Handwriting Impacts.

Does a person’s handwriting say something about him?

Yes and No. For example, Mummy’s handwriting is beautiful and exceptionally neat. Her grocery list looks better than my University Record book. Like her handwriting, she is also systematic, aesthetic and creative. So this handwriting speaks a lot about her I would say. But then take my Papa’s or husband’s handwriting and going by the pace and illegible letters, one might think they are terrorists. But they aren’t – because you should not compare them with terrorists and insult terrorism ;-)

I have inherited just one good thing from all of my predecessors, which is Mummy’s handwriting.** and extending the story of inheritance -  a rare genetic combination of  low attention span, carelessness, short temper and a plethora of genetically transmitted diseases from every other unhygienic ancestor**.  :-) Anyway my handwriting came in handy to my friends who wanted me to write their names on their new notebooks, to write the date and day on the blackboard at school, or the project statistics on the white board at my previous office. Moreover one teacher at my college said that evaluating my answer sheet was a pleasure as it looked neat with outlined diagrams and neat elaborate answers *though she dint mention whether the elaborate answers had any connection to the questions asked*.

But does handwriting really matter? It really does.

So recently, my little one had a fever accompanied with cough and nose block. We took him to the pediatrician, who was well qualified, well behaved and doesn’t prescribe medicines just for the heck of it. He was our favorite until recently he prescribed a cough syrup for our son, and also said ‘This is a seasonal cough. Not severe, so better refrain from antibiotics. I will give you this one, it is for infants’. So we took the prescription to the pharmacy where the pharmacists are usually seasoned readers of doctor’s handwriting.

 And the pharmacist said,’ Amoclan? Its an antibiotic!”

We: But its for our ten month old and doctor specifically said its not an antibiotic!

He: This is Amoclan, it’s a powder to be mixed in water, its taste is not baby friendly, and it is an antibiotic.

We did not buy the medicine and decided to check with the doctor again. Two days passed by and meanwhile the cough got severe. We got an appointment with the doctor again and checked the prescription.

Doctor:’ It is Ambolar Syrup, not Amoclan. ‘

We: K

Okay so Ambolar syrup it was, the label itself had the dosage instructions for babies of every age. May be because we are educated people, and because God was gracious enough we saved ourselves from a wrong medication. What about others? The illiterate, the poor or those in emergency? Couldn’t this have caused more serious issues?

Impressions.

Browsing through the supermarket shelves, I came across a label and was taken aback. What ? A daal named after Shashi Tharoor? No way, man. I went back and read that once again. Sahi Masoor Dal . Okay now a brief relief that I dint say that aloud.

Have you ever thought through this, what if our thoughts were immediately broadcasted for everyone to hear? Wow that would have been terrifying. Literally terrifying. For example, last day when I fell down a kind lady gave me a helping hand, about whom I judged a few seconds back, ‘what a fashion retarded female’. If she’d heard that, she’d have stomped all over me when I fell down.

But when I rewind into the past I realized that I actually tend to say many such stuff aloud when I am around my parents. Well they brought me into this world and have a clear-cut idea about me, I cant fool them by talking intelligently or anything (as if I can do that). Once when I went to attend an interview with Papa, there was another office on the adjacent side of the same floor that we were, and I pointed to it and exclaimed ‘ See Papa? Spiderman Technologies !! How cool !”. Papa read it, looked at me pitifully, which made me read that again. ‘Speridian Technologies’. Okay genuine mistake. Contrary to Papa's beliefs, I got through that interview.

Mostly through the countless embarrassing and not-so-embarrassing situations I’ve been in, most of which had happened due to notions I created from the appearance. For example, a very good looking lady about whom everyone said had too much attitude was actually a simpleton. And the fat guy with curly hair and nerdy spectacles was not even close to being brainy or a foodie. But most of the time or all the time appearances and first impressions are deceptive.

