Another Radio Channel

Anita had written about Radio Channels recently. Which prompted another post on the very same topic.

I listen to them daily on my way to work and back and on my way to clients’ and back. Choice of the stations are entirely upto the driver’s though. Most of them play the latest hindi film numbers. What I enjoy most, more than the songs are the RJ’s commentaries. Inane, mostly. But funny nevertheless. I also, happen to pay attention to all the ads, but that is purely from the point of view of work. Ever since I have joined Advertising, I can never watch or listen an ad without, unconsciously analyzing it.

But of late, (more than a few months actually), ever since all Airtel numbers changed and therefore began with 4 instead of 5, my direct number at work, and mine alone, mind you, in a big office with more than 150 people, has somehow, become the number to of a popular Radio Channel. Throughout the day, I get numerous calls for this channel, and during call in shows, am beset by them. And hardly anyone bothers to ask if it’s the channel or not. Instead, as soon as I pick up the phone, I get a barrage of strange answers. From men, women and children.

“Its Ajay Devgan’s father”, or “the answer is Amanullah Khan” or “Hema Mailini” or “film ka naam hai…”.

And when I say “WHAT”???
“Aap kahan say bol rahi hain?” is the response.
I get angry and gnash out, “Where are YOU calling from? Who do you want?”
“No, who are you,” says the caller.
“No you tell me, you called me?”
And so on and so forth.

The obvious answer is both I and this Radio Channel’s share the same number. Only difference being the Radio channel has a Delhi code. But the RJ’s rattle out only the number and the code and all people from outside, get an irate me, instead of the RJ.

Occasionally, if I happen to be in a good mood, I explain that they have to dial the Delhi code before the number.

In the meanwhile, it affords harmless fun, a break from the back breaking work to some of my junior colleagues. Sometimes, they take the calls.
“That is the CORRECT answer. You have won a trip for two to Disney land.”
Or they say, “Your time is up….”
And one enjoyed his role so much that he started having long conversations even asking them for song requests!!

I have tried dialing my number with the Delhi code but can never get through. The line is always busy….

My Magic Table

I have a magic table at home. It’s a simple round cane table with a glass top. When I bought it, it looked like any other, regular piece of furniture. Once bought, it could be put to any use by its owners. I bought it as a dining table. Ha! Had I only known that, how different it would be.

First, our maid put a hot dish on to it and the glass cracked, edge-to-edge. Then, both A and I took our dinner / lunch plates in front of the TV which was in the bedroom. When friends came to dine with us, the table was too small to sit at, and so we used it for serving the dishes while we took our meals either in the drawing room or in the verandah. In case you are wondering about the crack, well, happily, it ran down the middle and I was able to cover it with a long runner!!

So what did we use it for? Well for piling things up on. News papers, bills, take away menus, files, water bottles, medicine box. The chairs were used to hang clothes…laundry, my duppattas, my tote bags etc.

When we moved into our new apartment, I made a mental note of using it as I had meant to. Also, our new place was much smaller and the table lay bang in full view of anyone coming into our apartment in the large hall which served as drawing / dinning.

But that was not to be. Strangely, despite my many attempts, it began to attract all the flotsam and jetsam in our home and lives. No matter how many times I cleaned it up, within a few hours, hey presto, a new set of things were back again on it!

This morning, I did some clearing up including the table. And yet now, some 7 hours later, I find, two bags (mine), a t-shirt, a pair of shorts (A’s), a news paper (I was doing the sudoku), a cook book I was leafing through during lunch, a cup, an empty match box, a nice wicker tray (which I have rarely used as a tray) holding three different sets of placemats (again rarely used; in fact one set still has the plastic covers on it). And oh, there is the nice glass bowl which instead of fruits, is full of little scraps of papers with phone numbers, assorted bills and what not. It held two apples a while back. But both got spoilt and had to be thrown away.

It must be the table then. It has a mind of its own. It was perhaps miffed at being bought by us, and then carted unceremoniously on a “thela” and hauled up three flights and getting scraped in the process. Perhaps, it had, while sitting to be picked up, visions of being amid a beautiful house, surrounded by beautiful things, greenery, beautiful people having candlelit, rose scented dinners with wine in beautiful glasses. And here we were. Dumping cheap take away menu, plastic water bottles, old ugly melmoware crockery, cracking it within a week. Oh ho. So this is my fate is it? The table thought. I will show them. I will make sure, they will never, be able to, let alone enjoy, even get close to having a pleasant meal atop me!!

I am alone now. My neighbour (whose verandah is within earshot) is away. I think, I will go and clean it up, speak to it gently, apologise and be generally very nice. Try and soothe it and tell it I am mending my rustic ways. And when A returns this weekend, we will, A, the table and I will begin anew.

The Birds

“I feel like wringing their silly necks,” I wrote to R, them being a flock of silly pigeons that have decided to grace our verandahs. “Call your nearest lab assistant”, she wrote back. (She was a zoology student).

Last winter, a solitary pigeon sat immobile on the verandah rails for hours on end. I felt really sorry for this perhaps old and dying / seriously ill / injured bird. It was there for a couple of days before it left. I let it be, undisturbed.

That, I think, proved to my undoing. It was, I am convinced, a stool pigeon. It flew back and informed its clan who thus emboldened, moved in. Though, not all at once. Slowly, in ones and twos. Faint silhouettes, at first, on window ledges. Then a sudden rustle of wings along the glass panes, a careless feather here, a squawk there.

I should have nipped it in the bud then and there. But I didn’t. Not only had they moved in, but made their presence known.

I think, they meet every morning or at night and divided duties amongst themselves. You, you and you…shit on verandah no. 1, you two on 2. Hey you two love birds…you get to wake them (me and A) up by frenzied lovemaking on their air conditioners.

They choose their time well for this last activity. Always on a weekend. Always in the bedroom we happen to be sleeping in. (We have two and alternate depending upon the weather and or guests etc).

Not exactly the idyllic cooing wake up call…but the irritating metallic clang of their tiny feet on the aircon and general squawking early on a Sunday. How many time have I stumbled sleepily from my bed to the verandah, struggling to open the door which just happens to stick at the very moment...by then, the pigeons have finished their quickie in record time and are sitting beyond my reach, cooing maddeningly, and I think, smugly.

They haven’t spared my little garden either. I do so enjoy my first cup of tea, there, every morning. Will have to give it up soon. Bird shit all around. And different dimensions. As if they had a shitting contest the night before. You clean and hey presto, back again next morning. Each evening, when I return from work, I find feathers galore on our door mat. (None on our neighbours….and we DO clean our mats everyday much the same as them).

Their take over is now more or less complete. And how do I know this? Last night, I found ONE LARGE feather on our door mat.

I don’t think I am getting paranoid. I have seen a similar pattern earlier.

At our last residence, the pigeons had done the same things. First the silhouettes, the rustles, the bird shit. And one day, A and I returned from a weekend trip to find a funny smell. Couldn’t figure out what it was or where it was coming from. I cleaned whatever I could think of. The kitchen, bathrooms etc. But the smell didn’t go. And then my hands started smelling funny. Yukh. The tea, the food. And finally while I was taking a bath, it struck me and for a few heart stopping seconds, I actually thought, that the source of the smell was me: I was rotting.

THE WATER. “Go check the water tank,” I shouted to A. Sure enough, there was, a dead, decomposed Pigeon. Of all the tanks (there were 4), that dratted bird had to choose ours to bid adieu. And what an adieu. Yukh.

Can’t pack up and leave at dawn ala the Hitchcockian winged drama… (sill have quite a few months on the lease and this place is convenient). Suddenly, R’s suggestion seems infinitely sensible.