptable, they will politely share food from their plates and deal with the crushing anxiety in private. The thought of that is only slightly more horrifying than these prodigal youths licking toilet seats to disprove Covid-19 as dangerous! I need a sanitising break. Brb.

Back. On a scale of Nick Cage in Matchstick Men, to Leo in Aviator as Howard Hughes, I’m more of a Sheldon Cooper. And my dream girl is, of course, none other than the glorious Monica Geller. That episode where she’s cleaning her vacuum cleaner with a dust buster, oh it made my heart swoon! Sigh…! I wish she was real. 

Like Monica, I spend about 3-5 hours in a day cleaning. In my hazmat suit. My bai likes to supervise and micromanage me while I do this. She’s my spot checker and will let me know where I’ve missed a spot. I may be overpaying her, but now she’s grown accustomed to her own hazmat suit.

While my day job is labour intensive, I moonlight as a zorb ball player and will soon create my own league. Rolling in a plastic bubble is my next best option to becoming an astronaut. I’m kidding! If only that were true. But imagine, if in the post Covid world, everyone starts rolling to work in their zorb balls. Wouldn’t that make life a lot more bearable?! 

In reality, I’ve chosen to be a humble writer. But hey, don’t mistake me for boring just because my anxieties can compete with Charlie Brown’s. I don’t just clean and write evocative pathos such as this heart-rending saga. 

I love reading comics (and yes they’re preserved with a Sheldon Cooper approval rating). I am a music lover and I can dance like no one’s watching (because no one usually is). I make restaurant-quality food, by which I mean Zomato can award me the ‘Food Hygiene’ badge. I’m also a great photographer, as long as something eventful happens outside my window.

I am picky about movies and shows. I like the relatable ones where mysophobia is the hero and huggers are the villains. It makes me feel normal and my gag reflex is at a minimum. I’m a die-hard fan of Dexter. His robotic precision almost makes me aspire to be a killer-for-the-greater-good! And if I had any affinity for the outdoors, or blood, I may have considered it. 

All this is to say that I’ve been alive and kicking for four decades and I’ve kept myself fairly amused in my sterilised cage. And now that it’s 2020 and we’re living in the movie Contagion, I have some sensei truth bombs to drop, so that you all can remain as germ-free as me. The world is infested with a killer virus, and I feel like I’ve been prepping for this apocalypse my whole life. And now is MY moment of gloating…I mean glory!
I am a caterpillar metamorphosing into a butterfly!
I am a phoenix rising from the ashes!
I am Salman Rushdie being knighted!
I am Batman ready to save Gotham! Oh, er…yeah, sorry, Batman. Your days are over.
(Spidey, you never had a shot with my lot.)

Before I preach, let me make a confession. The whole world sharing this crippling fear of the unknown – swarming and festering, encroaching and infesting – is the best thing that’s happened to me! What a full circle life comes to! Ha! Tbh I feel thoroughly vindicated! 

The world has now inverted. Indoors are the new outdoors. Introverts are the new lifestyle gurus. Airport looks are now apron looks. I’m now normal and you ‘normals’ are the wierdos! (Cue Mogambo evil laugh here.) I’m openly sniggering at you just like you did when I tried to attend my college graduation in a burkha. I mean it’s already quite similar to a graduation gown, but for some reason a head scarf is less manly than a gown! (Insert Darth Vader sigh here.)

But I also feel surprisingly sorry for you unsanitary freaks. My life can be high maintenance and expensive, and now yours is too. What with all the hospital grade masks, gloves, sanitisers, wipes, scrubs, soaps, detergents, black lights, and magnifying glasses, I need a medical memorial trust to support me. Fortunately, I’m loaded with toilet paper, so I don’t need no #PMCares to fund me, thankyouverymuch!

Now here’s why you’re really here. I present the ultimate GERMOPEDIA. Cling to it like Trump to his presidency; like Heisenberg to a Meth lab; like Maratha Mandir to DDLJ; like Covid-19 to Boris Johnson…too soon?

VIRAL’s GERMOPEDIA

Germs are like midget-ninjas. They can kill you and you can’t see them coming. 

Hygiene is a good thing. Not just because it keeps you and your surroundings clean and healthy, but because it teaches you mindfulness.

