My Sister-In-Law is Coming!

This has been in planning, not for days or months but years. Finally my Sis-in-Law has decided to take the plunge from the other side of the world to this side. This is not merely a lateral movement; it is a movement across hemispheres; not just East-West but North-South as well. Sis-In-Law will be traveling up North and West. Civilizations have been born, somewhere in north-south direction, upheavals have occurred and what not. She'll be bringing Vegemite with her! This is something that only Aussies understand and it's best left to them. Apparently it is well understood by my husband and hence a couple of jars will arrive as well. Aussie band, Men At Work must have loved it; they immortalized it in a song; trust those pesky artists to sing about Vegemites and chunder! Indian 'Karela' comes closest to the awful nature of Vegemite; for me, bitter the better. 

Men At Work: Down Under; You Tube

Sis-in-law's pending plans have made our quiet presence, fully known to authorities, Australian and American, the latter not very efficient at detecting anyone's entry, leave alone people operating as terrorists and their regular entries and exits; that has been left to the amount of bombs they explode and people they kill, just like Tsarnaev brothers who went back and forth between Boston and Chechnya. Not one American scratched his head; the Russians did but then who is going to listen to them; they seem to do things in the coldest way, not enough to excite American passion even about direct terrorist threats which were snuffed quickly under the weight of politically incorrect nonsense. Not the Russians; they don't suffer from PC illness and they do things because they can!

Anyway, my Sis-in-Law has given me sufficient assurances that they will pick up after them, knowing my angst for kids' penchant of leaving things as they are; if they are lying, leave them there to be picked up by mother, which would be me. As long as there is chaos, people remain occupied and bereft of trouble, something terrorists and sympathizers need to develop full time. Sis-In-Law is also ready to venture on the right side of the road after driving for decades on the left! A few hoots and horns might be heard on an otherwise fairly quiet system of driving on American roads; she and Australian friend are free to travel by themselves; I'll watch from the window! Moving on the right side is a welcome change politically, considering progression in age and wisdom; time to shove those ideals in the closet and get on with real world.

Sis-in-Law is coming with an Australian friend. I'm not sure if I can follow Australian accents too well; maybe I'll just put those men to work! Perhaps I will just pretend and smile and agree to everything, maybe do the quintessential Indian nod, saying yes and no and maybe, all at once. Who knows what those damn Indians are nodding about anyway? There will be a cacophony of sounds: Hindi, Urdu, Bengali, American English, Australian English and Hinglish. There will be partnering: Bengali with Bengali, Hindi with Hindi, English for all, whether understood or not. Some Australian cuisines will be brought to the kitchen and of course the notorious fish eating habits of Bengalis will be revived. My sis-in-law will also resuscitate sluggish American economy with her plans of shopping and all! Hola Sis!

Ding Ding Ding: We Have A Winner!

Some pesky teenagers

Party was in full swing; strobe lights were in place; alcohol had been lined up, weed was everywhere. Teenagers and 20 somethings had assembled; calls and texts had been placed for the venue. All ingredients for a successful outcome were in place or so it seems for all gatherings done by the youth of America and the world at large! Unfortunately, things for teenagers usually have a weird outcome or basically only one outcome: trouble. No matter what they do, where they go, young people always have a tail. Nonetheless, recklessness, and foolhardiness combined with a laissez faire attitude - is what drives the young to places and to depths that no one has been able to reach. It's the brain, it's the hormones, it's the age, it's immaturity, it's maddening. Deadly combination of an individualistic streak combined with group mentality, is what compels the young to complete distraction. 

At the party, things were just fine and everyone was slowly descending into the inevitable state of inebriation when honorable DJ of the party decided things were not loud enough simply because nothing was vibrating and nothing was falling. Besides there was too much visibility! Smoke machine and Fogger were brought out; no party could be compete without a thorough soaking in fog and smoke, whether from the machine or lungs (that would eventually burn out and start smoking). Well, smoke machine came on, spun its magic and loads of curly smoke and fog filled the room and house. Now the party could actually begin to feel like an authentic one.

Smoke Monsters

In the swirling lights, smoke monsters looked beautiful and kids were mesmerized not so much by the smoke but their own ability to pull off another successful coup, just out of reach of adults. Who knows where the adults were and who knows whether they knew the outcome of prolonged absences from their abodes. Let's just say, everything was under control, nothing was on fire and this was merely a case of smoke without fire.

