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.

Idioma

P walked briskly along the footpath shielded by asbestos sheets, ignoring the growls and screeches coming from above. As he turned the corner, he bumped into a co-worker. “It’s raining cats and dogs again. Thankfully I only got the drizzle while leaving the bar” he proclaimed. Sure enough there was a munchkin curled up on his head, and a dachshund draped across his shoulders. A tabby held on firmly to his trousers. “Oh, before I forget! Here,” he said, taking out a steaming potato from his pocket, “careful, it’s quite hot.” P kept it on his palm ritualistically, while calmly looking at the sky and asking what this was about. Since P and his colleague didn’t see eye to eye, they had devised a system to prevent that contact.

“Didn’t you hear? M bit off more than he could chew yesterday. He’s in dental surgery right now.  Guess he worked for that promotion for nothing, eh?” P raised a sceptical eyebrow and retrieved a bag of salt from his pocket. His colleague was annoyed by the lack of faith. P shook his head after having some of it.
“I’m sorry, but I find it hard to believe. Where did you hear this?”
“My cousin has a vineyard, of course. I went there in the morning to catch up.”
P smiled, having found the issue. “Ah but you haven’t been to the stables yet, have you? Till I’ve heard it from the black mare I can’t participate in your gloating. Besides…” he saw something that made him stop short. His colleague looked back to see what had startled P so, and saw Elvis Presley walking out of the restaurant behind them. His expression turned grave.

“Do you think it’s because we cut the corners at 3rd Cross Road? Or maybe the one time we pulled the sweater over M? I don’t think so, I mean, no one knew…”
Resisting the urge to ask his friend to show his deck of cards, P sighed and remained silent.
Seeing P deep in thought, his colleague fished out a penny and offered it. Reluctantly accepting, P slowly stared up at the sky again. “Look at the clouds. I think we’ll survive.” he said. Sure enough, the picturesque horizon was streaked in silver, with a thousand hopeful words strewn across.