And then there was Spicey

The prophetic taunting of the galli boys had stuck in Dicey’s mind and after hearing his father slur over suggestions like Usha and Indumati, during his nightly quart of whisky, he decided, in an almost defiant stance, to say: Saraswati Poornima Ines Espinado.
Dicey’s dad choked on his booze. “By the whiskers on my grandmother’s backside,” he exclaimed, “son that’s the first sign of intelligence you’ve shown since you were born.” And so Saraswati got her her name and before long was nicknamed Spice and before very long, Spicey.
Note to reader: Read previous post to get clued in.

More on Dicey

Remember Dicey? Refer to the post on July 13 and 18 if you don’t. In fact, read them before you read this, or else, you will be as lost as Little Red Riding Hood (and that’s the fairytale character, not the Russian condom).
As fate and his parents’ desire to procreate would have it, Dicey was soon staring at his baby sister in the cradle of the maternity wing of the New Life Hospital. Soon talk was bandying about as regards her name, and Dicey’s dad was going crazy about giving her an Indian name. Dicey made his suggestion…

Back... with death

I have to apologise for what is the longest break I’ve taken since I started 99. However, my father was seriously ill so I had to jet-set to his bedside. Glad I did because… he survived, the fighter that he is, and I’m glad ’cos I got to spend some time with him.
It’s strange how death puts life into perspective, but life never ever does the same. Have you ever heard anyone go, “Jeez, I have such a good life I now need to think about dying.”
I’m gonna try using life to give death some meaning.

Just like you and me

We all want our children like angels to be, but all they are is just like you and me.
Yessir, you can count on this Svengali to come up with some true original quotable quotes. Look up my June 14 post for a reminder of that.
Having indulged in some self-aggrandizement, I must humbly add that when I do puff myself up, it’s only in literary jest and very often meant to underline, in a weird way, the point I’m trying, or sometimes, even more bizarrely, not trying to make. So cut me some slack on that front, wokay?!

Fan-testy

The English Premier League has begun and I’m dizzy with delight. I’m a big Manchester United fan. Only, I’m not from England; my country, India, last qualified for the World Cup in 1950; and even the Indian beach football side struggled in the Beach Football World Cup qualifiers held last week in Dubai.
The question that haunts me every time I see Sir Alex Ferguson chomping away on gum at Old Trafford, returned - am I really a Man U fan, or, just a poser?
Neither, I’ve rationalised. I’m victim, or beneficiary, depending the point of view, of globalisation.

Two kings and a champ

My family will be in Memphis this week, and Tupelo, Mississippi. It’s Elvis’s death anniversary today. We grew up around three heroes… demigods… actually, one of them is God.
There was Jesus Christ, Elvis Presley and Muhammad Ali. Such was the influence of the three that I have been a Christian community leader, sang in a band and well, my brother plays the Ali role. He has been in 30 fights, with 28 knockouts, and two arrests.
Thank-you mum and dad for ensuring the King of Man, the King of Rock’n’Roll and the Champ were part of our lives.

And now, a spectacle

In the words of me bloggo-starman, fakestevejobs, big namaste to those who sought to allay my old age/death fears. However, it was not a bad dream. I get to work and after banging at my laptop for an hour, I look up and everything beyond five feet is a blur. I kid you not. I did notice the past week that the Indian cricket team on the TV in my office, which is over 15 feet away, was looking a bit dodgy. Besides getting old and/or dying, I’m going to have to make a ‘spectacle’ of myself as well!

Death by old age... begins

I woke up today and looked at myself and froze. Surely, I had a fatal disease. My hairline had receded like the arctic coastline under global warming. My beard was littered with white hair, as if some rogue pixie had mistook it for a fairytale garden and spent the night studding the dark growth with white.
My head felt heavy and my body, like it was ready to cash in and return to ash. It had to be more than the Red Label I had chugged last night. Am I dying? Or is this what they call, old age?

Noveau yeesh!

The pace at which Dubai and Abu Dhabi are evolving on the economic, grandeur and lifestyle-on-offer scale are by any consideration, meteoric. One can only gape as the UAE moves from being the modern centre of the Arab the world, to being the Arab centre of the modern world.
Frankly, the ostentatious-ness that gilds pretty much every structure, plan and project in and by the UAE, intimidates me. I’m uncomfortable in overtly opulent surroundings. To the manor born, I was not. My middle-class upbringing may have numbed my sophist senses, forever dooming me to the backbenches of noveau riche-ness.

Flow

I’m big on flow. Compartmentalisation, deconstruction, planning and calculated risks all jar in my lexicon. Everything I do is all part of one big flow of life. Now this may sound grandly bohemian, but in the everyday nitty-gritty of existence, it does pose a few problems. If anything goes wrong anywhere, the whole flow gets interrupted. As against if you had little boxes for different parts of your life, if one got messed up the others would be still intact. A balance is good. But I’m not a balanced person. So, what are you, a flow-er or a box-er?

More irony

Ever been in an ICU in a hospital? If you have, and I’m hoping as a visitor and not as an inmate, you would have noticed the place is sanitised to perfection. No germs, dirt or life-threatening stuff of even the most miniscule nature is allowed in. Did you get the feeling it would be fun to live in such an environment? It should, after all, be enjoyable to exist in an atmosphere knowing the chances of infection are zero.
However, the feeling I get in an ICU is of an alien. It just does not feel normal. Ironic.

Move over, Byron

Well, how long did you reckon I’d go without trying to be upstage Lord Byron…

I don’t dare dream no more
Instead, I only do nightmares
I don’t dare sleep no more
Instead, I do nightshifts
Actually, I just don’t dare anymore…

Well, not entirely true

I do dare cry now though
Got a storehouse of tears to clear
I also dare to scream,
Mostly inside of my head
But it sounds quite loud, and often,
Resounds, over and over again
Like a sound track to the dead

Stop that damn noise!,
Can’t you see I’m trying to live!

Al Qaeda-ed out

I am willing to wager a fiver that Duane ‘Dog’ Chapman, thanks to cable TV now the world’s most famous bounty hunter, will be soon on a flight to Pakistan and from there, in local tribal disguise, be horse-backing it, if necessary, to the cave-ridden lawless terrain that makes for the North West Frontier Province border, that Pakistan shares with Afghanistan.
The latest bounty offered for main-man Osama bin Laden’s head by the US Senate is $50 million.
As a newsman and general citizen of the world I’m all Al Qaeda-ed-out. Man, talk about overkill (no pun intended).