No News is Good News?

Sometimes I don't return calls. I pick up the phone, and go through the motions mentally. I have a rough skeleton of the entire conversation so, I yawn and rewatch a rerun of South Park.

Relationships, friendships plateau off endlessly because of time and space. Too much time spent together, or too little. Too much space in between me and her, or too little. Nothing to talk about, too much to talk about.

"We finish..."
"...each other's sentences!"
and that's why we clicked.
"I want to make friendship with you," I said, and we laughed and laughed and laughed until our sides hurt. But, in my defense, even a standup artist can be redundant in his acts. The jokes become predictable. I become predictable. The habits are cute, but the conversation isn't.

Soon, our friendships thrive on other lives. Pregnancy, divorces, secret boyfriends, births, accidents, rumors. Something new, something borrowed, something blue....

Now, I pick up the phone and go through the motions physically. Discuss, analyze, judge, agree, reconnect--reset.

Things must happen, information must be amassed to patch our lines. Otherwise, we are left reading about Sachin Tendulkar's broken toe for over a month in the headlines.

Strangely and maybe even rightly so, by general consensus the best of our very best bffs are the ones on that plateau with us. The 'I can be quiet when I'm with you, I can be myself' kinda buddies. The bored and boring kinda buddies.

The only way that I know of to fix this, is by careful manipulation of time and space. We meet after so long and yet, it's like we were never apart. How have you been? This was so much fun, listen, let's keep in touch this time...yes, yes, let's.

And/Or

I load a 0.3 micron thin mask over my sample in a lithography system. The mask has sub-50 nm features and I've done over a hundred experiments to reach this stage. It should work. It has to work. Every ion in the system must cooperate. Please follow the Gaussian, please please please. Every dust particle will land anywhere but on the spot I want it to. A prayer, a shiver. A prayer. Please don't let the mask break. Please nothing should move. Please, please, please don't screw this up.

Nothing snaps. I still breathe. But do I get the 20nm patterns I want? Where science fails, God prevails.

In the great grand scheme of things and in the teeniest tiniest particulates of matter, every picosecond of 'is' and 'isnt', is or isn't.

Ever since I could afford insurance, this has become more and more clear. Will I die, won't I. Can I manage driving sans a collision from April through October? How much do I bet that I won't need a cavity filled up this year? And so, I gamble my existence. 500$ deductible. Maybe...1000?

I took a course 'Probability & Statistics' in grad school, a science designed to etch out a sample space of possibilities in 2D and 3D and nD and godknowswhat. Quantifying for the sake of mankind infinite random possibilities, neatly charting it to a Poisson distribution so we can be relieved that the unpredictability is predictable.

But, not all things are Poisson. And almost nothing is binary. Add to that my weak mental math skills. So, I supplement with Celestial Prophecy, The Secret, Power of Now, Power of Positive, Power of Prayer, learn to harness all my energy to think up a parking spot at 10:30 am Tuesday in the Engg Bldg lot. Murphy, leave me alone, dammit!!!

Some people take up Pessimism. Earnestly, sincerely. Upside is an ever-pleasant surprise when they push F5 and the program runs sans a red beeping 'Error!'. The downside is..well, pessimism.

Some people take up Optimism. Earnestly, sincerely. Gooooood Morning! Beautiful day, isn't it? I parked way out across the street, but it's okay, I enjoyed the walk. Don't worry, you'll definitely win the lottery this year.

The horoscope booklet my parents had made is almost as thick as my Masters thesis. Years that will be good for me, years that I must be wary of men and marriage, years that my tummy will ache. The Universe working hard to make me or break me and a How-To book for surviving in this cruel world.

If I ever forget how little control I have over the is's and isnt's, if I ever forget my place in the great grand scheme of things and the teeniest tiniest particulates of matter, I play a quiet game of Minesweeper.

Frankly Challenged

Excerpt from the movie 'In Good Company' (2004)
Carter Duryea (played by Topher Grace): I'm gonna have to let some people go.
Dan Foreman (Dennis Quaid): Why do you say let them go? They don't want to go. Why don't you just say fire them?
Carter Duryea: Because it sounds better.
Dan Foreman: Not to the person getting fired it doesn't.


We have today, H.R. departments, customer service representatives, and even doctors trained intensively in the fine art of diplomacy. There's a new glossary of terms like 'vertically challenged', 'dusky', and (haha!) 'independent'.

What would you rather have? Would you rather the pretty lady at the counter on Terminal B Gate 22 say 'I'm sorry we screwed up and overbooked. You have two options. Take a refund. Or we can book you onto another flight Tuesday night 11pm?'

This is assuming the same amount of information essentially is conveyed by both the good cop and bad cop. And, this is assuming we are perceptive enough to connect the dots etched out by the good cop.

