Somebody's Watching You

Lets start with some good news. The evil force aka Maharaj has been vanquished. Quailing before my brilliance like a village idiot would in front of Einstein holding forth on Quantum Physics, he has fled to the remote village of Rajasthan from whence he emerged in the dark ages. The caretaker slyly suggested that he left to attend some festivities there, but I think he is just jealous of the fact that I singlehandedly wreaked havoc on their evil dominion. The cook has been replaced by his son. Slightly unsettling is the fact that the son has been trying to convince me and Poli that Misal Paav and Vada Paav are excellent nutrition-rich breakfast. This is in addition to the Poha torture routine that I have now got used to.

Now to the bad news. A few days back Poli walked up to me with a worried look. Before I tell you more, it is important I tell you more about Poli. A proper introduction is in order. Poli aka Rampant Orbit is someone I have known for about a month now. Drawing on my experience with mankind, I have concluded Poli is, by and large, a pretty harmless chap.

Once in a while he does start reciting some poems he claims he studied in school. Loudly. Without being asked. Usually this recitation starts while we are having breakfast and at the exact moment when I am about to swallow the cook's greasy cholesterol-rich offerings. Thanks to Poli's impeccable sense of timing and lung power he manages to startle me every time. Such minor foibles aside, Poli spends most of his time at work staring away at his laptop, mostly traversing through wikipedia. Meanwhile I traverse the blogosphere with unparalleled glee. Once in a while he pauses to loudly wonder where his career is heading. After having concluded its heading nowhere, he resumes his staring. I reassure him that mine is heading nowhere either and we both return to what we seem to do best. Browsing.

Yes, now back to the bad news. There I was blissfully sipping on my morning tea and catching up on Dr. Mahinder Watsa's invaluable advice when Poli nudged me. Luckily I had finished the tea, so there was nothing left to spill on my clothes after I heard what he had to say. "I think someone in the building across the road has been videotaping me", he said. "Poli", I said in a soothing manner," I know we are both single, handsome (Greek god good looks, Poli emphasises), strapping young lads in our late twenties and willing to marry intelligent young women in their mid-to-not-so-late twenties (early-to-mid, Poli suggests) but I don't think anyone would want to videotape us". "I am pretty sure someone did", he said. "When exactly did you get this feeling .. and what exactly were you up to?", I said remembering our last encounter with Mr. XYZ and wondering if the encounter had inspired Poli to do something that he shouldn't be caught doing. Especially on tape. "I was sleeping when I got this feeling someone was watching me", he said. I breathed a sigh of relief. I told him it must have been a bad dream. Nevertheless, we went into Poli's room and stared at the said building. Everything seemed normal. Patting Poli on the back, I returned to my room.

But after this incident, Poli is no more the Poli we always refered to as the Rampant Orbit. He is now more of the Suspiciously Rampant Orbit. He sleeps with a camcorder next to him hoping to record the person whos doing the recording from the building. So, if you just happened to notice someone in the building across the road pointing a camcorder at you and you are not the person shooting Poli, then thats Poli shooting you.

In other news, Mama-Mia has awarded me the "Brillante Weblog Premio - 2008'. "Head over to his blog for some seriously hilarious stuff", she tells her readers. Such nice praise. I am honored. I could say more except that my British upbringing doesn't let me do anything other than keep a stiff upper lip. Hmm, actually I am neither British nor have a stiff upper lip. So, I must say "Woo hoo!" What joy. Thank you, Mama-Mia. And you should really remind them again to head over to my blog. My life has changed after the award. In addition to allowing me to use two meaningless words - Brillante and Premio - in my blog, I wondered how I could get hold of prize money such prizes usually bring. So, I decided to search online how much money I could expect in my mail now that I am a 'Brillante Weblog Premio - 2008' winner. As expected, it has substantially added to my status in society. I am now an extremely rich, single, handsome(think Greek god), strapping young man in my late twenties and willing to marry an intelligent young woman in her early-to-mid-to-not-so-late twenties (Thank you, Poli)

I am also supposed to pass on this award to seven others. Seeing that everyone whose blogs I trawl through have been nominated for the same by ten others and have enough awards to fill a medium size tractor, I am hereby awarding myself this award 6 more times. For "Brillante Weblog Premio - 2009", I will nominate 7 other blogs. Just be here on Jan 1, 2009 as I start the sequence.

