The Gods of Bombay

Tuesday, September 25th, 2007

(Source: Daily News and Analysis)

Wednesday, September 26th, 2007

(Source: http://www.cricketnext.com/)

I should have said this earlier, but those of you who've had their fingers crossed for the last 24+ hours can uncross them now.

I believe I have made a successful investment for somewhere in the near future, and since it seems to be a really good investment, I'm fairly happy with the result of yesterday's event.

Most of us use our fingers to work, or perform any sort of action. However, if yours are free (or if you want to keep them out of mischief) Friday morning around 8:30am CDT, please keep them crossed for me for an hour or so.

Or, spare me a warm thought then, and wish me good luck. At this point, I believe all I really need to do is follow the first line of Tagore's immortal poem and keep my mind without fear, and my head held high, and I'll be okay.

Preoccupied, again.

In the span of the last hour, my room has gone from being terribly dirty to what I'd like to imagine is called 'academically messy'. This is because I'm expecting Fi's arrival.

I cannot wait. Not because I haven't seen him in a while (I saw him two weeks ago, and while that's a pretty bad average time to wait to see one's boyfriend in general, it is a relatively short span for us), not because he's coming over as opposed to me going there (I prefer going there anyway, and he's actually coming on business), but because the thing I mentioned in this post seems to be inching forward and there's no better advisor than Fi.

Waiting....

The Brain of a Goof

Well, the Indian cricket team actually won. That's nice. As an example of how much I looooove cricket, I have to confess I had totally forgotten about the match till S, at whose place I watched the semis, sent me an excited SMS announcing our victory. To which I went, Ooh, the match is already over??

Ouch.

Well, on the other hand, I did do a little bit of formal rule-hunting for golf. Prior to today, I learnt all I know of golf from P G Wodehouse. Really! When I first conversationally mentioned it to Fi, he tried to test me on some of the rules, and found I was actually fairly sound. But, anyway, today, at some point close to the end of the Nth reading of Wodehouse's The Heart Of A Goof, I felt the urge for a little more formal golf instruction, a taste of the rule-book, however dry. Does that make up for the non-cricket-programmed brain that's mine?!

Oh, well, never mind.

"Werewolvery"

I think werewolves were real. I believe they actually existed - and still exist. After all, there have been records of them in many unrelated cultures across the globe. But in the old days, when men first came up with the term, they used a few distractions and a little lies so we thought they were magical mystical shapeshifters, men (the word 'wer-' means 'man' in the sense of male humans) who transformed into terrible beasts at the onset of the full moon. Here's the reality:
1. They're not physical shapeshifters.
2. It's not necessarily the 'full moon', it's just a term for 'once a month'.
3. They're not men, they're women.

They're perfectly normal ordinary-looking women, some of them fairly pretty, I suppose, for why should they be excluded? They're perfectly well-behaved women ... for twenty-five out of thirty days. I'm sure some are very intelligent, some very talented, some are wonderfully patient and understanding and thoughtful and kind and gentle and generous and ... you get the picture. And a large chunk of them are probably a fair mixture of all of these wonderful qualities and a delight and joy to be with - most of the time.

The moon waxes and wanes. Ditto, all that wonderfulness. Most people don't feel the full force of the werewolvery but those who're closest to Ms.Perfect usually do. Suddenly they're dealing with bitchy and cranky and clingy and suspicious and annoying and tiresome and emotionally draining and just plain irritating and "oh my God you don't like me any more and are going to break up with me NOW, in the next call" and "I hate you, no I don't, yes I think I do, well I'm not sure, and whatever" and "WHY don't you ever call me??" when we just got off the phone an hour ago, and on and on and on and on....

Excuse the woman with PMS, Fi. Especially one who's under additional stress already. I wish I could do what Lupin does each month and curl up in the corner of my room so I don't upset the world around me, roommates included. But I cannot. Then I try not to keep in touch with most people right around now. I can isolate myself from almost everyone, family and you excluded; and the distance makes it possible to be Ms.Perfect all the time with my family. But unfortunately, that means you take the brunt of my once-a-month madness. I know you're very tempted to leave me alone for these two or three days and I know it's sheer love and concern and loads of courage that make you call me to ensure I'm okay, and most of the time I'm very very aware that what I give you back in return is something you definitely do not deserve. All I can say in my defense is, I'm sorry. I try, but a large chunk of this state is physiological, rather than purely psychological.

And thank you, Fi, for your shepherding par excellence.

May The Best Man Win

How large a "mass" do you need for "mass hysteria" to work?

This morning, almost against my will (which was to go to the lab), I got drawn into the semifinals of the Twenty20 tournament, India Vs. Australia. The spectators were S, her friend K, and myself. And through the medium of voice, Di. Three other humans apart from me. Let's say that's about thrice as much mass as mine.

