Low EMI Celebration

Low EMI Celebration

EMI and Celebration
A bit of an oxymoron.
Seriously, who celebrates having to pay any EMI. Now if they announced that they were waving off the EMI, I could launch into a celebratory dance for that. A lower EMI just means that I get to feel a little less depressed before parting with my precious notes each month. Cause shopping can give me a high, unpacking can give me a high, inaugurating something new can give me a high, but never ever in my life have I gone, “Yippee! It’s time to pay up. Let’s break out that nice Champaign.” Hmmm… let me think. Did I buy that in a sale or for some excitingly low EMI? No matter how positive or upbeat a person one is, I dont see paying EMI as an event that can precipitate any celebration.

So basically, this flyer is just giving someone standing on the precipice, wondering about if they can really afford this buy, that last little push required to jump off the cliff.
You may fly, or you may crash. Rest assured, either you or your legal heirs will still be paying that EMI.

Ethics and Advertising
Another oxymoron, I guess.

This post is a part of SoCS Nov. 23/19.
The caption on my flyer read “LOW EMI CELEBRATION”

Sticks and Stones

I have a bone to pick with my airlines. They have preponed my departure to 0730 hrs, so checkin at 0530 hrs, which in turn implies morning alarm at 0430 hrs.

Holidays are supposed to be about late night; not early mornings.

Hmm… Ms Lazybones will have to miss her beauty bath.

Can’t go late for checkin either cause to the latecomer go the bones. With my luck, I’ll probably get stuck with some brawling brat.

Gnaw the bone which is fallen to thy lot. Stop complaining, child, says my conscience. I had week relaxing with friends; and you cannot have a fish without bones.

In response to the Stream of Consciousness Saturday challenge word Bone

I know she can’t

Can you please stop repacking!

I want to shout that out to my mum, but I know it’s pointless. Travelling stresses her out, and she deals with it by packing.

It does not matter which part of the civilised world she is going to, she gears up like she is heading out into the wilderness. There are supplies, and then there are emergency supplies, and then there are backup supplies in case the emergency supplies fail.

She’s going for a week; with enough medicines for a month. Just in case we go into a state of emergency and all the airlines AND pharmacies shut down!
And mind you she is going to visit her brother; so it’s not like she is going to be stranded all by herself with no one to help her!

We need to leave the house at 7:30am tomorrow. She has two alarms set for 6am, has reconfirmed that I have set my alarms too, and that the Uber has indeed been booked for 7:15am, ’cause you know those fellows are always late!

It’s 11pm right now. The suitcase is packed (or at least I think so, but I’m not placing my hand over the Bible or anything), and we have moved on to the next critical step in decision making – which handbag shall she carry? The purse, which should suffice to carry her wallet, some makeup and tickets; the big purse, in case she wants to throw a bottle of water in; or the big tote, in case she wants to go shopping…
Fifteen minutes back I excused myself claiming that I needed to do a web check in.
Fifteen very quiet minutes; so quiet in fact that I’m beginning to worry if she has abandoned Project Purse-selection, and gone back to repacking the suitcase.

I better go check. If she doesn’t even go to sleep, then all those alarms are going to ring tomorrow morning for absolutely no reason!

In response to Linda’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday word prompt – “can.”

Excuse me

Give me a yellow card, give me a red card, give me even a tarot death card. Just don’t, please don’t, ever give me one of those exotic menu cards.

When I go out to dinner, I want to relax, unwind. I shouldn’t have to use my powers of deduction and literary acumen to place my order.

Good evening madam. May I take your order?

Scenario 1: Be adventurous.
“Err, yes. I’ll have this… this… and this.”
“So that will be Goi Cuon, Gai Phad Phrik and Khanom Krok.”
“Err, yah.”
‘Cause I’m much too confused to verify or contradict.

Scenario 2: Place your faith in God and mankind
I bat my eyes at the maître d’ and ask, “What would you suggest?”
Meanwhile my husband is glaring at me thinking, how come you never accept anything that I suggest!

So basically, either pin the donkey’s tail, or roll the dice.

And tell me, is it even safe to eat what I can’t name?
I mean, imagine if I get food poisoning. My face turns blotchy, my body all itchy, my mouth starts swelling, my throat is constricting, I’m rushed to the doctor. While wheeling me into the emergency room he asks me, “Madam, what did you last eat?”
“Yum hua plea,” I struggle to say.
“Yes! Yes! I will help you. But first tell me, what did you eat.”
How on God’s earth am I going to explain that Yum Hua Plea is a banana flower salad with chilli paste and coconut cream, tossed with crunchy peanuts, herbs, poached prawn and boiled eggs!

