Saturday, 27 May 2017

Have a drink with me

Is it a deal with this crop of "Those from the '90s will understand" beings, or is it how it's always been? The moment we cross the tender age of 20, we think of ourselves as proper adults. Yes, secretly, somewhere down the line, we know for a fact that it's not true. Oh, and the moment we've crossed living a quarter century on this beautiful planet, we are under the impression that we have the wisdom of an octogenarian. Well, some of them do, and I bloody hate them for that.

Now, an important aspect of adulthood is drinking. Of course, if you're a Parsi, or a Christian, that doesn't apply to you. Because, well, your cultures sort-of-seemingly rock in terms of drinking mannerisms. Goodness, how I wish I could guzzle from the moment I was born . In front of my parents.

Be it with or without consent, going tipsy isn't a phenomenon discovered in the last one hour. And part of that parcel is coming back home drunk. It's a scary prospect, especially if your folks can't sleep until you're back home, safe and sound. It's a fortune to have a haven of that sort, I recently realised. And then one day, I came back three beers down. Bad idea. My mom caught me within half a microsecond of seeing me at the door. And it was just 9pm, not like a late 1am. scene, where I came in with a stupor and a shaky walk.
That's when I realised that the most embarrassing moment in your life is when your mom catches you drunk. I bet getting caught naked in awkward positions may be way more ignominious, but eh, let's go there when we get to it. So, yeah. Sneaking into your place drunk, getting caught red handed = somebody gonna get hurt real bad.

My mom got so hysterical, that even my dad panicked, as though I'd killed four people on my way home. He heard the case, and to my surprise, he remained rather calm. Not the reaction I'd anticipated, for I was dead sure he'd tell me to find a place for myself somewhere else. He did reprimand me in front of mom, gave me the "This is not the age to do all this rubbish. Focus on working hard." line. But for the horror story that I thought the evening would pan out to be, what I got was gentle acupuncture. And trust me, the soft treatment actually amplified my misery. I'd never apologised to my dad. Until that day. Fuck knows why.

Fast-forward one week to today. I'd just come back from a hard workout, my whole back tight as an extra-small spandex costume. Dad was out with his single-malt bottle (yeah, he has a nice little collection of his own), having a drink with dadaji, and goodness knows from where, he offered me a drink.

Flabbergasted is a word I don't get to use as often as I like, but that's exactly what I was in that moment. I don't know if it's a thing with guys, but the saying goes that your dad considers you a friend the day he offers you a drink. And is it always overwhelming for the kid? For hell yes, I'm bloody well overwhelmed. And what's worse, I don't know how to put what I feel into words. So, that's ..... awesome.

Maybe, just maybe, you're not supposed to make such a big deal out of it. Maybe you're supposed to, because your parents actually think that you're a grown-up and everything. Or, maybe you should try doing something serious with your life, something that makes the world a better place. Just for the record, I didn't take the drink. But, then again, I don't think that matters. Adulthood, phew, it's heavier than deadlifting 120kg. 

Sunday, 7 May 2017

On injections, buttocks, nurses and chocolate

Is it normal to be a little scared of hospitals? You step inside one, and they have all these countless rooms and chambers, labeled with abbreviations, ICUs, OPDs, etcetera, that sound a bit disconcerting. It's as though anyone stepping into one of these rooms will be eaten by some big monster, and that the door to the room is the monster's mouth. Plus, no one will know about it. 

Also, is it a bit off to be scared of injections? Pointy little things, dripping with weird liquid that a few sinister beings take great pleasure in jabbing into the buttocks of others.... these. Speaking of injections, buttocks and sinister beings, you just can't leave out the sisters and - what you call the male chaps 'brothers'? - well, them, or nurses, if you may. How glad am I that most of them are ladies, and that's for more reasons than would strike you, sir. But a few questions before we start here. 
Why do they call each other 'sister'? Why do they all look like they can Karate the crap out of you? And why do the really cute ones look like they can wield a cleaver (or even worse, a Katana) and lop off your head any time they please?
In case you were wondering, a cleaver is this scary thing...
And the Katana is, well, the Katana. 
(Japanese way of saying.... Bad Motherfucker)

Speaking of nurses who jab you RIGHT in the arse, I recently had the fortune of getting pricked by a cutie of sorts. Now, in all honesty, my mind is quite bloody pre-occupied with thoughts of a gorgeous of a different kind. And apparently, as per this lady who my thoughts remain preoccupied with, I am supposed to be a sapiosexual (someone attracted to intellect and intelligence). Yay, yoohooo, party! Just that I haven't had much success getting through to this fine young lady. 
Back to the nurse (Ahem!). Turns out she's a Malayali, as with all, and I mean ALL the nurses in this particular hospital. They are all Mallus! This lady is young, lithe, looks sharp, and devious with an injection in her hand. Oh, shit. I hate injections, and I hate anyone holding an injection. 
Before me, a kid, accompanied by our star nurse, had gone into this room which was labeled (unsurprisingly) 'Injection room'. Now, all I could hear for the next one minute was screams and squeals of the poor little 5-year old. You ask how did I know he's 5? I didn't. I thought he was 5, so I winged the age. Anyway, with the sort of noises coming out of the room, I was sure the kid would come out with his head sticking out of his belly-button, and his fingers out of his butt-hole. And yes, I'm five times this kid's potential age, and I shat my pants even before I was to get pricked. But the screams and squeals stopped, and a minute later, our likely-to-be-five-year-old emerged unscathed. 
With a chocolate in his little hands. I rejoiced! Yay, you get chocolate for getting pricked!!!! Oh, only if you look 5, is it? Shit. 
The cute-lithe-devious nurse stepped out, and called me in. *Gulp* I stepped inside. It was cold, The bed I was told to lie on had a bed-sheet with 'CASUALTY' written on it. So that's what happens in here.... Then she told me to lower my pants YESSSSS!!!!!!........... NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!! She's about to lop off my weiner!!!! 
Then, she told me to lie on my back. (Phew, junior's safe.) But me arse! Too late... *Prick* YIKES!! JERONIMO!!!! 
"It's over, don't move."
I turned around, the lady was pressing down on my lovely bum (with a cotton patch of course) to keep the contents of the injection from spewing right out of my gluteal muscle (the bum in sexy words). And then it was over. I buckled back my pants, got off the grave-looking bed post, and looked to leave. 
I still have a kid inside though. And I love chocolate. And what do I lose to ask for one from Ms deviously efficient injection-specialist? Tops, she won't give me one.
"Hey, may I get a chocolate too?", I said (almost) jokingly.
Baloney, what a smile I got in return! The lady almost laughed. Bloody hell, who needs chocolate? Okay, tata.