Touching people is overrated. Most of them are germy, sweaty, smelly and dusty. Elbows are the old-school Wuhan handshake, as recommended by my homeskillet AJ Jacobs. (Sex is a topic we can discuss some other day.)

If you have pets, kids, invalids or extended family you take care of, you’re a superhero and deserve a bubble-wrapped hug. 

Contagion, the movie, has my favourite word in it – ‘Fomites’ = ‘objects or materials that are likely to carry infection’. Doorknobs, switches, handrails, elevator buttons, are all fomites. This word is going viral soon (may the irony RIP) and you’ll be wise to learn it. The biggest fomites are cash currency because it’s not easy to clean, despite the ironing hack, so try and be as cashless as possible. For everything else, sanitising is the only option.

Since sanitisers are more in demand than sex right now, you can find an easy online homemade recipe for it. Be sure to wear industrial strength gloves for it, though. Alcohol can burn your skin off.

When you’re Indoors
and cleaning, believe that you’re a surgeon in an operating room. Touch only what you must. This is not a sexy nurse fantasy. Don’t be disappointed if there isn’t a McSteamy in your vicinity.

  • Most Indians don’t know this, but COVER YOUR MOUTH when you sneeze, sniffle, cough, wheeze, whimper, or sometimes even speak.
  • Equip your home with tissue boxes and sanitisers at every 5-8 feet. You must never be more than an arm’s length away from these two. 
  • Download one of those apps that remind you to drink water every 15 mins. When it rings, sanitise/clean. (I take no responsibility for this suggestion turning into a drinking game.)
  • Washing your hands is more beneficial than using sanitisers. The alcohol content in the sanitisers makes your skin highly porous, which can then absorb harmful chemicals at a very high rate. Harmful chemicals with formaldehyde come from receipts, newspapers, etc. If you like to scare yourself further, the interwebs have a lot more harmful side effects listed.  
  • Never re-use any wipes, cloths, napkins, or pochas for more than a day without washing. 
  • Keep different cloths and wipes for different uses. The germ transfer rate is faster than the Insta live sessions cropping up right this second.
  • Own multiples of every cleaning item.
  • Your online shopping cart and storage cabinet must-haves (caution: hygiene is an expensive affair)

Tools

  • Thick cleaning gloves (trust me) 
  • Scrubs/wipes (utensils and surfaces)
  • Mops (Pochas)/Brooms (jhadu)/Dust pan (supadi)
  • Hand/Dish/wiping towels (you can get reusable disposable ones. Use a few times and wash before throwing. These can last for 3-5 days. Keep a combo of paper/cloth/microfiber/non-woven materials)
  • Hand towels –  a dozen (even if you live alone)

Liquids – most of these have eco-friendly options if you research enough. 

  • Hand wash – antibacterial
  • Dishwashing liquid (try to go for the natural options – the chemicals from this can linger on the utensils that you can ingest later)
  • Floor cleaning liquid (use one with citronella or neem smell for extra mosquito repelling)
  • Laundry detergent
  • Fabric softener
  • Stain remover
  • All-purpose cleaners – glass/wood/furniture. 
  • Toilet bowl cleaner 
  • Antiseptic/Disinfectants

Appliances

  • Vacuum cleaner
  • Dust buster (taking tips from Monica Geller)

Other

  • Hand lotions
  • Mosquito repellents (I personally recommend a combo of racket/sonar plug-in/lemongrass and citronella aromatherapy)
  • Tea light candles and holders
  • Deodorizers/Essential oils/Aromatherpy sets/Diffusers
  • Lint rollers
  • Ziplocks.
  • UV lights
  • Magnifying glass (not for the weak-hearted)

These cooking ingredients can be re-used as cleaning agents:

  • I have a cleaning playlist. If you gift me a zorb ball, I’ll share it with you. (Hint: Stayin Alive, Ganda hai par Dhandha hai yeh, I want it that way)
  • I also have a weekly cleaning schedule. I’ll share it with you if you never make fun of germaphobes (or I prefer the term “Germically-abled).

Outdoors Prep

When you’re stepping outside, believe that you’re walking into a crime scene. Don your protective gear. Avoid touching anything. Walk like you have a stick up your butt. Keep your sentences short like Sherlock. Don’t become a Cumberbitch. 

