Turning on a Dime

I stare at the sole of my shoe one more time. A variously dimpled, furrowed and carved landscape, the output of a multi-million dollar R&D-Marketing effort. Surely deserving the hefty wad I paid for that boot. The other boot cost about the same. A grey, white & blue "FX System", no less. Promises of reflected sporting glory, masquerading as a leather and foam engineering feat, aspiration cost much exceeding its value.

All to send me skidding across asphalt left with no more than a faint memory of moss, from rains two months old. My coop rises in sight, twin towers souring the scenic evening sky. Easy viewing, now that I rest on my back side. Adding insult is my neighbourhood’s latest addition, a fine lady of mysterious ways, staring me down through hazel eyes. To retrace, the brand new tread swept my feet off under me, nearly upending Her Grace out on her daily saunter. Fervent apologies were met with the kind of sceptic vibe only a certain Bush-WMD deserved. An intro I did not fancy. The resident Harry Potter groupies leave their whatever-kids-do activity and gape in unison. I wish Bumble Bore or whatever would appear and make me otherwise. The juveniles from the other end of the lot sport a resigned indifference. No likng fav shu hv2 rotf lyk dis. Unkind are the ways of this world.

Buyer’s remorse set in just as a nerve in my right ankle remembers to throb. Rooney, of the hauntingly vague look, at home with ManU and any on-pitch brawl, sure had me convinced. His life-size poster at the mall revealed not a strain as he motors away in his new laces. More evidence of vagueness, I presume.

I wonder if "FX" was designed for an 85 kilo blob with a lately suspect centre of gravity. Definitely not when he decides to traipse down a flight of stairs, and spin around at the landing. Not at this age, his gyro too rusted on the way past 30. Maybe in this age, I should tweet about skipping a few stairs, and then wisely use the elevator. Not too long ago, there was a lightness to my being. Literally. A sport shoe would readily complement my figure, a compliment to gauntness. Accessories shown did suit standard equipment. Unlike now, when they look more like leather vases, from which sprout twin shoots, coalescing into a jelly flower in full bloom. Technically, ‘Approaching Tubby’. The same might be said of Rooney, but a punch-up I’m in no shape or mood for.

As a kid, in his world of shoe-shod make believe, I used to be champ. A toe-poke suited to a Bergkamp. Ballet steps at backyard badminton. Sunday cricket attracted the ‘Azharuddin-at-point-with-slouch ‘persona. My trusted swoosh/stripe/affordable graphic giving wings to impressions gained from magazine covers, TV and fantasy. Ersatz with heart.

Now I’m up on one knee dusting the remnants of my pride. Redoing my laces elicit something of a sigh/grunt; any more toe touch & my flab is squash. Note to self: Let them know how much I’d appreciate Velcro. A fraction more moping later, we are up and about. The looker left a faint trace of parfum. The tykes are back to scream n’ shout. The juveniles, more like the World Union of Cool Football Jerseys, are on a passing game. One of them runs, traps, pivots and let fly, all in one go. Turning on a dime.

Been there, done that.

At 34 and Lycra

Here I find myself, again. Same old 4x4 cell, twin hooks, opposing mirrors, infinite images of mine in views not available elsewhere. Not much to complain though; even the predicament I find myself in seems eerily familiar. The sight is far from promising. From the top, a gene pool that has fueled multiple fronts in Male Pattern Baldness. A societal DNA that encourages newly weds to binge on the good stuff; layers of jowl, chin and belly not seen since birth. Now the ignominy of having to discard clothes no more than a few months old. My missus patiently awaits me on the outside. I need to break the news gently. The 34" pair she had lovingly picked, is no more a zip and clasp case. I feel a sigh coming.

Ground O is the midriff. Once skinned to the ribs, now flubber cushions the bones beneath. The railroad that ought to take YKK upstate, lies asunder. A sharp and prolonged exhalation might help, but the twain never get close enough to spirit the rake away. So here I stand, stripped to the jocks, retching and huffing as the blob that passes for abs refuses to sink the last few inches of some prêt-à-porter. The last mile to the clasps now a mile too far, the once smartly laid out trouser now no more than a gaggle of folds below my knee, like the lingering scar of a filariasis attack.

Yet truth is difficult to swallow, for with it I injest my pride as well. So I play a game of "what-if". My mind races as I factor-in inter alia gym jaunts, skipped meals and a lower ferment intake well into the next quarter resulting in a receded waistline, thus justifying the foresight to invest (heavily) in trousers that would be a wraparound, as and when it fit well. I am sure that would not be a problem; just a wee matter of ridding myself of love handles. This pair is, after all, meant for me. Provided, of course, it fit. Or even let me breathe without squeezing my innards to a third.

The logic is compelling. Lehman, my brother. Now I feel ya. You sold mortgage that never fit, praying the user would fatten himself to justify affordability; I buy garbage that never fit, hoping to thin to justify affordability. Something about the road to hell being paved with good intentions.

