01. Find bowl.
02. Adopt expression of satisfaction with cleanliness of bowl.
03. Scratch head (You need to - breakfast time remember).
04. Look for cereal box.
05. Find cereal box and fill bowl with one large helping of cereal from found box.
06. Open refrigerator.
07. Locate chocolate syrup.
08. Use chocolate syrup to write your full name on cereal (the longer your name the better).
09. Look for milk.
10. Adopt expression as in 2 with respect to nature of milk.
11. Pour milk into bowl containing cereal.
12. Stop when milk turns a chocolatey brown.
13. Grunt in approval.
14. Use spoon, fork or dog-like eating practice (for best results).
15. Crunch! Crunch!
16. Do not forget to 'mmmmm' frequently (easiest step).
17. Finish cereal.
18. Look at bowl.
19. Let out exultant whoop to discover chocolate milk filling most of bowl.
20. Lift bowl with both hands.
21. Bring edge of bowl close to lips.
22. Drink.
23. Use tongue to lick off remnant chocolate milk from perioral area.
24. Rub tummy in glee.
25. Burp.
Credits: Jaximus - the master of breakfastian arts
Monday, July 30, 2007
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Raghavendra
The following is from my internship posting in surgery at a government hospital in India. It happens to be true.
It began. Busy busy busy unit. Before though. I inquired with the outgoer. Any burns? Burns dressings were the hope-not-in-my-times. They required much attention. Daily. With little progress usually. In a non-conducive environment for healing. Yes said she. One burn. Details. Woman fell on a stove. Whole back. Down to her thighs. But then she must be lying prone all day I commented rather foolishly. Of course said she with a tolerant expression on her face. Left.
I made the journey. Said hello. When someone lies prone. You say howdy from the head of the bed rather than the foot-end. It probably was a good thing here. It helped in some unknown way. Bandaging burns invited the use of what is known as vaseline dressing. Being in a resource-poor (resource-unpredictable actually - sometimes very rarely we were inundated with all kinds of hospital goodies) setting resulted in the vaseline and the dressing to be separate which required the intern (read me) to 'prepare' the vaseline dressing and then apply it on the burned areas. I pondered all this while I was still greeting her for the first time when I noticed what seemed to be a ball of energy on the other side of the bed. It was a boy who seemed to be armed with the most infectious smile I had seen in a while. 'Pudar enchina?' (thus betraying 50% of my Tulu vocabulary). 'Raghavendra' he said and collapsed in his own shyness. The collar of his once-white shirt seemed to bury most of his face quite effectively while his eyes still looked at me with curiosity. Being a brand-new uncle I wondered what my own nephew would come to look like at Raghavendra's age. Mulling it over I left without bothering to tell Raghavendra my own name or know his place in this big, lonely hospital. I did not ask him why he wasn't in school or splashing with his mates in puddles. Epitome of good manners was I. Sensitivity was my middle name.
Thus began a six-weeker. Experience par indelible. Raghavendra was her son. He was 9. He was her caretaker. The husband showed up once in the 42 days. She could not sit. She could not stand. She could only lie. Prone.
The plan was to finish rounds with the bosses. Then do minor things. Quickly. Then finish semi-major things. Also quickly. Then do the burns dressing. Leave the hospital. Grab some food. Study books containing multiple-choice questions so as to be in with a chance of obtaining a post-graduation seat. So that I could further my desires in the practice of medicine. Noble. My father would have disowned me. But things did not quite work out that way.
When I would go to her. Raghavendra would be there. Brimming with enthusiasm. He was my little helper. His erstwhile shyness had been packed and sent off to an undisclosed location. A chatterbox was unveiled. He would go on and on about anything under the sun. He talked about himself. He talked about me. When Sush joined us, he talked about her. He was non-stop. I started to believe that his smile had been surgically placed there. Much like a well-known villain of the flying-mammal-emulating-fictitious-city-protecting-hero of our times. He was incredible.
I changed my plan. Had to. Did rounds in the morning and reclassified my tasks. It was simple now. There were three categories. Bosses' orders, Burns dressing and others. Easy easy. Bosses' orders were done stat. No issues there. Others required some juggling and were fitted in before lunch. The evening was for her and Raghavendra. The whole of it. I told her this. She was a little apprehensive. Rightfully so. Told Raghavendra. He was thrilled to bits. As usual.
So there we were. She, Raghavendra and me. And Sush of course who joined us on many many occasions. I took off my watch just before I gloved each time. That watch had been with me for eight years. Never stopped. Never any trouble. Raghavendra liked it. He would wear it often when I dressed the wounds. And so the evening dressing became a ritual. The nurses who were suspicious at first got used to it. Inch-by-painful-inch the wounds would heal. Only to be infected again in a few days. Frustration. Helplessness. But we carried on. Raghavendra of course leading the way regaling us with his jokes and stories. He laughed loudest when someone tried to say something funny. More and more he grew fond of the watch.
