Kingfisher is not a bird

If you have followed this blog over its long, bumbling history, you would be well aware of the exact nature of its author. I am known to be suspiciously unobservant. At the best of times, I can be practicing a witty retort to a quip made by a frenemy 8 years ago, while the fires of the world rage around me unabated. In several cases, I add fuel to the aforementioned fire by pretending to have been paying attention all along. “Oh yes, you were telling me about how you died. Oh, it was your uncle. Right.”

My panache for being inattentive and generally failing to connect dots starts (like most things do) with my childhood. I’m sure you all remember the ads for Bacardi and 100 Pipers and all the rest, that still form a significant part of my brain’s background music (snuggled between Nirma and Action Ka School Time). Now that I have adequately jogged the recesses of your mind, allow me to slightly dramatize an event:

[INT. MESSY HOUSE – A ten-year-old’s birthday party is in swing]

I, a child, enter STAGE RIGHT.
My acquaintance, also a child, enters STAGE LEFT.

Me (shouting, for no discernible reason): What are we playing?
Friend/acquaintance (also shouting): Marco Polo!
Me: Should we put on some music?
Fracquaintance: Ya! I’ll ask mom.

BOTH CONVERGE SWIFTLY AND NOISILY UPON A FEMALE ADULT FIGURE.

Fracquaintance: Mammaaaa, put on some music for our game.
Me: Aunty Bacardi waale gaane laga do. [Tr: Play some Bacardi music.]

SILENCE. END SCENE.

So. For the longest time, I believed that Bacardi and 100 Pipers were the innocent composers and distributors of ‘party music’; ostensibly because the people in the ads were constantly dancing and generally behaving like my peers in school. Imagine my confusion, followed by shock, when I discovered the bitter, expensive truth. 100 Pipers did not make ‘pure music’, only pure daaru! The music was a front, a farrago of lies!

Still, such errors are common and forgiven among the ranks of the incessantly-faux-pas-ing youth. I was not reprimanded for my burgeoning alcoholism, and life went on. Cut to present day Indiastan, North Bengaluru province.

[INT. A REGULAR-SIZED OFFICE – Two people lounge professionally, bitching about deadlines in a way that also conforms to Hegelian dialectic.]

Me: So I just realised something.
Fracquaintance (not to be confused with Childhood Fracquaintance): Wut.
Me: I never knew that ice could also be branded.
Fracquaintance: Wut???
Me: Yeah, I saw that sign they’ve put up on the hotel. Beck’s Ice, right? They’re being ostentatious about the quality of their ice as well. What even.
*TAKES DEEP BREATH TO CONDEMN THE EVILS OF CAPITALISM*
Fracquaintance: Dude.
Me: Hmm?
Fracquaintance: Beck’s Ice is a beer brand.
Me (suddenly remembers the words ‘100% pure malt’ on the logo which was conveniently read as ‘100% pure melt’ by my unhinged brain): Haha. Of course. Will go now. So much work.

END SCENE.

Chai-paani, Nimbu-soda

Most of us (actually all of us) are familiar with the term ‘chai-paani’. Knowing the true implications of the phrase is a coming-of-age experience. If anyone asks you for ‘chai-paani’ it means you are officially an adult in his/her eyes. Or just extremely gullible. Either way, there are some rules by which you are supposed to handle the chai-paanier (not to be confused with chai + paneer tikka, a strangely delectable combination).

My first direct encounter with chai-paanism was when I was in Grade 6, I think. It so happened that my Dima (maternal grandmother) used to send me a money order every year on my birthday. She used to like me a lot, and had this strange notion that I would one day grow up to be a great writer. I did not wish to correct her on both those counts, bless her, because that would affect my yearly cash influx. I instead wrote crappy poetry and tried to pass it off as a sneeze of literary precociousness.

Anyway, I got my money order a few days after my birthday, and happened to be the one to open the door to the postman. A balding, overweight man with a greying stubble and tiny eyes. He seemed annoyed that the recipient of Rs. 2000 was this tiny idiot and not someone deserving in his opinion. Reluctantly. he handed the money over. I gleefully counted it again the way I had seen appa do it, relishing the feeling and probably infuriating the postman further, as a personal insult to his numeracy skills. Once the money was safely tucked into my pyjama pockets, I saw that the guy was still standing there. I was momentarily confused – was there some step in the complex process of postal receipts that I had forgotten? I was (and am) generally wary of governments, banks and paperwork, so I tend to doubt every action on those fronts.

The postman then cleared his throat a bit and said, “Thoda chai-paani di jiye…” This was the first time these words were addressed to me. My first thought was regarding the dangers of having tea and water together, as I had been warned a few times (and experienced just to be sure). My second thought was regarding the appropriateness of giving tea to a stranger. My compassionate nature however, given a bigger boost of benevolence by the crisp notes in my pocket, made me overrule both of my previous thoughts. I blessed the man for his luck that we were having tea at that very moment in space-time. I gave him a bright smile and rushed back to my mother in the bedroom, “Ma, he wants chai.” My mom gave me a strange look and got up, as she invariably has to whenever I open the door first. I made sure to tell her to give the man some water as well, since he had come all the way in the summer heat to give my birthday gift. I think she rolled her eyes at me, not sure. In the exchange that followed when she got to the door, I had my misconceptions cleared regarding the literal meaning of chai-paani and the polite cue-word for bribes/favours. Needless to say, my faith in humanity soured from that day, and has had no reason to recover thenceforth.