***
Before the blog world breaks out in riotous colours of celebration, no....Gounder Brownie isn't tying any knot more significant than its pyjamas.
The Wouldu-Be in question is a remarkable young man who has performed several miraculous operations and succeeded in ingraining himself as a particularly annoying presence in my new house. If you do not like any word in the English language, you may display all your anger at it by submitting the offending word to Wouldu-Be, who being a professional linguistic mangler will then carry on the necessary steps to ensure that the word bleeds to a slow and painful death. Needless to say, you wouldu soon be left wondering how couldu somebody possess such talents. Moreover, Wouldu-Be will compassionately teach you how to improve your rather shameful 'South Indian' accent. Now, I do not have anything particularly against Hindi people other than the fact that I don't understand what they are saying, but when one insinuates that the several karore Madrasi phophulation knows no English, the Karunanidhi in me rises to the occasion replete with yellow shawl and sunglasses.
Wouldu-Be moved into our flat because we needed a sixth person to reduce the rent. Assuring us of cooperation so extreme that I wondered if he spent leisure hours pretending to be a doormat, Wouldu-Be became a part of the household at 17, Palmeira Square. Apart from the fact that he insisted he speak in Hindi to me, Wouldu-Be largely stayed out of my nerves. I compensated amply for this irritation by replying irrelevantly in Tamil, complementing the language with a liberal dosage of Malayalam for good measure. A typical conversation with Wouldu-Be would be something like this:
WB- Arrey, kya kaha paha maha daha hai!
GB- Hai.
WB- Arrey!! Chaha baha saha hai yaar!!
GB- Enaku onnum purilada thenga thalaya!
WB- Hindi is nashunel lenguage yaar!
GB- So?
As a distinguished member of that much enduring community on Orkut: Ek Gaon Mein Ek Kissan Raghu Thaatha, my blood sometimes boils more than does my potato curry, but such minor irritations are the ones that make great men and women and brownies out of ordinary mortals. One learns the relevance of Gandhi when one cannot afford to break utensils.
Gounder Brownie has never been one for gregarious behaviour. I am no life of the party, singer of keertanais, dancer of bharathanatyam or student of NIIT. If at all I decide to tie the knot, the groom's family must be content with several of the unique faces I am capable of producing. Deserving special mention here is the Constipated Harvard University Professor face that has won the hearts of several of my classmates in Stella Maris. But nostalgia can wait. My communication skills, as established, are rather limited and I do not entertain any vision of them rapidly improving anytime in the near future. However, certain incidents forced me to speak out and be heard.
When the Madrasis moved out with Wouldu Be, several residents of East Slope [one of the university residences] expressed their uniform shock and sympathies. Wouldu Be possessed a formidable reputation for extreme miserliness and high handedness and the residents were concerned that such a disposition would not endear him to us. It did not. Not only did I have to listen to how many persons of the Wouldu Be family presently resided in London roughly around ten million and a half times a day, I was also required to display reverence and veneration for this Mahatma who had decided to do his Master's at the ripe old age of 28. Appointing himself as the senior member of the house, Wouldu Be refused to listen to 20 year old pipsqueaks such as myself. I am pleased to say that he found most things about me annoying.
He did not quite appreciate the Yogi B Madai Thirandhu number that I begin my day with much like the pious maamis of Chennai who start theirs with M.S Subhalakshmi. It has become a ritual with me that I rise and shine and whine and dine with Yogi B blaring into my ears. Moreover, he did not quite enjoy the musical, high spirited laughter that breaks forth from the gurgling depths of my soul. Complaining that we make too much noise while we walk past his door, Wouldu Be refused to be amused by the logical explanation that feet, as a rule, make noise. He also alleged that each of us spent too much time in the bathroom, threatening to break open the door while a person who has eaten much bread suffered indignities inside. Such insensitivity in an old man of 28 is appalling indeed. I have sworn to myself that very soon, I shall retire with Leo Tolstoy's 'War and Peace' and make love to my literary aspirations inside the bathroom the next time Wouldu Be bangs the bathroom door. Blogging inside the bathroom also seems like a cheerful option and my next post might very well originate from the much contested territory at home.
