Showing posts with label earliest posts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label earliest posts. Show all posts

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Five-line rib tickler

Humour is not the first (or even the usual) thing I look for in poetry, but one particular type of poem has always tickled my fancy. It’s called the limerick, supposedly taking its name after a little village in Ireland, a five-line doggerel with an aabba rhyming scheme, and it can deal with any subject under the sun, so long as it is at least vaguely funny (some can be wickedly so). Here’s a sample of hundreds that I have enjoyed:

A woman who isn’t too stunning
Competes in marathon running.
She really enjoys
Being chased by the boys:
Is she sporting, or just quite cunning?

If you share the same kind of taste, send in your favourite limerick. Only, not too very naughty ones, please – we have to keep in mind that a lot of teenagers with clucky parents read this blog, and my daughter does, too!

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

That thing in your ear...


The mobile (or cell phone, have it your way) has spread like wildfire all over this country since 2000. The newspapers inform me that India has now emerged as the second biggest cell phone-using country in the world, having recently surpassed the US (given the population it was, of course, only a matter of time, some will say!), and at the speed with which it is growing, it may soon overtake China. It generally sounds good when you hear your country is tops in something, but is this one a dubious distinction or what?

At first (only about ten years ago, actually, but for today’s young that’s prehistoric times…) cell phones were very expensive and pretty useless (you could hardly get a connection), so they were (predictably) flaunted as status symbols by that tiny class of people who have too much money and no idea of what they can do with it (and would die if you suggested charity, or even buying good books). Then connections improved dramatically and prices fell through the floor (the set that cost Rs. 25,000 in 1998 would go for Rs. 1,500 today and won’t find buyers, it’s so out-of-date), and it could hardly serve as a status symbol any longer, seeing that every maidservant and railway coolie and rickshawwallah had one – but it happened so fast that the hip and happening crowd couldn’t give up the habit of carrying around their phones in their hands fast enough (ever wondered why people need to carry their mobiles tightly clasped in their hands or hanging from their necks as though it were a lifeline or something? I have been using one for six years now, and it has never been a bother hiding in my trouser pocket!)… and of course, a few phone makers are doggedly trying to keep prices up by advertising their gizmos as must-haves by getting them endorsed by celebrities and bedecked with diamonds and scented with rare perfumes and what have you. But a wag has already suggested that pretty soon the real status symbol will be not carrying a cellphone for all to see (and folks like me will at last heave a sigh of relief)… ‘Look, I don’t do what the riffraff does’!

But what are so many people doing with so many mobiles? The advertisements seem to suggest that you can’t even express to your loved ones how much you love them any longer if you don’t call or message them: just sitting down beside them and telling them face to face or giving them a hug or a kiss has become so passé, so uncool! I can see boyfriend and girlfriend by the score sitting on roadside culverts, engrossed in punching keys on their separate mobiles. Scientists have observed that after a million years of practising the use of the index finger, which supposedly separated us from the apes like nothing else, we have been persuaded by the cell phone in two decades flat to make the thumb the most-used of fingers, and I have grown so visually used to people with mobiles stuck to their ears that I actually started on seeing a man passing by merely scratching his ear instead of talking (or listening) on a phone: surely such people should be put in museums?

Stories of people being so engrossed in phoning that they are run over by cars and trains no longer raise eyebrows, and watching a man taking instructions from his wife on the mobile about what to shop for at the vegetable market made me wonder how we and our fathers coped without these gadgets for so long. Soon, they say, you won’t be able to drive without the aid of your GPS-enabled mobile. Listening to people’s choice of ringtones gives away more about their personalities than they would ever care to admit: my girls snigger about what they hear when their teachers’ mobiles suddenly go off in class. Mobiles are already offering radio, camera, email, TV and canned music in addition to phone and messaging facilities: how much longer before they start wiggling appendages and giving you services of a more intimate sort, and people gladly give up jobs and spouses before they part with their mobiles?

Monday, March 2, 2009

Pretty good doctor...

Medicine remains one of the few professions which I deeply respect. Females of the species, especially the contemporary young, urban, ‘educated’ kind, who think even hotel valets, airline stewardesses and call-centre operatives are professionals deserving of admiration, and believe that women unlike men ought to make money primarily to splurge on themselves, on the other hand, and working women who imagine they have a special right to make nuisances of themselves in public with their loud gossip on mobile phones and rudeness with fellow commuters or pedestrians, I regard with disdain.

At a major new private hospital in Kolkata which I happened to haunt morning and evening for a few days recently, I was pleased to find, therefore, a lot of smart young women – doctors as well as nurses – who knew their jobs well, and were doing them with the utmost sincerity, yet with ever smiling faces.