  • The heat you need to pack:
    • Protective eyewear (If it has a built-in UV light, you will have my undying respect.)
    • Masks
    • Gloves
    • Tissues
    • Sanitiser
    • Urgent medications (inhaler, epipen, etc.)
    • Ziplock bags for phones, cash, etc. 
    • Rubber bands (they can hold anything in place)
    • Your dignity.

Also:

  • Respect the cops and health workers.
  • Feed the hungry.
  • Provide for the homeless.
  • Tip the delivery staff generously.

General lifestyle coin-drops:

  • Isolation can get lonely and it becomes difficult to stay mentally and physically fit. But if you come to a mysophobe for workout and meditation tips, may I suggest you start a Zoom pity party instead. 
  • Minimalism is key. Remember that the next time you renovate or design your house with tchotchkes and paraphernalia. It’s just more surface area you have to clean.
  • Walking from the sofa to the window is considered exercise. It is also considered ‘commuting’.
  • Tissues are your surrogate gloves, wipes and masks. Carry them everywhere. (Stop with the green guilt. You’re saving a lot more trees now that newspapers are becoming extinct).
  • The colour white is your best friend. Unless it comes to food. White foods like cooked rice, milk, yogurt, cheeses, etc. are super germy and they are your Kryptonite.
  • Black lights are only for the strong hearted. Shine it on a bedsheet and you’ll see.
  • Digitise your library. Stop reading paperback books. They contain other people’s DNA. Blegh. (Hey, weren’t you worried about saving trees just a minute ago?)
  • General rule of thumb for germs – heat kills, cold preserves.
  • Sanitise the sanitiser.

Mic drop! Boom! I believe I’ve sufficiently blown your mind.

Let’s wave that white flag for Covid-19. But first, check it under a black light. If it doesn’t pass muster, we’ll do a havan at 9pm. 










Bibliography:

Apna Time aayega = ‘Our Time will Come’ A popular Hindi street rap song. Shahrukh pose = A popular Bollywood actor who often poses with his hands wide open in a ‘look at me’ kind of stance.
Rang Barse = A song about the festival of Holi.
Nagin dance = Snake dance. A dance believed to hypnotise snakes.
Jaaps and havans = Rituals to ward off evil spirits.
Keeda = Bug
Nirma = A very popular laundry detergent in India
Bai-saab = Mr. Maid
Mogambo = A popular 90s Bollywood villain.
AJ Jacobs = https://www.esquire.com/lifestyle/a31698430/germaphobe-coronavirus-diary/
Pochas = Mops.



Spinstars and the City

by Bindi Mehta, posted in astrology, creative, funny, humour

Jimmy Carr, the British comic who claims Roger Federer is his mother, once joked, “The most common superstition in the world today is a belief in horoscopes. There’s a name for people who believe in horoscopes. They’re called – single women.” 

It’s funny because it’s true.

As a self-proclaimed bitter spinster, it is my duty to summon my inner cynical Master Oogway and enlighten you about the dance of the cosmos. The acerbic Yoda in me will help you SpaceX your way through these cosmic challenges. But if you’re faint of heart and cannot take some womansplaining, I suggest you turn around and go back to the future. 

Let’s begin with a glossary of some of the most important astrological terms:

Mercury Retrograde

Mercury is the wifi oracle. When Mercury goes retrograde, it goes to a galaxy far far away from the Earth for about 3-5 weeks. However, unlike poor Pluto, who was laid off forever, Mercury always comes back after a siesta and a fiesta. 

While Mercury is away, we’re left home alone. And like aftershave on pre-pubescent faces, we end up in gaping screams! The comedy of errors that ensues is as if P.G. Wodehouse is penning the story of our lives. And if you believe in God, especially the kind that speaks to you, she sounds a lot like an impish lovechild of Jeeves and Lady Grantham, rather than Morgan Freeman. Let’s call her Amélie.

Say, you end up ordering a phone on Amazon, and get a lemon tart instead. Then you talk to customer service, and you say, “Listen, I got a lemon tart instead of a phone. Should I return the tart that Sotheby’s may want to display, and that I took a bite out of, on account of my PCOD charged PMS? OR. Will you refund the money that could feed the hangry Kardashian cartel for a week?” Apathetically, her flippant voice says, “Yes” before swiftly hanging up. 
Yep. That’s Amélie messing with you. 