If we do choose the harsh truth, does that make us masochists? Or....or do we want the other person to suffer a little too. Cringe a little in their seats, shift about crossing and uncrossing their legs, wince and say 'I can't see you anymore. I don't like you.'

Honestly, for me, it's mostly the latter.

As I'm sure for most people, we want to hear the facts like shards of glass. There is a tendency to believe that clarity is achieved this way--at the risk of sounding like an old wise Asian (!) teacher, 'Clarity is within you'.

I concede that this is a very gray area of discussion. There may also be times, when I'm curled up in denial and know that my friend is trying to tell me she doesn't approve of my taste in men, that I don't look good in skinny jeans anymore, but I don't want it said out loud. And if the conversation leads there inconsequentially even bordering on dangerous terrain, I might get rebellious and say 'Go on, say it. Say what you really mean, that you think I'm fat!'

The Power of Negativity

I was at Kroger with my friend and we were rushing to get last minute things for a last minute party. We decided on a big chocolatey cake and I think she had a phone call or something to attend to while I rushed to one of the checkout aisles. There was a man ahead of me with what I thought was a cartful of things so I asked him urgently, 'Can I go before you?' Sounded reasonable to me, all I had was one cake. But, he replied almost immediately, 'No.' Lucky for me, turned out he had only two things to buy. And with the last item he looked at me and my cake cheekily and asked 'So why'd you want to go ahead of me?' I fumbled and mumbled something about getting late or thinking that he had tons of things to scan.

Later in the car, I told my friend how cool it was that he could say 'no' just like that! I know it could've turned into offensive or unchivalrous or something like that but, to me and her, it was so admirable.

It's so hard to say no, for me. [Not a good admission for a gal to make, is it?!]
If I could just sum up everything that's ever gone wrong in my life it would all come down to a gutless kid/teenager/adult that nodded a lot.

Anyway, that's my future therapist's problem. Let's come back to shallow waters because that's more doable for my mediocre writing skills: why is it such a big deal to refuse someone I don't like, asking me to do something I don't like?

Culture, politeness, etc.--but, isn't that illogical though? How much of an effect should these have? How about if I bow and refuse politely? It's the fear of 'looking bad' that overrides convenience. And so, I end up with a terrible haircut and leave the salon sans a fuss and cry in the privacy of my car.

In the other, slightly better case, there's the desperate attempt at a pathetic excuse.
'I would share my last piece of tiny chocolate with you, but my Mom said not to.'
'I already have a bf'
'I'm sorry my car broke down. Otherwise, I'd have driven 50 miles to the airport to pick you up and drop you back'

Maybe sometime in the future I might need a favor...I have a busload of kickass friends. Who would I rather ask?

Maybe I'm stashing Karma points. Yea yea, while boozing and backbiting bout those buggers.

Maybe I'm just too nice to turn down an opportunity to help another human being. Ha! I don't believe I can ever say that line with a straight face.

Maybe I want them to think I'm nice...yup. That's probably it. One drag and they won't think I'm such a prudie.
I hate them. But they can't hate me.

-----------------------

Personal milestone:

Several months ago, when I was still in Texas, a deep, manly voice called me on my landline to rattle on about how I must've seen the news about some cop(s) that died in service and funds were being gathered for his family. Would I like to donate 25$, 50$, or 100$?
"Oh," I replied sarcastically, "I get a choice?"
"Yes, ma'am. 25$, 50$, 100$"
"I can't give that much."
"Ok, we're going to put you in for 15$ then. Is that okay?"
....

"Um...I guess."

The next few days I kicked myself for donating to a charity I didn't want to. I know, I know, it's a good deed. But, still, principle of the thing. I thought about calling and reverting my pledge. For 15$? Nah, forget it. Won't look good.
I got a badge and some other paraphernalia (which ironically seemed worth almost 15$!) so I could brag about how I helped our uniformed guardians.

[Enter: My Kroger hero]

Two months later, the voice called again. Same script.
"But, I already paid for that."
"No, ma'am. It's some other cops that also died in the line of duty. It's for them. Would you like to donate 25$, 50$, or 100$?"
"I can't give that much."
"Ok, we're going to put you in for 15$ then. Is that okay?"
Wince. "No."
"How about just 10$? Any amount would be useful, ma'am."
Nausea. "No."


Do I hear an applause? :)

Livin' la Vida Loca

I'm from South Bombay, what we snobbishly call 'townside', or the 'downtown' of Mumbai. Of course, I was too cool to take a train to Ghatkopar (Central Railway is ewww!), so I walked up to the bus-stop to catch the A1 air-conditioned BEST bus. It would take an hour more but who cares, life was good. So, I get in and for some reason decide to sit on the front seat with lots of legroom and the best view of the road.

