Headstart point to cynicism.
Courtesy: a car driver and a college graduate. Both brilliant, sighed-out and anonymous. Both ghost writers to glitzier names.
What it must feel like to pen famous words, but to stop short of inking one's name with a proud flourish... To have no claim to the paeans & sighs it spawns, to master a smile of imposed contentment.
Does a ghost writer never wonder what his tombstone will say? Did he live at all? Maybe he doesn't even care what is etched on stone... Happily living in with dark humour. And why not? It serves the morning coffee and pokes fun at the distracting stomach rumble.
My neighbour panics when he sees his name missing in the telephone directory. "It's like I don't exist!" he worries. Anonymity is the pits. More abysmal when your entire life disappears into another's bejeweled and award-winning name.
Speak of ethics to the ghost writer and you will be spit on. There is no depression there, no talk of faceless glory. Just street logic.
Car driver laughs: "You know the background dancers in film songs who are much better than the hero/heroine and still go unnoticed? They are called 'atmosphere'. They get paid one meal and go home happily unfamous. I'm also atmosphere. Just with two left feet."
One point to dry humour. Draw.
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
Friday, July 23, 2004
Q&A
Question: Today's a rainy day. Would you like to...
(a) Grab some chai, breathe slow & smile as the steam from the cup warms your cold nose-tip?
(b) Think up rain-description lines that haven't already become damp sqids?
(c) Mentally list all rain songs from 'November rain' to 'Rain ise falling chama cham cham'?
(d) Wear pullovers, gloves and monkey-caps and fake some shivering & shuddering pretending you're in kashmir?
(e) Call home to spin a yarn that you'll be late because you're stuck in the rain, when all you want is to long detain that obscure sojourn.
(f) Take off your shoes and stare at the shrivelled up, pale and impeccably clean toes and remember the bygone days of liesurely taken baths (when there was time to do the Liril song in the shower/waterfall every morning)?
(g) Not worry about the washed clothes getting wet outside?
(h) Catch dad to make tiny paper boats that must most definitely not sink?
(i) Play lagori with your neighbours and make sure you jumped into puddles just to be rugged and dirty when you went back home?
(j) Pray like crazy that the power goes off just so you could hear the "yaaaaaaaaayy"emanate from every house in your lane?
(k) Tease a rich kid for having an emergency light when you had candles that are definitely more fun?
Answer: All of the above. Pretty pleeeeeez....
(a) Grab some chai, breathe slow & smile as the steam from the cup warms your cold nose-tip?
(b) Think up rain-description lines that haven't already become damp sqids?
(c) Mentally list all rain songs from 'November rain' to 'Rain ise falling chama cham cham'?
(d) Wear pullovers, gloves and monkey-caps and fake some shivering & shuddering pretending you're in kashmir?
(e) Call home to spin a yarn that you'll be late because you're stuck in the rain, when all you want is to long detain that obscure sojourn.
(f) Take off your shoes and stare at the shrivelled up, pale and impeccably clean toes and remember the bygone days of liesurely taken baths (when there was time to do the Liril song in the shower/waterfall every morning)?
(g) Not worry about the washed clothes getting wet outside?
(h) Catch dad to make tiny paper boats that must most definitely not sink?
(i) Play lagori with your neighbours and make sure you jumped into puddles just to be rugged and dirty when you went back home?
(j) Pray like crazy that the power goes off just so you could hear the "yaaaaaaaaayy"emanate from every house in your lane?
(k) Tease a rich kid for having an emergency light when you had candles that are definitely more fun?
Answer: All of the above. Pretty pleeeeeez....
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
Appidi podu, podu, podu...
All that hysterical yelling and screeching was cruelly jolting me awake. Whyyyyy this utter disregard for my dreamworld?! Ok, whose vocal chords were so touched?!!
It turns out that my maid (who shall henceforth be referred to decently as Janaki) was making her presence felt. No, she doesn’t live with us like in some more prosperous homes.
… (Aside)
I had once heard a silver-spoon-still-in-mouth-at-16-years-of-age friend drawl, "Bahaduuuuur, paani lao" from a bedroom right next to the kitchen, where all the water she needed to drink was. 12-year-old Bahadur would stumble over himself to bring a glass of water placed neatly on a little sliver tray (probably kept in the drawer marked ‘Water Trays’ in the ahead-of-the-times modular kitchen). He wouldn’t ever take his eyes off the floor, except maybe to look at how much Tendulkar had scored. My friend would set the half finished glass of water aside, and after 10 minutes, when she reached for it again, it wouldn’t be there. Bahadur. As invisible as can be. Just doing his work and blending back into the walls.