I was down to my last week. Rounds. One of the bosses. Let's graft. My heart jumped with joy. New skin. Raghavendra looked at me. Pump-fist from me. He laughed. That evening. We discussed the surgery. Just the three of us. She was not too keen. I tried to explain. In my best vernac. Raghavendra. He did. Couple of sentences. Yes. Let's do it she said. That evening was to be my last time dressing her. My last time with Raghavendra. I was moving on. My intern log book said that I needed to look at some ears, noses and throats. I left without my watch.
Never had I seen the human spirit so intact. He was only 9.
Acknowledgments: Sush. For putting up with my poor attempts at humor during those days.
It began. Busy busy busy unit. Before though. I inquired with the outgoer. Any burns? Burns dressings were the hope-not-in-my-times. They required much attention. Daily. With little progress usually. In a non-conducive environment for healing. Yes said she. One burn. Details. Woman fell on a stove. Whole back. Down to her thighs. But then she must be lying prone all day I commented rather foolishly. Of course said she with a tolerant expression on her face. Left.
I made the journey. Said hello. When someone lies prone. You say howdy from the head of the bed rather than the foot-end. It probably was a good thing here. It helped in some unknown way. Bandaging burns invited the use of what is known as vaseline dressing. Being in a resource-poor (resource-unpredictable actually - sometimes very rarely we were inundated with all kinds of hospital goodies) setting resulted in the vaseline and the dressing to be separate which required the intern (read me) to 'prepare' the vaseline dressing and then apply it on the burned areas. I pondered all this while I was still greeting her for the first time when I noticed what seemed to be a ball of energy on the other side of the bed. It was a boy who seemed to be armed with the most infectious smile I had seen in a while. 'Pudar enchina?' (thus betraying 50% of my Tulu vocabulary). 'Raghavendra' he said and collapsed in his own shyness. The collar of his once-white shirt seemed to bury most of his face quite effectively while his eyes still looked at me with curiosity. Being a brand-new uncle I wondered what my own nephew would come to look like at Raghavendra's age. Mulling it over I left without bothering to tell Raghavendra my own name or know his place in this big, lonely hospital. I did not ask him why he wasn't in school or splashing with his mates in puddles. Epitome of good manners was I. Sensitivity was my middle name.
Thus began a six-weeker. Experience par indelible. Raghavendra was her son. He was 9. He was her caretaker. The husband showed up once in the 42 days. She could not sit. She could not stand. She could only lie. Prone.
The plan was to finish rounds with the bosses. Then do minor things. Quickly. Then finish semi-major things. Also quickly. Then do the burns dressing. Leave the hospital. Grab some food. Study books containing multiple-choice questions so as to be in with a chance of obtaining a post-graduation seat. So that I could further my desires in the practice of medicine. Noble. My father would have disowned me. But things did not quite work out that way.
When I would go to her. Raghavendra would be there. Brimming with enthusiasm. He was my little helper. His erstwhile shyness had been packed and sent off to an undisclosed location. A chatterbox was unveiled. He would go on and on about anything under the sun. He talked about himself. He talked about me. When Sush joined us, he talked about her. He was non-stop. I started to believe that his smile had been surgically placed there. Much like a well-known villain of the flying-mammal-emulating-fictitious-city-protecting-hero of our times. He was incredible.
I changed my plan. Had to. Did rounds in the morning and reclassified my tasks. It was simple now. There were three categories. Bosses' orders, Burns dressing and others. Easy easy. Bosses' orders were done stat. No issues there. Others required some juggling and were fitted in before lunch. The evening was for her and Raghavendra. The whole of it. I told her this. She was a little apprehensive. Rightfully so. Told Raghavendra. He was thrilled to bits. As usual.
So there we were. She, Raghavendra and me. And Sush of course who joined us on many many occasions. I took off my watch just before I gloved each time. That watch had been with me for eight years. Never stopped. Never any trouble. Raghavendra liked it. He would wear it often when I dressed the wounds. And so the evening dressing became a ritual. The nurses who were suspicious at first got used to it. Inch-by-painful-inch the wounds would heal. Only to be infected again in a few days. Frustration. Helplessness. But we carried on. Raghavendra of course leading the way regaling us with his jokes and stories. He laughed loudest when someone tried to say something funny. More and more he grew fond of the watch.