'Weaving' took a whole new meaning for me. The gigantic vehicle was expertly steered through C.P. Tank, Kalbadevi, Chirabazaar among countless other smaller cars with sour drivers, vendors that laid out a thin sheet on the road (not the pavement!) to display their wares, snack stalls, restless children and their mothers, window-shopping teenagers, angry pedestrians banging the side of the bus to guilt the driver for barging two inches closer than expected, and super-super angry taxi drivers leaning out the window, honking, yelling.

At the front of the bus, you get a clear perspective of the size of the bus, versus the amount of space allowed for it in that tiny, busy, irritated street. It was so interesting, I had to put away my crossword to watch the show. Our driver had very little margin for error; I was itching to scream back at that inconsiderate, idiot cabby.

But, not a single crease of frown on my Mumbaiyya hero, the BEST bus driver, and his grinning companion, the BEST bus conductor. We almost barely brushed the sleeves of so many pedestrians, I winced uselessly each time. What a man, what a performance!

Before climbing down the two steps to my stop, I dug into my stash of candy I usually save for the begging street children and dropped it all into his palm. He didn't even thank me, but he had the smug smile of 'all-in-a-day's-work'; it almost embarrassed me.

This man would go home, nonchalantly hang up his khaki bus driver uniform, eat dinner, and get a well-deserved night's rest. He didn't even remember how many people abused him on the road, the faces of the thud! thud! bus-slappers, or the dirty looks of all the aunties.

It is no feat to maintain calmness in the safe haven of Osho's ashram, or to figure the true meaning of life in the seclusion of an upscale spa. Chamomile tea, lavender oil, body wash, ylang ylang, jasmine, sandalwood, mint, rose, and citrus. Landmark Forum, Personality Development, The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. These are the urban formulas of obtaining the 'bus-driver bubble'.

So while the less courageous such as me, are vacationing away on some mountaintop with switched-off cellphones, getting well-boozed & well-snoozed, and reading about celebrity divorces.....Life is still waiting outside the door,
"Maa ka doodh piya hai to saamne aa!!"

It's Your Turn to Roll the Dice.

Everyday survival for superficial people like me, depends on cute and complicated games--cute because they're meaningless, and complicated because nobody tells you the rules.

It started when I was a teenager. There were these imaginary guidelines. For example, phone calls: "He called last time, so I guess it's okay for me to call now." "I called three consecutive times already, I can't call again!" "Maybe....just maybe I can call because I'm worried. Like genuinely worried. I mean, he could have gotten into a car accident. Or maybe he's sick." and I would try to make myself believe that as best as I could and "I'll just call and ask if he's okay, 30 seconds tops. That's allowed."

Then there were the rules behind the code of silence. First one to speak after a fight, or a snub, loses. Glance quickly, is (s)he looking at me?, look away look away look away, be cool. But, wait! What if its their birthday? Is it okay to wish them? Is it still counted as 'talking'? Then I rewind to the incident and judge how bad the argument was and decide whether or not this person deserves a simple birthday wish.

Please don't roll your eyes at me, we all play these games (to different degrees). After my job interview, apparently sending out thank you notes the same day shows neediness, and too late shows lack of interest. Act like you don't need the job, I'm told.

This means that. That means this.

None of us, that live in active society, are past these riddles and twisters. Mind-games they're called, and that's exactly where they breed. The creative try to find loopholes, and the egotistical try to make new friends.

Our bodies go through the day normally; coffee, shower, breath mints, turn the knob, type the code, pay the bills. Meanwhile, our egos are elsewhere constantly making senseless sense of nonsense. "How dare she ignore me!" but pretend I don't care, pretend I didn't even notice. "Hadn't I gifted him a pen-holder for Christmas? Why don't I see it on his desk?" but pretend I don't care, pretend I didn't even notice.

So desperately we want to be thought perfectly of, and so desperately we all want to be unique.
"I'm gonna wear mismatched flip-flops. I'm cool enough to pull it off, it'll be something different." Fingers tightly crossed, hoping it's noticed, hoping it's admired. And ironically someone somewhere probably says to herself, "Hmmph. She thinks she's cool? It looks stupid." and pretend I don't care, pretend I didn't even notice.

And thus, going through the actions stone-faced, smiling politely when required, we feed the storm going on inside of us, gulp down enormous amounts of caffeine, and frown when left alone. Some of us read it away, some of us 'shrink' it off, the price of calm for just a few hours.

It's Monday. I wonder who I'll be today.

Who's the Boss?

I tried my best to avoid eye-contact and never speak to anyone on the train to college, especially since it was Central Railway. CR has a smell (stink) of it's own, a certain drabness despite the mix of gaudy colors of Navari saris, and Hawaiian shirts bought from Fashion Street. A varied class of working people, who we try to pretend don't exist, crowd the platforms everyday, peering over each other's shoulders to catch a glimpse of the 10 minute late train still not appearing on the horizon.