...
And here was Janaki bringing the roof down with her bellowing.
At that decibel level, it was hard to make out what she was so happy about. Some glasses of water were handed to her, a chair softly slipped under her legs and a little prodding of her knees to get her to sit down. (all the while, I was playing Distracter Uncompare, making eye contact with Janaki. Believe me, it isn’t so easy when the subject is non-stationary).
Once she sat down, she brought out this bundle of what looked like cake, and said, "Happy Barthaday!!" with some remnants of the high pitch.
WHAT?? Oh no. Had I forgotten my mother’s birthday?? What a shameless, ungrateful, cold, compassionless daughter I was!!
Just as I was mentally scripting the most eloquent apology speech, amma said very sweetly, "Happy birthday to you, Janaki." And the girl who was just unabashedly calling upon the whole neighbourhood with her hysterics was now blushing a deep maroon.
It turns out that it indeed was Janaki’s 19th birthday. And she had been reminding me about it incessantly only for the last three days. Major guilt trip. Quick salvaging required.
In about 10 minutes, her little cake was beautifully redecorated with some powdered sugar, some chocolate syrup and 19 birthday candles (On finding those still lying around, amma threw a look at dad, her expression triumphantly saying, "So NOW look how things we don’t EVER throw away come in handy..")
We all sang "Happy bird-day toooo youuu" very tunefully (it’s a family of AIR singers, you see…), with some classical intonations and Janaki cut the cake amid applause (ok. Not applause. Clapping by 3 sets of hands. Technicalities!)
Me: So what are you going to do today?
Janaki: I will see Gilli with my friends. (For those you thought "huh?", Gilli is the super-duper-hit tamil movie starring dappankoothu-doing Vijay. Will explain dappankoothu another day)
Me: Oh, which theatre?
Janaki: Che! Theatre?! We will bring CD… (Shove THAT in the face of the chaps on TV who say ‘Don’t buy pirated tapes. Watch movies in the theatre.")
Me: Ok, you want holiday… ?
This digging of grave, which meant her being stuck with all the housework, could not be tolerated by amma. She shot some 15 arrows (of all types shown in DD’s Mahabharath) at me with one sharp look. I shut up and turned my attention back to Janaki.
She was so thrilled about her barthaday. And amma was especially happy to see her madness. She had seen Janaki sell her gold earrings to pay her brother’s school fees some days ago. Amma had decided to do something about it. Something that involved going back to that pawnbroker when Janaki wasn’t around.
The best part of the morning? Listening to Janaki go about her work singing "appidi podu, podu, podu..." (also a tamil song starring Vijay) and finishing off every line with "happy bird-day"(remixed version).
Disclaimer: This is not an attempt to weave a heart-rending sad tale for a short story telling competition. It's the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me god. :)
It turns out that my maid (who shall henceforth be referred to decently as Janaki) was making her presence felt. No, she doesn’t live with us like in some more prosperous homes.
… (Aside)
I had once heard a silver-spoon-still-in-mouth-at-16-years-of-age friend drawl, "Bahaduuuuur, paani lao" from a bedroom right next to the kitchen, where all the water she needed to drink was. 12-year-old Bahadur would stumble over himself to bring a glass of water placed neatly on a little sliver tray (probably kept in the drawer marked ‘Water Trays’ in the ahead-of-the-times modular kitchen). He wouldn’t ever take his eyes off the floor, except maybe to look at how much Tendulkar had scored. My friend would set the half finished glass of water aside, and after 10 minutes, when she reached for it again, it wouldn’t be there. Bahadur. As invisible as can be. Just doing his work and blending back into the walls.
...
And here was Janaki bringing the roof down with her bellowing.
At that decibel level, it was hard to make out what she was so happy about. Some glasses of water were handed to her, a chair softly slipped under her legs and a little prodding of her knees to get her to sit down. (all the while, I was playing Distracter Uncompare, making eye contact with Janaki. Believe me, it isn’t so easy when the subject is non-stationary).
