Streak of Madness

I have a confession to make. I have been suffering from chronic Temporaryinsanitis for a few years now.

If you are a woman past 35, or have ever googled 'perimenopause', the chances are that you are familiar with this condition. It starts with sudden low, weepy, self-questioning phases that come over us from time to time, when we set up a Spanish Inquisition in our own head to give the self a thorough grilling...  'Where is my life going?' 'Does anybody really love me?' 'Will my friends stand by me in bad times?' 'Is there life after menopause?' and so on and on...

There are only a few known remediations that are found to ameliorate the condition - an intensive shopping session,  a makeover, and an eating-drinking binge are top three in my list. Sometimes, a good howling session works too, though not as well as the others!

So, as I was saying, last week I was struck by a bout of the disease. The preferred remedy I usually adopt is shopping. But having truckloads of clothes and bags from previous episodes of Temporaryinsanitis in my cupboard, and a mindload of guilt to match, I decided to change the line of treatment this time.

The remedial measure I opted for was a makeover. I went and got my hair streaked. After a 3-hour long session at the parlour (my hair put up a spirited resistance to the invasion by alien forces), I looked at the mirror. And my heart sank... it was clearly a disaster. But the Disaster-Management team at the parlour got into action - they gathered around, put on their best beaming faces at me, and informed me that it was looking wonderful, and I was sure to get many compliments.

I had my doubts, for obvious reasons. I reached home and tried to slink in unnoticed, but my daughter and ma-in-law spotted me at once... and gasped. 'Bilkul bekaar!' was my daughter's verdict. Worse was to follow. My teenaged son (who we think fell into a cauldron of caustic soda when he was a baby) gave me ONE stony stare, and said, "Why exactly have you smeared your hair with shit?"

Subtle!

That was not the end either. He inspected me a bit more and quipped, 'You look like a Wannabe Socialite." Unfortunately, this hit the nail right on the head (quite literally)... the shade I had selected from the shade card was supposed to say 'Funky, and yet Elegant' - a kind of grey-blonde. But on my hair, it turned out a sort of orangish gold. Most DEFINITELY 'Wannabe Socialite'! 

Since then I have been bestowed with other epithets - 'Punju Aunty' being one of the more polite ones I can bring myself to share in public. My ma-in-law, being the genteel lady that she is, desisted from making caustic comments. She only contented herself by making remarks like, "Tch tch, you look just terrible!' - roughly every 20 minutes or so.

Sudarshan was the only exception.  "You look pretty. You really do!" he said. But that is just 28 years of conditioning. Why, now he even believes what he is saying to me... sometimes, at least! ;)

And now you understand why I call the condition Temporaryinsanitis. The so-called 'remedy' too is in reality a part of the disease! Just think. All that shopping, bingeing and makeovers business is supposed to make you feel good,  and fortify you to answer those tough existential questions. But what do they actually do? I mean, come on! The answer to 'Where is my life going?' is probably 'Down the drain!' - if you insist on wasting hard-earned money on useless articles of clothing or footwear. And let's face it - if you really are a middle-aged hag whom nobody loves, being a middle-aged hag with orange streaked hair is SURELY not going to change things!

And yet, I know the next time 'the feeling' creeps up on me again, I'll again go and buy myself a huge red crocodile embossed bag, or stuff my face with half a dozen gooey chocolate doughnuts, or try a new facial that would probably cause a reaction and make my face look like it was attacked by an army of exceptionally hungry mosquitoes with poisoned probosces...

For such is life, dearie, being a peri-menopausal woman. An elderly Homeopathic practitioner I used to visit had once remarked, "You see, it is very easy to treat men. But women are different. They have HORMONES!" 

So we do... and on goes life. And as if the havoc wruck by overzealous hormones wasn't enough, there's the stress of the urban lifestyle and the pressures of an increasingly consumeristic society to boot. Temporaryinsanitis is here to stay.

And I don't see a vaccine anywhere on the horizon...

Autofocussed

I have always held the belief that by and large, auto-rickshaw walas across India are goons, thugs, louts, bullies and a few other unmentionable things which I can't bring myself to utter in public. But every time I make a trip to Bangalore or thereabouts, this conviction  of mine takes a really strong beating..

My friends in Bangalore constantly warn me about the auto-walas there... about their tendency to overcharge newbies in town, refusing to go by the meter, or taking a circuitous route. But my experiences so far have been 100% good. I was in Madanapalle and Bangalore recently, and I think it is time I spoke up for the undaunted and the chivalrous amongst this much-maligned species - the 'pigeons among the cats', so to speak!

The Good...