I got in, and got to reading. Outside the window was slums, inside the window were the people from the slums. There was nowhere else to look but into my book. I kept my eyes down at all times, ignoring the hawkers, the beggars, the person on the seat across from me. The person on the seat across from me was not mentally adequate. Dirty frock, haggled hair, glazed eyes, the works; she started up conversations with everybody that sat there and drove them away. I was sure she thought I was a grump, but it was relieving because she didn't try to talk to me.

The hawkers went by, sneering at her, teasing even. She kept up the jest, it was all good. But, she couldn't resist the flower woman with the sweet-smelling cane basket, and asked her for some Mogras. The lady firmly said, "4 rupya." My idiot friend asked again, insisting she didn't have any money. She removed her pouch, and counted some old 5 paise, 10 paise coins and even some 25 paise circles but somehow it didn't add up. This was interesting and I had closed my book to watch the end. The Mogra-seller was shrewd. She looked at me sideways, advising the girl to ask 'someone else' for the remaining 2 rs.

"2 rupya hai?" the girl asked me, finally giving up. I was a little annoyed, but she was a retard wasn't she? And, she was poor. I was full of self-help, do-good books and quotes; decided to 'score some Karma points', proudly labeled myself as a generous person and got out the 4 rs from my wallet, with a high-and-mighty gesture at the girl to put back her tiny savings into her tiny purse.

Flowers were bought, smiles exchanged. The girl smelled her purchase, satisfied. I looked for my lost page, admiring my halo, and suddenly, "This is for you." The girl was holding up the flowers for me. I used the most filmi line ever known, "Kya?!", but she was insistent. I took the flowers, smiled at her, and I can swear she looked even happier than when she had managed to buy them.

It would be rude to go back into my shell now, Arthur Hailey had to go back into my bag. I smiled at her again, and every time she looked at me, I had to smile politely because I owed her. She grinned back each time, unaware of my situation, innocently unaware of how she was holding me hostage. I had to get down at Kurla and we exchanged goodbyes. We were friends, no doubt. We were friends, and I had no say in the matter.

Standing under the giant platform clock, I took a first whiff of my gift and realized who the real idiot was.

Oops! My Bad.

'Sorry' just doesn't cut it anymore. It's more a selfish word than anything; apologizing makes me feel better, especially if it is accepted graciously.

I was having a very bad day sometime last month. I got locked out of my apartment on a weekend, so it took forever to get maintenance to help, and another eternal 30 minutes to convince them to let me break in through the patio door--'It's not illegal to burgle my own place.' Within 4 more hours, I managed to lose my hubcap. The next couple hours after that, my guardian angel was probably busier than Mr. Bush--I almost hit countless cars and people. I was backing out of parking later that night to hang out with some friends, when I scared some young girls who thought I was carelessly gonna run them over. They started to get angry and began venting to each other and I could have shrugged and left. But, I rolled down my window and apologized. "Ohh, no it's ok!! Don't worry about it." Ahh! So much better. That's what I needed. A screwed up form of validation. I had a great time at the party.

It's a good concept in theory, owning up to your mistake(s). But, it's a little more than that. There has to be public acknowledgment. A quiet, internal understanding of your sins is not enough. There was a difficulty associated with the word, several decades ago. Admitting your fault used to be a stab to the ego; when my grad school advisor told me in front of company, "I'm so glad you proved me wrong! Good job." he totally refuted that idea, and had my firm respect.

Examples from experience, self-help books, Gurus, parents, have messed up my 'Sorry'. That word is for me, not for you. I am awesome, I am secure enough with myself to use it openly and mean it. Even if it is not accepted, a big burden is lifted. I said it, I meant it, take it or leave it. Ego unscathed, we throw out sorrys at funerals, forgotten birthdays, break-ups, divorces, party spills so freely. Do we need another word? Or should we raise the price on this one?

It started out so simple when I was 6. 'Sorry is a magic word.'. "Beta, say sorry to that nice auntie." "Aww, kaai nai, dikra...", warm hug and if I was lucky, Cadbury's Dairy Milk. Briefly, during adolescence, there was some weight to the tag: "Why should I call first? His fault, let him.". Then, 'The 7 Good Habits' happened. A little bit of vodka induced, "Who cares whose fault, who cares who's sorry, we're all gonna die anyway!!"

If you plead guilty, there's a lesser sentence. Confess, and all will be forgiven. Be the bigger person. Cronje and Clinton and public sympathy. Germany. Court-ordered apology. 'There is no excuse for my behavior' enters the Book of Cliches for 2003.

And the poor, poor victim with the onus of 'Forgiveness is a virtue.' has been pushed into the backseat because it's no longer about him! It's about the cute little culprit that decided to change his game. Three Hail Mary's and the Rosary must suffice even God.