Honey, where would you like to go to eat?
Let’s just go to the local food court. You know the kids love that stuff.

In response to this week’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt – card.

I recently got stumped at a new Pan-Asian restaurant. Please excuse me, but I have used a few names from their menu. I’m sure it makes perfect sense to a lot of people, but to me it could just as easily have been Latin.

It’s a conspiracy!!!

The Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is “flower/flour.”

You may say that it’s illogical to think that the universe is conspiring to embarrass me in front of the entire WordPress community, or to imaging that someone in some other corner of the word sat back, rubbing their hands in glee, musing, ‘Hmmm, now what prompt can I sucker punch her with?’
Logically I’m just not that important.
Yet.

Now you’re wondering what the big build up is for?

Two reasons. First of all, I’m a writer, this is my stream, and giving a buildup, no matter how corny, is my prerogative. Secondly, I suck at making chapatis*, or any other flat bread that involves flour, and when you are a 40+ Indian woman, that is a real discredit to your upbringing.

I try. I really do. I’m a good girl, I am…

They tell me the trick is in the kneading. Boy do I knead. I knead like the future of my first born depends on it, (which is bloody unnecessary since my first born doesn’t even live at home with us)! Any more kneading and I could drill my way to whichever place is antipodal to India. (I just googled that. Apparently, I would emerge in the South Pacific, which makes sense since I don’t know how to swim, and that’s just how much my luck sucks.)

Next, I’m supposed to roll it out with a gentle touch. I’m so gentle that my husband wishes to be reborn a chapati!

Finally comes the roasting part… My roast is always toast.

Ya. So, since I can’t make a decent chapati, and every plant/flower that I try to nurture, ends up shriveled and dead, I’m justified in thinking that someone (I’m not taking names) somewhere (she below and the Lord above) really has it out for me.

*Chapati is an unleavened flatbread made of whole wheat flour which is a staple in the Indian Subcontinent

The rhythms gonna get you…

Earworm – I’ll confess. I had to look that one up in the dictionary. And boy did it make me laugh. That catchy piece of music that keeps repeating in my head. My lifeline. My constant companion.

But I take offense to the term. Calling it a worm makes it sound like something dirty, unwanted, intrusive. It’s not. I love my earworms. Sure I could do with some better musicality, but I’d rather have ad-jingles playing in my head than negative thoughts. If I left it to my subconscious, I would be living in a very dark place indeed. Instead I’m constantly jiving in a disco.

I am a disco dancer, jindagi mera gaana…*

Focus. Focus.

Creating the perfect earworm is serious business. Every body in the music and advertising industry knows that. Tunes are created to be catchy. The early worm… the worm with the best bite… the worm with the best life… It’s a damn science. Technicians and data analysts make their living studying it.

As an only child, like any normal only child, I developed the habit of talking to myself, and singing to myself. If I knew the lyrics, I sang it, if I didn’t, I concocted it. Thus the seeds of a future writer were sown.
Only one problem. I would pick up a few lines of the song and repeat it over and over. Suffice to say that I very lovingly and painstakingly cultivated my worm farm. In India we play a game called Antakshari. Each contestant sings the first verse of a song that begins with the consonant on which the previous contestant’s song selection ended. I ace it.

Surprisingly some people, chiefly my son, don’t share my affection for my earworms. If I sing out, Hello, Is it me your looking for?, he finds it corny. I just called to say I love you, is creepy coming from a mother to a son apparently. What corrupted times we live in! We live in a really warm city. Feeling hot hot hot is my go-to jingle. “Please don’t start that again,” he grumbles. So I try reverse auditory melodic unstickification. Basically force myself to forget my song by consciously replacing it with another.

My earworms are at peak performance when I’m cooking or driving. The 45 minute drive to drop my son off is just a canvas begging to be splashed with colour. “You don’t have to vocalise everything that’s in your head,” he tells me. But I’m smart. “Well if you keep would talk to me then I won’t have to sing,” I try to manipulate. He’s smarter. He bought himself noise cancelling headphones. Sometimes he uses it to listen to music. Sometimes he uses it to keep out the music.

But like any true artist, I don’t let the critics get to me.

I just can’t refuse it
Like the way you do this
Keep on rockin’ to it
Please don’t stop the, please don’t stop the
Please don’t stop the music

In response to the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt – earworm.

