Burnt toast

Mom's never worried about my food. That's the one area in life she thinks I am pretty self sufficient. The problem is that's the ONLY area in life my mom thinks I'm self sufficient in. A part of my subconscious is cursing me right now for using self-depreciation as an aid to my writing. And I'm telling that part of my mind to shut up. At least till I get someone else to make a scapegoat out of. I bet that someone will be some female against whom, I secretly bear a grudge, and simultaneously admire her. Wow! That makes me sound like a stalker. And after that last line, I sound like a self-proclaimed stalker. It doesn't even sound funny anymore. There I was, moments ago, thinking about writing how I burned my toast this morning.

I love to cook. Brains are my specialty. Those who know me well will understand. I also love to drive. Specially when it comes to driving people crazy. I guess I just used up all my lines. Crap! Where was I again?

Oh yes! Cooking! Almost forgot. I can cook up an omelet better than most humans can. I heat the pan up, drop a knob of butter that melts away hissing and bubbling like that is exactly what it was supposed to do. Like that knob of butter's sole purpose in life was to look sexy while melting away on that pan I just heated. Narcissism makes you sound like an ass. I know. Anyway, I've always had a thing for cracking eggs with one hand. It's pretty easy actually. You take an egg, and.... you throw it at a wall. The egg cracked! Hurray! Only trouble with this techniques is the "Cleaning up" part. The egg's all scrambled, you see?

It took me some time to get a good control of the amount of force that was required to jusssst about crack the shell, after which it was only a matter of squeezing the egg between your thumb and middle finger. And the insides of the shell would pour itself out for you like MAGIC! So long as you had a bowl to catch hold of all that magic before it hits the floor. Without the bowl, cleaning up is a mess again. So let's get cracking! I bet that's the etymology of the phrase.

Give the eggs a good whipping. Beat in all that air. That way, the eggs look sexier when they're done.

My eggs turned out to be fine. So did the chocolate cake I tried yesterday. I knew that when my sister actually liked the extra cocoa I'd added, a slight deviation from the prescribed amounts. I'd read somewhere that ladies completely dig chaps who can cook. After reading that article, I almost went to my terrace and shouted "Yeah, bitches! I can cook!". Okay, I did not say that. But in my head, I was Bruce Almighty, the part where Jim Carrey stood on the top of a skyscraper in a storm saying...

"I am Bruce Almighty! My will be done!"

 A friend tapped me on my shoulders saying "Dude, there's a whole set of procedures you need to go through before you get anywhere close to cooking for the lady. And as far as you are concerned, you completely suck at paperwork and procedures." Brilliant! The guy had a point.

The place where I mess up is the toast. I leave it on the pan for a tad bit longer than required. By the time I am struck by the realization that I'm supposed to flip the toast, this song is already playing in full swing, and Mick Jagger is in his elements. Using a toaster would be a good suggestion. But then you'll have to buy me one.

Eurotrip #1- Things left behind

It's been a while since my mom told me to write about the Europe trip my family went on a few weeks ago. I kept refraining from doing that as somewhere, I felt it would sound show-offy. "OH! YOU KNOW WHAT! I WENT TO EUROPE!." And the rest of the world would be like "LIKE WE GIVE A FART!" Come to think of it, most of the time, almost no one gives a fart about anything, except for yourself. And yet, we go about documenting our lives in one way or another. Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe it does. As I said, who gives a fart! Well, just in case if you do give a fart, please make sure you haven't eaten legumes, or any flatulence-inducing food recently. 

June 5th. That was the day of the trip. Two days hence was my parents' 24th anniversary. Mom had a dream of going to Paris. Dad wanted to see Switzerland. My sister and I were born to parents who were rich enough to splurge on a trip that could pay for travel, accommodation, food and "other unnecessary expenditures" for a family of four. So off we were, shouting in our own heads "Europe, here we come!"

I was right out of college, after some amount of avoidable grinding. Friends gone, end of campus life (at least for some time), heart crushed into uncountable number of pieces, but yet filled with lust, and blatantly so. Just that I hadn't told mom and dad about it. I haven't come off the hormonal surge that started sometime when I turned 15. I somehow like it this way. All this squirting testosterone. Okay, screw that. boarding the flight now!

The plane was the usual kind, the one that flew to countries abroad. bigger than domestic flights. Swiss Air, if I remember correctly, A friend of mine had told me that the chaps distribute chocolate towards the end of the journey. I was like "YESS!" Not like cheap domestic flights, that have stopped distributing candy to sort out the closed ears. Candy on planes. Wow! That was along time ago. I've seen kids grab onto fists full of candy from the tray when the hostess offered it to them. I've seen ADULTS grab onto fistfuls of candy on the tray, when offered some. Oh my goodness would I NEVER do that! Okay, I've done that. Mummaayyy! *Sob*

The flight took a good 25 minutes to move an inch. As usual, I wasn't sitting next to a beautiful woman. IT NEVER HAPPENS! NEVVERRR! I bet there's some dude who changes the seat of the beautiful woman SUPPOSED to sit next to me to someplace not within a 20-seat radius. I bet that dude got the beautiful lady's flight changed! So I was sitting next to this arsehole. And again, as usual, we were both fighting for the arm-rest. That was till the time the bugger slept, and I got to take over the arm-rest. Yeah, bitch! I win!