Once she sat down, she brought out this bundle of what looked like cake, and said, "Happy Barthaday!!" with some remnants of the high pitch.
WHAT?? Oh no. Had I forgotten my mother’s birthday?? What a shameless, ungrateful, cold, compassionless daughter I was!!
Just as I was mentally scripting the most eloquent apology speech, amma said very sweetly, "Happy birthday to you, Janaki." And the girl who was just unabashedly calling upon the whole neighbourhood with her hysterics was now blushing a deep maroon.
It turns out that it indeed was Janaki’s 19th birthday. And she had been reminding me about it incessantly only for the last three days. Major guilt trip. Quick salvaging required.
In about 10 minutes, her little cake was beautifully redecorated with some powdered sugar, some chocolate syrup and 19 birthday candles (On finding those still lying around, amma threw a look at dad, her expression triumphantly saying, "So NOW look how things we don’t EVER throw away come in handy..")
We all sang "Happy bird-day toooo youuu" very tunefully (it’s a family of AIR singers, you see…), with some classical intonations and Janaki cut the cake amid applause (ok. Not applause. Clapping by 3 sets of hands. Technicalities!)
Me: So what are you going to do today?
Janaki: I will see Gilli with my friends. (For those you thought "huh?", Gilli is the super-duper-hit tamil movie starring dappankoothu-doing Vijay. Will explain dappankoothu another day)
Me: Oh, which theatre?
Janaki: Che! Theatre?! We will bring CD… (Shove THAT in the face of the chaps on TV who say ‘Don’t buy pirated tapes. Watch movies in the theatre.")
Me: Ok, you want holiday… ?
This digging of grave, which meant her being stuck with all the housework, could not be tolerated by amma. She shot some 15 arrows (of all types shown in DD’s Mahabharath) at me with one sharp look. I shut up and turned my attention back to Janaki.
She was so thrilled about her barthaday. And amma was especially happy to see her madness. She had seen Janaki sell her gold earrings to pay her brother’s school fees some days ago. Amma had decided to do something about it. Something that involved going back to that pawnbroker when Janaki wasn’t around.
The best part of the morning? Listening to Janaki go about her work singing "appidi podu, podu, podu..." (also a tamil song starring Vijay) and finishing off every line with "happy bird-day"(remixed version).
Disclaimer: This is not an attempt to weave a heart-rending sad tale for a short story telling competition. It's the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me god. :)
Saturday, July 17, 2004
Hero power, go get it!
Sweep, sweep.
"Excuse me..."
"Maydem, so early to aapees (office)?"
(smile, sigh) "Work is there, Leela"
I wait for her to do her job. It's her time now. 8 am.
Slosh, slosh. Swob to right... Thud! hello, wall right. Swob to leffffft... Thud! cringe, wall left. Swob, swob.
Destination: Cubicle, stage right.
Obstacle: Industriously cleaned floor that looks wet enough to bring anyone down.
Aha! Dry patch! Maybe I'll walk quickly over that... My right foot lifts gingerly, with presumptious subtlely...
Damn. Too late. Leela's got that one too. Small-time predicament now becomes insurmountable challenge.
The wet floor expands menacingly, laughing a hollow laugh, daring me to sully its shiny cleanliness.
Ok. That's it. It's time for... SUUUUPER-RO! Ban-ban-pauuuuunnnnn... dan-DAN! dinchak, dinchak, dinchank, dinchak...
and her faithful (and situation-specific) side-kick, Greeeeeeen swivel chair!!! dinchak, dinchank, dinchak...
Super-Ro's extensible hands reach for G-chair's back. Leela swings her mop in extreeeeme slow motion, and drops of dettoled water slice through the air...
Super-Ro must think fast.
Once the mop touches the floor, sloshing will kill all chance of walkability.
A world that will never walk again. WILL Super-Ro be able to stop that???
dinchak, dinchank, dinchak...
Ohhh, Super-Ro's in bigger trouble. Her right foot won't get off the ground! Is gravity an enemy too? Or worse, is it some villanous gooey chewing gum from the pavement???
dinchak, dinchank, dinchak...
Super-Ro overcomes the first enemy. Chewing gums will never DARE to come in her way again!
The floor still scoffs at Super-Ro's heroic feat....