When you look for directions at the fork in the road, and even Google says, “seedha jaao, go straight”, put on your seat belts, wrap yourself in bubblewrap, and seek refuge under covers stat! Technology, travel, and communication are the things you must detach your earthly pleasures from, at least for the duration of this turbulence. 

The present looks dimmer, but the past starts to shimmer. Mercury on holiday opens up the ex-files. Long lost BFFs, frenemies, crushes – anyone you’ve ever danced the Macarena with may reappear in your life as a pleasant distraction from all the destruction. It’s okay to plan an End of the World party now. But remember to send postcards, because your WhatsApp broadcasts may not go through. 

Mercury MIA lasts at least three to five times longer than your periods, so you may as well build a bunker, or at least a pillow fort. On the rosier side, it only happens three times a year, just like your mom’s threats to visit. So arm yourself with chocolates, puppies and rom coms, and maybe you’ll make it out unscathed. But hey, we’ve survived the Y2K, the 2012 Mayan calendar, and even the last season of GOT, so I think we got this! 
Kobayashi Maru!

Eclipses

Do you remember that moment in Jurassic Park, where the glass of water trembles and they hear the dinosaur rumbling closer? Well, eclipses are nothing like that. 

They are more like the accordion-shaped dinosaur that fans out with a venomous hiss and devours Newman! No amount of Oonagi can save you from this one. Sigh!

Eclipses are what happen to short people on buses and in concerts. Just kidding! 
Eclipses are when the sun and the moon play musical chairs with the Earth in perfect OCD. And while you’re busy basking in the beauty of the cosmos, (unless you’re Hindu and have quarantined yourself to bathe for 9 hours), the universe is plotting against you like James Spader – the most good-natured, quick-witted, Ultron-shaped villain there was.

Eclipses are about beginnings and endings, take-offs and landings, introductions and epilogues. All eclipses say ‘Aloha’. The solar ones say hello and the lunar ones say goodbye. Meet-cutes and break ups – all rom com scenes happen in this phase. It’s Serendipity meets La La Land. 

Not only does this cosmic line-up not have any trailers, but the release date is sort of an interactive guessing game. The radioactive radius of an eclipse is about a month around its scheduled time. Like Barney, you’re just hoping to dodge that slap from Marshall, but it’s gonna…wait for it…yeah! Sigh.

Astrologers can predict the general vicinity of the ‘when’ but usually not the ‘what’; even though free will is not cast in this production at all. For an accurate prediction, you may want to reach out to tarot cards, crystal balls, ouija boards, or pray to the ghost of Paul the Octopus (may he RIP). 

Alternately, it’s one more thing you can blame your parents for, since the universe has an annoying way of ghosting you just when you need answers. Eclipses are what Calvin’s dad calls ‘building character’. (Insert eye-roll here.)

My expert suggestion would be to just ride this phase out in silent suffering, taking cues from the Jewish American community, or the Pride Parade. Unless of course you have a flair for dramatic overtures. Then no one can eclipse you, baby! Its your time to shine with Insta selfies about inner strength, and scheduling a full moon pity party. You go be as extra as you like! Go go mommy’s right here!

Trines: 

This is where we realise that all those years of geometry are still of no use to anyone but astrologers and architects. And that no matter how loudly we channel Chris Tucker, ‘WE DO NOT UNDERSTAND THE WORDS COMING OUT OF YOUR MOUTH’. 

Despite my lack of knowledge of Latin, I can surmise that trines = triangles. I can only remember the isosceles kind from my geometry class, on account of having to dodge that sugar-crazed back-bencher holding the compass like Dexter holds his scalpel. Anyway, having survived that ordeal with the flair of Jonathan Van Ness, I thanked my lucky stars, which I now know to be trines.

Trine sounds like a trinket, doesn’t it? Like, “Where did I put all those bracelets and trines that Bappida* gifted me!?” 

Or maybe it’s a Young Adult novel about a love triangle with a zombie, a vampire and a unicorn. It could be called ‘A Trine made in NeverEverLand’.

It could even be a new-age version of a cake topper for throuples’ weddings. “Here’s your trine and your something rainbow.” 

Or perhaps it’s a party for hippie octogenarians. “Welcome to my trine. We will now dance around the farm to table bay leaf bonfire, where we will make an offering of paleo-fed beetles, steeped in keto approved kale juice.”