Though Wouldu Be loomed large on my list of Unreasonable Persons, I remained largely unaffected by his complicated Kathakali dances of rage. However, there came a day when what went down, came up. Much as I try to sound sophisticated and suave, what must be said, must be said. The toilet was irreparably clogged. Not only did the problem violate Newton's Laws of Gravity, it went on gathering alarming gravity as the day proceeded and the members of the house had to perform their morning duties. An Emergency was declared which involved the suspension of all Fundamental Human Rights at home. We were no longer permitted to do what we had been doing since the moment of our birth. We rushed to the University toilets and I am proud to say that our University did not let us down. It allowed us to let down what we had to and we did. With clean minds and cleaner rectums, we complained to the landlord about the gathering storm in the pot and she promptly sent a plumber to look into the matter.
When the plumber arrived, a newspaper printing press was discovered inside our toilet. A charming collection of Brighton's Metro was evicted from the commode much to the puzzlement of all present. I know persons who read the newspaper on the commode, but I was ignorant of those who stored the newspaper inside the commode. The mystery was solved when it came to be understood that it was Wouldu Be who was behind the toilet-library. Since the Metro can be obtained free of charge on Brighton's buses, Wouldu Be had decided to be economical and save on toilet tissues. A much harassed household requested him to kindly purchase the needful and all was well...or so we thought.
Two days after the incident, the toilet was clogged yet again! This time, the paper that came out was the thick blue tissue paper available free of cost in the University's labs. Patience, has never been my vice. The women and brownie of the house gave several pieces of our minds to Wouldu Be who solemnly assured us that even in his earlier accommodation, he had used paper in such creative ways and that it had never caused a problem. We refused to listen to his declarations and proclamations and steadfastly held ground. Wouldu Be finally cleaned the toilet and as a significant achievement in my life at Palmeira Square, he gave up his unique toilet training techniques.
Now Wouldu Be looks at me as if he would like to shove me into the griller [dear parents, I know you will read this and envision my painful death at the hands of a psycho, but kindly desist from sending me panicked email]. I look back with characteristic nonchalance. He bangs plates when I am in the vicinity, I admire the snow on the roads. The rest of my flatmates also follow this cold shouldering policy with elan and Wouldu Be grows more and more grouchy with every passing day.
Dear Wouldu Be, if you are reading this post, know that in us, you have met your Waterloo.
The Wouldu-Be in question is a remarkable young man who has performed several miraculous operations and succeeded in ingraining himself as a particularly annoying presence in my new house. If you do not like any word in the English language, you may display all your anger at it by submitting the offending word to Wouldu-Be, who being a professional linguistic mangler will then carry on the necessary steps to ensure that the word bleeds to a slow and painful death. Needless to say, you wouldu soon be left wondering how couldu somebody possess such talents. Moreover, Wouldu-Be will compassionately teach you how to improve your rather shameful 'South Indian' accent. Now, I do not have anything particularly against Hindi people other than the fact that I don't understand what they are saying, but when one insinuates that the several karore Madrasi phophulation knows no English, the Karunanidhi in me rises to the occasion replete with yellow shawl and sunglasses.
Wouldu-Be moved into our flat because we needed a sixth person to reduce the rent. Assuring us of cooperation so extreme that I wondered if he spent leisure hours pretending to be a doormat, Wouldu-Be became a part of the household at 17, Palmeira Square. Apart from the fact that he insisted he speak in Hindi to me, Wouldu-Be largely stayed out of my nerves. I compensated amply for this irritation by replying irrelevantly in Tamil, complementing the language with a liberal dosage of Malayalam for good measure. A typical conversation with Wouldu-Be would be something like this:
WB- Arrey, kya kaha paha maha daha hai!
GB- Hai.
WB- Arrey!! Chaha baha saha hai yaar!!
GB- Enaku onnum purilada thenga thalaya!
WB- Hindi is nashunel lenguage yaar!
GB- So?
As a distinguished member of that much enduring community on Orkut: Ek Gaon Mein Ek Kissan Raghu Thaatha, my blood sometimes boils more than does my potato curry, but such minor irritations are the ones that make great men and women and brownies out of ordinary mortals. One learns the relevance of Gandhi when one cannot afford to break utensils.