Super-Ro jumps onto G-chair, holds on to the arms (the chair's arms. Super-Ro gets 6 arms only in Episode-3. Pay attention), holds her breath (now you know what her superpower is) aaaaand ZOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM....
dinchak, dinchank, dinchak, dinchak.... Super-Ro zzzips past the walls, papers fly, pens topple over, lights are blinded. She charges, unstoppable, towards her super-computer all the way at the end of the hall.
She reaches her super-cubicle. Stands up victoriously. The walls only have ears, so they don't applaud.
But does SUUUUper-Ro care? She is already on her way to crush another enemy of the world- the water purifier.
dinchak, dinchank, dinchak...
So don't forget to tune in again... Saaaame Ro time, saaaame Ro channel....
(Brought on by a whole lifetime of promises courtesy Boost, Viva, Milo, Bournvita and Glucon-D)
"Excuse me..."
"Maydem, so early to aapees (office)?"
(smile, sigh) "Work is there, Leela"
I wait for her to do her job. It's her time now. 8 am.
Slosh, slosh. Swob to right... Thud! hello, wall right. Swob to leffffft... Thud! cringe, wall left. Swob, swob.
Destination: Cubicle, stage right.
Obstacle: Industriously cleaned floor that looks wet enough to bring anyone down.
Aha! Dry patch! Maybe I'll walk quickly over that... My right foot lifts gingerly, with presumptious subtlely...
Damn. Too late. Leela's got that one too. Small-time predicament now becomes insurmountable challenge.
The wet floor expands menacingly, laughing a hollow laugh, daring me to sully its shiny cleanliness.
Ok. That's it. It's time for... SUUUUPER-RO! Ban-ban-pauuuuunnnnn... dan-DAN! dinchak, dinchak, dinchank, dinchak...
and her faithful (and situation-specific) side-kick, Greeeeeeen swivel chair!!! dinchak, dinchank, dinchak...
Super-Ro's extensible hands reach for G-chair's back. Leela swings her mop in extreeeeme slow motion, and drops of dettoled water slice through the air...
Super-Ro must think fast.
Once the mop touches the floor, sloshing will kill all chance of walkability.
A world that will never walk again. WILL Super-Ro be able to stop that???
dinchak, dinchank, dinchak...
Ohhh, Super-Ro's in bigger trouble. Her right foot won't get off the ground! Is gravity an enemy too? Or worse, is it some villanous gooey chewing gum from the pavement???
dinchak, dinchank, dinchak...
Super-Ro overcomes the first enemy. Chewing gums will never DARE to come in her way again!
The floor still scoffs at Super-Ro's heroic feat....
Super-Ro jumps onto G-chair, holds on to the arms (the chair's arms. Super-Ro gets 6 arms only in Episode-3. Pay attention), holds her breath (now you know what her superpower is) aaaaand ZOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM....
dinchak, dinchank, dinchak, dinchak.... Super-Ro zzzips past the walls, papers fly, pens topple over, lights are blinded. She charges, unstoppable, towards her super-computer all the way at the end of the hall.
She reaches her super-cubicle. Stands up victoriously. The walls only have ears, so they don't applaud.
But does SUUUUper-Ro care? She is already on her way to crush another enemy of the world- the water purifier.
dinchak, dinchank, dinchak...
So don't forget to tune in again... Saaaame Ro time, saaaame Ro channel....
(Brought on by a whole lifetime of promises courtesy Boost, Viva, Milo, Bournvita and Glucon-D)
Friday, July 09, 2004
fret & fume...
Is it hypocrisy to hate fake atmosphere (example, airconditioned office) and fake trees (example, plastic ones) but absolutely love fake goods (ribok, nyki, Levyies, music CDs burnt at a friend's place) just because i can have it cheap? ohhh... where are my ideals?!
Thursday, July 08, 2004
bus blues
Have mercy, been waitin' for the bus all day.
I got my brown paper bag and my take-home pay.
Have mercy, old bus be packed up tight.
Well, I'm glad just to get on and home tonight.
Right on, that bus done got me back.
Well, I'll be ridin' on the bus till I Cadillac.
-Billy Gibbons & Dusty Hill
I got my brown paper bag and my take-home pay.
Have mercy, old bus be packed up tight.
Well, I'm glad just to get on and home tonight.
Right on, that bus done got me back.
Well, I'll be ridin' on the bus till I Cadillac.