My first good-samaritan auto-wala story is set in Madanapalle. I had just landed up at the Madanapalle bus stop, travelling alone. It was my first visit there. As I walked along towards the stand where autos were lined up, struggling slightly with my heavy bags, an old auto-rickshaw wala suddenly rushed towards me out of the line of autos, saying, "Where Akka? Rishi valley? Come come, I take you." I was slightly on my guard at this sudden charge, but he looked too old and meek for me to feel threatened in any way. So  I climbed in. On the long winding road to Rishi Valley, he lamented about how the younger lot of autowallas were always out make a fast buck by cheating newcomers...  thereby explaining his jack-in-the-box kind of reaction to my arrival. 

The old man's chivalry did not end there. I had to leave my bags at the RV guest house and then go to the office. And I did not know the way. So he offered to wait while I put my bags in the room, and then drop me at the office. So far so good, but there was one complication. The person with the keys to the guest house was msssing and no one had the faintest notion where he was. Someone went off to look for him. Not wanting to hold back the sweet old auto-wala, I thanked him, paid him and told him to go. But he would not budge. He had made a committment to see me off at the RV office, and he was not leaving without doing so! So we waited. 5 min went by... 10 min... 20 min... finally, after 40 minutes the caretaker came with the keys. The old man helped me deposit my bags, and then depositted me at the office before going on his way, with the air of one who has just seen his granddaughter off safely!

And oh yes, he simply refused to take any extra money for the extra bit or the long wait.

Since then, I have come across other auto-walas around the RV campus who take you to your destination free of cost if the distance is short, and they happen to be going your way... hard to believe for us city folk, but true!

The Bad and the Ugly...

Contrast this with the hoods one has to deal with in Navi Mumbai, on a day-in day-out basis. In Mumbai they have the 'hafta'-collecting bhais, and in Navi Mumbai we have the auto-rickshaw walas... both of these are highly evolved species of extortionists. The Navi-Mumbai auto-bhais overcharge as a matter of right. You should just see the indignant look they give you if you question the inflated fare they quote! And they are super quick to sense the exact degree of desperation while picking up a fare. Sometimes I feel they have a secret 'Overcharge Rate Chart'!

Honestly, the way the auto-bhais here wield absolute power, I think it is high time Navi Mumbai was declared an autocracy!

And I do not even want to start upon the antics of the Delhi auto-wala... that supremely regal being, who continues his search for treasure - deep inside his nose with his index finger, oblivious of your presence - even as you try to coax him to take you to your destination! And you are not sure which is worse, him refusing to ply you, or agreeing to do so and handing you your change with his treasure-laden fingers...

And the Good, Again...

Meanwhile, my ode to the Bangalore auto-walas is not over yet! The old man in Madanapalle was the second good samaritan auto-wala who came to my rescue that day. The story started at the Bangalore bus stop. Someone had booked me an online ticket from Bangalore to Madanapalle on an APSRTC bus. So, there I was at an unfamiliar bus stop, running helter skelter, trying to find which terminal I was to get the bus from. The fact that I could read neither Telugu nor Kannada, didn't help. I had just walked 2 or 3 times from one end of the vast station to the other, misguided by various people, including (as I found out later) those at the info booth. I was standing at a platform at one end of the station, where the person at the info booth had asked me to wait for the Tirupathi bus. On inquiring from the other people waiting there, I gathered  that the Tirupathi bus would not go to Madanapalle.

At this time, seeing me all hot and flustered, one of the auto-walas from the nearby auto stand came up to me and said, "You go Madanapalle, madam? Bus not here." I have been brought up in Delhi - where if a lone woman traveller responds  to a strange man who comes up to her, it is equivalent to inviting him politely to molest her. So, my initial reaction was to give him a wide berth. But the man's tone had some conviction which made me believe him. "Then where", I asked. "I not know. You ask in counter." It was now 7.10 a.m, and my bus was supposed to leave at 7.15. Mentally preparing myself to scuttle my trip, I started picking up my bags and bracing for the run to the info booth once again. And then the auto-wala said, "You wait madam, I ask." And before I could say anything - up went the veshti to knee-level with a snap, and out sprinted the man to the info booth at top speed. In a minute, he was back, saying, "You go Kadapa bus. It is in opposite side." I ran and caught the bus just as it was pulling out of the station.

The man did not ask for any money. And there was no time for me to even thank him properly. But this piece of writing is a thank-you note to all those auto-walas who help us keep the faith, through such acts that defy the ignominy that follows their lot...

Touch Me Not

The world is divided into two kinds of people - those who love touchscreen phones and those who don't.

Naturally, having been a hopeless technophobe since as long back as I can remember, I belong to the second category. And life is really tough for people like us now, because 'Touch' phones just wont leave us alone...

Well, if you hate Touch phones so, just don't go near one, people would say.  I can only say that that's easier said than done. And I'll tell you why.

About two years ago, Sud gifted me a Micromax touch phone - promising the latest technology at mouth watering prices. Well, I don't know about watering, but I certainly remember foaming at the mouth, trying to use the touchscreen to text or make calls. The experience was a bit like trying to apply mascara with a rolling pin...  

