THE TAXING TAXI

As we rode with 13 passengers aboard a shared tourist taxi, the flashing headlights of an oncoming cab prompted the 'downloading' of half a dozen inmates of our cab who started walking ahead briskly. The mystery surrounding this abrupt desertion of the clientele was unravelled when, a kilometer later, a poker-faced cop poked his head into our cab and took a census of its human cargo. The cop's head receded, once the head's owner found that our cab was not ‘overpopulated’ and we were let off. The return of ‘walkmen’ a short distance down the road, rang down the curtain on “Operation ‘Con’stable.”

The driver of the taxicab who conducted this 'packed tour' could aptly be called the loadstar of his tribe. For, he loaded the back seat with eight passengers, both weighty(like me) and skinny ones, in the ratio of 3:5. Then he ‘uploaded’ five more into the front seat. One of the ‘forwards’, a midget, sat on the driver’s lap as he (the driver) drove the cab peering over the midget’s head.

A casual observer, taking a peek into the cab would have mistaken me for a hapless raider who got pinned down by a heap of bodies in a kabaddi match. Or, for a pickpocket nabbed by a vigilante squad being taken to the police station after a sound thrashing. But I was beginning see me as a stick of sugar cane passing through a crusher. Even the sardines would have had a hearty laugh at our ‘packed House.’

But the taxi ordeal didn't dampen the spirits of the cab mob who - most of them regulars - chatted gaily and pulled each other’s leg (figuratively, of course). Mr. Squarejaw joked that the clean-shaven men who tried to catch a bus, grew long beards waiting for one. “I once waited for the bus to go to my nephew's wedding,” chipped in Mr. Moonface. “And, I reached so late that the cradling ceremony of his child was in progress!” Yet, amidst the ongoing revelry, I kept a staunch silence. For, in a cab that was chock-a-block with twisted bodies, my lips nearly touched my neighbour's ear.


Instead of peace reigning supreme at the end of an hour-long journey, there was bedlam. For, just as we were about to alight, a cop confronted us. This time it was a gigantic cop with a handlebar moustache and bloodshot eyes. He looked like a hybrid between a gorilla and an elephant : a Goriphant. Apparently, he was lying in ambush after a tip-off from the poker-faced cop who accosted us earlier. As he glared at the battalion inside the cab, his bloodshot eyes grew ‘bloodshoter’.

At the time of going to press, the ‘Goriphant’ was throwing the book - nay, the library - at the cab driver. Or was he hammering out an ‘out-of-court settlement?’ I couldn’t say.
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LOCK, SHOCK AND BABBLE

I have 'bowed my head' to a galaxy of barbers in my lifetime but I am yet come across one who, like the Trappist monks, observes a vow of silence.The phrase ' silent barber ' is in itself an oxymoron. The quintessential barber is a multi-tasker; while his scissors snip, he plays the talk show host. Unless, of course, he is a practitioner of  'Oil Pulling' in which case he gargles a mouthful of oil all the time making it difficult for him to babble. Or, maybe, when his doctor placed a thermometer in his mouth and forgot to take it out.When it comes to his chatter, your friendly neighbourhood barber always finds the ' flavour of the day ', something around which his chat is built. Last Sunday, when I visited my barber, he was developing on the theme of 'the statewide bundh'. His invigorating account on the subject included a scholarly discourse on '5  Ways To find food during bundh.' 


Unlike other professionals, especially the lawyers, a barber is quite lucid in his expressions. He is the only professional whose conversation you can follow, even though he talks over your head! When he holds court, a barber's peppy gushings can be a delight for the grandstand. The absolute depth of his erudition can make Wikipedia sound like pulp. And there is more.



At a barber's salon, stormy workshops are conducted at which red-hot national and international issues are analyzed threadbare. A keynote address by the barber sets in motion the brainstorming plenary sessions on topics ranging from LPG gas leaks to Wikileaks. It is at a barber's lounge that you can gauge the mood of the society you live in; whether the society is in a jolly mood or if there is a furrow of anxiety on the society's brow. It is here that many journos get their scoop.


Present day Gen Y 'hairstylists' have taken the multitasking to a new level. These colts watch the TV (that is kept for the benefit of waiting clientele) while they cut the (h)air. Add this to the customary banter and you get the proverbial powder keg. And if you happen to be on one such barber's chair, you get into 'shear' panic. What if the bloke pokes your eye with the scissors or shaves off your eyebrow? So you think of the old adage that the hair on your head is worth two in the barber's brush.Consequently, you try to divert him into a chat on, say, Rajinikanth's "Enthiran The Robot" before he starts acting like one.  Or else, yours could end up being a case of ' hair today and gone tomorrow '. 


