Loopy Stuff - or, Devil in the Details!

The Devil, I've heard it said, is in the details. 

And so, therefore, by virtue of being born in the wrong side of September (which  makes me Virgo - Virgo, mind you, not vir...) 

I am preordained to be condemned. 

That sheet of paper on that table is not exactly straight.

The book on the bookshelf is not exactly straight up.

That bit of this, over there, is not exactly THAT.... 

You get the picture? 

That comma? The full stop. And all. And etc.,? So, Brit English (there's no other) says programme, no? 

Finicky.

Fastidious. 

Downright persnickety! 

That's me.

Which means what?

Nonsense rules the head and rompa/stomps all over the irrational heart!

So, as I stood in the showroom, checking out a variety of trousers... 

Texture.

Colour.

Cut.

Fit. 

Yeah, yeah, i know... 

But, what is that ONE thing that swung the deal?

Call me nutty.

Call me crazy.

Or mad.

Or just plain eccentric.

LOOPY even!!

Those small, itty-bitty things that make up less than one percent of the whole damn trouser... Loops. LOOPS! 

Stuff that belts go though?

You've seen them before I'm sure?

Yes? Yess!!

This pair of trousers had 8 loops going around the waist. 4 on one side. 4 on the other. And so, to 'paraphrase' (or bowdlerize) (or whatever) "If two heads are better than one", certainly God intended 8 loops are better than 6.

You can't go wrong with 8 loops.

So, trousers, tick! Paid for. Done.

What's that you say? I'm loopy?

Nah re baba, I'm just a screwed up Virgo.

We're wired different. Wired. Weird. Same difference. 

.... Never the twain shall meet!

I'm tired of the West. I am firmly of the East. The West has, for far too long,lorded it over the East and looked down in sneering scorn. It is time, I think, to set the score right.

In all this, while I am tired of the West, what can I say of the South? They don't even get into the East vs West argument, such smug buggers they are, staying aloof and snooty.

 

If you think I am talking about inward looking, contemplative, Oriental thought and philosophy set in conflict with Occidental culture, science and the Renaissance.... you're way of the mark.

That is a battle for another day. But yes, there is a small, tangential connection. The oft mentioned comment, "The East is east, and the West is West, and never the twain shall meet" is somewhat true.

But I have suffered ENOUGH. Not once, not twice, but on THREE CONSECUTIVE NIGHTS this resident of the eastern suburbs of this wretched hell-hole called Mumbai went traipsing (at the beginning) from the East, in an attempt to reach the western suburbs (which, by the way, I must say, is enough for a lifetime) What I started off doing (traipsing) soon degenerated into a slow funeral march, crawling, inching, and if you allow me to be accurate, millimetering through the traffic snarls of the uppity, snooty, snobby, pathetic, horrible, horrendous, lousy, terrible roads of the W suburbs...

Thursday: Left Churchgate at 5:05, reached AND crossed the domestic airport at 5:55 (YES!) and was en-route to a friends house in Kandivli. Guess what? Destination reached, finally, at 8:20! The Smokehead (a fine, majestic single malt) was worth that ride. As was the company - and the conversations too. But next trip to Kandivli? In my 4th rebirth after this! (That will be too soon)

Friday: This, in fact, was an unplanned, impromptu gathering of lie minded oldies (mature talents, as the initiator described this). Despite misgivings, tempted by the promise of free flowing conversations, one left home (Kanjur Marg - and YES, that IS a place, and it IS in Mumbai, seriously, go look it up on Google, real people DO live here) at 7:00. Was at the "J" end of the JVLR Highway by 7:35. Destination: Global Fusion, near Ambani Hospital in Andheri West, reached at 8:40! 

Saturday: As with Thursday, a PLANNED trip. Once again to Andheri West (Andheri: The heart of darkness? The abode of depression?) Shall say noting except one word, "Ditto" (same as above) 

I'm now seeking early retirement. From the "charm", the "seduction" and whatever else you may say to me, about the Western suburbs.

Give me places with names like Vidya Vihar. Like Bhandup. Nahur. Even Govandi and Bainganwadi. Give me a heaven called Kanjur Marg. 

Where the roads are good. 

Where traffic flows smoothly.

Where a journey is just a journey and not a fight with life.

Where Life is GOOD.... 

Where the East is, there is inner peace. 

And you, South Bombay (somehow, while the Eat and West became Mumai, SsoBo remained Bombay, no?) - yes, YOU, South Bombay, you just shut up! I'll bash you if you even smile smugly after reading this. Not ONE word from your snooty mouths!! 

Be warned. I'm in a fighting mood tonight. 

And yes, on that note, here's wishing you a Happy Gudi Padwa.

A Cut Above - A Frontier Reclaimed

This may well be one of the most politically incorrect things I'm about to do. As the whole world (and it's aunt) glorifies International Women's Day I strike a note of defiance and discord.

Ever since last Saturday I've been restless. Sleep, too, has eluded my nights. I wake up each morning, bleary eyed, and look at myself in the mirror. It is not a pretty sight - never much to look at, to begin with, I have been looking even more disheveled these past few days. 

It's the hair. It's all wrong. Wavy patterns. Sticking out like weeds, especially around the ears. It's too long. That's the problem. Too long. It's grown to all of two inches, by God! 

I need a hair cut. And so, today morning, a Sunday, I go over.

There was a time... My neighbourhood had a barber. Yes, a barber. Exactly one. Exactly the quantity required. This was not too long ago. 

And then things changed. The n.hood now has more than several, which is many. All of them nice, fancy, air-conditioned places. Offering more than a hair cut. 

A manicure. Pedicure. Streaks. Bleach. De-tan. And a lot more. I can - and have - tolerate these, without succumbing. 

But... All these new and hep upmarket places have a feature that leaves me uncomfortable. They are all *Unisex* "parlours" 

And there lies my problem. A serious one. 

It's as if the last frontier has been breached. The last bastion has fallen. There's no place left where a man can get his haircut in quiet peace. 

To the left there's chatter. To the right there's chatter. One feels like one is in the middle of the charge of the light brigade. Colouring to the left, curlings to the right, volleyed and thundered.... And even the men who come there?! It is as if no one goes for a plain hair cut any more... They want to perm, they want to make three strands long, they want a small bit of goats hair below the lower lip... And the discussions are endless. 

So, today, I went for a haircut. To THE barber. Who, seeing me after almost a decade, nods silently and quietly points to a seat while attending to an already seated client. 

I look around. Familiar surroundings. Simple. Basic. Nothing fancy. Not a sign of female presence. Not even on the walls. Silence prevails, except for the occasional snip of a pair of scissors. And once in a while, a comment. 

Conversation. Not chatter. About the state of the economy. And corruption. And politics. The customer and the barber dwell, briefly but wisely, equally dismissive of Sharad Pawar and Modi, equally contemptuous of Rahul Gandhi and Kejriwal. I keep my silence. Do not interrupt "Men at Work"

Once done, he turns to me, looks at my reflection in the mirror, nods and asks a decade old question, "Ek dum short, hai na?" and, without waiting for my response, begins.

I feel at peace. A frontier has been reclaimed.