Professor's Cat

So after class, Professor talks about his wife. We, the TAs, are walking with him towards his office when a friend of mine decides to ask him, "Doesn't your son also teach at Stony Brook?" The professor replies in the negative,with added humor,"I don't have a son. I have a cat. Two cats." He tells us that they were originally named, "Chaos" and "Catastrophe." But he soon realized to his dismay that even though "Chaos" is fine and manageable without having it abbreviated, "Catastrophe" on the other hand was catastrophically difficult to pronounce in one go, and it invariably reduced to "Cat" instead. So having said that, my professor concludes "but you can't call a cat, Cat. So we renamed her, "Fishum" ' So now I guess, Cat has become Fish :) Oh well, what's in a name after all.

Heaven Can't Wait

So a little girl asks her father, why we go to heaven? And if we do, hey why do we come back! That just makes no sense. errrr... Why are we born, she asks, if we are to go back to heaven, and coming from there in the first place. What is the point of all these moving?

So here's the funda. Heaven is an overcrowded place. Really, really lacks breathing space. People fainting on top of each other, waiting in line. It's like waiting for Beatles ticket if they'd come back from the dead for one last performance... Can you imagine the headcounts in the stadium? Hitler's gas chambers would be less crowded! So to avoid this extremely unhygienic, claustrophobic heaven, G-d sends a whole bunch of people to earth from time to time to clear out Heaven congestion... because the traffic at this hour is unexpectedly high... (because for some time now, God is in a generous mood and giving out fliers for Free-Heaven. And angels shouting slogans from high rise buildings, "Free-Heaven with Free-Food! Come join us! Help our cause"). And little India packed in Little China would be a fitting analogy for this crowded Heaven... people fainty and frustrated, falling on top of each other, and bickering at each other, cutting lines, pushing, pulling, showing the middle finger, moving in this crowded place, unwashed, stinking, growing lice, passing lice, and before it should get any more congested, G-d decides to send whole bunch of people back to earth. Essentially, to get some breathing space in Heaven. And very soon God will perhaps come up with a new idea.. a new amended heaven... with better sanitary system, perhaps. Or it maybe that G-d will do away with the whole heaven and hell discrimination. Now, tell me, does it really help to have all the goody two shoes in one place, separated from all the bad folks in some other place? I think not. Nobody will ever learn anything, then.

Pregnant or not!

Last summer I took a class in the Stony Brook Manhattan campus. The professor was a lady. A lady with a lumpy tummy and bumpy attitude. However, very NOT-pregnant (which I was assured later). Unfortunately, I had presumed otherwise. It was the same kind of pot-belly like shape just perfect to imply to a subway rider that "I am 5 months pregnant so won't you be a gentleASS and giveup your seat so I could rest my bigass!". Also, the blouse she wore definitely seemed like one from the maternity section of GAP. Well, who would have known that she just LIKES wearing airy clothes in summer! Like really, really airy clothes, ones that makes you look like you are hiding a Hot midget under your blouse, or simply may be you are pregnant. The more sane choice, that. Plus, what wasn't help at all was the way she ate chocolates in class like she were on a death payroll and this was her last chance at eating chocolates or any food! And then she had fits of temper (which is a rarity in Professors in US schools) because of which I naturally gave her the benefit of doubt that she MUST be getting bombarded by whimsical, temperamental pregnancy hormones. Because angry professors are just not the IN-Thing in US colleges yet. But who would have known that she was "just being herself!" What with the airborne blouse, and bloated belly and bad temper and harsh grades... it had definitely looked like a 'knocked-up' case! Anyhoo, so one day I was just making friendly conversation with her, after class. And the topic of female pregnancy came up (btw, the class I was taking with her was a Women's Study Class), and thus the occasion naturally presented itself, wherein I should ask "So when are you due?" And so I did. Immediately, her facial expression changed from that of a Roberto-Benigni-winning-the-Oscar (go check youtube for this) to that of a Hitler-just-found-out-his- girlfriend-cheating-on-him-for-a- Jewish- man. And to summarize the following embaressments in a nutshell would be that it turned out that she WASN'T pregnant! And that I am to be remembered forever. (for all the wrong reasons of course.) Especially during final grades time. Damn. My only hope now was to give her a REALLY bad evaluation (on Professor evaluation sheet/day) so that at least I will not EVER have her AGAIN in ANY of my class; NEVER!
But what dya kno! Come Spring semester of next year, and I have her again! Isn't it juuuuust perfect. In this existential, sadistic, synical world that we live in with a Lord that rules with an IRONy hand, that professor comes back to teach me again! How wonderful. And this time it was really tempting to infer, since her belly was HUUUUUGE, that she in fact really should be pregnant. Ofcourse, if she's not then Jeeez what dya eat woman! But this time it DEFINITELY, EMPERICALLY, as sure as Newtonian Laws, she looked gravitationally pregnant. THIS I was sure. There couldn't have been two ways about it. and YET, I was supremely skeptical. And even though I sat in the first row in class with the teacher directly lumbering around infront of me with her wobly belly almost directly looking at me, making fun, poking me a dare 'dont-you-think-I'm-pregnant, eh?', I tried not to look at it and concentrated solely on the pink hair of the girl sitting next to me. (later this girl thot I was hitting on her! wooooof... The ripple effects that comes with avoiding one situation!) Anyway, so end of class the Professor calls me outside. Asks me a few 'I-know-you-so-I'll-ask-you "how have you been" questions- even- tho- I can- clearly- see- you- are- hyperventilating- and I-know- the-reason-why' ! Talk about being cruel and sadistic. So after a few general, informal chit-chat, this is how she finishes our small talk, "by the way Tina, this time I AM due... (hihihi) I am due in June. It's a girl." Guess what's my reply! This: "Oh really!!!! I hadn't noticed." ummmmm... She gives me a wry, 'yeah-rite', smile and walks away.