Finally, there is one question that has always confounded me: When one barber cuts another barber's hair, which one does all the talking?

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RUSH-HOUR DENTISTS

Do you know that most of our city motorists have become 'dentists'? Now, do not get me wrong; when I say dentist, I am not referring to the magician who puts metal into your mouth, and pulls coins out of your pocket. I am alluding to the breed of motorist who strikes his metal against yours by acci-'dent' causing physical depression on your car's body and mental depression to you. Show me a vehicle free from dents and I will show you one that hardly ventured out.

At fault are motorists like Mr. Toofan singh who reminds one of a bull in a bullring. To him, the red light at the traffic signal acts like a red rag to a bull. So, like the bull, he scrapes his right 'hoof'’ on the accelerator, snorts ominously(at the tail-pipe) and charges ahead in a cloud of smoke forcing other commuters to scurry for cover.

In a city where roads are treated like Formula One tracks, motorists have evolved their own set of traffic rules. For instance, their traffic manual exhorts them to overtake a) when there is heavy oncoming traffic, b) on blind bends, c) at intersections and d) in the middle of city centre. Their battle cry: Never allow more that two inches between your vehicle and one that you are passing; just one inch in the case of bicycles or pedestrians.

If you are a pedestrian, it is an asset if you can, like an owl, turn your head 360 degrees. It also helps if you expect an anxious driver to step on his accelerator confusing it for the brakes. Ultimately, you get a bit paranoid about being on the 'hit list' of all the motorists when you cross the road. And you begin to believe that people on the opposite footpath are the ones who were born there.

During the rush hour, the only way you can change lane is by buying the car driving next to you! And the traffic jams are so protracted that you can get out of the car and play cards on the roof of the car. And what’s more, should you get a flat tyre, you can change the tyre without losing your place in the line. In the end, you go to wherever other cars take you!

Fade out 2011 and fade in 2015.You sign up for a driving course at a reputed motor driving school. They provide a training track that, besides potholes, has Cows, goats, dogs and pedestrians roaming freely. Auto-rickshaws or bicycles that materialize from nowhere keep you on the edge of your seat. Specially trained road-rage artistes hone your fighting/shouting skills. By the time you graduate, you become such a careful driver that you honk your horn even when you go through a red light!
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WACKO WALKERS

Sitting in Padmasana on a park bench, he covers his eyes with both palms and sobs in silence. Thereupon, with his fingers, he plucks some imaginary stuff from his eyes and ‘tosses’ it into the air before breaking into a broad grin. This bizarre drill apparently illustrates a yoga exercise that helps its practitioner get rid of his worries. Welcome to the Bangalore's park where weirdos of every stripe wander in and out unhindered.

As it happens, the park benches are as often patronized as the walking tracks. This is where the 'Shavasana' buff lies supine like a corpse and eventually drifts off into deep slumber. For him, it is merely an extension of his night's sleep post-intermission. His 'morning walk' ends when the park's care-taker wakes him up as a prelude to locking the gates.

The burgeoning parks across the city have spawned many such wackos who make the morning walkers' day. Take for instance, the insatiable Mr. ‘Gorging’ George. At first he loiters around the park chatting with a few windbags . Then he barges into the nearest restaurant and stuffs himself silly on idli-vadas. He doesn't exercise. To make him bend over, you would have to put diamonds on the floor! His motto: After loafing goof a while, after chatter eat a pile.

The ‘Trailing Wife Pageant' is one more amusing sight. Here, a young lanky husband walks at a blistering pace followed by his pint-sized chubby wife trying to keep pace with him. Possibly, this is his way of getting even with her for making him run after her during their pre-nuptial days.

If you visit the park at 5 A M, you find a few zombies who are at the fag end of their walking schedule. They might be either the insomniacs who entered the park by jumping the fence or the ones who slept inside the park overnight to outsmart the insomniacs. At least some of them could be the somnambulists (sleep walkers) who went missing from their beds after midnight.

'Deaf Adders' are the most common species that haunt our parks. You recognize them by the swaying of their heads or snapping of their fingers. They are deaf and oblivious to your approach from behind due to their being plugged on to the ipod. All you got to do, then, is to cough or clear your throat loudly and you get your right of way.

