Friends of Words

Author: Swati

  • People Who Knock With Their Knuckles, How the Hell Do You Do It?

    People Who Knock With Their Knuckles, How the Hell Do You Do It?

    Now and then, I visit a friend or a family member who chooses NOT TO have a knocker on their door, a bell I could ring, or even a security system that showed them my face on their home camera. 

    Nope, they won’t have any of it. 

    They like and respect the good old knock. I knock at the door and pray they don’t have adolescent kids playing loud heavy metal music at full volume, tailored to drown those knocks out. 

    Sometimes, luck is in my favor, and I do get in. Other times, I stand outside their door and call them on their mobile, announcing my royal arrival in a befitting non-royal tone.

    My imagination has also taken me to a world where doors exist, but knocks don’t. So you… enter. 

    “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you” comes to mind. 

    Well, I don’t want that done unto me. Ancient Athenians must have valued their privacy too, I suppose, for otherwise, they wouldn’t have come up with such an ingenious way to transform the world of respectful arrival announcements.

    I assure you, I am not trying to be fussy here. I have tried. Tried and failed (might I add, miserably) – at the subtle art of whistling, snapping fingers, and knocking. 

    What I haven’t done as bad at was identifying the root cause; almost all of them have to do with expert use of fingers, or some part of it, to some degree. 

    So it must be my fingers. 

    A kid in kindergarten would probably do a snap-finger routine much better than I do. 

    Whistling has always evaded me AND haunted me. For some reason, I am surrounded by expert whistlers, taunting me every opportunity they get. 

    Knocking should come more naturally than those two, you say? Well, not to me. And I have microfractures to show them.

    I have tried many styles of knocking: palm facing the door, palm facing me, fingers bent, fingers straight, but none of them generate enough sound to get the attention even of the person standing next to me, let alone the person who’s in.

    It’s as if my fingers are layered with some additional silencer skin. 

    But there is one good thing about me; I am lazy. So, naturally, I am good at finding shortcuts. 

    I now have a variety of ways to do the knocking – and the means I use depend on my mood at the time, on a scale of complete frustration to fulsome zen. 

    The means to get the resident’s attention would range from a scream outside the door, “Hey, it’s me, open up, where the hell are you!?” to “ using the key ring to rhythmically tap on the door to a song I like, followed by a complement of some heavy bass fist bangs. I have noticed that the latter approach, i.e., the fulsome zen works better for me.

    I am yet to find someone who suffers the same way I do. Misery loves company. It’s unbearable to think I am the only one with this condition. I wish to find at least one person like me one day. 

    It’s going to be a thing of history when that happens. 

    Guess what the first thing I would do when I find out where their humble abode is?

    Knock knock.

  • Want to Witness True Happiness? Go to an Airport

    Want to Witness True Happiness? Go to an Airport

    I am a huge fan of the movie Love Actually. It’s my Christmas season staple. I watch it at least once a year, and subconsciously, my screening criteria for the inner circle of close friends is them having the same level, if not more, admiration for the movie. 

    So naturally, I carry it everywhere with me in my head. If you haven’t seen it, you are missing out on a lighthearted ode to love.

    the official poster of the movie LOVE ACTUALLY

    There is a scene in the movie where the British prime minister, played by the charismatic Hugh Grant, remarks, “Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion’s starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don’t see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere”.

    It made me think.

    Curiously, I do find that true. And this isn’t specific to Heathrow either. I am no world traveler, but the airports I have had the pleasure to visit, fortunately, painted the same picture.

    I had gone off to pick up a relative at the local airport a few months back when I witnessed the same thing.

    This airport, being a reasonably small one, allows people to receive guests inside the airport. Visuals of family reunions are heartwarming, even when they are of strangers.

    I happened to notice an older woman with a young German Shepherd, leaning by a nearby telephone pillar, with the dog on a tight leash and eyes glued to the escalators taking travelers down to the Arrivals area.