Once upon a time, I did attempt a trine with a man using my thumb and forefinger. As it turns out, he is now a bitter mister. (This is a terribly tiny trine tale).

My drift is drifting, and unlike Vin Diesel, I gotta get a move on. 

Trines are unnamed triagonal constellations in your birth chart that make fortune cookies real for you. Most of us Indians have birth charts, so if you see any triangles in your kundali*, then you have more luck than sense. For example, if you eat a whole cake, you won’t get fat! And if you don’t take your makeup off at night, you’ll still look like a forest nymph in the morning. It gives you privileges that defy physics and instead gives you the superpowers of Rajnikanth*. 

But you must mind it! These privileges, that make you more entitled than white patriarchy and almost a bonafide superhero, must not be taken for granted. Trines are the good karma points you’ve earned from your previous life. So be sure to not lord your luck over others who don’t understand why you have a sugar daddy without having to work as a golddigger.

We all know that with great power comes great bureaucracy. So if you feel inclined to play Modi-Modi (Narendra, Nirav, Lalit)*, remember that even Trumpy got impeached. So don’t tempt fate with your immunity powers. 

I highly recommend putting on your sanskaari saris to live out your glorious destiny. Because if anyone has the time and money, it’s you, dear trine-tapped-tool. Ward off bad jujus with havans, poojas, feng shui, fake spitting, throwing salt over your shoulder, knocking on wood, avoiding cracked mirrors, walking around ladders, and uncrossing the paths of any formally dressed cats. If nothing else works, try to chase a bird so that its poop blessing can land directly on your soul that quite possibly, desperately needs saving. 

I hope the spinster Oracle in me has helped you bend the spoon. 

If not, to quote Demetri Martin, “I find that my horoscope is a lot more accurate if I just live less specifically.”







GLOSSARY:
*Bappida – Bappi Lahiri, lover of Michael Jackson and imitator of Mr. T. His son’s name is Bappa Lahiri and his dog’s name is Puppy Lahiri.

*Kundali – Birth chart according to astrologers and gold according to desperate mothers of unmarried adults over 30.

*Rajnikanth – A South Indian superhero who can defy physics and logics. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KISuNhygHk4 

*Narendra Modi – The George Bush to Amit Shah’s Condi Rice. He likes building really tall statues that grant him favours from the Ambanis.

*Nirav Modi – An Indian jewel thief who duped the banks with twice the budget of the aforementioned statue.

*Lalit Modi- A cricket lover who loves playing business-business and embezzlement.

HR – Humourless Resources

by Bindi Mehta, posted in corporate, creative, humour

A creative working at a corporate puts the moron in oxymoron. I am one of these morons. 

In the corporate world, everyone knows about the phantom ‘revolving door’ – the door that hits companies hard in the nose because the employees are in a rush to bail faster than the rats on the Titanic. 

Remember the Indigo Airlines ad with the crew on a conveyor belt? Us corporate creative cyborgs are lined up like sushi, always hoping to get off that conveyor belt and risk running through the dizzying frenzy of the revolving doors; assuming naively that there’s a utopian work haven on the other side. And to usher us from this world to the next are the perky, but humourless HR departments.

Our venerable Hangry Rangers are the ultimate corporate cheerleaders, marching to the beat of their own drums. Their anthem is called ‘Pointless Processes and Sucker Strategies’. They are much like the Stormtroopers, pledging ‘love, loyalty and allegiance to their Death Star and only to their Death Star, in sycophancy and wealth, till death do us part.’ 

A typical day in the life of the Helvetica Redundancy starts with a to do list:

  • Fire someone (to work up an appetite)
  • Have a long lunch (Okay, brunch!)
  • Impose rules that makes the Nazis look like unicorns galloping over rainbows
  • Ghost potential employees so as to render them desperate stalkers
  • Hire someone urgently (self imposed deadline – 2024)
  • Give the suckers a job title no one else will hire them for 
  • Pay with Sodexo and make it sound generous
  • Postpone sexual harassment workshop until something actually happens
  • Plan mandatory Secret Santa party so no one can go home early during the holidays
  • Leave office by 5pm to work on side cupcake business

The Heavy Radiation department of any company is a breed unto itself, one that must be closely studied. They are masterful shapeshifters, at times stoic droids — much like Katrina Kaif* in well…every movie; especially when probed about compensation upgrades. At other times they are like former class monitors who’ve grown up to follow the Yogi Adityanath’s Romeo Police* model of enforcing rules. Often, they are so pregnant with their moral high-ground that they can barely see their own feet. 