What will you be when you grow up?

I envy those who can write or say exactly what they wish to say. As for me, my words fly out of my mouth in some existential, transcendental way...I have no control of, which has nothing to do with how I feel or wanted to communicate. It is usually something entirely different than what I had in mind. The thing is I can't pinpoint my feelings or words, its usually something vague or extraordinary. And by extraordinary I mean nothing of the sort... (case in point btw) but rather something so unwittingly-attractively vague (because I couldn't convey any better) that it "SEEMS" that it MUST be extraordinary! Let me facilitate my point with an example. Very often, as I was growing up, relatives would be curious, "boro hoye ki hote chaash? daktar na baba'r moton engineer?" Now just to play it safe, politically-neutral, avoiding further questions or agony for the both of us in explaining her (it used to be mostly a woman who was o-so-interested in my future) why I think that being a doctor or an engineer is a mundane, uncreative, shoot-me, dead-end of a job for my taste, I would come up with this seemingly fleeting but witty answer, "An old woman. Who can stand erect, preferably." That was nearly ALWAYS my answer to "boro hoye ki hote chaash." And I could come up with this answer after careful deliberation for hours together, and meditating over it for several years in silence and solitude. Yes? Nooooo you daft idiot! That was my answer ONLY and only because my parents chose Telegraph over Statesman, simply because Telegraph had better budget, so colorful pictures, more supplementary readings like Graphiti on Sundays with the Survival Strategy column where midlife crisis guys, and desperate house wives and growing teenagers had wonderfully screwed up lives of sex, drugs, abuse, accuse, girlfriend-ran-off-with-my-petdog-Tommy-who-was-biting-my-wallet kind of troubled lives, and TeleKids on Thursdays. I researched (ahem) my answer once in a TeleKids jokes section. Thus, I had invested no amount of my intellect, which was always at a vanishing-point anyway, to come up with that answer. And since the answer gave out none of the expected, daktar, engineer, lawyer, teacher, fashion designer, interior decorator, baby-sitter, gardener (pati mali), barir-bou, realtor or the simple truth-- 'something with Minimum work, irregular hours, and maximum pay' or some such they interpreted my answer to be, "khoob philosophical! khub bhabuk meye. bah bah!" Thus, thanks to TeleKids and my decidedly undecided future I was deemed to be a Philosopher-in-the-making (not to mention an indifferent, lazy ass bum But who knew THAT!) in the matter of a minute of meaningless interrogation. Thus my plagiarized-vagueness elevated to extra ordinariness. See my point? Or don't see my point? Either way it proves my point. Coming back to my ineptness in writing or saying the right words... Not inspiring is it, coming from someone who aspires to be a full-time writer in the distant future. Yet again I throw in a few extra pounds more of distance in my shopping cart for Time before I start taking my life seriously or at least pretend to ponder about the job market. Humor me for a minute. Say there was this take out shop for Career. Like one of our own Wendy's or Starbucks where you could order your career just the way you want. Can I have a Career to go, with extra-Time, dework, nonfat (why not), nonstress with side orders of Name, Fame, and "soups" of Money... please :) "That will me $ Dream and run-to-a-shrink Cents Sir!" Next in line?

