House of horror

I recently moved to a basement of an old lady’s house. When I first saw the place, it looked more like a dungeon. But, I was in a hurry. So, I convinced myself that if people were not allowed to live in dungeons then probably half the population of New York City would have to be evacuated. My aquarium was the first item that I moved to my new place. After I set it back up, I left to pick up some more of my belongings. When I was back in about 2 hours, I would find all my fish were dead; all 26 of them. Some of them were with me for more than 5 years. I was sad and was a little concerned too that I would be drinking from the same water supply and it might not be quite as potable.

I was not completely alien to the potation of non-potable liquid. In fact, during my undergrad years an earthworm once gleefully announced its existence through the water fountain in our dorm. We were not nearly as amused. In fact, we were quite agitated and few of us met the warden and demanded an explanation and immediate corrective measures. He quietly asked, “Is the worm dead or alive?” There was complete silence for a moment as we were shocked and failed to understand why that information was relevant. Fortunately, we preserved the worm in a plastic bag as evidence. Exasperated, one of us retorted, “It’s alive! See for yourself. It’s still moving. How do you expect us to drink this water?” Though, some of us were quite comfortable with cheap country liquor (could not afford anything more than that) sold illegally just outside the university campus but unlike the present event, it was okay, since that activity was purely by volition and the sellers never claimed that their products were of high quality. And, we were not nearly as friendly with the university authorites (after all they made us attend 8 o'clock classes, which were not really amusing after a prolonged session of illegal liqour in the previous night). But the warden was unperturbed (obviously; he represented the authorities!), ”Well, if that water is good for an worm, it is good for humans”. The logic was solid. If such a small organism can thrive in that environment, how can it cause any harm to the much bigger creatures like the undergrad engineering students?

However, the same logic was not applicable in the current situation as all my fish were actually dead. So, I went upstairs and conveyed my concern to landlady and asked if the water needed any treatment before drinking. Her response was discombobulating too, “Oh well, I have seen so much of death in my life it doesn’t bother me anymore.” Not knowing how to respond, I just stood there as she continued, “I have buried my great grand parents, my grand parents, my parents, my 3 husbands and my 13 children.” I could not help but ask, “Did you bury some of your tenants too?”

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Hounded

I was on my way back from New York City to Blacksburg. I wanted to figure out the gate number for my bus. A notice on information counter in the main lobby said, “This office is closed; please use the information desk downstairs.” I didn’t have a lot of time and wanted to run down the escalator. But, I was caught between couple of unhurried and overweight men. I impatiently waited for eternity (actually till the escalator reached the lower level). When I was finally able to locate the information desk, I found another notice on the window, “This office is closed; please use the information desk upstairs.” No, I didn't go back upstairs again. Instead, thinking that I might miss my bus, I froze (well, I admit cold New York winter too had a part to play). But, I was seriously debating if I would take the Greyhound again.

It all started a few days back as I wanted to be present for my nephew’s first birthday party. Blacksburg to New York is a long way and this was my first time by Greyhound. I was in Richmond Greyhound terminus waiting for the last part of my travel to New York. I had about an hour to kill and thought it would be a good opportunity to look around. I looked in the departure monitor. Actually, I was kind of delighted to see there was one. I honestly didn’t expect it. But, this is America and here you can probably even get Tiger's milk if you wanted to. My bus was on schedule. But, the time displayed on the monitor was 2:39 a.m. And by that, my bus should have already left. I checked my cell phone… 1:21 a.m. Puzzled, I looked up for the Arrival monitor. 12:59 a.m. and by that I had not reached Richmond yet. I told myself that I should not be over critical. And, Einstein already predicted that time is warped near a black hole. The condition of the terminus closely resembled that.

I wanted to ask at the information counter though; to make sure that I was standing near just a faulty monitors and not a black hole. On the left side of the information counter (not that right side would have made any difference) bold letters on the wall portrayed, “This is a time certified terminus”. I really didn’t understand what it meant. I wished Stephen Hawkins were there traveling with me. He has a better insight into time and Greyhound is supposedly accessible for people in wheelchair.

As I approached the counter, I heard something that seemed like a voice from the sky. Actually, I always feel if God ever speaks he would not be very different from the public address system; incomprehensible and people of different origin tend to have their own interpretations. I too managed to have my own partial understanding, “#@%^&* Bus 531 %^&#*@ Gate 16”. I checked my ticket for the number. It had 4 digits! I thought, perhaps they used the last 3 digits. But, the last, the first, and every other possible permutation too didn’t match the number just announced. I handed over my ticket to the lady at the counter and asked which gate I needed to go to. There were two more people; probably were trying to figure out the same thing. The lady looked at me as if I asked for a free sexual favor. Then she picked up the phone and called someone, “Can you come here? There are three people at the counter and one of them is not cooperating”. Scared, I started to wonder which one of us that would be.