-Billy Gibbons & Dusty Hill
!!!!!!!
it's probably time to panic when you look up at the sky, feel the first pure drops of rain in your eyes and think to youself, "well, that's two drops the water conservation department missed."
Monday, July 05, 2004
Snap open
My grandma hated photographers. She thought the camera lens sucked all the years of your life away. And the flash was supposesd to be an instant skin-tanning agent. So when my dad turned paprazzi for me-the-2-year-old, her trust in the world ended.
"Can't you just remember that she ate mud cake with pebbles for cherries? Do you have to take a (gasp)photo? Oh, and the toothless yawn is not soooo important to be 'file photo'. So the sun is shining on her drool... so what?"
But there was no stopping my dad. Ok, maybe running for the camera when i swallowed dettol instead of cough syrup reduced his chances of getting a Father's day card, but it was still very, errr.. fatherly(?). And since he doesn't read this blog, i can bravely tell the world that he is the best cross-dresser any 3-year-old could laugh at! It induced my first rolling with guffaw-ter.
If there was a yucky Farex meal to be stuffed down my throat, there he was, telepathically willing me to stick my tongue out and put the bib to good use. I still maintain that it was common disdain for the photographer in my dad that brought my mother and his a lot closer.
"She will think the lens is your face," said my mom to my dad. (Yes. She attempted humour sometimes.) But I didn't care how my dad's face was... after all, he chased a stray dog around to drill it into my obstinate head that he (the dog, not my dad) was not a horse. He also made me believe that, just by standing behind the handlebar of the lambretta scooter, and doing "bruuuum... bruum..." sounds with my mouth, I could reach the end of the road. Yaya, it's all in the photo albums.
Considering the number of battles that raged on about the camera, there must be blood on each snap of me trying to grab an imaginary fly. And did I care? Nooo... all I knew was that my dad made me a filmstar.
"Can't you just remember that she ate mud cake with pebbles for cherries? Do you have to take a (gasp)photo? Oh, and the toothless yawn is not soooo important to be 'file photo'. So the sun is shining on her drool... so what?"
But there was no stopping my dad. Ok, maybe running for the camera when i swallowed dettol instead of cough syrup reduced his chances of getting a Father's day card, but it was still very, errr.. fatherly(?). And since he doesn't read this blog, i can bravely tell the world that he is the best cross-dresser any 3-year-old could laugh at! It induced my first rolling with guffaw-ter.
If there was a yucky Farex meal to be stuffed down my throat, there he was, telepathically willing me to stick my tongue out and put the bib to good use. I still maintain that it was common disdain for the photographer in my dad that brought my mother and his a lot closer.
"She will think the lens is your face," said my mom to my dad. (Yes. She attempted humour sometimes.) But I didn't care how my dad's face was... after all, he chased a stray dog around to drill it into my obstinate head that he (the dog, not my dad) was not a horse. He also made me believe that, just by standing behind the handlebar of the lambretta scooter, and doing "bruuuum... bruum..." sounds with my mouth, I could reach the end of the road. Yaya, it's all in the photo albums.
Considering the number of battles that raged on about the camera, there must be blood on each snap of me trying to grab an imaginary fly. And did I care? Nooo... all I knew was that my dad made me a filmstar.
Friday, July 02, 2004
hi-buy
Department stores unnerve me. What’s with the extreme organisation and clean-freakiness? Walking through one is like walking a tight rope.. or worse, taking a guarded trip in between the lines of a neatly printed sheet while the ink is still wet. Every thing is predetermined and there are fixed directions for every turn I take. A bar of soap can never hide unnoticed among jars of jam. Even if they both are fruity.
There are trolleys that are supposed to help you get about, but you always end up paying more attention to where the little wheels are taking off to than the shopping list. And you end up running into one of the towering shelves. Before you know it, nappies (why do they always keep them on the highest shelf?) and toilet paper rolls are raining on your head. Pink goes your face. Then red. Then maroon. Till the numbness of your hand turns into something tingly that pushes you to instantaneous action (=stupidity).