I can't sleep on overnight flights. Look at how surely I can say this after being on two overnight flights in my entire life. Okay, three overnight flights. What a presumptuous arsehole I am. Now am I not?

Three movies down, I was still wondering what the hell was it that the movie Inherent Vice was all about. Inherent Vice was the first movie I'd watched in the flight. All I could hear during the entire movie was "You're losing! You're losing! You're losing! You're losing your Vitamin C." But I got to say, that's one sexy song! The lyrics are a little off. But sexy song. I guess I'll have to watch Inherent Vice stoned to understand what happened in the movie. That review, some other time!

At this time in the flight, from nowhere, I started missing this female I'd had a hard time letting go. And I was like "Oh, shit! Leave my head, female!" Maybe, I was losing my Vitamin C. Crap! This female is making her way back to my head as I write this right now. Go! Shoo! That's the extent of my problems. Graduation sorted. Job sorted. But this bitch refuses to leave my mind. NOOOOOOOO!!!!

Yeah, so I was moving onto my fourth movie for the night. The Theory of Everything! Decent movie. How much more can you scandalize the life of a great mind, who miraculously happens to be alive still? Albeit barely so.

But there's a reason why this movie is special, and shall stay so for me forever. The end of the movie felt choreographed with the landing of my flight. I looked out of the window. It was the morning sun opening its eyes through the clouds, its rays seeping into the plane's fuselage. 

Ain't even close to what I saw!

I looked below, only to see vast expanses of European countryside, of what was parts of Zurich. This sight coupled with ending soundtrack of this movie "The Theory of Everything", and all of this coming together as my plane began banking into Zurich  for landing. Pure sensory overload! The woman's face that had been lingering in my mind for months now, never looked this beautiful. But you know what? The best part is that this convergence event, the sun, the land, the song, and it all made me realize something. The human mind is capable of emotions and feelings far beyond what words can so much so as dream of describing. 

And I knew somehow, that the week ahead of me was going to be one of the best things to happen to me yet.

Those moments, back in the plane, I understood that it is in the description of that which cannot be described, where one can truly test how good a storyteller one is.

Nowhere to go

You know how kids cough? Their tongues rolled into a tube, mouth opens wide, and they cough like that's the last thing they shall ever be capable of doing in their lives. And they completely forget to cover their mouths. COUGHHU! COUGHHU! I absolutely abhor any living soul who coughs like that. Okay, my mom coughs like that. I apparently don't abhor her. If I can tolerate one person coughing that way, I technically should be able to tolerate everyone who coughs that way. isn't it? Else, I should abhor my mother, strange as that sounds. But as I said, I don't abhor my mother. Neither can I tolerate another soul coughing that way. So that pretty much makes me a hypocrite. It also makes me sound like an idiot. Wow! What a start!

Because of my mom's coughing habits, my sister contracted cough too! Rains, bad weather, easy infections, we all know the drill. So now, my sister has the cough. brilliant. I'm slightly mad at mom for that. Since my sister has cough, she feels weak of sorts. I being the strongest human on the planet, and also the elder one at home, was told to take care of my cute little sister. Strange part is I can't even call my sister "little" anymore. She's taller than I am. From where I see, everyone seems to be taller than I am. Okay, no. My ex isn't. Err... I cannot remember anyone who's not taller than I am. Big deal! I'm supposed to take care of my sister. Let's stick to that. 

I was supposed to drop my frail little sister at the railway station as part of my duty of taking care of her. So off we were. We went and sat in a rickshaw, whose driver wouldn't budge without a third occupant. hence, we waited. For five minutes. FIVE MINUTES! Precious moments of my life, and those of my sister's, lost in waiting for some bugger. If you're wondering why the driver refused to move without the third occupant, STOP immediately. That's because that part of the story is far too long to explain, and at the moment, a complete waste of anyone's comprehension skills. Moving on. 

So the third bugger did arrive. And WOW did he arrive. He was the most hideous smelling creature I'd come across in my lifetime of 23 years, 2 months, and 22 days. Try figuring out my birthday if you're smart! Few extra birthday wishes wouldn't reduce my time on this planet, I suppose. Anyway, this third chap, who was the reason for our losing five precious minutes, was the human version of a skunk. I swear i won't talk about how my sister and I bore his stench. Okay, my sister covered her nose with her handkerchief. She told me to cover my nose with mine. But I thought I'd bear it like a man. Bad call. Besides, I had forgotten my handkerchief. Amazing!

So that happened. And finally, the rickshaw started moving. With a little bit of air circulation, the stench became a bit bearable. Or we just got used to it. It's like how you get used to the smell of your own shit when you take a dump, you see? Initially, you think you'll pass out. But after about 4-5 minutes, you think it is bearable after all. Stay in there long enough, and you'll barely even notice it. Even if there's no exhaust fan in the toilet. Crazy how one can think so much. 