As you come out of the park, you find on the road a man shouting, "Stop Bruno..you bad boy..", as the Great Dane drags him on to a dunghill. Both the dog and his master are on their morning constitutional and it looks unclear who is taking whom for a walk. Moreover, it seems to me that the city dogs can understand only English!
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HAND ON THE PULSE

So, who is this professional who excels in the art of feeling the pulse, not just of his clients but also the society in general? No prize for guessing. He is none other than your friendly neighborhood barber. If you wish to gauge the mood of the society you live in, the barber's shop should be your destination. There you can find out things like whether people feel secure under the present government or if Obama could win 2012 presidential election. You will also get enlightened on whose wife ran away with whom or whose unmarried daughter got pregnant.

At the barber's shop you can also perceive if the society is in a jolly mood or if there is a furrow of anxiety on the society's brow. While you extract info from the barber, he tactfully keeps at harvesting the crop on your head    and juicy files buried deep inside it downloading them to his own mental compact disc for future use.

When it comes to ingenuity in feeling the customer's pulse, the auto-rickshaw driver in Bangalore takes the cake. As you board into his contraption mentioning your destination, he switches on the auto-meter as well as his 'pulse  meter'.

FINGER ON THE PULSE

"Doctor, Why is that you always begin the physical examination by feeling the pulse?" asked the anxious and  inquisitive old lady whom I teasingly called Mrs Nosy Parker.

"Well, you see, " I began, debating in my mind how to explain, " the wrist pulse is the heart's outpost that provides us with a 'live telecast' of the happenings within the heart itself..." I trailed off realizing the futility of describing the technicalities. Instead I light-heartedly said, "My dear lady, the truth is that the pulse gives me a fair estimate of your bank balance and lets me decide how big a hole I can drill in your wallet. In fact, doctors call it pulse because it rhymes with purse." Mrs Parker laughed heartily, all her anxiety draining off.

It is not just the prerogative of a doctor to feel the pulse of his patients. Quite often, patients too try to feel the doctors' pulse; figuratively, of course.How is that? Let me tell you how. If an in-patient at a hospital says, "Doctor, I would dearly like you to join me for dinner at my home next Sunday", the concerned doctor need not feel flattered. For, indirectly the patient is trying to find out if he(the patient) is likely to be discharged before the coming Sunday!

There is at least one occasion when I can't help feeling my own pulse. And that is women folk at my home talk on long-distance telephone lines to New Delhi or Kochi to discuss the latest recipe with an aunt or granny. As the seconds tick away into minutes, my pulse rate rises in direct proportion to time elapsed and in an inverse ratio to the STD pulse rate! The corollary of this 'teleconference' is that I end up gulping down some exotic stew at a price that could fetch me a ton of caviar!

Every trade or profession has perfected its own device of feeling the the pulse of the customers or clients. Do you know of one particular type of professional who excels in the art of feeling the pulse not just of his clients, but also society in general? Find out in my next post "Hand On The Pulse".

HURRICANE SOPHIE

Last year we, a family of four, set out on a head-hunting expedition. Please don't get me wrong; it wasn't the kind of mission the cannibalistic gourmets of Sarawak excelled in, no sire. ( though the members of my family wouldn't hesitate for a moment to eat me alive for breakfast if the situation so demanded). I was referring to the mundane task of prospecting for a housemaid.

The task was laborious what with too many prospective employers chasing too few maids (no pun intended). With the effort that went into the search, we could have discovered Lockness Monster or the Abominable Snowman of Himalayas if we wanted. And just when we, in frustration, braced ourselves to make do with anything that wore a skirt and walked on two legs(and worked), Sophie breezed into our lives.

At a walk-in interview at Sophie's place, which we attended with trepidation, Sophie probed into, inter alia, our family head count, number of guests who visited us per annum and the carpet area of our abode in order to 'guesstimate' the likely work load. Having satisfied herself, Sophie spelt out her pecuniary demands that included hefty severance pay in case Sophie's services were unilaterally terminated by us. Despite all indignities, we clung on to the maid (not physically, of course), little realising that we were embracing 'Hurricane Sophie'.

