Prelude: We writer types have a room inside our heads where we like to spend our time when the real world is not giving us our money’s worth. That is the only excuse I can give for these embarrassing disclosures. Though if you feel I have some screws loose in the head, you are entitled to your opinion
The shopping
Only last Sunday, at the Army canteen (which now looks like a posh department store; just in case you’re visualizing a room full of Hercules rum cartons), I had finished settling a big box of cereal into the shopping cart and was tossing in some wafer packets when I noticed the puzzled look of the officer standing nearby. Ignoring him, I had just chucked in a shampoo and a moisturizer when he startled me by having a coughing fit. “Ma’am, excuse me! You’re filling up my shopping cart”. I spotted the husband shaking his head gravely at me from a few feet away. Turning a deep shade of red, I apologized to the guy, retrieved my goods and made my way to the cart that my mate had wheeled away, leaving me alone to face the world. Or rather, vice versa.
Rahul
Many years back (in my Indian Express reporter days in Pune), I would sometimes run into a quiet, stubbled sub editor who I always greeted with a cheerful “Good morning Rahul.” He would smile and nod back. That was all the conversation we had in three years. The day I was leaving I ran into him in the corridor, having a drink at the water cooler. Rather sentimentally I said to him: “Bye Rahul, I’m leaving Pune. Won’t be seeing you from tomorrow.” “I have to tell you something before you go,” he said. “My name is not Rahul.” Extremely embarrassed, I asked him why he hadn’t corrected me earlier. “Since Rahul is a nice name too, I thought I’d just let it be,” he said. He did tell me his name but I’ve forgotten it again. I remember him affectionately though as this nice guy with a cute smile and no ego.
The day time stopped
More recently, on my way back from a trip to Jakarta, I had four hours to kill at KL airport before boarding my flight to Delhi. The earlier plan had been to lunch with the glam diva - my cousin Noopur (who lives there) and have a sizzling exchange of family gossip but luckily I noticed that my visa had expired and called to stall her in her tracks. No doubt, midway stuffing ringgets in her StellaMcCartney bag to give her sister a jolly good time.
Instead, I decided to spend my time loitering around the various counters, using up left over currency. Just when I had the last few dollar bills in my hand, I was hypnotized by a beautiful pair of white shell earrings and promptly fell in love with them. The sales girl was nice enough to get me another pair in a delicate pink and I spent a lot of time discussing with her which one looked prettier. I was holding one earring next to each ear and staring into the mirror trying to make up my mind when I noticed the wall clock. It was showing the time as 5.30 pm, which was departure time for my flight. “Wrong time,” I told the girl, smilingly. “Right time,” she nodded emphatically. I pointed to my watch, which was showing the time as 4 pm, which meant I still had an hour and half to kill. “Your watch stop,” she smiled disarmingly. Dropping the new found love of my life on the counter like a hot brick I picked up my backpack and sprinted down the terminal. I have never run so fast in my life and made it to the aircraft almost sliding in sideways through the closing doors. In my nervousness I also spilt some water on the shiny white pants of the Japanese guy sitting next to me, which upset him so much that I had to assure him I had not given him a deadly Indian incurable disease. When I finally leaned my head back on the seat and closed my eyes, he was still dabbing desperately on the wet spots with a napkin, with a worried air hostess looking on.
The grey car
One last story about cars. Don’t know how you do it but since they look so similar, I identify them by colours. One evening on a long walk, I realized it was getting dark. Since the husband drove back from work that way, I called to ask him if he would pick me up. He said he would be at the crossing in five minutes. I hung around and soon a grey car screeched to a stop at the red light. Making a dash across the road, I opened the front door and jumped in. Fiddling with the seat belt, I looked up and nearly died of heart attack. There was a stranger in the driver’s seat. He looked equally terrified and no sooner had I leapt out of the car, darted off like a frightened rabbit. Most certainly richer by a horror story to tell his grandkids in his twilight years. By then the old faithful grey Santro had cruised next to me but for many days I had to suffer insulting dinner table conversation about “people” who couldn’t differentiate between a Santro and a Wagon R (the make of the stranger’s car). That story has, however, taken a back seat ever since I tried entering a locked Santro after a quick dash to pick up eggs and bread from the grocer forgetting completely that my husband was waiting for me in his Scorpio, and was wearily watching his wayward wife trying to unhinge the door handle of another car.
The lunch guest
I have on other occasions, managed to lock myself out of my car in the vegetable market in my pyjamas and bathroom slippers; greeted a visiting general sahab in a kurta worn inside out and startled a family of tourists in Sikkim by getting into their taxi and making myself comfortable in the window seat. If you feel I’m a bit loony then it just runs in the family. Nothing beats the story of Pranay’s Nanaji (my mousaji) who you probably know from my earlier blog. He once came home from work, washed his hands and sat down at the dining table for lunch, wondering why Subodh Nimkar, the neighbours’ son, was eating in his house. It took him five minutes to register that he had got off on the wrong floor and was actually sitting at the Nimkars’ dining table. By the time the gentle Mrs Nimkar could emerge from her kitchen, he had quietly got up and slunk up another flight of stairs to relate his embarrassing tale to his horrified wife.