Once at my ex employer’s we had training on an advanced technology. The hall was packed. Few minutes into the session I gathered that this trainer girl wouldn’t leave easy and she was determined to make each of us learn this. She even pin pointed people and asked questions from what she talked about an hour ago. This was slightly disturbing for me, as I had a very short attention span and verbal technical sessions in air conditioned rooms often made me go YAAWWWN. Unfortunately during one of those wide mouthed yawns the trainer caught a glimpse of me and in another minute I found myself on focus with her throwing a question and a roomful of eyes shifting their attention towards me. Of course I dint know the answer and some idiotic nerd answered it without being asked and he looked at me as if I was retarded. Further, I found the whole crowd asking doubts and writing notes, but she made it a point to give me a look and ignored me completely the whole day. The next day it was a hands-on session, where we actually implemented the lessons taught, on our laptops. The trainer showed us a simple example and gave us a different one to try out. She walked around us when the crowd seemed to look as though it was an Entrance examination or something, and gave me a sarcastic guffaw as she walked past my laptop. In another 20 minutes, I walked to her showing my output. She cross checked, and verified until she could find no mistakes though it was hard for her to believe that it was mine. I still appreciate her frankness because she said, ‘ Excellent. I thought you weren't listening. Good work’. *I wanted to say, 'ma'am, I wasn't listening after all'...but I dint, I just nodded and left quietly*

There were countless incidents through my school and college days where I was predetermined to be careless and stupid, but over the years they changed their impression, of course I waited until it happened in the long run. However I am okay with the first impression people make about me. Because, when I joined college Mummy was all praises for a senior girl she knew was in my college, and told me to contact her if I needed any help or books or inspiration or…oh forget it Mummy wanted me to be her. Later, after making some friends at the hostel, the first thing they said was that the person I had the reference of, was one of the most notorious girls, and not just in our college. Weeks after, I got a good idea about the girl Mummy wanted me to learn from. It took Mummy years to come to terms with this, but she later realized that her daughter was far better.

So, it is basically a give and take. I pass on mental judgments and you do the same about me.   And it goes on.

Easter : Appam and Beef Stew, anyone ?

I have fond Easter memories from my childhood. Honestly it’s the day the fifty-day long lent is “formally” broken and we hog relentlessly into chicken and beef. In the past fifty days, casual and secretive lent breaking might have happened which we shall not reveal and pretend that it dint happen.

So Easter begins with supersonic Spiritual songs piercing my eardrums in the early hours of the day. Back home, there were these few churches which were always at odds against each other, and they hire taxis and huge speakers and go around the neighborhood screaming ‘Christ is risen ! Hallelujah !”  This is a custom which actually is heart-warming and triggers off that Easter mood. However, over the years the churches were competing as to who played the loudest music. So the warm custom became a chaotic one, and a hot topic for verbal contempt among us Christians living in that area. I am surprised as to why the non Christians dint stage a louder protest against this custom for disturbing sleep on a Sunday morning. Anyway this counts as a fond memory because once one is married and written off the books, then the probability of being home for Easter is one out of a million.

The next thing to do is to go to church for the mass. This includes wearing new dress and then comparing it with that of others at the church. The Easter songs, sermon and message will happen in the background. After the mass none of the aunties gathers in circles to discuss the embroidery on the organza saree, because after fifty days of eating leaves and herbs, people are seen rushing home and hog on Appam and Beef stew as if it is an emergency. 

Post breakfast its time to watch movies on TV. The channel guys usually air a “new” movie (released two years back) which would be eagerly awaited by us cinema deprived kids.  After that comes the heavenly Chicken Biryani lunch and an afternoon nap. Later it’s a matter of a small outing and then off to school the next day.

This was our agenda for Easter, each and every year.

Years later in a different country, married and away from parents, I can only say that I remember those days very fondly. And in this part of the world Easter is not as relevant as it used to be and above all, it is a working day! Moreover, I cannot sit at the dining table expecting food to arrive; I have to cook. And clean as well. Gone are the days! But mind you it is not so terrible. I am making a special sweet this time and with the help of my maid we will make it special the way we can.

Oh I just remembered that Christ died very painfully for us on the cross and He resurrected from the dead on the third day. We are celebrating this third day as Easter - the victory of life over death. Amidst the hustle and bustle of making that special Easter lunch, did you also forget Him, like I did?