Smoke Alarm doing its job

Assembled kids forgot about smoke alarms. As smoke reached every corner of the room, however fake, it still managed to excite the smoke alarms. They started off real loud and refused to stop; their batteries must have been changed recently. Anyway, the sound shattered the party and before the party-ers could have done anything, another light and sound show began to form outside the party house. Fire trucks and police cars had deposited themselves outside the party house. Some irate neighbor, probably a cranky old man or woman or just some party pooper, had called the cops. These damn kids. Cops were upset that fun could not be had with music and other good stuff,was a smoke machine really essential, they wondered aloud as they got ready to barge into the house.

Most main doorways and windows of the culprit house were blocked by burly policemen but other hidden doors and windows were discovered by kids. More than half escaped; in fact so many tumbled out of the house that they caused utter confusion among cops. When some brave police trudged upstairs, the young ones slipped by with such speed, there was not a blur remaining. Some girls screamed so loud and for so long, that it drowned genuine bawling from other heart broken kids; these ones just crumpled in various corners and moaned loudly. One policewoman silenced everyone as she went around with a breathalyzer. As numbers on the breathalyzer went crazy, the party was declared officially closed. The triumphant policewomen declared gleefully, Ding ding, ding, we have a winner! The lucky winner had opened his mouth wide and breathed out numbers of .15! Incidentally, the number also considered the unofficial pass out limit (legal limit of BAC hanging on dearly to .08). Phew, that was a substantial win indeed!

  

My Father the Warrior: Remembering Him and His Battles With Ghosts!

Peace: Joyce Singha

For many years, my father suffered from a ‘ghost problem’. When he first told me about the nightly battles he'd been having with various creatures, I shuddered, laughed, and quickly shuddered again lest those creatures came upon me as well. Such is the fear of ghosts in the Indian culture! This is what my dad told me. He said those guys wanted to sit on top of his head and did so; he said they were pinching him, he said they were blowing air on him, he said they whistled at him, he also said they were pushing him from his bed. I was shocked that any creature could be so rude as to push a man from his own bed. My Dad threw different things at the creatures: shoes, slippers, pillows, spoons, sticks, mud, water, anything he could lay his hands on.

Nonetheless, it all amounted to a lot of activity so I asked my dad to be less dramatic and a little more reasonable. My Dad said that when they bared their teeth, he had enough and that is the time he whipped out his Bible and whacked the life out of them. Then he did his favorite thing, which is to let out choice curses in Hindi. Believe me, some of the curse words in Hindi can be very scary. On a side note, when my dad used profanity, it was not gentle at all; he could really grind it out good.

It seems with the Bible in one hand, a shoe in the other, and a mouth full of curses my father was successful in scaring those creatures, for a while. Most likely they retreated for a while. My Dad also saw a Maulvi (Muslim priest) who wrote few powerful stanzas on bits of paper, which my father stuck all over his house. Unfortunately, in the ensuing weeks, bits of paper and my father’s curses were not potent enough to keep wily creatures away; they were back to torment my father. I requested my father see his doctor before the situation got completely out of hand.

Dad duly headed for his PCP who happens to be a benign Jewish fellow complete with cap, keys, and threads; jingle-jangle of Doctor’s keys usually informed of his arrival. In the monthly or weekly meetings, my father and doctor usually discussed various political situations and rarely my father’s troubles, which fortunately had remained unchanged and hence no need of changing of the guard. Kind Doctor diagnosed my father’s battles with ghosts as sleep disorder/ anxiety/ depression, and recommended anti-depressants, which my dad refused to take just in case they interfered with his heart medicines. Then the doctor suggested maybe he should see a psychiatrist at which my dad went completely ballistic. When the doctor seemed exasperated, my dad came to his rescue and said he would get some priests to wipe out those night creatures! Medicine and juju somehow never went together.

As rescue-from-ghosts mission began, the group comprised of two priests, one designated priest and another one for added support, my Mum, my Mum's two friends, Dad, Dad's friend, and me. The idea was to present a very formidable group just in case any of those creatures were hiding under the carpet or in the walls or something. The priest soaked the house with holy water and read numerous Bible chapters to banish the creatures to depths of hell. The group lead by the priest made a few rounds of the house making sure all bases had been covered. My father was satisfied, slept peacefully for a few days till a few days later when his troubles started again.