Prithviraj Banerjee is a cartoonist and writer. You can visit his blog at http://pbnerge.blogspot.in/
Only last Sunday, at the Army canteen (which now looks like a posh department store; just in case you’re visualizing a room full of Hercules rum cartons), I had finished settling a big box of cereal into the shopping cart and was tossing in some wafer packets when I noticed the puzzled look of the officer standing nearby. Ignoring him, I had just chucked in a shampoo and a moisturizer when he startled me by having a coughing fit. “Ma’am, excuse me! You’re filling up my shopping cart”. I spotted the husband shaking his head gravely at me from a few feet away. Turning a deep shade of red, I apologized to the guy, retrieved my goods and made my way to the cart that my mate had wheeled away, leaving me alone to face the world. Or rather, vice versa.
Rahul
Many years back (in my Indian Express reporter days in Pune), I would sometimes run into a quiet, stubbled sub editor who I always greeted with a cheerful “Good morning Rahul.” He would smile and nod back. That was all the conversation we had in three years. The day I was leaving I ran into him in the corridor, having a drink at the water cooler. Rather sentimentally I said to him: “Bye Rahul, I’m leaving Pune. Won’t be seeing you from tomorrow.” “I have to tell you something before you go,” he said. “My name is not Rahul.” Extremely embarrassed, I asked him why he hadn’t corrected me earlier. “Since Rahul is a nice name too, I thought I’d just let it be,” he said. He did tell me his name but I’ve forgotten it again. I remember him affectionately though as this nice guy with a cute smile and no ego.
The day time stopped
More recently, on my way back from a trip to Jakarta, I had four hours to kill at KL airport before boarding my flight to Delhi. The earlier plan had been to lunch with the glam diva - my cousin Noopur (who lives there) and have a sizzling exchange of family gossip but luckily I noticed that my visa had expired and called to stall her in her tracks. No doubt, midway stuffing ringgets in her StellaMcCartney bag to give her sister a jolly good time.
Instead, I decided to spend my time loitering around the various counters, using up left over currency. Just when I had the last few dollar bills in my hand, I was hypnotized by a beautiful pair of white shell earrings and promptly fell in love with them. The sales girl was nice enough to get me another pair in a delicate pink and I spent a lot of time discussing with her which one looked prettier. I was holding one earring next to each ear and staring into the mirror trying to make up my mind when I noticed the wall clock. It was showing the time as 5.30 pm, which was departure time for my flight. “Wrong time,” I told the girl, smilingly. “Right time,” she nodded emphatically. I pointed to my watch, which was showing the time as 4 pm, which meant I still had an hour and half to kill. “Your watch stop,” she smiled disarmingly. Dropping the new found love of my life on the counter like a hot brick I picked up my backpack and sprinted down the terminal. I have never run so fast in my life and made it to the aircraft almost sliding in sideways through the closing doors. In my nervousness I also spilt some water on the shiny white pants of the Japanese guy sitting next to me, which upset him so much that I had to assure him I had not given him a deadly Indian incurable disease. When I finally leaned my head back on the seat and closed my eyes, he was still dabbing desperately on the wet spots with a napkin, with a worried air hostess looking on.
The grey car
One last story about cars. Don’t know how you do it but since they look so similar, I identify them by colours. One evening on a long walk, I realized it was getting dark. Since the husband drove back from work that way, I called to ask him if he would pick me up. He said he would be at the crossing in five minutes. I hung around and soon a grey car screeched to a stop at the red light. Making a dash across the road, I opened the front door and jumped in. Fiddling with the seat belt, I looked up and nearly died of heart attack. There was a stranger in the driver’s seat. He looked equally terrified and no sooner had I leapt out of the car, darted off like a frightened rabbit. Most certainly richer by a horror story to tell his grandkids in his twilight years. By then the old faithful grey Santro had cruised next to me but for many days I had to suffer insulting dinner table conversation about “people” who couldn’t differentiate between a Santro and a Wagon R (the make of the stranger’s car). That story has, however, taken a back seat ever since I tried entering a locked Santro after a quick dash to pick up eggs and bread from the grocer forgetting completely that my husband was waiting for me in his Scorpio, and was wearily watching his wayward wife trying to unhinge the door handle of another car.
The lunch guest
I have on other occasions, managed to lock myself out of my car in the vegetable market in my pyjamas and bathroom slippers; greeted a visiting general sahab in a kurta worn inside out and startled a family of tourists in Sikkim by getting into their taxi and making myself comfortable in the window seat. If you feel I’m a bit loony then it just runs in the family. Nothing beats the story of Pranay’s Nanaji (my mousaji) who you probably know from my earlier blog. He once came home from work, washed his hands and sat down at the dining table for lunch, wondering why Subodh Nimkar, the neighbours’ son, was eating in his house. It took him five minutes to register that he had got off on the wrong floor and was actually sitting at the Nimkars’ dining table. By the time the gentle Mrs Nimkar could emerge from her kitchen, he had quietly got up and slunk up another flight of stairs to relate his embarrassing tale to his horrified wife.
Prithviraj Banerjee is a cartoonist and writer. You can visit his blog at http://pbnerge.blogspot.in/
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