    The flight may have been delayed, because the woman was there before I found the nearest bench to sit on. Every 10 minutes or so, she and the dog would go out for a five minute walk, and then come back to the same spot and adopt the same posture.

    Twenty minutes into this, I realized another member was in her party—a very young girl who looked like her grandkid. The girl was doing the same thing. Hiding behind another pillar, with her head sticking out, eyes glued at the same spot as her granny’ scanning for a sign of somebody.

    It was apparent they were eager to meet this person. There was a lot of love and excitement in that wait. It was contagious. Definitely to the dog, because he, also from time to time, hid behind the woman to not blow her cover. Unsurprisingly though, he was the most distracted of all three.

    There was an announcement of flight arrival, and they all became extra cautious, regaining their earlier postures—woman on one corner and grandkid on another.

    Suddenly the girl and woman made eye contact, and the girl mouthed something the woman seemed to have lipread because she immediately hid behind the pillar completely, with the dog in tow. The girl must have spotted the person they were receiving. That anticipation lured me in, and I followed the girl’s movement with my eyes. 

    The mystery is going to be revealed soon enough, I told myself. 

    The girl now seemed to be tiptoeing behind a tall elderly gentleman and, without a moment’s notice, hugged him from behind. The gentleman had barely handed over a giant soft toy to the girl when the older woman and the dog made their way to this man. All three hugged like a family while the dog took turns jumping at all three or pulling at their coats. It was a sweet reunion. 

    Heartwarming! 

    At that moment, I forgot all I had heard in the news that day; the world was alive and well- a big happy family. The moment reminded me of all the goodness out there in the world. And also that the flight my relative was in had just landed.

  • Why My Gym and I Don’t Like Each Other

    Why My Gym and I Don’t Like Each Other

     “When the waitress asked if I wanted my pizza cut into four or eight slices, I said, ‘Four. I don’t think I can eat eight.” – Yogi Berra

    Pizza, they rightly say, is a slice of heaven. And I have been known to indulge when it comes to that. And I think I have figured out why that is.

    Pizza is everywhere. Everywhere I go and think of going, pizza is waiting for an opportunity to pounce on me. If I did not know any better, I would say it is stalking me. But I think I know better.

    Like everyone else, the gift of staying confined for the pandemic came bearing ‘gifts’ – of online orders and expedited food delivery.

    And also twenty pounds of unwanted weight.

    All that pizza weight is starting to show everywhere. The pile of clothes that no longer fit is a shameful reminder that ‘I let myself go’.

    A quick scan of bank statements revealed that a shopping spree for replacing clothes is not on the cards. I would have to go for the second best, albeit the dreaded option.

    A gym.

    I enrolled for a gym membership, hoping to God I become a regular there.

    Why prayers?

    Because I know I will probably make it there for two days, once in the excitement of the first day and the second to renew the membership.

    Although the company of health nuts is invigorating initially, it goes downhill pretty quickly. This is considering how soon I usually realize my ignorance in sustaining the conversation and, after some point, even understanding it.

    While the former makes me look disinterested, the latter makes me look completely dumb. Neither of these is ideal, considering the end game.

    I summoned all my willpower and directed it to become a regular gym attendant. I can do it, I tell myself. I am so pumped that I even play Eye of the Tiger on my earphones while walking to the gym. 

    I use all the excellent self-improvement tips that I have learned over the years and create a plan with four major guiding principles : 

    1) Start small.

    2) Take it one step at a time.

    3) Avoid distractions.

    4) Reward yourself.

    It worked out well for the first week. I managed to spend at least 30 minutes in the gym every day for the week. I avoided guilt and consciousness by choosing a time when barely anyone would be there.

    Frankly, it irks me to see people who can keep running on the treadmill for hours without breaking a sweat. I don’t want Jason Bournes or James Bonds training in my gym. They are bad for my self-esteem. I hate them, mostly because I manage to be breathless on the treadmill in less than three minutes.

    With this non-existent level of fitness that I began with, I am in awe of myself, completing the first week. I found that especially impressive, given that the shortest route to the gym has a pizza shop.