I decided to take matters in my hand, fished out my Homeopathic books and read all the troubling symptoms. Voila I had the right remedy for Dad. He was given Stramonium. Dad became well, slept well and even gave advice to all and sundry about how to tackle ghosts! My Dad also told me about a certain distant relative who had regular sessions of boxing with some local nocturnal creatures as well! My mind began to whirr and I thought could this thing run in the family? Could God be so unkind as to allow generations to be troubled by these restless creatures? Should I get ready with some shoes and slippers? Or should I just keep some Stramonium nearby for myself? May my father rest in peace and those creatures as well; he was a true warrior, fought with ghosts and all.

Notes: Author is a Homeopath; Stramonium is a Homeopathic remedy to ease the mind among other things.

Little Dress And Big Problems

I doubted we were ever going to get summer this year despite all the warnings about global warnings. It has been a litany of cold; long, drawn out winters, hardly any spring and barely a few days of simmering heat. What was I going to do with my short dresses and shorts? So far, my husband had not panicked about my short shorts (I don't know what else they could be if not short). He's used to that. What a husband! But he did become alarmed about a dress I was going to wear for a party. Basically, the length of the dress caused the alarm; it was not like the Duchess of England's knee high length dresses. Being petite, I cannot wear and should not wear long dresses. I would disappear completely so the only solution to this height problem would be to give the world an impression of height with a short dress. Yes, it's important the world sees women preferably with some added height.

Along with the dress, I had to contend with additional heels as well. I don't know if the dress was bought for the heels or heels were bought for the dress. Basically both had to go together, one without the other would not have done it. If I did not wear this dress on this particular day, an opportune moment would have slipped by, my friends would have left for Texas and I would have been left with a dress and heels still waiting to be outed. 

Anyway this is how it all played out between the little dress, little ol' me and husband:

Husband: Is that what you are going to wear?
Me: Yes, what's the problem?
Husband: Oh nothing, only ...
Me: Yes?
Husband: How will you sit?
Me: Primary reaction, no words - open mouth, wide eyes, hands on hips
        Secondary reaction, no words, mouth still open, hands holding head
Husband: You can't sit down!
Me: Should I just hang around the door?
Husband: Do whatever you want.

I don't know if my husband realized that this was going to be a small party where people sat, stood and sipped. I doubt any people would have been lying around on the floor with drinks or kabobs in their hands; it's not possible to interact in that state! Did my husband think that if I stood, everybody else would stand up and stare? Or did he expect that as soon as I sat down everybody else would go one step further and immediately fall to the ground and that's when the viewing would change! He was worried I might forget I had a dress and for no apparent reason would end up doing somersaults. He worried immensely about me in a little dress. So his solution: Do Not Sit!

But sit I did. Standing is the worst position for me. I invariably look for a place to settle in including the floor. With a dress on, floor was not a possibility. We are talking about eye level conversation here; we are talking about little dresses riding up a bit but hands being able to pull it down to a discreet level; we are talking about decent people sitting and having a conversation; we are talking about women having the freedom to wear shorts and dresses without having their throats slit and being accused of infidelity by the moral police; we are talking about husbands going cuckoo over sitting and standing in innocent-little-not-quite-white-dresses!

Prisoner Exchange: Obama Style

There is a new order in the world for conducting prisoner exchange; it's called Obama Style. Obama just conducted one for Bowe Bergdahl for the terrible Taliban five, very dangerous terrorists held in Gitmo for years. As reports continue to emerge, Bowe Bergdahl is not the man Obama made him out to be much like Obama is not the man, America thought he was or was going to be. Bergdahl is a deserter who in earlier times would have been shot dead according to protocol. Not in Obama Times where deserters are honored, exchanged, brought home, their homecoming celebrated in the Rose Bowl of America's White House. In this brave new world, deserters get honored while soldiers who put their lives on the line are dissed by White House spokespeople like Marie Harf, a woman who may have never seen what war is, much like Gwyneth Paltrow, both women lucky to enjoy the privileges of living in a world made free by the sacrifice of soldiers, most of them honorable men and women.  

