Tag: humour

  • Charged- Not Quite Guilty

    Everything I touch seems to acquire an accelerated sense of gravity, accompanied by a rushed hyperbolic motion. Objects fall with dramatic precision, often just outside my range of rescue. Especially the fragile ones that make enough noise to shatter any pretense of calm. Sometimes, defying the laws of physics and veering into the realm of the paranormal, these objects seem to have a sixth sense, as though they know exactly when I’m within a foot of disaster.

    Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves—I’m not always this clumsy. No, I save my best performance for those moments that truly matter. Like when I attend big, very important meetings, where I am required to maintain a serious expression, complete with the obligatory eyebrow furrow. I speak in soft, authoritative tones and occasionally smile when clients fail to grasp even the simplest of presentations. Patience, of course, is my virtue when dealing with the dim-witted. In the middle of such moments, I manage to spill fine china cups onto cold, hard floors. Sometimes, I outdo myself by first spilling the contents onto tables covered with important drawings, while everyone watches in slow-motion horror. As this unfolds, I’m already mentally preparing my speech: what to mumble, what tragic expression to wear. I usually get away with it. Of course, I don’t stick around to see the aftermath, and I expertly avoid those people again. Which is why I rarely have recurring meetings. When I do, however, I’m typically offered plastic chairs and acrylic mugs. But don’t worry—I still manage to exude elegance. Always.

    You will soon agree that I am not entirely at fault here. There have been numerous incidents that prove my innocence. Sometimes, when I am perfectly still, I can see coffee mugs slowly inching towards me before dramatically plummeting onto clean rugs. Poor mugs—shattering into pieces on the floor, breaking many hearts. I don’t even bother claiming innocence. The circumstantial evidence is just too overwhelming. I wouldn’t even be telling you this if I hadn’t witnessed it myself. I would have never believed you if you’d told me. But yes, not only have I seen this phenomenon with coffee mugs, but there have also been phones (usually across the table), wine glasses, and even little babies. Yes, babies. They are the worst. They feign innocence and purity, but don’t be fooled—there’s nothing virtuous about them. If you’ve raised one, you know exactly what I mean. They distract you with their daft antics, while you blissfully ignore the real threats around you. But not me. I keep my eyes wide open, constantly scanning for those tiny saboteurs, including the coffee mugs. The problem is, while I’m vigilant, I tend to overlook another suicidal item lurking nearby, and before I know it, that too is reduced to a thousand pieces, leaving my plans in a state of total disarray.

  • Marriage Chronicles

    It hits me every now and then—it’s been ages since I’ve written anything. I get inspired, scramble for a pen, and by the time I find one, I’ve forgotten whatever brilliant thought I had. So here I am, finally trying to capture my profound thoughts on marriage.

    My wedding twenty five years ago was totally the antithesis of what I thought weddings should be like. Having freshly enrolled myself in the Hum Aapke Hain Kaun school of lavish and fun weddings, I was dejected when in my own wedding, instead of naach gaana, I was managing the tent-walla, the staying arrangements for a myriad of relatives in our two-room flat, even picking up of clothes from presswali didi…basically, the working-class host. But love was in the air…. I was getting married after a whirlwind, short courtship to whom my parents’ thought was a match made in heaven—a good looking, bright, young engineer from the same community, stable job, own home, respectable family—an immigrant family’s dream come true! As for me, I couldn’t wait to get married and find out what all the fuss was about.

    At the wedding, I continued to be treated as the lowest one in the hosting party’s pecking order. Not that it affected me. I spent the entire day thinking, “This is it—this is my D-day!” (I’m still unsure what the “D” stands for, but let’s roll with it.) In my mind, I was the most important person in the room. Spoiler: Nobody else thought so. People were obsessed about their own outfits. My friends had spent hours deliberating their makeup details. Old friends were bumping into each other after ages. Guests were catching the attention of photographers and videographers. Kids were gulping down fizzy drinks on dares. Nobody was really here to notice the bride. Fair, I guess.

    Then came the honeymoon—finally, romance was in the air. Picture it: the promise of sun, sand, and sea, as my husband sat next to me on the plane. We had pooled in all our savings and decided to go to Phuket—the Indian newlyweds’ McDonald’s as destinations go! It was foreign, exotic, and more importantly, within our budget.

    As my husband gazed out of the plane window over a setting sun, holding my hand, everything felt surreal—I was finally in the movie, and not a Barjatiya movie, I was Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Then, my Richard Gere turned towards me, oh that mysterious smile I’ve come to know all too well.

    He said, “I still wonder…”

    I hastily added, “Me too!”

    “…how planes fly!”

    And there you have it. That’s our marriage in a nutshell. In our silver jubilee year, we are still figuring out how things work.