Flying Frights

i must write on some of the funny incidents that fall into my lap ever so often. this time en route to India. so here i am, fetching my little isle seat...and waiting for the poor soul who must occupy the seat next to mine. i pity him already. i tend to use the neighbor's shoulder as a personal favor. hence, i also know i would invariably have him/her blotted with "little drops of cloud" from a passionate sleep... also known as "Drool". well, people are born with strengths, weaknesses, traumas, phobias, two heads, psychotic mothers... i however, am born with a mouth that opens during sleep. (no. no. no. that doesnt mean i dont open my mouth at other times). But to my dismay I realize that I am not the only one who will drool that night. In a moment this 23 year old, sweatpants wearing, uncombed, unshaven, unkempt, dishevelled, my-socks-dont-match geek comes and sits next to me..."please dont mind if my head falls on your shoulder"! aaa...HULLO! what makes you think i wont mind? a friendly reminder-- Dont Even Think About It! In reply however, I give a wry smile and say, "I have the same problem". His radder immediately catches the warning. And he politely shifts a little to the other side of his seat. worked. yess! why that was easy! And because everything has good and bad sides to it, it dawns on me that there goes MY head rest! 'Nice job bimbo' i curse myself.
So in the middle of the night, while i am trying to sleep erect, there is a cankerous outburst of man-cries. the man in question is occupying the seat two rows behind me. he is shouting at another man in Punjabi dialect. I dont understand a word of what he says, which is amazing...because people usually intersperses English words while talking in any other language. however, he is speaking in pure, unbridled, uncontaminated, perfectly distilled Punjabi! That made MY understanding of the situation extremely impure. this "gentleman"... though rite now far from credibility... is loudly questioning the gentility of this other man...who looks somewhat baffled at what seems to me, accusations against him. maybe even he doesnt understand what he is being charged with...and stands there like Forrest Gump on sedatives. the air hostesses, busboys are all gathered around us. But the man who is doing all the shouting is relentless... he is a man of words alrite! I am still staring at them all... trying to...I donno... lip read...face read? It appears to me as if I am the only one not following what's going on. math-class-syndrome-all over again. Suddenly one of the pilots arrive. Why does the pilot have to be here? Who is driving? Is this like a national threat? Profound questions wizz pass my head. Anyway, so they are all trying to extricate the two men away from each other. more and more people are overcrowding this area. the feud is turning out to be a mutiny. And then suddenly the angry man attacks...he plunges forward...and gives a firm blow at him! and within two feet of each other... he misses!!! what are the chances! he is even more angry now. the cabin crew is pushing the other man away from the site of action. what is funny is that this man is making no defence. He is like, 'bring it on'! ok, so the angry guy now throws a shoe at him--and in its flight--it bangs on MY head, ricochets, and falls in the lap of the white American veteran sitting just behind me. Now it helps to clarify that this was flight Air India, and the Indians always take a few precautionary notches of care for the white folks. So as soon as the shoe landed on this white man's lap, the air hostesses rose to the occasion, leaping forward, like Michael Jordan on an underpaid mission, scooped the shoe out from the white man's lap--and was "colonially" apologetic! Nobody even noticed that the shoe made contact with MY head!
Anyway, after long the fury subsides, people take their seats again. my sleep, with its drool have all dried up. and now for the final part, the formerly angry man is asleep... but snorting like an erupting volcano (his lips make an Angelina Jolie-like protrusion, making extensive vibrations and shooting out lava-like saliva) say on a 4th of July evening! like a nuclear weapon being tested amidst flurrying crackers..! In obvious fright of the demonic snore, all the babies in the flight start crying aloud at precisely the same instant...as if the furious man with the fatal snore is their choir-master. A remake of The Sound and the Fury, i tell ya