Why I'm Daddy's girl.

“I am not coming home unless you pick me” I screamed and rushed out with my school bag, leaving my parents pretending to be least bothered, with contrasting streaks of concern in their eyes.

I used to have special tuition classes for Chemistry, because this was one subject I had no clue about. And my chemistry class was after my regular school hours after which I had to board two buses to reach home, thanks to the choice of location of Papa to build our house.

So that day, I asked Papa to pick me up- because I dint want to board those stupid buses, you see. Papa, whose office was a good 25km away from home, reaches by 6 pm every evening. By then he would be exhausted, and riding that primitive scooter which has to be kick started around twenty five times and riding it in peak hour traffic for another few miles to pick me  was nothing less than trying to balance chemical equations. So he requested me to come by bus. And when I left saying that I wouldn’t and instead wait at the tuition campus, Mummy said….”She doesn’t mean any of it, will come home herself as usual, you know it”.

Evening came, and as I stepped out of my tuition class I could see Papa from a distance. I was so overwhelmed that I ran towards him and climbed onto the back of the scooter and we sped off home. On the way, I narrated to Papa about the endless chemical equations and that one equation in particular which would never get balanced and the teacher found that the formula itself was wrong. Papa nodded all the way along and laughed at my not-so-funny teen jokes keeping both eyes on the road all the way.

Next I can remember is a staggering pain in my tummy as I lay on the roadside on a  stack of gravel and I lifted my eyes to see Papa’s shoes on the center of the road. I turned around and saw Papa walking towards me barefooted. The scooter lay on the road, and so were my school bag and Papa’s shoes. By then a mighty population had already crowded us as if to catch a glimpse of the item dance I was performing. Anyway we both were okay, Papa and me suffered minor bruises ( but to all my friends I somehow managed to sound like I survived a shark attack). The wound  on my leg was slightly big and it bled a lot as we took an autorickshaw to the hospital. 

We called Mummy from the hospital and tactfully lied to her, that we are getting late as we dropped in at Margin free market midway. If not for that call, the least she usually does is to inform the police and say that her husband and daughter are missing and create chaos of a kind in the neighborhood. But we cant blame her, as it runs in her family.
By the way, let me explain how we were thrown from that scooter.As we were "speeding" at around 40km/hr, suddenly a puppy appeared as if from nowhere and it crossed the road just in front of us. You know when something is that cute, it mostly doesn't have enough brains. I do not remember what happened to that puppy or my school bag. 

As we reached home, Mummy almost broke into a temporary coma seeing Papa with bandages on his arms and me limping in a bandage clad leg. Mummy regained her senses a few minutes later and shot a long array of questions without leaving breathing space. So we explained the incident in dramatized tones, nursing our bruises for added effect. That’s when Mummy, wiped her tears and turned to Papa. “I told you there is no need to pick her up; she may say many things, but will come home”

Papa asked, ‘How can you be so sure?”

Mummy got up briskly, and said ‘Its so obvious! 99.99 chances are that she will!”

Papa gave his signature smile, turned to her and replied in a low tone, “I couldn't risk that 0.01%”.

To the most disgusting bank, ever !

I am entirely frustrated by the turn of events. It’s been two years since I left my last employer and I am still struggling to get my PF. What have I been doing for the last two years is what you ask? Yeah I had a baby and he is going to be ten months old now, but in between all that I have been communicating with either my ex employer or my bank to get things done. Except when I was in the labor room.

This bank, basically a foreign bank, had a different name two years back, when a sales guy thrust those documents in front of me and asked me to sign them on my joining day at my ex employer’s. And lo and behold, I am an account holder ! And right there was my debit card, a customer relationship number, cheque leaves all neatly arranged in a file which looked as elegant as the Brittanica. All on the same day…or the same hour that I met them! I accepted the account without questions- well why would I - when I all I care about is the salary which has to get credited promptly by the end of every month.