ON THE TAIL OF A TAILOR

My eyes nearly popped out of my head when Param appeared at my doorsteps like the summer rain. It was as though an eel had developed amnesia forgetting all about being slippery and presented itself to be pickled and devoured. Why I am offering this parallel would become explicit if I furnished enough dope on Param's antecedents and idiosyncrasies.

EEL THAT TAKES TO HEEL

A tailor by profession, Param was no different from others of his ilk except in one small detail. He seldom, if ever, stitched at a stretch for more than a few minutes. He worked, like municipal taps, in short bursts. Being someone with itchy feet and perpetually parched throat, Param, after every 50 cms of frenzied sewing, went out for a cup of tea as though it were the elixir of his life. Normally his shop(a one-man show) wore a desolate look, like a town in the grip of a plague epidemic, while Param merrily downed his cup of stimulant in some godforsaken restaurant. On those rare occasions when he was at the post, he slipped behind the cupboard at the mere hint of a suspected client approaching his shop, morbidly scared of additional work that would hamper his periodic tea-drinking jaunts!

To me, unfortunately, he seemed nothing short of a sartorial genius and I always felt as though I were streaking on a nudist beach if I wore any attire not tailored by Param. But the biggest hurdle was tracking down my outwardly mobile tailor and the thought often crossed my mind that I should equip him with a radio-collar around his neck(like they do to keep track of tigers in the wild) in order to monitor his movements on my radar screen.

THE ELUSIVE TAILOR

So, recently when I needed a new shirt - I wished to appear chic wearing it at my forthcoming address to the local Humour Club - I launched an elaborate 'man-hunt' for my tailor, visiting tea stalls I never even thought existed. And finally *buttonholed* him at a nondescript cafe forcing him to take down my measurements in full view of the amused cafe's clientele. From then on, each time I caught him at his shop (or behind the cupboard), his stock reply was, "Only the buttons remain to be stitched, sir", even as the uncut shirt cloth winked at me from his shelf. And as the days slipped by, my patience, besides my new pair of shoes, began to wear thin.

(To be continued in the next post The Tailor In New Light
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VANISHING HORSE

As the jumbo-sized board flashed the schedule for the next race, I was a agog. I was about to witness my first 'live' horse-race, though betting wasn't my cup of tea. On the stroke of three all hell broke loose as the rabble of punters from the stands behind me jumped to their feet shouting themselves hoarse, goading on their beloved beasts. I craned my neck for a better view of the starting-gate, anticipating the clatter of hooves and a cloud of dust.

But there was no flurry of activity out there and nothing remotely resembling a quadruped raced in from that direction. Before long, the commotion in the stands died down as the punters stopped horsing around and went about their business of either licking their wounds or placing fresh stakes. And I hadn't a clue as to what the heck was going on.

It had been my lifelong dream to watch race horses in action that had allured me, a rank rookie, to the racetracks during one of my visits to the local 'Ascot.' I had entered the portals of the racecourse after a bit of dilly-dallying, exercising great vigilance, guarding against bumping into someone from my my middle-class residential locality where horse racing was considered a taboo. But once in, I sneaked past the milling crowds in the bookie's lounge before reaching the stands to occupy the vacant front row for a ring-side view of the momentous event.

And imagine my chagrin when I became part of what looked like an elaborate hoax contrived by gangs of delirious dudes and hidden horses! For a moment, I thought that the whole rigmarole had been stage-managed exercise for a movie shoot. But then, there were no tell-tale sighs such as the camera, the clapboard and the reflector! And I didn't want to make a fool of myself by enquiring about the mystery.

Within the next hour, the crazy cycle of events - of frenzied crowds howling at the empty racetrack and then abrupt silence - was repeated thrice, pushing me deeper into to bewilderment. After the fourth round of farce, I decided to take the matter into my hands and find out what it was that others saw and I didn't.

Analysing my handicap, I concluded that the seats in the rear might provide a vantage point to view the enigmatic proceedings. Accordingly, I moved back a few rows and jockeying for space, installed myself firmly in the saddle.

And when the next round of hullabaloo began, I saw them - the magnificent horses in all their galloping glory - not on the track but on the screen of a giant TV monitor hanging from the ceiling. Subtle enquiries revealed that it was a live transmission of Pune races, on which punters were placing their bets.

With the spectacle turning into a damp squib, I left the venue thoroughly chastised, never to return. And I buried the humiliation deep inside my memory, never letting anyone in on my secret. Until now.