A security guard approached us exposing two little kids hiding behind her as they were playing hide and seek with few other kids. The fact that she fitted into her uniform made me realize that the genie in a bottle was not really a miracle. “Sir, we have a zero tolerance policy”, she blurted out, holding onto her large, shiny metallic security badge. “I just want to go to New York”, I made a feeble protest. “You are not going anywhere if you cuss. We have a zero tolerance policy”, she repeated. I tried to convince her that my bus was at 2:15 and I needed to figure out the gate number. She pointed out the end of a vey long queue, “Wait there”. I had a sneaky suspicion that she deliberately pointed out the longest one for me.
I reached New York finally by next morning. Rest of the journey was not as eventful except that the driver stopped the bus on the shoulder of the road a couple of times to use the onboard restroom. I made a late new year resolution to consume more tomatoes to keep my prostate healthy. My stay at New York was pleasant and enjoyable. I made friends with my nephew. In fact he offered me to suck onto his pacifier. Apparently he shares that only with a privileged few. I was a little apprehensive at the beginning. But, then he kind of gave me the powerful presidential look of “if you are not with me, you are against me...” And, like every other weak nation, I promptly decided to suck onto it to publicly display the voluntary nature of my friendship. In fact it didn’t feel too bad after a while.

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Imaginary Brother

The phone rang late in the night. "...Hello?”, I picked up still groggy in my sleep. Someone was sobbing on the other end, "I don't want to live anymore...". I was going to express my displeasure for waking me up; but, that disappeared in a flash. Once my foggy brain identified the mumbling voice, I was concerned. I never faced a situation like this before. However insensitive my friends call me, I realized this was not the time for my usual suggestion of "follow what your heart tells you". I figured what that might lead to at that moment. I decided to play God instead..."Tell me, what is wrong?"

"My father thinks I am not good enough to do a Ph.D. like my brother", she kept sobbing, "no one thinks I am good enough". "But... you don't even have a brother!", I blurted out. "Yes, but my father says if I had a brother, he would have certainly done a Ph.D.", the mumbling voice continued, "even in high school, if I scored 98 out of 100 in maths and told my father that I got the highest in the class, he would just respond that my brother would have scored 100 out of 100; there is nothing for you to boast about".

I was at a total loss. I had to do something quickly. Unfortunately I was a slow thinker (still am); I struggle to even add 399 and 401. And this was particularly hard, as I, myself could never confront my over-achieving real brother. In fact, I appeared so pale in comparison that I demanded appreciation for the most basic human activity such as being able to walk upright. That would probably make a chimpanzee proud but my parents were far from impressed.

Anyway, knowing her, I was concerned that she might hang up the phone anytime. Then I would have to call 911. But, that might be too late. By now I realized the task I had at my hand. I had to keep her on the phone. But, how would I convince her that she couldn’t compete with her imaginary brother? And it didn't matter anyways?

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Life is like cricket !!!

Growing up in a cricket crazy family has not always been easy for me. I had frequent dinner table pop quizzes from my dad in the form of, "Tell me... how much Asif scored in the 1st innings at Eden Gardens when Pakistan toured India in 1979-’80…" (for some reason he always used only the first name, as if they were his friends from high school). And before I could even start thinking my brother would prove his superior knowledge in cricket and everything else... "5, not out". Though, I was fascinated by the game of cricket as soon as my brain could differentiate between environmental noises and running commentary on Akashvani, I trailed far behind of him in my understanding of it and life in general. My dad was not always sympathetic to the fact that my brother had a 5 years of head start on me. I distinctly remember (when I was 6 years old) one of the questions during our dinner-time quiz was, "Who bowled the most number of consecutive maiden overs for India in Test match cricket?" I was excited as I thought I knew the answer for this and I could beat my brother this one time. "Gandhi", I almost screamed. Both of them looked at me as if I committed a crime that would make Hitler look like the savior of mankind. Much to my dismay, horror, and embarrassment and at the cost of dinner that night, I would soon learn that Bapu Nadkarni and Bapu Mahatma Gandhi were not the same person and my dad’s habit of referring by first name caused the confusion.

Life went on. I eventually stopped fantasizing about taking a bow after breaking Gary Sobers’s record of 365 not out as my dad’s wishful thinking could not anymore compensate for my lack of talent (well Brian Lara was just 13 then and probably was fantasizing the same thing). But, cricket always remained a part of my life. Time and again I would take refuge in the world of cricket. It was my little niche where I always found comfort. In fact it was my only solace in the cruel world, when my girlfriend decided to turn lesbian and date my beautiful female roommate instead. During, one such mournful evening, I remembered my 8 years old cousin once came up with one of the most prophetic statements that I heard in real life…"Life is just like cricket. Everything is all about timing." I realized it was a wrong time to have a female roommate. And though, I thought I scored well, I eventually mistimed and was out before reaching my landmark. But, then, I drew inspiration from the fact that even Geoffrey Boycott had tears in his eyes every time he got out and was determined to play better as he waited for the next innings.

Well, I believe my wait for my next one has come to an end and as a tribute to the influence of cricket in my life and the person who made me feel that the wait was worthwhile, I decided to start my own blog. Though, I mistimed again a little bit to start with (Fine Leg was already taken, hence Deep Fine Leg), I intend to be around very long this time, both here and elsewhere.

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