*zindagi mera gaana = Life is my song (lyrics from a better forgotten old hindi song

The Round Table

Well, my television appears to have called it a day. The quest for a younger and more efficient replacement is on. So, when I read the prompt ‘round’, I start thinking of curved screens and surround sound. Wading though a dozen comparison sites I have realized one thing, they were all merely rehashing the same analysis, and me the fool was going around in circles reading the same thing.

Luckily my obsessive web surfing was interrupted by my son who wanted me to pick him up from the station. It’s my lucky Sunday, he has deigned to come home.

We have a round dinner table, with a rotating center. He’s walking around it and comments, ‘I miss walking in circles.’ That’s so strange. His college has nice manicured lawns and he misses walking in circles! But then I realise, its not the table or walking in circles, it’s the familiarity of things that we did as children. The comfort of what was. It’s exhilarating to spread our wings and soar, to explore, but every once in a way, it’s nice to come back to our nest.

Very soon he’s going to stop missing walking in circles around the table. His mind will be on other more exciting adventures. But some day, when he reflects upon his own childhood, that round table is going to star in a few memories.

I know it does in mine. My mother never tires of telling people how she personally designed the table when she was pregnant with me. And I always tag on about how I would sit on it and spin as a child. She’s too old to bear the weight of children atop her, so now my kid walks around. Three generations of attachment to a damn round table!

In response to the Stream of Consciousness Saturday word prompt – ‘Round’

Don’t call… Even a text would do…

Call me when you reach.

Those were my explicit instructions to him as I dropped him off at the airport. Of course I know my kid well enough to know that he would never call. For some reason he hates phone calls. (Perhaps that reason is me. Can hating phone calls be hereditary?)

What I did expect were a few WhatsApp messages.

It’s the first time that he’s left the country alone. Well traveling with a bunch of strangers escorted by some professor who I don’t know, is still classified as travelling alone in my book of parenting. Expecting a few updates is not too unreasonable, right?

Wrong.

Here is what I get…

Day 1: I’m here. The wifi sucks.

Day 2: Still alive.

Night 3: All in good time.

The last being in response to my barrage of messages (3 actually) asking how his day went.

He’s coming back on Day 8. By then I would have probably exited WhatsApp just to keep my phone safe.

I’m tempted to play the sentiment card and ask questions like – What if Manado is hit by an earthquake or a tsunami? How will I know of your welfare? But I shan’t. Knowing him, the response would probably be – Don’t worry, you will hear about it on the news. He can be very infuriating that way.

His father worries too. But he has a silver lining he hangs on to at moments like this. ‘You know he gets his attitude from you‘ he annoyingly provokes. I don’t understand the man. After twenty three years of marriage who doesn’t learn that it is unwise to prod a simmering lioness!

In response to Linda’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt – call.

Welcome to my break-down

Mom.

My crazy mom.

Who loves me like crazy, but drives me crazy too.

This Thursday we had been invited to her very close friend’s grand child’s naming ceremony.
Let me give you some additional information to better paint the scene.

First of all, my mom has a lot of very close friends. Secondly, whenever she is invited, her presence is imperative. Thirdly, she assumes that any friend of hers is a friend of mine, and worse still, any friend of mine is a friend of hers!
So naturally I was invited too.

On Wednesday, I left home at 3pm to go to my health center. After a rather stressful month I had decided to indulge and had booked myself a massage.
But I made one critical mistake – I left my phone at home.

At 4pm my dearest mom suddenly hit the panic button. It was 4. She had to go for the ceremony at 5. Her daughter was not back. Five frantic calls later she realised that the phone was ringing in the very next room.
There was only one possible deduction now. Some tragedy had struck.

I dont even want to elaborate on what happened next.
Calls went out to my spouse, my son, my friends – My daughter hasn’t come home yet. I cant contact her. Do you know where she is? Do you have any way to contact her?
One poor gullible soul even drove all the way to my fitness center only to be turned away after a five minute wait because ‘Madam is in a therapy session and can not be disturbed.’

Suffice to say that by the time I returned all the calls explaining that it was a simple unnecessary unfounded illogical unreasonable mix-up in dates by my mom resulting in utter and embarrassing chaos, I was far more stressed out and in knots than before that ill-fated massage.

However, do you know what the clincher is – I’m quite sure that this will repeat again.
Sooner rather than later.

God!

In response to the Friday Stream of Consciousness prompt – Start and end with a three letter word.

Crank up the madness

Crank

Crank up your whining
drown out my thoughts
spare me no stillness to ponder my lot

Crank up your neediness
consume all my time
leave me no moments to feel my fatigue

Crank up your selfishness
decimate my self respect
no courage should I have to raise my head

Crank up the adrenaline
be the master of my life
Alas! there is glory in lording over the dead