BALLS!

When I was a kid I was involved in some sort of an accident every second or third day. I remember my father once telling me that he had spent more on doctors than he did for my education. What he also told me was that as I grow up and start calming down a little the frequency of these mishaps will go down. He was wrong.

I do admit that I have almost stopped the ‘let’s-find-out-if-that-hurts’ experiments. But trouble somehow has a way of catching up with me. I am convinced that even if I managed to escape to an alternate universe, found a planet conducive to life, went to its farthest reaches, dug a hole, sat inside, covered it up, I would end up sitting on a porcupine.

The thing is it takes very little to excite me.

Colleague: “There’s a brand new BMW 7 Series in the parking lot.”
Me: “Are you serious?”
Walk. Pace. Run. Smack!
Colleague: “Ouch! That must’ve hurt.”
Me: “It really does.”
Colleague: “But how could you have missed the glass door?”

When it comes to sports it is a completely different matter. The kind of injuries that I have sustained while playing, will make Mike Tyson shiver like a little pup on a cold winter night. Although, for now I will concentrate on one isolated incident.

Every evening, after work, I and a whole bunch of people from my office go to play cricket. And some girls from the adjoining office come to play basketball ;-)

We arrive at the pitch with all the gusto of the Indian team. Arms swinging. Spot jogging. Sprinting. Stretching. While all this is going on someone grabs a bat. Someone grabs a ball and they start going at each other. In the meanwhile, for the benefit of the ladies, I light up a cigarette, assume a supervisory position (menial things like warming up etc. don’t really appeal to me.) And just keep an eye on the proceedings.

Now picture this – I am standing directly behind the bowler. He bowls a nasty one. The batsman hits an equally nasty shot. My head turns in the direction of the batsman. I can see the bowler ducking. A six-foot-three-inch-tall man comes prancing like a 5-year-old girl wearing new frock. Misses. And suddenly, I can see an object which is constantly becoming bigger.

“Hey that looks so cool!”
“Uh-oh! Wait a minute”
POW!!

In spite of the fact that a ball – traveling at no less than 5,000 km/h, has just hit me smack in the eye I can see several tweety birds flying around me. I take a few drunken steps. Trace a circle and fall down. Someone asks me if I am alright. If I could see I would’ve punched him in the eye and asked him the same question.

I learn quickly :) It only took me one game to discover that it is almost impossible to play cricket with a busted eye. And I decided to head back home. While driving back home I also discovered that a busted eye means no depth perception. A few scraped bumpers and many wildly gesticulating Jats later I finally reach home.

TING-TONG

I stand there grinning at the anticipation of some sympathy from my mother. She opens the door. I wouldn’t quite say her jaw dropped to the floor but a certain amount of disbelief was apparent on her face. She opens the door. This is the moment she is going to burst into tears and say “Oh! Mera beta. Kya hua?”

“The ice is in the refrigerator.” And she walks back to the couch to continue watching the damned K series.

That’s my mother. She takes care of me everyday. Makes sure my clothes are ready in the morning. Prepares dinner for me every night. But when I bust an eye she doesn’t bat an eyelid. This is a strange, strange world we live in.

Thankfully, the evening wasn’t a complete disaster. Through a fortunate turn of events I ended up at a pub and a couple of beers later the pain of the world and my eye didn’t seem to be much of a bother anymore.

Drama at the doorway

Every morning I play a game called ‘The 15 Minute Dash’. Let me explain how it works: you wake up an hour and a half late for work. You run to the bathroom as fast as your legs might allow. Run into a few objects on the way. You emerge clean, bruised and topless. Grab anything that may pass off as clothes. Gulp the milk. Swallow the bread. And dash out the door. All in under 15 minutes.

Panting, I finally make it to my car.

I have a few things I can’t do without: my wallet, my music system, my phone, work I might have carried back home, a jacket etc. In the flurry of activity, invariably, every morning, the moment I park my behind on the driver’s seat of my car I remember that I have forgotten one of these. And every time I dash back up I see my maid, hand outstretched, grinning like a madwoman, holding whatever it maybe I have forgotten (she doesn’t always get it right though, once she was holding my passport for some reason.) By now it probably wouldn’t seem impossible that on some days I make two trips of such sort. The second time around my maid’s grin seems to have assumed morbidly fascinating proportions. By now mom has joined her side to answer my question “Is there anything else?” She nods her head sideways with her eyes closed; the kind of a nod which says “Jao beta, tumhara kuchh nahi ho sakta.”

When I finally do make it to work, leaving in my wake a few upturned fruit carts, I wonder what I made all that effort for. Half of my colleagues haven’t turned up. The half that have turned up start chasing me for things that weren’t delivered the day before. Approaching deadlines. Unreal job-lists.

I move to my workstation switch on my computer. Put on my headphones. Drown them all out. And wish I could make another 15 Minute Dash out of here.