The Hackysaurus Retardus species blends in well with the humans, looking and cooking just like us. However, if you ever speak to one, they sound just like Siri, without the wit. Or the service. To understand such a despotic species, we must know where they come from and how they were formed. Unlike us, the Hitler Reverers did not come from the primordial soup. They dawned on Earth, fully (de)formed, with stars in their eyes and dreams of becoming… Dan, dan, dan… Government babus*!

Growing up, the way we idolised Rajnikanth*, or Sharon Stone, or Bobby Deol*, these Happiness Robbers idolised the government babus and dreamt earnestly of becoming Another Brick in the Wall. If you’ve ever been to the post office, you know the impassive stances, so lacking in purpose; their body language, so impressively listless! These Harrowing Rogues emulated the babus to perfection and the students eventually surpassed the masters!

Armed with the personality of a cookie cutter, their ambition eventually landed them in dark cubicles. Here they rise tall, swinging lamps at the speed of a slow clap, over our faces. They learnt to conduct their interrogations brilliantly, so as to infantilise you into believing you’re a preschooler. So, here I am face to face with one of them who’s interviewing me for a job on the other side of the aforementioned revolving door. 

She asks, “As a creative, do you get along with your Marketing Department?”

I say, “Does Modi* get along with Amit Shah*?”
She gives me a look of “hain!??”
I rephrase, “Yes, mostly we do.”
She persists, “What is the biggest fight you’ve had with the Marketing Dept?” 
I respond, “The first rule of Fight Club is, you do not talk about Fight Club”. 

But the polyester clad robot, despite my mini rebellion, remains unamused and of course unaware of Brad Pitt.  

She asks, “What is the most creative project you have done?”
I quip, “The one where we won an argument with Marketing.”

Needless to say I did not get that job. 

But eventually having passed through the gates of the Hell Raising dept. at another conveyor belt, I believed I had managed to squeeze through the revolving doors unnoticed. But not quite! The sneaky Hex Reapers caught me for an exit interview for an ethics lesson:

She said, “You’re on your notice period na? That means you have to stay in the office all day. Even if you don’t have to work.” 
Me: “Why? My handover is complete. And I still clock in everyday. There’s just no work so why can’t I leave early?”
Her: “But its unethical na?”
Steam out of my ears says: A rapist preaching feminism would be less offensive right now.
Me instead, “Speaking of ethics, don’t you leave early everyday to work on your side cupcake business?
She, “Ok, fine. But make sure you are not working for anyone else during your notice period.”
Me: “Oh so we’re not talking about ethics anymore?”

Hypocrisy Republic pretends to get on a call and disappears into the labyrinth of cubicles from where her retractable umbilical cord wheels her back. 

I proceed to steal the oxy from oxymoron and numb myself for eternity. 

We have many evils plaguing humanity.
Diseases are plaguing the world but what kills them softly is the common cold.
Global warming is destroying the earth but what’s killing it slowly are plastic straws.
Corporatisation is proving lethal to human freedom but what’s killing it pettily is the Hardly Respectable department. 

Can we dare to dream of a world without the common cold or plastic straws or HR? 

We can only hope for such attrition.









GLOSSARY OF TERMS:

– Katrina Kaif – a Bollywood actress, know for her ‘deer caught in the headlights’ method of acting.

– Yogi Adityanath’s Romeo police – Chief Minister of the state of Uttar Pradesh who introduced a vigilante/moral policing squad in a democracy, just because.

– Govt. babus – govt. workers who are lazy, corrupt and sociopathic.

– Rajnikanth – a South Indian movie star who defies physics and logic.

– Bobby Deol – a popular Bollywood actor in the 90s, that I am ashamed to have liked back then.

– Modi – Narendra Modi, the Prime Minister of India and another man who defies logic.

– Amit Shah – Minister of Affairs of India. Condi Rice to Modi’s George Bush. India’s Putin.







A Grey Matter

by Bindi Mehta, posted in Observational Humour, Pigeons, sonnet

Dear Paranormals, 

I despise horror. 

