Help desk

Nine - The number of times I called up my IT helpdesk (namely Padmanabh) and heard the busy tone.

Nine - The number of times I contemplated walking up to my IT helpdesk (Padmanabh a.k.a. Pappu).

Sixty six - The number of steps that took me to Pappu’s cubicle.

Four - The number of failed attempts at getting Pappu’s (on the phone flirting) attention

Two - The number of lines I had to use to scandalize the poor soul*

Seventy two - The number of steps that took me back to my seat.

Fifty Nine - The number of steps it took Pappu to come to my rescue.

Seven - The number of seconds it took me to tell Pappu the truth.

Eight - The number of expletives Pappu used as he sat at my table and installed my yahoo messenger.

*“I have downloaded this great software that automatically downloads porn every fifteen minutes. I want you to log in as the administrator and install it for me.”

Morally policed...

Very coincidentally, this post is related to elevators as well. I just got morally policed in one.

Have you ever walked into an elevator wanting to go to the fifth floor and found every one of the buttons pressed? And surprisingly, there is nobody else in the elevator except you, your friend and a huge ugly spectacled lady. My frustration was obvious. It was clearly a cruel time-killer the guy who just brushed past me had indulged in while on his journey down.

“He did it. Fuck,” I swore. My friend nodded. The blob of a woman looked at me, as if in acknowledgement. Not really as I was to realize. As I continued my tirade by branding him a pervert, Madam Teresa spoke. “Mind your language (It could as well have been “mind your language honey.” Such was the oration). This is a professional environment,” the words flew in a lazy stream. As polite as it sounded, I could feel the pain in my bottom. Ignoring the woman, and obviously embarrassed, I started humming a tune and let out a giggle. Offended by the blasphemous gesture, the great one spoke again. “You impudent infidel (just to increase the gravity of the situation). This is not a college,” she uttered in the same tone as the original great one’s ‘let there be light’ thingy. “Then why the bloody hell, I mean blood-smeared purgatory for the Catholics, was she giving me a lecture,” I wondered. Ill-bred female of the canine species!

Button up!

I am sure most us have waited for the elevator at some point of time in our lives. Those who haven’t, you will surely get your chance, unless fate plays a cruel trick. Those who have will relate to this post. For those who haven’t, this is a warning to watch out.

Why do people press the elevator button more than once? I mean the one to summon the elevator, and not the floor choosers. Does pressing it repeatedly make the elevator move faster? Or is it a ploy to kill time? Is there something more to that little button than the visible to the naked eye? Is it a messaging device that with each jab, generates a code to be passed on confidentially to someone at RAW? Or could it be a device of god, something similar to a confession box, but more effective? A button that would erase, not forgive, a sin of yours every time you press it. It could also be the trigger to a sophisticated device inside. You know, the ones they use to seduce that beautiful lady who is destined to be stuck with you in the elevator; quite common in the republic of Utopia. It could also be the switch to burn everyone in the elevator to ashes so that you can avoid the sweaty stuffiness every evening. Yeah the same one Hitler used at Auschwitz. Oh yes, I got it. It must be one of those Reiki techniques. Three fingers in the right order and you get an orgasm. But then again, it could simply be a case of OCD? If yes, I apologize. I completely understand.

The future is black

I think that sooner or later, the blacks will inherit the earth. The process has been on for a while. Jesse Owens gave us a hint, and Hitler a slap, in 1936. It was there for the entire world to see, the first televised event in the world, the Berlin Olympics. When Owens jumped, he defied not just gravity, but a century of prejudices and misconceptions. Chuck Berry and the likes conquered the music world by making all the right noises. Then there was the West Indian cricket team. To think of it, the English invented a game so that they could win everything before the world caught up. But Gary Sobers and party had other plans. And Woods of course, Tiger Woods. The little man with an oriental chromosome barged into the rich white man’s world uninvited, much in the same fashion as John Savage in ‘A Brave New World’. The only difference being that Mr. Woods would just not go back. And now there is Obama – the most powerful man on earth since anyone. I am a little on the darker side. I hope that’s enough to head Ogilvy in the not so distant future.

(courtesy: bonsaiz)

Tears of heaven...

I noticed the little blotch when I sat down at the black marble table at Dolphin bar. It was the size of a one-rupee coin. At first sight, it looked to me like the remains of torn-off sticker. Further exploration with what was left of my fingernails suggested otherwise. It just wouldn’t come off. I left it alone and placed my order of rum, coke and a pack of cigarettes. The blotch was forgotten; for the time being at least.

The blotch recaptured my attention after the first drink. There were tiny droplets all over the blotch. They looked like beads of perspiration. The blotch was alive. My curious eyes examined the blotch closely. There were no water sources in the vicinity. How on earth? I checked my elbow, for it was rested on the blotch a few moments earlier. Dry and hence cleared. Could it be a spring of some sort, I wondered aloud. My drinking partner, who by now had my attention, agreed. I was amused as much as I was perplexed. These things never went down too easily with me. I picked up a piece of paper and wiped the water off. The blotch regained its innocence.

Three drinks down and the blotch was at it again. Damn. I wiped off the water on numerous occasions. It was almost becoming a ritual. I was the priest and the blotch was stigmata. And religiously, I kept on wiping the blood, err, water off. I was six drinks down by now and it wasn’t funny or amusing anymore. I looked up, my eyes closed in prayer. But all I had to do was open my eyes.