Gounder Brownie has never been one for gregarious behaviour. I am no life of the party, singer of keertanais, dancer of bharathanatyam or student of NIIT. If at all I decide to tie the knot, the groom's family must be content with several of the unique faces I am capable of producing. Deserving special mention here is the Constipated Harvard University Professor face that has won the hearts of several of my classmates in Stella Maris. But nostalgia can wait. My communication skills, as established, are rather limited and I do not entertain any vision of them rapidly improving anytime in the near future. However, certain incidents forced me to speak out and be heard.
When the Madrasis moved out with Wouldu Be, several residents of East Slope [one of the university residences] expressed their uniform shock and sympathies. Wouldu Be possessed a formidable reputation for extreme miserliness and high handedness and the residents were concerned that such a disposition would not endear him to us. It did not. Not only did I have to listen to how many persons of the Wouldu Be family presently resided in London roughly around ten million and a half times a day, I was also required to display reverence and veneration for this Mahatma who had decided to do his Master's at the ripe old age of 28. Appointing himself as the senior member of the house, Wouldu Be refused to listen to 20 year old pipsqueaks such as myself. I am pleased to say that he found most things about me annoying.
He did not quite appreciate the Yogi B Madai Thirandhu number that I begin my day with much like the pious maamis of Chennai who start theirs with M.S Subhalakshmi. It has become a ritual with me that I rise and shine and whine and dine with Yogi B blaring into my ears. Moreover, he did not quite enjoy the musical, high spirited laughter that breaks forth from the gurgling depths of my soul. Complaining that we make too much noise while we walk past his door, Wouldu Be refused to be amused by the logical explanation that feet, as a rule, make noise. He also alleged that each of us spent too much time in the bathroom, threatening to break open the door while a person who has eaten much bread suffered indignities inside. Such insensitivity in an old man of 28 is appalling indeed. I have sworn to myself that very soon, I shall retire with Leo Tolstoy's 'War and Peace' and make love to my literary aspirations inside the bathroom the next time Wouldu Be bangs the bathroom door. Blogging inside the bathroom also seems like a cheerful option and my next post might very well originate from the much contested territory at home.
Though Wouldu Be loomed large on my list of Unreasonable Persons, I remained largely unaffected by his complicated Kathakali dances of rage. However, there came a day when what went down, came up. Much as I try to sound sophisticated and suave, what must be said, must be said. The toilet was irreparably clogged. Not only did the problem violate Newton's Laws of Gravity, it went on gathering alarming gravity as the day proceeded and the members of the house had to perform their morning duties. An Emergency was declared which involved the suspension of all Fundamental Human Rights at home. We were no longer permitted to do what we had been doing since the moment of our birth. We rushed to the University toilets and I am proud to say that our University did not let us down. It allowed us to let down what we had to and we did. With clean minds and cleaner rectums, we complained to the landlord about the gathering storm in the pot and she promptly sent a plumber to look into the matter.
When the plumber arrived, a newspaper printing press was discovered inside our toilet. A charming collection of Brighton's Metro was evicted from the commode much to the puzzlement of all present. I know persons who read the newspaper on the commode, but I was ignorant of those who stored the newspaper inside the commode. The mystery was solved when it came to be understood that it was Wouldu Be who was behind the toilet-library. Since the Metro can be obtained free of charge on Brighton's buses, Wouldu Be had decided to be economical and save on toilet tissues. A much harassed household requested him to kindly purchase the needful and all was well...or so we thought.
Two days after the incident, the toilet was clogged yet again! This time, the paper that came out was the thick blue tissue paper available free of cost in the University's labs. Patience, has never been my vice. The women and brownie of the house gave several pieces of our minds to Wouldu Be who solemnly assured us that even in his earlier accommodation, he had used paper in such creative ways and that it had never caused a problem. We refused to listen to his declarations and proclamations and steadfastly held ground. Wouldu Be finally cleaned the toilet and as a significant achievement in my life at Palmeira Square, he gave up his unique toilet training techniques.
Now Wouldu Be looks at me as if he would like to shove me into the griller [dear parents, I know you will read this and envision my painful death at the hands of a psycho, but kindly desist from sending me panicked email]. I look back with characteristic nonchalance. He bangs plates when I am in the vicinity, I admire the snow on the roads. The rest of my flatmates also follow this cold shouldering policy with elan and Wouldu Be grows more and more grouchy with every passing day.
Dear Wouldu Be, if you are reading this post, know that in us, you have met your Waterloo.