NO more touch screen phones for me, I decided. 

And I switched back to my old phone - a Nokia Expressmusic, which allowed me to do ALL I ever wanted from a phone - to make/receive calls, send text msgs, and listen to music during my travel.  

Cut to the present - about two months ago. The Expressmusic is going to pieces (literally), and it is becoming increasingly difficult to call or sms by pressing the dirty grey exposed bits that I still valiantly keep calling a 'keypad'. I need to buy a new phone. Urgently.

So I go to the store and ask for a simple, regular, non-touch phone. Non-touch, I stress. The shop assistant looks at me with confusion - as if trying to determine whether I am an alien or just stark, raving mad. I'll never know what he decides - because mumbling something incoherent, he just vamooses from the scene. A hunt for him proves futile, and with a resigned air we start looking around on our own at the displayed models of 'Non-touch' phones. Well, when I say 'start looking around' it is a rather ambitious statement, because the search ends almost as soon as it starts. Simple, Non-touch, Un-smart phones have gone out of fashion, and out of the window of all major stores.

I feel utterly devastated... would I have to go for a touch phone after all?  I go back to the store after a week, mentally prepared to say 'yes' to Touch. This time, the shop assistant is more forthcoming. He waxes eloquent about the latest models of 'Smart' touchscreen phones, oblivious to the fact that each new 'App' which he explains only makes me cringe more. At one point of time, I think of asking him sarcastically if there is a phone with an app that would scratch my back when it feels all itchy in the morning... but then think better of it. He doesn't look bright enough to appreciate sarcasm - he would probably trot off to ask his superior if there is any model coming out with that feature...

Anyway, the quality of 'touch' on this one seems better than the Micromax. And the assistant assures me that I'll get used to it in no time. I am still unsure.

But then Sud talks me into it.... just as he always manages to do - starting exactly 24.5 years ago. :-|

And that is how I became the not-really-proud-but-definitely-apprehensive owner of a Touch phone for the second time over. It was a Nokia Lumia 710. It looked good and was not exorbitantly priced. And it had all the net based smart apps. I was starting to think I would enjoy this phone after all.

I was wrong. If a simple 'unsmart' touch phone is a diwali patakha, a 'smart' touch phone is a nuclear bomb - and one that could be detonated with one light, even accidental, 'touch'...

The first problem with the phone is its smart-ass autosuggest mechanism. Initially, you might be rather pleased that the phone is throwing up this long list of suggested alternate words to choose from while you are texting. But, you quickly realize, it is not so much 'smart' as 'too clever by half'. You realize that the phone surreptitiously slips in its own preferred word, even if you have not selected it. I still go red-faced thinking of the many times I have just barely escaped signing off a text as 'Sucks' instead of 'Suchi'!

And it's not just me. Give a thought to the predicament of this young couple we know - they fight, the girl goes off in a huff, and the fight carries on over sms. Some furious texting ensues. The girl is breathing fire when she gets a text calling her a 'libidinous cheap'... but then, when she is called a 'smart potassium', she realizes that it is not her hubby, but his 'smart' touchphone that is doing all the talking! :D

In this particular case the matter ended well, as the girl sees the funny side of it and dissolves into laughter at the inadvertently changed words. But it's not always so...

And oh yes. If smart phones are really so smart, why the hell can't they tell the difference between a person's fingers and ears/cheeks? In the middle of a raging argument with my Mom, or a tete-a-ete with a friend, or a rare call with Sud when he is somewhere down in the boondocks, I press my ear a wee bit to the oh-so-sensitive screen to hear better - and lo! I inadvertently press 'hold'... or 'mute'... or even 'end call'! The last, when it happens, plays absolute havoc with relationships - both sides end up aggrieved, thinking the other hung up in a huff!

It is said that the third world war is going to be over water. I disagree - I am absolutely certain it is going to be caused by touch phones.. Just imagine, some small but powerful developing nation announces its plans to build up a nuclear arsenal. The US Prez hears this, and texts the Secretary of State, "Call them NOW! Talk them out...!" And what might happen if he uses his 'smart' touchscreen phone to send the text? The Secretary of State gets this message, "Bomb them NOW! Take them out...!"

But there is good news too. My son, who has made losing and destroying phones into a fine art, has had to choose a new phone twice in the last 2 months. No no, that by itself is not the good news... the good news is that both times, he has decided on a simple, regular, non-touch phone. Which proves, without any doubt, that touch-o-phobia is not an age related disorder. So, touche, ye unkind folk, who maketh unkind remarks to me, like, "You are just too old for smartphones and touchscreen, dear!"

It's time, my fellow touch-o-phobes! To make ourselves heard and prove that we are human beings and not lemmings. Let those who want Touch have it, but let us at least have the option of passing up Touch for a Non-touch alternative which is not archaic in all other ways!

Are you listening... Nokia, Samsung, Sony et al...... ?