You try to single-handedly undo your mess, all the time praying to every god you suddenly realise you are devoted to… "oh, let me be invisible, let me be invisible…" But... "Excuse me mam! You can leave that. Sigh (deep one). We’ll attend to it. Sigh (deeper). It’s our job. Sigh. Sigh. Sigh." Purrrrple goes your face. Profuse apologies. Search for the trolley that some kid has found interesting enough to ride in. (ya, NOW it glides like a swan in water…) Quickly finish shopping. Get free pepsi 1.5 litres that is, according to McKinsey’s 45685795th point-of-sale survey, the biggest motivating factor to get you to spend More! More! More! on house supplies.
Standing in between two rows of shelves is, to put it simply, like being in the climax scene of a movie about treasure hunting in the haunted pyramids of Egypt. The last insignificant guy (who is usually the funniest and the most scared, so movie-goers know right from the beginning that he’s going to die) always gets stuck in between walls that are moving towards each other. Well, as I peer into a label, trying to pronounce the vowel-less term for that whitish gooey paste they mix in pasta (so I can knowingly drop the name while lunching with high-profile acquaintances I’ll meet on board the ship I buy soon), I get the same feeling of the world closing in on me. Some call it claustrophobia. Hah! Try mind-numbing, mouth-drying, blood-vessel-popping fear of overspending.(McKinsey must not hear of this)
What’s the best buyer experience then? Hmmm…
Seen the mayhem at a discount store that has a season sale? That.
Been thrilled at spotting a perfect red T-shirt among the pile of “Pick any three. Rs.100 only!” to soon realise that your house can wear it? That.
Searching for a second/third hand unrusted windshield wiper for your car in Chandni Chawk, Shivajinagar, Bangalore, while expertly dodging an arrow of pan juice fired at your foot. That.
Experiencing deep-felt satisfaction on discovering that a super chappal you bought for Rs.150 on the road is being sold for Rs.2999.99 becoz the store manager wears a tie. That.
Not knowing where the soap or jam is in the provision store and using that as a pretext to kick up a conversation with the shopkeeper. THAT.
There are trolleys that are supposed to help you get about, but you always end up paying more attention to where the little wheels are taking off to than the shopping list. And you end up running into one of the towering shelves. Before you know it, nappies (why do they always keep them on the highest shelf?) and toilet paper rolls are raining on your head. Pink goes your face. Then red. Then maroon. Till the numbness of your hand turns into something tingly that pushes you to instantaneous action (=stupidity).
You try to single-handedly undo your mess, all the time praying to every god you suddenly realise you are devoted to… "oh, let me be invisible, let me be invisible…" But... "Excuse me mam! You can leave that. Sigh (deep one). We’ll attend to it. Sigh (deeper). It’s our job. Sigh. Sigh. Sigh." Purrrrple goes your face. Profuse apologies. Search for the trolley that some kid has found interesting enough to ride in. (ya, NOW it glides like a swan in water…) Quickly finish shopping. Get free pepsi 1.5 litres that is, according to McKinsey’s 45685795th point-of-sale survey, the biggest motivating factor to get you to spend More! More! More! on house supplies.
Standing in between two rows of shelves is, to put it simply, like being in the climax scene of a movie about treasure hunting in the haunted pyramids of Egypt. The last insignificant guy (who is usually the funniest and the most scared, so movie-goers know right from the beginning that he’s going to die) always gets stuck in between walls that are moving towards each other. Well, as I peer into a label, trying to pronounce the vowel-less term for that whitish gooey paste they mix in pasta (so I can knowingly drop the name while lunching with high-profile acquaintances I’ll meet on board the ship I buy soon), I get the same feeling of the world closing in on me. Some call it claustrophobia. Hah! Try mind-numbing, mouth-drying, blood-vessel-popping fear of overspending.(McKinsey must not hear of this)
What’s the best buyer experience then? Hmmm…
Seen the mayhem at a discount store that has a season sale? That.
Been thrilled at spotting a perfect red T-shirt among the pile of “Pick any three. Rs.100 only!” to soon realise that your house can wear it? That.
Searching for a second/third hand unrusted windshield wiper for your car in Chandni Chawk, Shivajinagar, Bangalore, while expertly dodging an arrow of pan juice fired at your foot. That.
Experiencing deep-felt satisfaction on discovering that a super chappal you bought for Rs.150 on the road is being sold for Rs.2999.99 becoz the store manager wears a tie. That.
Not knowing where the soap or jam is in the provision store and using that as a pretext to kick up a conversation with the shopkeeper. THAT.
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