And I fell in love with a very pretty young thing whose smile was as bewitching as the seriousness with which she attended to her medical rounds. Very young, indeed – she could have been my pupil eight years ago! What stole my heart, though, was the fact that being very short (and unwilling, for some reason, to wear high heels…) she stood on tiptoe every time she wanted to peer through the glass into a patient’s room. I could have lifted her up in my arms, telling her I was daydreaming that I was doing it with my daughter in mind, but I resisted the temptation!

Monday, February 23, 2009

A good father?

To those who have been readers of my blog(s) for some time, here's a question. What kind of a father do you think I am? Is my daughter lucky or otherwise?
I am not really being facetious here. Unlike most parents I know, I did not convince myself the moment my daughter was born that I was the best thing that could have happened to her. And I have never stopped wondering...

Sunday, February 22, 2009

Jeeves forgotten?


I should have thought that P.G. Wodehouse created a true immortal with his Jeeves character. People from the time of Jyoti Basu till yours truly have been afficionados. Now, despite the fact that more people are learning English (after a fashion) all over India than ever before, few people read the Bertie Wooster books - and one of the reasons, so many of my pupils tell me, is that they find the English so 'difficult' that all the humour goes clean over their heads. Well, it is true that Wodehouse's English is incredibly sophisticated, what with its wealth of allusions, puns, innuendos, idioms and idiosyncratic turns of phrase - but if so many 'English-educated' people who have gone to the best schools (and are very snooty about their learning) cannot read what we in our day laughed ourselves to tears over, what price their education?

Saturday, February 21, 2009

Of noses and other profound things



It has been said that if Cleopatra's nose had been only slightly shorter, all history would have been different. In the Ramayana, we read of Lakshman cutting off Surpanakha's nose (as well as ears) for being too saucy, and that, as we all know, led to all hell breaking loose! And some people have been known to be extraordinarily sensitive about their extraordinarily long noses - the great (semi-legendary) French romantic and swordsman, Cyrano de Bergerac, challenged people to duels for insults to his nose (which he had often merely imagined) and composed poems extempore to the rhythm of his sword thrusts and parries even as he fought. There are endless jokes about Jews and their noses, and I have wondered whether having small/flat noses makes people feel bad or sad. Having a rather long hooter myself (and proud to know that in ancient Rome they called it 'patrician'), I often point to it to demonstrate what 'aquiline' means. Sharks have no visible noses, and dogs have rudimentary ones compared to us, yet they can smell far better. We weren't given such noses merely to be able to smell. Surely this is a matter that calls for profound thought?

Friday, February 20, 2009

Last post for the first day

'I have a billion,' sighed the tycoon, 'but I am seventy.'

'Why,' simpered the bimbo, 'you look twenty!'

Noticed the quote at bottom?

Now why is it there, do you wonder? I am not clinically insane - in the sense that I don't bite people or go dancing and singing in the buff or way-out things like that - and yet all my friends have known for a long time that lots of people call me mad, and not always very kindly either. Let me see: can you count the ways in which I have been said to be 'mad'? ... and do you think you can figure out why it might be a pleasure, too?

Witty about dying...

There was this king who, when his death was mentioned, exclaimed, 'Die? Why, Sir, that's the last thing I should do!' (I do, do hope people get the pun!)
Then there was the funny man who said 'I'm not afraid to die: I just don't want to be there when it happens.' And Sir Thomas More, who supposedly raised a finger, removed his flowing beard from the chopping block, put his head down, and told the executioner 'You can go ahead now; I didn't want my beard to be harmed; it has not offended the king.'
I wonder, too, if you have read about the monk who was always making his devotees laugh. When he was on his deathbed, he made his last request: that he should be cremated with his clothes on. When the pyre was lit, there was a great burst of firecrackers - he had apparently hidden a lot of them in his robes. Even at his funeral, he was making people laugh...

Apologia

That word above is an old-fashioned one, which most readers may not be familiar with. I am not apologizing for anything, just offering an explanation for why I should want to start another blog.

My other, original blog will continue and, I hope, thrive in the months and years to come. This one is not a separate project; I expect my old and faithful readers to visit it in tandem. But I also hope that this one will create a somewhat different image of me, and draw other kinds of readers…

If you ask why, my reasons are manifold:

· The older blog is getting cluttered with too many posts, and very few people have the time/patience to explore it for older posts,
· Despite my intentions (see this essay), it has started sounding rather too solemn, practical, worldly, and I would like readers to find out other facets of my character/interests too,
· To live a full and good life, one must attend to many things. As with money and work and sex and philosophy and music, pure fun and whimsy (of the cerebral kind, it goes without saying – I have no desire to attract your typical mall-hopper, pub-crawler, giggly teenager or party animal) should have some space for itself, and that is one of the themes I wish to attend to here, in the spirit of Carroll’s most famous ‘nonsense’ poem Jabberwocky

… well, there are other reasons, but let that be enough for now.

Oh, one more thing: I shall be delighted to have suggestions by way of comments here, too!

Love you…