The PYT plugging the brand stares down from the low ceiling, a well held pout matching a figure made to slip in like a glove. The ranch hand she has managed to clamber onto doesn't look too bad either. Get a room, you two.

Decision time. I wonder how this would go; would I splurge on vanity of a time and shape no more, or retreat against the reality that stares back at me ad infinitum? Do I sensibly buy the corduroy that, in addition to being simple to operate, might even double as a mainsail, or else picture myself reinventing into a lean mean 34, the erstwhile booty size of yours truly.

I surrender. Too many well intentioned "buys" line my cupboards. I had long since given into the very unglamorous world of stitch to size. The world of ready-wear as alien as hair care. Yet, missus proposed, hence this return. I exchange the old for a new and wider; my wife sports a grin, the salesman a I-told-you-so. As I step back in, ready to clothe my fate, the associate beckons. "You might like this Sir", and thrusts another pair onto my arm. "It's Lycra, stretchable".

True. It does. 34", and fits like a glove. I feel alive.

The pair stuck to the ceiling can go fly kite.

Gold Finger

For somebody who, according to reliable sources including own Mom, is beyond the marry-by date it's quite a slow revelation. The wooing game (Senior Division) is a lot complex, and there aren't many ladies out to play. And so you tread carefully. The heart ages, you see.

Consider this. 5 people on a boat. Ok, forget it. Real life scenario. And I can't swim either. You take a fancy. The fancy happens to work alongside. Bad idea to have that kinda fancy whenever 'work' and wherever 'alongside' appears.
If 'outed', the awkwardness can be appalling. So you let it be. For there is indeed a joy in coming to work, staying there, and hoping to return the next day. Now when did that last happen to you. Rains and bombs notwithstanding, the sky has never been so azure since late 1990. And anyway it's your little secret. You go out with friends, you offer her a seat. Out to lunch, you make sure your beau gets more than the fair share. Even if that means your friend, the office ogre, is driven to tears. Smoke less, so you stink less. Crossing the road, stop, stay back. Never, ever, offer a lady your help to cross a road. Ah! Wisdom. That comes from being the other side of the 20s. That, by the way, is the problem. All this coming from an early-30ish, early baldish, lately romantic, gets a wee bit awkward.

It starts with little more than shared loathing. At something (which is good), or each other (which is better). As time goes by, your heart starts to pick sides. Now, this ain't the heart from a decade and half ago. It doesn't skip too many beats; hence you miss out on the vital signs of a coming meltdown. You don't sweat and stammer when you meet the other. You've been there before. You bet so has she. Like I said, you let it be. The only outbound signal would be an excess of parfum. And in my case, a very well groomed mien. (Honestly, my idea of oil-control was always a quality gasket. Until I discovered this lil' blue bottle of goo that cost as much as four litres of petrol, and promises great mileage for my mug).

So you dress up. And dress down. It's not easy picking a color, or a contrast. From "how-would-they-bear-if-i-don't-wear" to "how-would-I-look-in-beige-n-blue". A sartorial revolution is underway. Your friends might smell a rat, though you might explain it away as DKNY. Your ogre friend is especially suspicious. That's taken care of with an extra bowl of noodles. Smooth. The bottles multiply, only now the fermented brew is given a good run by the Skincare 2-3-5 Glycol types. And you thought it went into antibiotics. Life's clear, so's the skin. Yet it never seemed so complicated. The greeting, the chit-chat, the gossip. All the same, yet you feel an edge. A lingering smile, a stolen glance. When caught during either, the old pump for once lost suction. You still let it be.

It's only been few months. Cursory enquiries confirm status as single. Now there is this movie. And there are these friends. Rid the latter and catch the movie, with you-know-who. Dual risk. Latter don't want to know either. Also you don't want your objet du désir to say non. So you decide to trust Ludlum and his 'busy street is best for a kill' credo. 11.30AM is madness at your end. Therefore you slip out. Again, it's quiet on the other wing. So you slip in. Saunter upto the cubicle. And watch her watch spreadsheets.

Mint green. Her favorite color. Pony tail. Colored nails. Well dressed. Good reason to up your FMCG spend. Then you notice something you never caught before. A gold ring. The possibilities are enormous; enormous enough to crush the rest of the week. Maybe month and year. Her fingers are strumming on the side of the monitor. And you are disoriented trying to fix the location of the damned yellow metal.

She spins around. You instantly recover with a toothy grin. A priceless smile in return. Nothing much is spoken, other than that you're there to meet a friend and hence dropped by. Goodbyes later, you can't smother that silly grin on your face. All the way to A-Wing.

It rains outside. But the sky remains blue.

The ring's on the index.

Chicken Run

In healthier times, H5N1 would be nothing more than a poorly formatted chemical formula, inviting a sneer from any Chemistry teacher worth the salt. And Tamiflu the pandemic afflicting thousands as Anna's (no, not the gal next door) latest flick threatens to hit theaters in TN. All this until now; for the chickens have turned bad long since. As the Health Dept. sends in the bunny-suit cavalry to whack'em chickens, I am left to ponder the feathers long gone.