Yours truly,
Fattu.*

P.S.: No, I’m not afraid to admit that. Don’t get me wrong – I love an adrenaline rush, like parasailing. Or watching my portly watchman Golu rise from his perpetual napping to open the gate. Both are worth a good 20 mins of horrifying yet thrilling entertainment. You feel the satisfaction of a task accomplished, even if it’s not your own. 

But horror is gory, it’s scary, and it’s scarring. Since I have been raised a Gujju*, I’m forbidden from paying for anything that makes me pee my pants. And, since I am an independent, self-sufficient, middle-aged, wonder woman in my own right, I am not permitted to have someone check under my bed for monsters every night. Practically speaking, aren’t we inundated with too many daily horrors already? Like, people who wear Crocs, the dehatis* who pronounce ‘cay-been’, the spitters, the slurpers, the close talkers, the loud chewers…you get the drift. 

But. There lurks a horror that plagues all the major cities in the world, and it has acquired the legend of They Who Shall Be Ignored. We’ve grown up suffering through their frenzied scratchings on our window ACs. We still suffer through their neurotic fluttering dance, like a DJ on speed at Hilltop*. If you haven’t guessed it by now, maybe it’s time to take your ADHD meds. 

The Scourge of Pigeons deserve their own horror movie. A movie cast with frantic producers and neurotic actors. Oh wait…that’s not a plot twist! Perhaps they can remake Bird Box, in which there’s a box full of ugly doves and Sandra Bullock can be glad that she and her children are blindfolded for eternity. After all, everything’s relative, you know?

Thinking rather relatively, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Being the intrepid thinker that I am, I take the time to sit and list all the things I’d rather do than be tormented by this indolent freak of nature: 

  • I’d rather listen to a baby crying incessantly on the plane. 
  • Have a hangover 
  • Pose for a selfie 
  • Eat pani puri* from the street in the monsoons. 
  • Wear Crocs!! 

If only this incorrigible monster could read my list, go into a fetal position and cry itself to sleep. But it persists in sounding like an old man with bunions and a loose hip spending all morning trying to stand up. That muted and stretched ‘nnnn, nnnnn, nnnnnnnnnnnn’ sound. It not only looks grey, it sounds grey!

There’s a romance built around the pigeons from circa the middle ages up until Maine Pyaar Kiya*; carrier pigeons toting around love notes between estranged lovers, and covert messages between warring kingdoms. They’ve even had cameos in DDLJ*, and every magician’s tricks. At least they made themselves useful back then. Dumbledore can tell you a few lores. Sadly, now all they do are ‘droppings’. No picking up nothing for these Majesties. Not even the subtle bird flippings of ‘get away from me’ urge them on to greener pastures.

But, being the optimist that I am, I refuse to believe that they are thoroughly useless, to themselves or to our microcosm. These klutzy rascals are the trifecta of dumb, ugly and dirty, but I believe it may all be a pretext. What if…just indulge me…what if they exist for a more sinister purpose? What if they have an agenda? What if they worked for someone or something else? What if they are extra terrestrial double agents, aka ’stool pigeons’ from another planet, here to spy on us!? The KGB from the dark side of the moon!? 

Before you roll your eyes, allow me to make my case.

1. Have you noticed that these aerial rodents are not arboreal? These metropolitan villains prefer concrete over trees! They are the reasons why all our window ACs have become extinct and our balconies violated. Only humans choose the artificial over the natural. But these audacious critters exist shamelessly, in open defiance of God and Farmers Markets! How can a creature like that be natural?
2. Their red eyes can be the perfect camouflage for surveillance cameras. Since most birds come pre-programmed with ultraviolet vision or night vision, these grey hounds make for ideal moles (all puns intended).
3. Having been the forefathers of FedEx, no one would suspect them as messenger drones.
4. These ratty transgressors make for the most efficient bioweapon system, already having infected us with TB and ennui*.
5. Their indolent sounds are a smoke screen, having been programmed to make them sound like nap time at a nursing home. 

Channeling Phoebe in a debate with Ross about science vs faith, I ask you, don’t you think there’s the teensiest possibility that I could be right? 

While there’s really no point to my theory, and like a pondering Bengali Aatel* holding a chai* by the window, all I can do is philosophise; I do have a harrowing anecdote to share. 