Now, America has effectively set a precedent of how to get your soldiers back, no questions asked. Whether people like Bergdahl collaborated with the enemy is regardless in this new enterprise. The country is 17 Trillion in debt but Obama also considered paying up to 5 million dollars to get Bergdahl back. The Taliban must have scoffed at the paltry amount. Obama obviously hadn't seen free flowing money from the Saudis for jihad! Anyway, Obama has begun to move the country in a direction of easy give and take and new definition of what honorable service is. It's this non-recognition of honor that lets Obama ignore a genuine and honorable Marine, holed up in Mexico for some weird reason. However, Marine Tahmooressi can be brought back from Mexico by exchanging any number of drug cartel members in USA or other criminals eating away taxpayers money, right here in the USA.  Surely, Mexico would be delighted at the offer, more so if a few millions are dangled as well. Currently, Cartel members/Gang members are being fed and provided with attorneys and lawyers (working feverishly for the rights of criminal offenders) and when things go their way, which happens many times, criminals and drug cartels are allowed to stay on in the country as well; their families get the invite as well. All this could be achieved with Obama's prisoner exchange program.

There are other exchanges that can be done by Obama while he still has 2 more years remaining in office, good enough time to wreck some more damage to the country, make a mockery of protecting Americans, reduce terrorism to some euphemistic noble words and actions, and still claim victory! There are many ambitious terrorists sitting pretty in Gitmo and others jailed in America's high security prisons. Obama needs to move quick before his 2 years are over. There are killers, all kinds, with steel claws, pirate gear, ZZ Top style bearded men, angry men, hate spewing men, all declaring death and destruction to non-Muslims in Satanic lands especially where Christianity is still present. No, Al-Qaeda is NOT on the run and neither are its myriad affiliates! Obama can easily exchange these people with Americans rotting in foreign lands. It is truly an amazing opportunity for a full scale prisoner exchange. A quick release of hardened criminals and terrorists as per Obama's liberally chaotic world, would be wonderful especially if it is done without knowledge of Congress and American people.

In Obama Land of Lies, Deception and Dementia, there is no war on terrorists. In fact, there are no terrorists and if there are, they have legitimate grievances which Obama administration will do everything in its power to rectify; after all America needs to be cut down to size. Obama has been made president of America to redress America's wrongs and set it right with the world in every which way possible! With his prisoner exchange program, Obama will re-set world order to a state of utopia, extend the olive branch to all intent on destroying the free world. Obama's Style of exchange will bring peace, prosperity and goodwill among all. This is Obama Style and unfortunately many Americans upheld it as well. This is what Liberals and Democrats wanted to see in Obama; this is what Obama wanted to do since he donned the presidential cape and quickly mistook it for a King's cape and crown. And just as he goes about his presidential business with complete disregard for laws and the constitution, he continues to become more and more enamored with his useless ideas. Long Live King Obama, cry his loyal subjects!

Grandma's Pet Bird

Over eating and obesity are human frailties; it's not supposed to happen to birds and animals but I suppose in some places it does. So here was Grandma with her pet bird who had been a pet for many years and didn't know any other existence. Nonetheless, even Grandmas need a break every now and then, so off this Grandma went leaving behind her pet bird to be taken care of by none other than her favorite 20 year old Grandson. Lo and behold, Grandson became attached to the bird and gave the bird freedom of every kind, the kinds that only wild creatures can imagine. 

When Grandson and company drank, Bird hung around the glasses and bottles and bottle caps. When Grandson played ball in the house, Bird witnessed the wreckage; when Grandson slept, Bird slept as well and naturally when Grandson smoked pot, the bird sat longingly around as well. As things played out in Grandma's absence, Grandson invited a few friends to say hullo to the Bird and experience some whiffs of pot as well. I don't know if all assembled smoked but Grandson certainly did. Weed washes everything in the humane light and so everybody was let in for a mellow evening unlike evenings of carnage that usually and invariably accompany alcohol. 

So pet Bird sat around with the boys; when they smoked, the Bird did too. Well, Bird didn't really pick up a pipe and all that, only sniffed and inhaled the good stuff. As lovely fumes of weed gently wafted down the room, they flowed from the pipe and directly filled little Bird's lungs. Heavenly pot  lifted Bird's worries about Grandma as Bird felt her wings soar around the room. Good stuff, that weed! Before long, Bird was thoroughly soaked with weed. Like many politicians, Bird too did not inhale! Second hand smoke from weed and pot was the culprit, which those pesky Liberals never warned you about; in fact they wanted to make those freedoms available to all without discrimination.

Transformation quickly occurred  as Bird become a one-time-pot-head and soon turned into a glutton as well. A free bird, not in its cage, happily hanging around pot smoking grandsons, is bound to get into trouble. So, high on weed and wind beneath its wings, off went the bird to find its food and find in plenty it did. That big 10 pound bird food was all hers.