Six months after I put down my papers, I randomly checked whether all is well at my PF processing. Then suddenly those guys came up with an excuse saying that the PF papers require a Rs.1 revenue stamp, signed across by yours truly, which was not in my submitted forms. I clearly remember submitting that when I was in India, and it was very obvious that these guys lost it. Then it took a few ISD calls, hunting for Re.1 Indian revenue stamp in a different country, signing it across and sending it by courier. Thankfully they acknowledged the receipt of the stamp and as instructed, I waited again for two more months and checked the status when they came up with a fresh excuse- cancelled cheque leaves are required. This time, my head fuming with rage, I applied for a cheque book to be delivered at my address. Then these bank guys said that the cheque book returned undelivered (My foot!). I updated my address ( added a spacebar to the existing one) and it got delivered the second time at the same address. This process took a lot of emails, phone calls to customer service and more importantly, two good months. Again the cheque leaves were sent to them and I ensured that all the documents were in place.

I waited another four months.

Suddenly one fine morning my Papa called me and said sadly that my account with this nasty bank is getting closed as there is no activity in it for the last two years. How did Papa come to know? Interesting question. The so called super bank's primitive website does not allow country codes other than +91 to be entered in the mode of communication tab and so, I was forced to give Papa's number there. So these brainless monkeys at the bank were actually communicating with Papa on my behalf - now that's what we call a secure modern age banking. 

I called these bank people, wrote emails – crispy and lengthy, I posted grievances saying-please do not close my account, as my PF is getting processed and I have given this account number in it– nothing happened. They said that as my salary stopped coming in, they converted my account into some other type (wth !) in which it required a minimum balance. How am I to know this, you bastards? They say they gave me a warning letter to my address, that account will be closed- which wasn’t delivered (because you dint send it, you useless creatures!). And one day they just closed it; which essentially also means that my PF will never get credited. All my other efforts to get the PF went down the drain.

 I emailed the branch head, node head, communication manager, everyone whom I could get an email of and pleaded them to reopen my account as my PF will be credited into it. They replied saying no, not politely though, with enough shameless lies about the phone calls and emails they sent which never reached me. However the courier saying that the account is closed reached me promptly…how madam? Your bank is just plain spiteful and I genuinely hope it closes down and you roam down the streets begging with your resume, you know that?

Anyway what lies ahead of me is a herculean task to download a fresh set of forms, fill them, attach revenue stamp and cancelled cheque leaves of a different account number. It will again take another year to get processed. I do not know how much I have in my PF, but mind you worthless fools, even if it is Rs.1, I am entitled to each and every paisa of it - as it is the fruit of my toil - which you disoriented dumb heads wouldn't know a shit about. Then I will send you an email, my dear ex-banker. I will also come to your office when I am in India, a couple of months from now, and give you an earful. 

Tit for tat !

So it was a overall checkup for the nine month old at his pediatrician’s.  

A two year old girl came close to me and tried to pull my son - Aaron's nose. I gracefully and tactically avoided the damage by moving him away from the cute little intruder. 

Then I told hubby, “ Are you watching this or not? That kid would have pulled his nose out now. She had nails too…sharp ones”

“Ohh” came a sluggish response coupled with a yawn. “ Kids are like that. They will play and sometimes even hurt each other. Nothing to worry about”

Me: “Nono I mean to say, we should not trust him at a play school with older kids at this stage, you know”

Suddenly he sat straight, gave me a look and “ Oh I see? Then you do one thing. Buy a glass cage and keep him inside that. So no one will ever touch him and he will be perfectly safe”

 I fell silent and the day went about as usual,  the conversation conveniently forgotten.

The very next day, Aaron fell down on a mat in the living room as he was crawling. As I was in the kitchen, his rough n tough Daddy was in charge and he was eye witness to the accident. Suddenly he lifted the baby, pacified him and came running to the kitchen. 

“Should we take him to the doctor?”

Me: *casually* “Why what happened to him”

“He just fell down you know…**gasps for breath**and his face hit the floor, and a drop of blood came from his gums”

Me: “Happens. As he is teething, gums are tender now..So… every time he falls, this is bound to happen”

“No he cried, tears also came…”

Me: “Really? Then do one thing …you put him in that glass cage and keep in the living room”…. 

Well he left the kitchen before I completed that sentence.