I was down to my last week. Rounds. One of the bosses. Let's graft. My heart jumped with joy. New skin. Raghavendra looked at me. Pump-fist from me. He laughed. That evening. We discussed the surgery. Just the three of us. She was not too keen. I tried to explain. In my best vernac. Raghavendra. He did. Couple of sentences. Yes. Let's do it she said. That evening was to be my last time dressing her. My last time with Raghavendra. I was moving on. My intern log book said that I needed to look at some ears, noses and throats. I left without my watch.
Never had I seen the human spirit so intact. He was only 9.
Acknowledgments: Sush. For putting up with my poor attempts at humor during those days.
A boy
He liked to know how it came to be
If only he were allowed to see
Just a little peek
But alas he was too meek
He took out his wand and said a spell
He hoped in time a tale to tell
But the magic, it did not work
The mystery just got a little more murk
He gave up and cried and ran to his mom
Could she please do for him this sum?
Thursday, July 19, 2007
the cup spilleth over......not
1983 was technically my first one. We won. Kapil's devils. Beginner's luck they scoffed. Not an iota of comprehension in my teeny weeny 18 month-old skull. Something was born for real that fateful day in India. Through the country-side she spread, through the slums she weaved, finding her place in the prayers of a nation. A state religion was established. Cricket was her name. Never before had so many been united by something as trivial as a game. Game??!! Sacrilege! Blasphemy!
1987 and the World Cup came to the sub-continent. That region of land where any strip is considered adequate to start a game of cricket. Bring it on they cried. Unison. I started knowing. Sat on my daddy's lap. Pretended to enjoy myself. Watched big mean fast bowlers deliver jaffas that threatened much more than a batsman's wicket. Saw batsmen hit balls into windshields of parked cars outside stadiums. I applauded when everyone else did. I jumped around like a scalded cat when people showed joy. Cheering toy.
1992 down-under she went. Oz and Kiwi. Pajama World Cup. Colored clothing with white balls. Played under gigantic floodlights. I was ready. I knew all their names. All their averages. What they liked to eat, where they liked to holiday, what their children were called. It was like I was there. Up at never-before-woken times. Feigned a new illness everyday. Missed tons of school. Watched my team do poorly. Grieved. The neighbors took the cup. Pain. Scar.
1996 and it was back in my yard. I was a veteran now. Offered unsolicited opinion. Advice. There was an official bubble gum. The commerce had walked in. Stayed. Cricket was money. Cash. The end of the rainbow had been located. Pillaged. All went well. Remember Bangalore and Venky Prasad. Till Eden Gardens. We cried the collective tear as a nation. Never again said we. What's the point we rationalized.
1999 and home went the cup. We were back. Cloudy, damp England. Most boring of all time IMHO. Zim did us. We fought back. Partially. Australia took it. Easy. Candy from a baby. Sorry bodies returned. Never again said we. Again.
2003 and the Cape of Good Hope. Surely this time. First cup as a college bum. The final. Bees saal baad screamed the dailies. The demographic went crazy. The housewives were convinced.
A walloping of the greatest magnitude. A clobbering of our self-esteem. We didn't say never again. But we felt it.
2007 and the cup went maan. Rum, calypso, beaches. We will win. Our time has surely come. Logic. Our young neighbors taught us a few. Love thy. The league phase was enough to dash a billion hopes. Never again said we. This time in writing.
We will be back in 2011. You, me and the neighbors. Befuddling. The cup though is dry.
1987 and the World Cup came to the sub-continent. That region of land where any strip is considered adequate to start a game of cricket. Bring it on they cried. Unison. I started knowing. Sat on my daddy's lap. Pretended to enjoy myself. Watched big mean fast bowlers deliver jaffas that threatened much more than a batsman's wicket. Saw batsmen hit balls into windshields of parked cars outside stadiums. I applauded when everyone else did. I jumped around like a scalded cat when people showed joy. Cheering toy.
1992 down-under she went. Oz and Kiwi. Pajama World Cup. Colored clothing with white balls. Played under gigantic floodlights. I was ready. I knew all their names. All their averages. What they liked to eat, where they liked to holiday, what their children were called. It was like I was there. Up at never-before-woken times. Feigned a new illness everyday. Missed tons of school. Watched my team do poorly. Grieved. The neighbors took the cup. Pain. Scar.
1996 and it was back in my yard. I was a veteran now. Offered unsolicited opinion. Advice. There was an official bubble gum. The commerce had walked in. Stayed. Cricket was money. Cash. The end of the rainbow had been located. Pillaged. All went well. Remember Bangalore and Venky Prasad. Till Eden Gardens. We cried the collective tear as a nation. Never again said we. What's the point we rationalized.
1999 and home went the cup. We were back. Cloudy, damp England. Most boring of all time IMHO. Zim did us. We fought back. Partially. Australia took it. Easy. Candy from a baby. Sorry bodies returned. Never again said we. Again.