Now, first, I'm not a sports enthusiast at all. The last few posts may have given a different impression, but really, I'm not. Second, I barely know cricket, and being Indian, that's a huge black mark against my name. Third, and what's most exasperating for people around me, I tend to have this philosophical attitude towards competitive sports. So in, say, a nail-biting Indo-Pak match when people around me are busy, well, chewing on their nails and hair and - and going nuts, I've been known to comment (they think, flippantly), that 'may the best man win'. Hell, I do that in my own life, so why it cannot be the motto for a damned game that doesn't affect my life is beyond me, but let's not discuss that right now. Anyway, for these three reasons and more, I'm not the best company during any sort of competitive match. Especially for people who have the 'Do or Die' attitude towards the side they're supporting.

Anyway, so I start to watch the match and I'm going "May the best man win" (in my head), every time K or S groan or cheer. For me, I need the benefit of action replay to follow the match. Not because I don't understand the game but because the pace is exhausting, and something I am unused to. Thank the heavens for omniculars, eh? Pretty soon, I start to keep up with the pace, and suddenly the match turns exciting. For those who watched it, we all know that pretty much till the final over, we were unsure of which way things would swing. So, now, to my astonishment, I find myself cheering and groaning along with the rest of the audience. Which is a Huge Thing. For me.

After the match, these two talk excitedly about the big Indo-Pak finale, while I call Di to say hello. She's screaming on the phone and going "I'm going to bunk work on Monday - it's INDO-PAK!!!" and pretty soon I hear a weird, terribly excited version of my own voice, screaming, "I have to figure out a way to do that too! IT IS INDO-PAK!!!!", etc. And then, very sensibly, she brings up the "May the best man win" point, and I scream back saying, "But it's INDO-PAK. Of Course, I support India. Best Man?? Crap!!" and stuff like that.

The euphoria lasted till I got home. Then, the effect of the very very academic environment of my room took over, and I started to wonder what that was. Mass hysteria? What mass? What happened there for three hours? Who was that other human sitting inside of me and losing her mind over, of all things, Competitive Sports? A Mere GAME? Who's was that soul that chucked the very deeply ingrained "May the best man win" and started to support - what? Favoritism? Luck? Mediocrity? The spur of the moment? Well, to give them credit, the Indian cricket team is doing well in this tournament, I hear. But this isn't about the team any more. It's about me.

As a child, I remember walking every report day to class with my mother. Four times a year. Back then, they used to put the names of the first, second and third rankers in the class on the blackboard, so all the students and parents had that information on which to base the child's performance, if they wanted to. My mom never worried about it much, she knew what to expect. I worried about it, walking silently beside her towards my class, but I never once remember thinking "I hope it's me again this time." No. I said, well, may the best man win. Luckily, I managed to hit the 'best man' jackpot nearly every time. I've never felt the satisfaction of flying above the rest, for me it was about myself, and how I could better my record. Luckily, my dictum paid off when things got bad sometime in the middle - I could always say, it's fine, you CAN take a back seat sometimes - some other people are as good or better than you are, so it's okay. I guess it's this attitude that has helped me to focus on my goals even when the going was tough - and after a while, it was this attitude that allowed me to bounce back to take the accustomed seat again.

I love my country, but I admire excellence even more. I wish Team India all the very best for the upcoming finals, and I hope they do as well as they ought. But, at the end of the day, May The Best Man Win.

And no, I cannot make the match on Monday, I have way too much to do.

"ROTFL"

That's one phrase that's used so often, especially on chat, except that you're not really rolling on the floor laughing then, are you? 'It's just an expression', as they say. However, last night, I was such a superb example that I wish someone had taken a video! (And I'm a very camera-shy person in general, me wanting a video of myself is saying something.)

I was with a friend last evening, we were walking home from the beach around ten-ish, and the conversation turned at some point to "Greatest Saves on What Would Otherwise Have Been Most Embarrassing Moments". Now, I don't want to divulge what is clearly her secret but when she narrated the history of her save, it immediately hit me how awful her situation was (and how funny, when seen from another angle) and how well she walked out. Plus, I would classify hers as one of those slightly gross but allowable dinner party stories that make you an instant hit in your company. Not that I'd use it, but well, the temptation's strong.

Well, anyway, so I start to laugh. Now it's well past ten at night, but there's still traffic in the area. I laugh and laugh, and pretty soon, I'm getting tired out from the laughter. Almost before I realized it, I was on the grass (we're still on the sidewalk, in full view of everyone) and R-O-T-F-L. Poor S! First of all, it's her awful story. And that's my reaction. Then, people start to look out from the windows of their vehicles. It's Friday night - and I might be the girl who just walked out the door of the nearby bar, wasted. (I swear, all I had was water. Maybe that's what it was.) And then, S is so 'sensible', I'm sure it struck her she'd never been in a weirder situation before. So, she starts hissing at me to get up and act my age, and that makes me laugh even more!