    Okay, I made good on the first three guiding principles; now it’s time for the reward.

    It’s day 8, a cheat day, and I can eat whatever I want today.

    Any guess on what my cheat meal is going to be?

  • What Happens When You Say that “Gray” is Your Favorite Color?

    What Happens When You Say that “Gray” is Your Favorite Color?

    “What’s your favorite color?”

    This is probably one of the most commonly-asked questions on the planet. Thanks to its simplicity and sophistication, it finds a way to get into the lives of toddlers, teens, and adults alike.

    I distinctly remember being asked this question in my school admission test for Grade 1. So the examiner picks up a piece of paper with small squares painted in different colors and keeps it in front of me.

    How many colors can you name, sweetie?

    Weeks of rote memorization came in handy (my tireless Mom had a huge role to play in that).

    Impressed, probably more by my enthusiasm than my answer, she gave me a sweet smile and asked me the following question:

    Can you point to your favorite?

    I didn’t know what favorite meant, but I knew what ‘point’ did. I picked the very first color square. It was black.

    The teacher probably had not seen many children picking black as their favorite color, going by the expression on her face. 

    On the walk home, I asked my mum what ‘favorite’ meant. 

    Something that you like the most, she said.

    I now knew the word’s meaning, but I realized I still didn’t know the answer. I liked red, yellow, green, pink and blue. I did not have any favorites. Black, I guess, was a better answer than an utter and complete freeze.

    As I grew up, I noticed that it became easier to pick favorites, and I liked probably every color in the spectrum at some point in my life.

    However, the best entertainment I have gotten out of a choice of favorite color has only come in adulthood, especially when I mention, “Favorite? Oh yeah, gray’s my favorite color”.

    The best part about that answer is that the follow-ups don’t last long.

    Gray has been a certified conversation killer, at least in the experiences that I have had. I only assume that’s because it’s difficult for people to fathom how it can be anyone’s favorite color when it is usually (mis)understood to stand for everything dull.

    My reasons are more utility than choice. 

    Sure, I would choose white if it weren’t for my being a massive klutz. I think wearing a white shirt to work is one sure-shot way to make my day stressful. My shirt or dress would stay white for precisely 2 minutes and 30 seconds. Wine glasses, orange juices, and plates of freshly baked quiches have a special affinity to anything white. No matter how elegant the color is, it can not be mine—too high maintenance for poor ol’ me.

    I tried going with black for a while, with its magical powers to make me look thin. But I realized soon enough although it saved me from orange juice and the Californian red wine (to an extent), it also signaled to the mosquitoes of the world that I was available as their feeding ground. Also, black and a head full of dandruff don’t go together. 

    You know from all the anti-dandruff shampoo ads out there, even if you are lucky enough not to have any.

    Gray conveniently came to the rescue- with its capability to combine the best( and worst) of both- to a dulling degree. Guess you can call it boring. 

    I kid you not; there are color tests for personality profiling. 

    Which color are you? They ask.

  • Miss Temptation by Kurt Vonnegut: Summary and Review

    Miss Temptation by Kurt Vonnegut: Summary and Review

    Kurt Vonnegut’s short story Miss Temptation was first published in the 1950s by Saturday Evening Post. It also appeared later in an anthology called Welcome to the Monkey House. 

    Miss Temptation by Vonnegut: Summary and Plot Analysis

    Miss Temptation, if the name doesn’t give it away, revolves around a temptress, a young actress named Susanna, who lives in a small village one summer while performing in the nearby community theater. The beautiful woman is the object of villagers’ attention, most of whom are aware and look forward to her daily routine – which involves a barefoot sensual walk through the village. 

    She is polite to everyone but rarely ever talks to anyone but Bearse Hinkley, an elderly pharmacist, who supplies her with the city newspapers.

    One day while buying her newspapers at the drugstore, she is confronted by Corporal Norman Fuller, who has recently returned home from a tour in Korea. It was the first time he had seen her, and the experience was too overwhelming to digest. 

