If Only my Hair Would Grow Like my Nails

I find it quite amazing

The speed at which my nails grow

and

the rate at which my hair falls

If only it was the other way around

If my hair would grow fast

And my nails slow

I would look like Samson with my locks

And maybe many Delilahs

Would cast come-hither looks

And not notice

My slow-growing nails

Mala’s Fear

Mala’s husband Preeti is a big, burly Sikh with a long flowing white beard. Her good friends Kavita and Sudhir live nearby.

Mala’s fear – what if I have a heart-attack and Preeti’s beard doesn't dry and Kavita can’t drive and Sudhir is out playing golf, what will happen?

Power Walks

The other day my neighbour Niteesh came back from his evening walk. “Attractive young woman in the park. Check her out”. Well we aren't exactly dirty old men yet, but we’re getting there. So off I go. Beauty is there to be admired.

As usual, I walk anti-clockwise. Same as athletes. Most people in the park prefer clockwise for some reason. Therefore chances are I will be able to get a good look at her. Soon, she swishes by. Same direction. So all I get to see is a nice bottom and a swaying pony tail of dark hair. Very well, I tell myself. Next round, jog. And with my painful foot, I start. By the time I complete the round, she has just walked off towards the gate. Again a view of a proud bottom and dark tresses. Thank you God for your infinite Kindnesses.

The Bridge Players

Every Tuesday in Delhi, four women meet at one of their houses for an afternoon of bridge. On a visit from Pune, I am invited to join the group at our old friend Kavita’s house. So it’s Kavita and me, Sita aur Gita, and Anjali. There is also a sixth whose name I don’t catch. She departs early.

In one of the games, Gita is my partner. As dummy, I have given her K,Q, J and 10 of Hearts in a 4–Hearts game call which she is now playing.

“I like your Heart” she says.

“There is so much more about me you would like” I reply, hoping my weak attempt at humour is noticed. It is, and brings forth a small titter from the table. Six tits one titter.

Ravi and Shoba’s Son

He must have been all of four years old. Young Vicku. When we walked into the office of his father’s boss. One of the richest Indians in Dubai. Holding my hand till I walked up to the receptionist. Turning back to observe, to my horror, that young Vicku had his little weewee out and was proceeding to export the output into what (to his reckoning and consequently to mine), was the most sensible place available-a flower pot. What would have happened had the boss decided to descend at that time, only God knows.

The SMS that slipped Out

Still learning how to SMS. This one just slipped out incomplete.

Bit like a premature ejaculation – went off before it should have. Which reminds me of the hilarious cartoon below.