Whats cooking?

Faithful readers of this blog - currently the 10 split personality manifestations of the author, and counting - will doubtless realise that the previous entry hinted at a sequel through the simple plot device of a missing gas connection. With the gas connection having been obtained, me and Poli finally had the opportunity to eat at the guest house.

During our first visit to the guest house, we had been acquainted with the caretaker and the cook - two individuals as similar as chalk and cheese. The caretaker appeared to be one of those eager to please, helpful chaps. The cook, on the other hand, seemed like the kind of person who, for no fault of yours, would conceal a sharp object in one's palm before vigorously shaking hands with you. Well built, with a stomach to match, unshaven and possessing a fierce countenance, he displayed all the friendliness of a bulldog that has seen its favorite bone being passed to the neighborhood mongrel. Having fixed us with a stern eye and seeming to have concluded that he could whup us any time in a handicap death match, he let us know he was the cook.

D-Day morning arrived and we sat eating a satisfactory breakfast of poha and bread toast. I figured this would be the right time to let him know what our culinary preferences were. Having eaten at the other guest house for three days, I knew what I could ask for. However, assessing that discretion was the better part of valor, I decided to let the caretaker know what I liked so that he could, in turn, pass on the message to the cook. "How about omelette once in a while?" I ventured. The caretaker's face assumed solemn proportions. "The cook is a brahmin", he whispered. "So what, egg is no big deal" .. "Let me check with the cook, sir" .. "Err, on second thoughts, maybe you shouldn't" .. Too late.

The cook walked into the dining area with a malevolent look on his face. Pregnant pause. The only sound that could be heard was Poli blissfully munching away on the poha. The cook cleared his throat with a flourish to draw our already well-drawn attention to him. "I am a Rajasthani brahmin", he thundered, " There will be NO eggs in this house as long as I am here. You'll have to eat eggs outside this house". Poli's spoon landed with a bang on the plate. Total silence. The air was crackling with nervous energy. There was potential for war here. There were Kodak moments galore, and the odd Pulitzer moment for the taking. An earnest journalist present at the scene could well head off on vacation for the Bahamas having already mailed his Award acceptance speech to his editor - "Thank you so much, folks .. just reward for having risked my life in the line of duty". A Sergio Leone may well have conceptualized The Good, the Good and the Ugly. An Ekta Kapoor could have gone into paroxysms of orgasmic pleasure with the myriad possibilities. One can imagine her telling her directors and script-writers "Zoom in on cook, then on Spanker, then on Poli .. zoom back, slowly .. zoom in, zoom out .. in, out, in, out .. fast, slow, fast, slow .. gasp". There was potential for one 30 minute episode here. The cook was Megatron and Sauron rolled into one. Me and Poli were two lowly cell-phones without a ring, one way or the other. The cook was Gabbar and we were Thakurs wiping sweat off our brow with our phantom palms .. and I am out of metaphors.

I heard a sharp intake of breath. Poli was gasping. He was no doubt remembering the fact that he had just concluded a project where he had helped a poultry foods company to sell its products - eggs and meat - to all corners of the country. As he carefully planned how he could exit the area without sustaining any lasting damage, I - with all the negotiating skills and assertiveness learnt in college - said "Of course, no eggs. We don't want eggs." Poli pitched in to mention how we were joking all along and were merely testing his brahmin integrity. The cook walked off muttering ominously. Me and Poli exchanged high fives. We were two tough cookies who could handle any situation - as long as there was no brahmin cook involved.

We have finally reached a truce with the cook. We ask him to cook any vegetarian food we want. All requests routed through the caretaker, of course. And he summarily dismisses our requests and cooks whatever he wants.