Fine. Stench is bearable. The rickshaw is moving. Now......

Now, this bugger starts glancing at my sister's boobs. He also throws a glance at me, if I am noticing him glancing at my sister's boobs. And I AM noticing this stinky bugger glancing at my sister's boobs. My sister and I make a joke out of this chap's impotence, and everything becomes all right. But not for long. 

Four roads diverged from a place. 

That place was called a junction. 

And it didn't matter which road you took. 

Because the place I am talking about was in Bombay. 

And in Bombay, traffic comes into the junction from each one of the four roads that leads to the junction. The best part about all this is that there's is always, ALWAYS a traffic policeman standing at such a junction. And he has NO clue about whatever the hell it is that's happening. So, in his confusion, he goes about confusing every soul that enters the junction he is standing at. It all ends up being one big commotion, with vehicles entering from all four sides, heading in straight for a gridlock. The best one can do at such times is take out a book and start reading. By the time, one reaches the last few pages, one car would have barely managed to ebb itself out of the jam. Yummy! That is a situation completely independent of a person's reading speed. Besides, from no where, this one drunkard pops up, banging someone's bonnet, shouting how the world is so unfair. I'm still having to breathe in the stench of this ugly bugger. In his attempt at being emphatic, the drunkard pushes one of the bikers stuck in the gridlock, which starts a completely unnecessary, and absolutely avoidable fight. Suddenly, everyone, wants to know what happened, as if they can do something about the unknown situation by knowing about it. In the process, they totally forget that they are stuck in a traffic jam. Few of them, in their enthusiasm, jump into the fight, get whacked on their heads a few times before, out of thin air, cops blow a whistle, and everyone goes back to getting themselves out of the gridlock. By the way, the bugger is still glancing at my sister's boobs. And I SO want to bash his buggery skull into itself. My sister and I have decided not to waste our sense of humor on a stinky bugger. And hence, we both wait for the gridlock to unlock itself. Else, the stinky bugger is getting his skull bashed in. 

Thankfully for the stinky bugger, the jam clears up. And off we are to the railway station. I drop my sister, watch her dissolve into Bombay's crowd. Now, the city has her. Thinking that, I get sentimental. By the time I'm out of my clouded senses, my sister calls me to inform that she's gotten onto her train. I breathe a sigh of relief, thinking that now, my sister is safe in Bombay's bosoms.   

Ain't about answers

We're all looking. For something. Yes, it sounds vague, but that's what we all are doing. Some of us are looking forward to something. Some of us are looking not-so-forward to something. Few are looking to find something. It could be their keys, their cellphones, their lover, themselves, and apart from a gazillion more things, few of them are searching for answers. Answers to questions they have perhaps not framed correctly. It's not like they don't know what they want. Just that they know no way to put across what it is that they want exactly. This so called "They" includes this little "I" too. So that makes it "We".

Too much of our focus has gone away into 'answers'. "Answer me this". "Answer me that", "Answer the following", "Don't answer the following", "Why did it it happen(whatever 'it' is)", "Why did he/she leave?", and all those questions that confound us with their answers. Only thing being that all this ain't entertaining, this perpetual questioning. But there's a trick to all of this. On that, in a bit. but first, here's the deal.

Where does one go first, when confronted with an apparently unanswerable question? A friend, maybe a parent. Okay, parents may not give the answer you want to hear. Again, that said, the answer one wants to hear is not necessarily the solution to one's problem. And given the emotional state of a parent, over-brimming with all the concern for the questioning kid, the argument usually takes a wrong turn, and veers of into some unknown direction. And that was me digressing completely. Another person one puts up questions to is the teacher. Specially for those of us who are used to the classroom experience. Well, if you're a tad bit too curious, be prepared to listen to "You'll learn that in higher classes." That of course means that you're never going to learn that in higher classes (just kidding), or that you're never going to learn that in higher classes, because your curiosity has been beaten out of you. Sucks. But yes, there is a rare breed of teachers, who actually take a note of your doubts, and solve it. And just in case they can't, they send you off on a journey to some place inside you, where you may find what you're looking for. Mind you, a teacher needn't be the PhD holder in a subject, nor a "Master" at anything. He/she could be a friend, a stranger, the one you love, a loved one, or even for that matter, a teacher who ACTUALLY teaches.

It's strange how no  one knows the answers to everything, no matter how ever educated one may be. Maybe no one is supposed to know everything. And about the best of teachers, the most a good teacher can teach a student is to ask the right questions, or at least ask questions. He/she might end it with a "Go, figure it out yourself!" But hey! At least that's a start. Start to a journey out of a place called Blissful Ignorance.

And besides, the besides, given our generation's obsession with Multiple Choice questions, the best anyone can do about doing the best one can do, is as the late George Carlin says.... "Make an educated guess."

It could be four options. 

There could be more options.

If you are at the Arch of Triumph, Paris, you have 11 directions to choose from. 

How about that for multiple choice?

I'm still wondering if I said anything at all.