Vissable Views

This guy came around to visit a couple times and didn’t seem too bad, then invited me to a BBQ at friends of his. After a couple glasses of wine he lost some of his charm but did not want to leave yet, the friends ended up having an argument of their own and went to their rooms, leaving me with a drunk partner and of course I did not have my phone for someone to fetch me, he passed out after vomiting all over and I had to clean it up.

Over the years I have had nearly all the makes of phones available on the market and whether it was a cheap and simple Nokia with no features or an advanced one that can nearly cook food for you; I will always stick to my specific phone carrier. It is a strong sturdy phone and at the moment I have a Nokia N78 and not since day one have I ever had a problem with it, great email storage, and camera, java script enabled and can do nearly everything my PC can do with the advantage of mms and Internet.

Hopefully he will never see this or I would stop getting the treatment I receive at the moment as I do not think many women out there have boyfriends or husbands that would do for them as mine does. As I work from home and he is retired, I get my coffee in bed; get my breakfast, lunch and supper prepared for me. I do not know when last have I touched a broom or mop or washed dishes and we do not have a domestic. He does the washing and ironing and everything else that involves housekeeping, what a man.

Is what my girlfriend says, a progressive woman with rather rigid conceptions of male beauty, she strongly disapproves of anything that says, normal. My lack of tattoos notwithstanding she nevertheless, manages to foist upon me something that an Italian gigolo with no sense of self would reject  out of shame. It’s all I can do to save my khaki cargoes and denims from being burnt outright. If I want to look like something that just stepped out of the African bush, she says, she would rather not be seen with me at all. Which is fine by me because we are in india, where it pays to keep your flings to yourself, and so I end up in khaki cargoes and bush shirts.

Well its true, money does make the world go round as someone who was sponsored pretty much all the way to college, the pinch is quite acute. No longer can  have as extra piece of chicken and not worry about the bill, or flush the toilet without a care for the water bill, or plumber’s fees, or taxes, or work , or oh well never mind. The fact is money is not something that I’ll ever need too much of, no matter what I do, stuffing it in ridiculously shaped receptacles or jam in into a bank account, it always flies off.

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Not many people today appreciate the simple pleasures of life life being able to walk and doing your own chores, the immense satisfaction of these acts coming as it did after a crippling tussle with a schoolbus in a hurry, can be quite overwhelming. Not to sound like a world war 2 veteran but, we do too take for granted these everyday phenomena. Never do we stop to ask ourselves if we deserve this privilege and are we entitled to abuse it by jogging or training for a marathon.

Nostalgia is best expressed In sepia, the gloomy discordant colour of fondness for better days, and sorrow for their passing. My favourite pastime during childhood was in the library of a girls college where my mother is a librarian, like a dragon who sleeps on her treasures my mother rarely allowed anyone access to the sacred archives, A privilege that I abused as often as I could. Stuffing an ancient print of Rudyard Kipling’s Kim down my back only to wonder at the rash I got from god knows what strange insect taking exception to the sudden mishandling of what it considered to all intents and purposes, its home. Wrapping a cotton hanky around my face and excavating strange tomes in german, finding my very first copy of the adventures of tom sawyer behind a set of Sanskrit treatises on the Ramayana.

‘The performing flea of the literary world’, was an epithet accorded with some contempt and assumed by wodehouse with substantial glee. A strangely appropriate choice of words, for like the performing flea, wodehouse’s works never held many surprises for his devotees. Formulaic to the last , the story of boy meets girl and sordid aunts set in Edwardian England never lost its charm. But the astonishing output blinds us to the beautiful prose, intersperse with elaborate misquotations and intricate wordplay, the hallmarks of a master wordsmith. It’s been my aim to have the complete works of Wodehouse before I die, a fanciful  goal you might say, still it gives me an incentive to resist the temptation to fall on the nearest uncovered spike the next time I’m dragged by my mother on one of her shopping jaunts.

Everyone’s  a cheat!, well , the chicken kabab restaurants anyway. The stiff rubbery chicken tastes like cardboard marinated in spicy gravy and wrapped around a few bones by someone with a very bad grounding in fowl anatomy. A summary investigation by yours truly into these foul goings on reveals a serpentine chain of deceit, involving a chicken farmer, a truck with a busted crankshaft and a dodgy meat distributor. While I unravel this tangled web of kababs, a hungry mob bays at me to get the rest of the order and be quick about it, I drop the investigation, after all ones family clutching your  hair and spewing out orders by the second  hardly allows the use of the little grey cells.

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Not many people seem too bothered by the recession here. Indeed sometimes its hard to find evidence of it affecting anybody. As far as Indians are concerned prices have always been rising and always will rise. My father says when he was a boy he once travelled from mysore to calcutta in comparative luxury on the princely sum of 30 rupees, an amount lesser than a dollar in today’s rates, but a positive nestegg in my father’s heyday. Which just goes to show the astonishing rate of inflation in this country.  Like all right thinking Indians I blame the politicians, our potbellied knights in white khadi. But sometimes, when I am filling the bike with petrol and watch the meter ticking, I wonder if we could have done something to stop this spiral of fiscal ruin. But it only lasts a moment, because there is a honking noise and the guy behind me tells me to move on.