   

Pet Bird went for it 

 forgot to blink 

   forgot to drink; 

    to the surprise of all
 ate it, got bloated

   turned into a ball

Bird ate so much that it became incapacitated and passed out very close to Grandson who thought Bird was just tired and needed some sleep. Grandson threw my son's jacket over the bird for some peace and quiet and let Bird rest all night. There the Bird lay, all night, without moving, without breathing.

Now, Grandson has to answer Grandma what happened to her pet Bird. My son has to wipe down his jacket with warm water, lemon and some vinegar because this jacket cannot be washed or dry cleaned. Grandson's friends will speculate as to why was Grandson so sad; after all it was just a bird and maybe Grandson had a soft heart and worried about other things besides weed. All friends will have to collectively figure out what to do with the dead bird, whether to cremate it or bury it before Grandma gets back from her vacation. 

NBA Basketball of Punks and Dunks

Soccer or Football is the world's most popular sport but surely American Basketball is equally popular with its towering men and their knee length shorts, certainly not designed for men under 6 feet; anything under this number easily qualifies for a dwarf on the field.  Regular people sometimes feel a sense of relief when they see some players hovering around their normal height but that is very rare and soon people feel sorry to see such 'tiny' players having to make do in a court of giants. Then too, the 'tiny' ones seem to be specially adept at moving the ball swiftly, especially through the legs of the bigger players. Big players like Shaquille O'Neal made it an art form to fall and remain fallen till most of both teams regardless of rivalry, helped him stand up again. 

It's the sheer beauty of flight and an equal ferocity of beastly play that sets American basketball apart from any other in the world. Two to three feet off the ground is the least a fan can get to see, which in itself is a fanciful flight perfected by none other than the world's most famous athlete, the great Michael Jordan. Hang time came to be affiliated with Jordan because he seemed to stay in the air for an unholy and unbelievably long time. Nonetheless the Jordan era was also one of full time punks like Dennis Rodman and those pesky Detroit Pistons who played basketball like a series of wrestling matches. For lack of anything else to do, Rodman now keeps company with ruthless dictators and killers like Kim Jong-Un and then wonders in his pretty pink scarf why the world is so upset and subsequently has on-air meltdowns as well!

Unfortunately, like other things in America, NBA too has come under the knife of political correctness where a good old hard foul has been elevated to choices of flagrant 1 and 2 and of course off court theatrics! It's a wonder PC thought police hasn't yet objected to all the garbage talk and thoughts by players especially with the heavy handed dealing of Donald Sterling, owner of NBA Team LA Clippers! Somehow Clippers thought of protesting by throwing their jerseys down but still continuing to be on Sterling's pay roll of millions of dollars; taking Sterling's tainted money was ok!  Head butting, poke in the eye, goring another player are no longer tolerated. Subsequently, fans can no longer see a basketball brawl, so to speak. Half of the pleasure in watching international soccer games lay in watching droves of traveling half-crazed fans across borders who insist on having their own matches of fists, slurs and horns in the stands. 

Michael Jordan's Hang Time

Still, NBA attracts new blood each year hungry for the ring and title but of course the average age of an NBA champion is 27 years! There is Russell Westbrook with his blazing guns and of course the freight train Lebron James but none come close to being punks.  To stop Lebron James is to do it at the peril of your life and so when he comes down thundering towards the basket, it's best to move out of the way and pretend to tie your shoe laces. Everybody would understand those shoe laces were never undone! When Tiago tried to dunk on Lebron, well the sheer audacity of it went viral because the Spaniard never went anywhere. It's one thing to move out of the way but it's another to dare do it on Lebron!

NBA still has some passion, bits of controlled anger, some frustration, but plenty of beauty in the beasts of play. It's fascinating to see the ball sail down the net with a sweet swish, one smooth action, no crutch of the board is seen as in European basketball and so when it happens to be a rare air ball, one collective gasp from the crowd becomes a unique sound. But nothing to beat the absolute awesomeness of NBA basketball when players go for their dunks. Which brings me to the quintessential nature of American NBA dunks.  This beauty is truly a beast. The ball gets slammed down with such savagery that it is a miracle the ball survives as well as the net and of course the board as well. This art of slamming the ball through the net has yet to be mastered by other nations.