2003 and the Cape of Good Hope. Surely this time. First cup as a college bum. The final. Bees saal baad screamed the dailies. The demographic went crazy. The housewives were convinced.
A walloping of the greatest magnitude. A clobbering of our self-esteem. We didn't say never again. But we felt it.
2007 and the cup went maan. Rum, calypso, beaches. We will win. Our time has surely come. Logic. Our young neighbors taught us a few. Love thy. The league phase was enough to dash a billion hopes. Never again said we. This time in writing.
We will be back in 2011. You, me and the neighbors. Befuddling. The cup though is dry.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Sweat er...
For the first 24 years 11 months and 13 days of my grand existence I did not own a sweater. No yo. Sudden. Four days later I owned four keep-me-warms.
The climate of my birth-and-growth geographical area did not deem it necessary for residents in its purview to possess one of these 'infernal' things. Human wearing sweater in that region would invoke a 'bahut daring tha' quote a la Munnabhai. Only if you wanted to feel the insides of a pressure cooker via your chest would you indulge. Flesh-cooking. Socially ostracizing move it be. My territory had three seasons. Hot, Very hot and pouring-cats-and-dogs. For the last of these three weather moodinesses we were armed with raincoats, umbrellas and a prayer to the Almighty. No sweater in that list. In the summer, even shirts would be a luxury. Simply to cover the unsavory nature of one's upper body. In the interest of the public's health and all that.
Take this 'ahem' young man and throw him to the vagaries of the cold. Merciless. Brrrr. That which would freeze your hands and cause you to forget your nose. So boy goes to mall in same cold and buys sweaters.
I felt equipped. Repertoire reload. Knight-in-woolly-armor.
So what does a sweater do? Other than hope to keep you warm of course.
1) It covers your much wrinkled shirts. Sell your iron on ebay and make cash.
2) It gives you an identity. "There goes red sweater with white stripes" , "I'm meeting blue and green sweater for coffee", "That beige sweater has some attitude!"
3) A walking power plant. Take it off to hear the sweet sound of electricity. Global power problem solved. Next worldly catastrophe please.
Million more. But. Why me? You list. Sweat it out. Best entry. Prize. Half a chocolate-chip cookie.
Acknowledgment: Prizzle of course. He of the talent of a thousand sweaters.
Word love: portmanteau - a new word formed by joining two others and combining their meanings; "`smog' is a blend of `smoke' and `fog'"; "`motel' is a portmanteau word made by combining `motor' and `hotel'"; "`brunch' is a well-known portmanteau"
Wait now. Stop. If you have no sweater gyaan. Create. A portmanteau. Never before seen in this universe or the next. Prize? Other half of course.
The climate of my birth-and-growth geographical area did not deem it necessary for residents in its purview to possess one of these 'infernal' things. Human wearing sweater in that region would invoke a 'bahut daring tha' quote a la Munnabhai. Only if you wanted to feel the insides of a pressure cooker via your chest would you indulge. Flesh-cooking. Socially ostracizing move it be. My territory had three seasons. Hot, Very hot and pouring-cats-and-dogs. For the last of these three weather moodinesses we were armed with raincoats, umbrellas and a prayer to the Almighty. No sweater in that list. In the summer, even shirts would be a luxury. Simply to cover the unsavory nature of one's upper body. In the interest of the public's health and all that.
Take this 'ahem' young man and throw him to the vagaries of the cold. Merciless. Brrrr. That which would freeze your hands and cause you to forget your nose. So boy goes to mall in same cold and buys sweaters.
I felt equipped. Repertoire reload. Knight-in-woolly-armor.
So what does a sweater do? Other than hope to keep you warm of course.
1) It covers your much wrinkled shirts. Sell your iron on ebay and make cash.
2) It gives you an identity. "There goes red sweater with white stripes" , "I'm meeting blue and green sweater for coffee", "That beige sweater has some attitude!"
3) A walking power plant. Take it off to hear the sweet sound of electricity. Global power problem solved. Next worldly catastrophe please.
Million more. But. Why me? You list. Sweat it out. Best entry. Prize. Half a chocolate-chip cookie.
Acknowledgment: Prizzle of course. He of the talent of a thousand sweaters.
Word love: portmanteau - a new word formed by joining two others and combining their meanings; "`smog' is a blend of `smoke' and `fog'"; "`motel' is a portmanteau word made by combining `motor' and `hotel'"; "`brunch' is a well-known portmanteau"
Wait now. Stop. If you have no sweater gyaan. Create. A portmanteau. Never before seen in this universe or the next. Prize? Other half of course.
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