Well, anyway, the hysteria died down a bit eventually, and she took it well enough to joke to her boyfriend about it when we met him this morning; but I'm sure I won't be invited back there in a hurry. Not because I laughed at her story so hard, but because, in the telling of her first embarrassing situation, she got caught in another embarrassing moment.

Zorro

This is a picture of Zorro, my colleague's two-year old Chihuahua.



Did you know that the word 'Zorro' in Spanish means 'fox'? Neither did my colleague, until I told her. Although, from this angle, doesn't the little guy live up to his name?

Unfettered

Sometimes your subconscious mind sends you an apt signal in a wonderfully ingenious manner.

Last night I was talking with someone on my cellphone; that is to say, I was trying to have a conversation while the person on the other end kept interrupting it to do other things. While that is always very irritating, I was also in that non-tolerant mood in which this little thing was a sign that I was being taken for granted. I'm not very much of a phone-person and don't talk to people very often. But, please, when YOU call, make sure you are in a position to have a conversation. Or don't call.

In any case, I wasn't having a 'good time' on the call. Given who I was talking to, it is no surprise I was upset. Anyhow, sometime in the conversation, if you could call it that, I closed my eyes for the span of a blink. I swear, nothing longer. And in that moment, I saw myself from the back, walking - and then, suddenly, sprouting a huge pair of wings, and flying away.

What a clear message! I made an excuse and, in a minute, was back into my book.

Saturday Morning Ramble...

So, it's a lovely Saturday morning outside, and I'm here working in the lab. Lots of stuff to do - the consequences of taking Labor weekend and a day more off for Fi's birthday - and the result of committing to a Sox game tomorrow. Someone, teach me baseball! (The Sox are baseball, right?) Well, at least I'm upfront about it - I'm not going for the game, I'm going for the company.

Talking of games, I seem to be on a roll. We spent most of Fi's birthday at the US Open, and for all my years of watching Paa cheer tennis players on TV, I *should* be ashamed to admit that I learnt the rules enough to follow the game just the day before. But I'm not. Added to which, I am a bit surprised that Fi chose to celebrate his birthday in the searing sun, walking around, lying down on semi-wet grass and watching the occasional set of tennis. Well, I guess he'd be equally surprised if I decided to drag him around to the Met for my birthday next year - which I should, you know. Now, that would be a wonderful way to celebrate a birthday! (The wonderful-est, of course, is the way Pink celebrated hers - by defending her dissertation and getting that almost elusive PhD!)

Last weekend, though, was still fun. We met up with Ananymous a couple of times. We had a nice picnic in The Park on Sunday (bhel-puri and sandwiches), and a birthday lunch (with the most delicious koftas - I surpass myself sometimes!) for both Fi and Ananymous on Monday. It was an eventful-in-a-quiet-way vacation. I only wonder how hard Di worked at getting used to my occasional bouts of, well, weirdness!

On another note, has anyone been reading about the Popcorn Lung guy lately? I hit this really good public health blog, The Pump Handle, when looking up this silly-sounding (but not so silly) ailment. They have some really good coverage on several issues that I'd consider more urgent than popcorn lung. And, here's my reaction to all the hype:
1. It's just ONE consumer so far - independent researchers should undertake detailed studies before making any sort of decision or judgement on food flavorings.
2. As far as workers go, I'm sure there is a way to 'insulate' them from the flavoring. At the very extreme, oxygen masks? But at the same time, it is weird that symptoms that were ignored all these years in popcorn-factory workers are now big news when seen in a single consumer.
3. Maybe the FDA can restrict the amount of diacetyl used in butter-flavored popcorn, instead of taking diacetyl off the GRAS list altogether. After all, the chemical is a radical found naturally in several other products, and not harmful when taken in regulation amounts.
4. Please, why are we basing all our hype on the guy who's been eating two bags of butter-flavored popcorn everyday, for the last ten years?? At that rate, I'd be worried about worse ailments than popcorn lung.

Please note: I don't really care for the microwaveable buttered popcorn - I don't like it very much and I haven't eaten it in months, maybe years. I'm also not much of a fan of preservatives and flavoring in food - I like most of my stuff organic. But at the same time, there is a difference between systematic research and judgements based on plain hysteria - and there always is a middle ground. One bag of buttered popcorn taken the way it is meant to be - i.e., maybe once a month, might not even be a bad thing - if the rest of your lifestyle is tolerably healthy. Or else, remove everything else that contains diacetyl off the shelves - according to one comment I read, this includes organic butter, cheese, sour cream, etc. How moderate are we anyway if we make Wayne Watson an ideal example???