    He criticizes her, calling her ‘a great American actress’, not realizing it was her actual occupation. Initially thinking this is a compliment, Susanna thanks him but soon realizes it was meant as a taunt. 

    Fuller storms out not long after, making his disgust at her and for the tendency of women like her to make people like him feel ordinary and lonely. 

    Shaken by this sudden, unexpected outburst, Susanna runs back home.

    Later, the focus briefly shifts to Fuller’s life, where he is shown having dinner with his widow mother. Her mother tries to initiate a warm and light conversation with Fuller by talking about his friends and connections, but that makes Fuller sulk even more. 

    Most of his friends, if not all, had married or moved on since he left, leaving him completely and utterly alone. The conversation dies soon after him mentioning his interest in divinity school and the earlier episode of belittling Susanna.

    Fuller and Hinkley have a conversation later that night. Fuller goes on to explain his earlier stance with Susanna again, pinning his outburst on the way he had been treated by beautiful women growing up, including the ones from high school that seemed to think they were extra special. 

    Hinkley sympathizes, having been on the receiving end of such treatment in his days of youth. He later reveals that Susanna had skipped her theater performance that night. Fuller is pleased to have had any impact on a woman like her.

    The next day, as people wait for Susanna’s daily appearance and her walk, they are surprised to see a truck pulling up in front of the firehouse. 

    Susanna seemed to be moving away with her things. 

    When Norman begins her rant about Susanna again, Hinkley accuses him of being frightened of her. Fuller rejects the claim but reluctantly agrees when challenged to prove it by delivering Susanna’s papers that day.

    Norman goes to Susanna’s and finds her dressed conservatively; her room which he expected to be fitting that of a seductress’ lair, was anything but. 

    She confronts him about the outburst, demanding an explanation, at which he reveals he had no intention of chasing her away. His treatment at the hands of beautiful women like her had been a harrowing experience, which got the better of him. 

    Susanna went on to explain how quick people had always been to judge her, given her beauty, ignoring the fact that she was a human being, too, with a beating heart.

    They reconcile their differences eventually, and Fuller steps out for the village walk with Susanna on his arm.

    Miss Temptation: Review, Quotes and My Thoughts

    I went on reading the story with the preconceived notions in my head, assuming poignant sexuality as the only theme. While it was one of the more stark themes in the story, it offered way more than just that. 

    Fuller, who stands in for the lonely, not looked at twice kind of a guy, doesn’t criticize Susanna just because she is pretty; he does that also because he thinks that his bitter experience of being ignored gives him the reason. 

    At some level, it’s his deep insecurity not to be able to deserve the affection or even the attention of a beautiful young woman.

    Look at the colorful phrases used by Vonnegut to describe the characters – 

    Susanna, the golden girl of a thousand tortured daydreams

    Fuller the lonely, Fuller the homely, Fuller the bleak.

    I know it was not meant to be comedic, but my first instinct was to laugh when Susanna thanked Fuller for calling him a wonderful American actress. 

    But I was soon overcome by guilt, feeling my heart warmed by her naivete. 

    There is a gamut of emotions flying around. Fuller’s pent-up resentment against the beautiful kind, his biases apparent: 

    You do everything you can to give lonely ordinary people like me indigestion and the heebie-jeebies, and you wouldn’t even hold hands with me to keep me from falling off a cliff.

    Hinkley‘s life which was quite similar to Fuller’s in terms of the treatment meted out to him by the fair ladies, is now merely an exercise in reminiscence:

    All my pleasures are looking at what used to be pleasures.

    And then there is Susanna. Having suffered judgements of all kinds on account of her beauty.

    All through high school, people like you would look at me as if they wished I’d drop dead. They’d never dance with me, they’d never talk to me, they’d never even smile back.

    It is easy to focus on one side and completely forget the other! How mean is it to hold the biases dearer than a fellow being? How easy is it to judge and even easier to be a hypocrite?

    Susanna would probably have been the last person I sympathized with, coming into her story. 

    But that would be before my walk with Miss Temptation.