Sunday evening, as usual, involved a session with a trusted Sony Remote™ on the couch (wrist/biceps), followed by more of the same on the bean-bag (yawn/snore). Then I decided to reward my worked-out self a worthy treat. What follows may not be for the chicken-hearted. A call to the local take-away elicits an enthusiastic recital. Only this time the Louvre had opened sans the Mona Lisa. The bunnies seemed to be doing a good job upstate. Not one bird in sight. When enquired, I could almost feel the resigned shrug from the other end. The mandarins have deemed to term it culling, which essentially is hunting birds on a large scale. Just a thought, but this might be a half-decent legal defence for celebrities caught game hunting with no more than the 007 permit.

As the menu drones on, I am shocked and awed from an ambush with no less than a non-veg non-chicken menu involving a sum total of Aries, Cancer & Pisces. Ah, the wannabes of la carte. Fillers from Page 3 of the menu, reveling in their right to final consumption. Same old, same old. Some really are. It's not often that this product line has same day production and consumption. They are usually left to stew in their own gravy, much like Chivas... ok, let's not go there. It cannot be a happy time when P3 people (I quote the PeTA motto "they're human too, you know, kinda") head to Front Page. Overpriced, overdressed and overage, many an unsuspecting mistake style for substance. Poor man’s Fugu, as it were.

So when I finally insist on the seemingly non-existent birdie, the Maitre d' flips. It's as if no chicken ever was curried at Dipali Restaurant & Bar (of course they're French. Brandy is served). ‘Omerta’ of the F&B world I guess. At a loss for words, I let my friend pick the edible. It’s never been easy being chicken. As a species it’s mightily pointless and passé being eaten without baiting either a taboo or at least a yuck in some form or the other. This species after all is mass market chow, even the odd vegetarian playing out his/her idea of a wild swing with a C-Lolipop (“rarely, only at parties, you know…”). Again, no mortal is ever born under the sign of Rooster. Except in the Far East maybe, where the choices at the local take-away would surely reinforce your faith in exterminators.

So it concludes with a bird that's always 'dressed' and eaten. The human equivalent of waxing. The pain being fleeting and final for the feathered; some doughty humans actually pay for the job. Done alive, the latter lot are no chicken. 'Good enough to eat' being expression of choice for both. By an odd twist of genome, chomper and chomped now face the same Pearly Gate.

Someday when we are all done fixing that ‘name-as-number’ virus character, we could reacquaint ourselves. After all, we appreciate your good taste.

Never Heard you Sing

I am told you can sing. Quite well too. A voice that finds pride of place at your office's every gig. The rhythm struck a chord, and the face rang a bell, with someone I know. Why, oh why, is it always someone else?

The news broken to me by that old friend in a matter-of-fact monotone normally reserved for half-time scores, lunch orders and such. Quite something for someone who cannot appreciate, much less spell, subtle. The only give-away being a momentary sideways glance, away from Goodison Park left flank, expecting perhaps live emotion never seen on TV. Well it's been 10 years. Blast from the past emoticons happen to Balaji people. Sensing more drama on screen, my Chum the Considerate peered right ahead. Leaving me with an old dusty bag of angst.

That you be even mentioned a good decade or so after we last met is not the surprise. Fact that my friend spotted you & remembered, is. Tragedy is, I remember too. Since it seems to be open season on me, the farce would be that you would know next to nothing about all this. That's how it always was; for only I was to know you, the converse never meant to be.

I never set out to be the romantic with nothing but soliloquys to get by. More like a dramatist's after-thought to jive up the leading lady's beau array. Alas that's what I ended up as. Because at 16, a fragile heart is a very common ailment, considerably reducing the sufferer's immunity to romance. I am too old to even try and recollect what, when, where & how it all started. We never spoke much. The courage to do so was beyond me; a lump in my throat that summed up all that I ever wanted to say. Little more than a civil greeting, smile or a warbled mix of the two ever got past my lips. Either way I got a cheerful reply, oh and that lopsided smile. I conspired to have more and more of the same; early turnout at classes, loaned stationery, so on and so silly forth.

Not that my pals had fewer ideas. The posse had many a scene concocted, lines drafted, an ambush setup. All for the lead to flee in a fit of hyperventilation. A spectacle which, I dare say, held a whole generation in thrall. Those were days when time seemed to stand still, at least I believed it would go on forever. Until one day it was time to go, and all was lost. Just like that.

Now I'm older, balder, none the more wiser. The quiff I sported for your viewing pleasure long lost to the ages. And I definitely used to be quicker. Yes, I can smile at the follies & fancies of a beautiful time long gone. At least, at most of them. But for someone who yearned to be everything to you, who staked his heart and whatever that is a teenager would propose to do, I knew so very little of you. Surely you were a lady more than that fragile smile, dainty satchel and clipped-down hair. I miss not knowing you.

Not that I regret the road I did not take. The times we never had. Not until now.

For I never heard your singing voice.