Image Courtesy: clipartguide.com

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KIDNEY IN SYDNEY

Huddled up in a road-side booth, I face the body scanner, log in my destination code and wait. An electronic eye records my anatomy before dematerialising my body into electronic signals and, presto, I am carried along the Tele-transportation Superhighway to my final destination. It was a cinch but for a small hitch; instead of my home, a faulty line dematerialised me in a house in Mumbai's red-light district where a mujrah(dance of courtesans) was in progress. The dancer approaches me, swaying her body alluringly and only thought in my mind was... HIV......! Then I woke up in a cold sweat.

Ever since I saw a documentary on tele-transportation on the BBC, I have been haunted by such nightmares, though, I must admit, I often yearn for such technology when a prospect of long distance bus journey, along with the resultant cramps and stomach trouble looms large.

Nevertheless, travel by wire can be risky. By pressing the wrong keys you may end in Hanover, Germany, instead of Honnvar, India. Or Belgium instead of Belgaum. You may want to go on a pilgrimage to Tigris, but a bad line can take you to Tiger Hills on Indo-Pak border just in time to get hit by a shrapnel

On the other hand, there is the risk of your organs getting strewn around the globe: your eyes in Iceland, kidneys in Sydney, chest in Chesterfield or spine in Spain!

Added to this is the possibility that the body parts of one traveller could be placed on the body of another, resulting in weird transmogrification. No doubt a man would not mind if he acquires the head of Tom Cruise or Hrithik Roshan, but a gender mix-up could lead to less pleasing results.Imagine the head of of a very hairy man transplanted on to the shapely body of a Miss Universe!

Then, what if the passenger reaches his destination minus one of his vital organs. In such an event, if you tap a strategic phone line you may hear following conversation:
"Sir, one of my important organs has gone missing."
"Patience, sir. It's safe in Alaska. We will restore it by tomorrow"
"But my wife is getting impatient. I am meeting her after a month"

Yet, the technology can have positive spin-offs. For instance, through suitable modifications in the machine, you can transform yourself into a do-it-yourself surgeon. You can, say, extract one of your internal organs, repair it at your in-house workshop and put it back into your body. No scalpel, no pain and no exorbitant surgeon's fee.

Furthermore, newly-weds keen on starting a family but who are cash-strapped, can have their babies stored and reproduced at a later date when fortunes smile. The possibilities are endless.

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Slim Chances of Success

I must have fallen in love with food sometime during my sojourn in the cradle when I was weaned from breast milk to porridge. For, my mother recalls from my infancy the throaty gurgle of delight I used to emit with wild jabbing of the tiny limbs into air whenever I heard the clink of the cereal bowl. It was indeed love at first bite.

The love grew in tandem with my body mass and somewhere along the line a battle royale broke out between muscles and fat which the latter won by a decisive margin. And the middle-age corpulence made a munificient contribution to the rotundity.

By then my paunch jutted out, like the solitary rock on a cliff face, to an extent that prompted my colleagues to vehemently demand a handicap in their favor at the veterans sprint event, allegedly because my midriff touched the tape approximately 0.723 seconds before I reached the finishing line.

But it was when my friends subjected me to a campaign of innuendoes to the effect that my abdominal folds, following the law of gravity, would soon set out on an earthbound journey reaching up to my knees thereby rendering briefs and trousers superfluous, that I was finally shamed into embarking on a ‘load shedding’ iternary.

In my scheme of things, dieting was no different from a footloose stud trying to practice celibacy amidst a bevy of seductive nymphets. By implication, the success of my gastronomic chastity hinged on steering clear of all the sensory stimuli that whetted the craving for the chow, while I remained short rations.

Accordingly, I took abstemious measures such as skipping all enticing ads of junk food in the media. A total ban on all talk of food was clamped at home. Chomps, slurps, crunches and burps were declared taboo at the dinner table. Though I could shed 10Kg in six months, there were moments of hiccup. For instance, one night I dreamt of devouring my favorite onion pakoras and woke up with a start to find a corner of my blanket missing!

Things didn’t remain hunky dory for long. A newly opened eatery adjacent to my house threw a spanner in the works. The tantalizing aroma of food coupled with periodic shouts of pizza or sphagetti wafted through my window and bombarded my sensory organs weakening my resolve day after day. Slowly but surely, I was reverting to abyss of gluttony.

Just when I smelt victory at the “battle of the bugle”, I met my waterloo.

Clipart Courtesy: http://jdeq.typepad.com