So. Greyson was perched on top of a balcony opposite my window. I was napping and dreaming of pizzas and fries when slowly the guttural ‘nnnn, nnnnn, nnnnnnnnnnnn’ invaded my dreams and took the cheesy toppings away like a predatory falcon. I woke to see 50 Shades of Grey fluttering its plumage with all the grace of a sneeze, for no particular reason. It was neither pained nor parched. I wondered why I, the aristocracy of the food chain, must be subjected to share my air with all the Shades of Cray. Hmmph. 

My dream of fine dining rudely interrupted, I flew into a rage and tried everything to get rid of him, but budge he would not.
I mocked him. I went an octave higher and stretched; imitating his ’nnnn, nnnnn, nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn’. His eyes simply stared back at me like brush steel.
I did the chicken dance to boo him away. ‘Nyahnyahnyahnyahnyahhhh’. He stood steadfast, incognito on the unpainted concrete.
I threw bread crumbs at him, hoping to scare him away. But he ate them without gratitude.
I even tried singing ‘Kabootar Jaa’*, invoking more of an Amrish Puri* than a Lata Nightingale*; but His Greyness would not stir. 

Just then I had a lightbulb moment! I found a child’s water gun that I had hoped to gift my help’s son. But he had shunned mine with a look of disdain. So there it was, biding its time in the closet. And as I went to get the gun, it came alive with purpose, hoping for a field trip to the NRA headquarters. 

The water gun and I, holding hands, walked in slow motion back to my window, turned on Rang Barse* in full blast on the speakers, and commenced the Holi* detonation at the pigeon. It was a watershed moment – for the pigeon obviously; and off he flew…to land only two feet away. 

Dejected like Charlie Brown and my grey matter completely spent, I slumped into a chair, and did what opposable thumbs do best: I wrote a sonnet for the pigeon, expressing my Emotional Attyachar*. Here’s an ode to the greatest of horrors. 

An Oye to Pigeons!

Oye pigeon, nails you’re on the chalkboard!
Countenance alike a feral alien,
Coo akin a moo, much too tired and bored,
Fluttering, muttering, stuttering on.
Vile tuberculosis-wielding vermin!
Tainting aircons by your scratchings, droppings.
Casting gloom, bestowing doom ‘neath heavens;
Biophobic brats in concrete dwellings. 

Dare you not be from the Earthly gene pool!
Discarded drones from galaxies unknown;
Pestering every human and ghoul;
Colonizing our abodes as your throne.
Your slothy existence a grave travesty,
Your extinction will aid humanity. 

My vengeful verses having crestfallen with a feathery demise, Greyson and I carry on, to marbled droppings and pizza toppings respectively; but perhaps not yet respectfully. 









GLOSSARY OF TERMS

– Fattu – scaredy cat

– Gujju – Gujaratis, the community that is equivalent to the Jews in the Western world. Rich but financially thrifty.

– Dehatis – fresh off the boat (or FOBs as we were affectionaly known in American colleges).

– Hilltop – a hilltop in Goa. A place for ravers to rave. Ragers to rage. Haters to pop some E and wake up anywhere but at hilltop.

– Pani Puri – street food in India that is the most delectably the best way to get diarrhoea.

– Maine Pyaar Kiya – just another Bollywood love story. But with carrier pigeons.

– DDLJ – just another Bollywood love story. But where pigeons are metaphors for deep yet awkward conversations.

– Ennui – a French word for malaise or melancholia. Opposite of ennui is off-wee.

– Aatel – a faux woke Bengali. Talker, not doer.

– Chai = tea. Not chai-tea.

– Kabootar Jaa – a popular song from aforementioned Maine Pyaar Kiya

– Amrish Puri – the best villain Bollywood has ever had and the most baritone a man has ever had. More than Morgan Freeman too. Yep.

– Lata Nightingale – Lata Mangeshkar who was the most popular falsetto singer of Bollywood in the 90s and nicknamed ‘The Nightingale’.

– Rang Barse – a popular and the only Bollywood song about weed and water fights in the 80s.

– Holi – the festival of water fights and colours, where we legally consume weed for a day. And then pretend we’re afflicted with it for the rest of the year.

– Emotional Attyachar – a popular Bollywood song about emotional torture. It became one of the party and wedding favourites for the year.