Once Upon A Strip of Sticky Red Tape

Once upon a strip of sticky red tape, my blog got stuck. I knew that struggling would be pointless. My blog was a doomed housefly trapped in the web! The Nation Wide Web of bureacracy. Who was responsible for this heinous blog blockage?

"Not I!" cried Blogger Support. "I am puzzled and disappointed. I am really quite depressed."

There, there. Not to worry. This too will pass. I will seek my answers elsewhere. I will follow the sticky red road. (Oh, and look where it takes me.)

"Not I!" cried the Government of India. "I am just trying to protect the nation from terrorists."

Fair enough. (And much appreciated, as I really like being alive.)

"You-do-one-thing," said the Government of India. "You ask the Department of Telecom."

So I did. (Not really, but it's all part of the story-telling rhythm).

"Not I!" cried the Department of Telecom. "I'm pretty sure I told those Internet Service Providers to block only certain specified sites, not entire domains. I have got the instructions in triplicate on foolscap paper somewhere in a Godrej safe. You-do-one-thing. You come next week."

So I called the Internet Service Provider. (Really).

"Not I!" cried the Internet Service Provider. "I'm just being a good corporate citizen and following orders. It's not my fault. It's what they told me to do. Oh, they didn't exactly tell me to do that? It's not my fault. I have technical problems. Problems that I didn't have when it came to instantly blocking everyone's blogs. Thank you for calling. Can I help you with anything else?"

Else? I was still waiting for them to do-one-thing.

So the porridge went cold and the posts got old. Some bloggers raved and ranted and filed litigations. I did my deep breathing exercises and waited and won 67% of all the FreeCell games I played.

And now the blogs are back. Some bloggers are still raving and ranting and filing litigations. Long after they all succumb to high blood pressure, my well-expanded lungs and I will be here, hard at work, weaving tales and truths that need to be told. They may do it hyperly, but I prefer to end, as always, happily ever after.

Post-script: Following the Mumbai bomb blasts last week, the DoT instructed ISPs to block certain sites, in the interests of national security. Due to a cock-up somewhere (we may never know where) the ISPs ended up blocking entire domains, including blogspot.com. The problem's now been rectified, as you can see.

Post-post-script: a word of appreciation (several actually) to the bloggers who raved and ranted, as their raving and ranting may have accelerated the process.

No more road rage.

I can love you all
if I can see the beauty
that each of you brings.

It isn't as far-fetched as it seems. And it works wonders for me, for my peace of mind, and, no doubt, my blood pressure. Because if I look at every person - no, not just every person, but every animal, every insect, every tree - as God's creations, then I know that He has created them for a reason. And when I know that God loves me, with all my flaws and weaknesses and limitations, He still loves me: even if my love for Him (or Her, as the case may be) is not as pure or whole or constant, He still loves me. Just for being me. Just for BEING. Just as He loves all creation. If I love and respect God, then doesn't it follow that I would treat His creations with love and respect too, for His sake?

I think of this sometimes when I am driving, and it makes me a gentler, kinder, more polite and patient road user, who arrives unruffled and smiling.

Once Upon A Doorbell

Once upon a doorbell, a relentless finger did prod. Over and over and over and over. More overs than that. More overs than a one-day cricket match. And far less fun to put up with.

I do not know to whom this relentless finger is attached, but I know this: it is an emotionally unhealthy finger. It is a finger of impatience and frustration and self-centredness. It is the finger of some as-yet-unseen neighbour from the building next door, and I deeply hope that it belongs to a child, not an adult. An incessant ding-donging of a tantrum is slightly less infuriating in a child. In an adult, it makes me want to go over there and hit him (or perhaps her) on the head with some good anger management books.

I have a theory about the building next door, because I've noticed rather a lot of hitting-on-the-head-with-anger-management-books inspiring behaviour coming from there. There's a woman who screams blue murder at her sons. Sometimes her husband joins in. Occasionally I hear her sons screaming at each other, followed by her admonishing them not to raise their voices like that. Hmmm. I wonder where they picked up that nasty habit? There's a man who beats his dog viciously, one neighbour told me, although I have not seen him do this (but have the CUPA number ready in case I ever do), and of course, there's The Finger.

Perhaps it's the building they live in that brings out the "Hyde" in their manner (pun intended there, but you'll only get it if you know the name of the building next to mine). It could all boil down to bad vaastu. Or feng shui. Or both. I have noticed a horribly cluttered verandah on the ground floor. Maybe I should go over and do some tidying for them. Or maybe I'll just draw my curtains closed in the evening, practise deep breathing when Finger meets doorbell, and be glad that I can find material for my blog in the most unlikely places. That attitude might ensure that even if they don't, this tidy pacifist will live happily ever after.

Once Upon A Launchpad

Once upon a launch pad, there sat a towering and emotionally healthy satellite-supporting contraption. As India watched, the satellite-supporting-contraption spread its arms wide open, like a mother bird sending her fledgling out into the skies. "Fly away, fly away, my pretty one," the towering satellite-supporting-contraption cried (although her words, or perhaps his, were lost under the roar of the satellite leaping joyously up and away.

The satellite-supporting-contraption watched sadly, and shed a tear or two (unnoticed by us insensitive mortals, for our eyes were on the satellite, and besides, the heat of the engines evaporated the tears in no time, leaving only a miniscule and salty trace). As the satellite arched upward and outward, the satellite-supporting-contraption consoled herself (or himself, as the case may be) with the knowledge that if you love something, you let it go. If it comes back to you, it's - Oops. And alas. The satellite's burst for freedom did just that. Burst.

The satellite-supporting-contraption stood frozen, and firmly welded, on the launch pad. As any good parent knows, fledglings must be let go, to fly, to make their mistakes, to experience the joy of soaring independent, if only to end up in the Bay of Bengal. This is the law of the jungle, of Mother Nature, and of the launch pad. If you love something, you let it go. If it comes back to you, it's everybody's funeral. If you hold on and never let go, neither of you fulfils your destiny.

The satellite-supporting-contraption folded her (or his) arms in resignation. S/he had played her part. Or his. Perhaps one day there would be another satellite in her arms. Or his. Who could tell? (The scientists. Or rather, the people who fund the scientists).

Today India watched, and tomorrow India will forget, the noble unselfish satellite-supporting contraption. And one day, far, far in the future, s/he will be scrapped down for roofing over the slums that will, no doubt, still exist, unhindered by the space race. S/he will shelter them from the sun and the rain and she will feel noble and unselfish yet again, in a fragmented sort of way. And then she will live happily ever after, or however long scrap metal lasts before disintegrating into rust.


Post-script: Due to its phallic resemblance, I am inclined to think of the satellite-supporting-contraption as a he rather than a she: a father, albeit a very nurturing one in touch with his feminine side.

Once Upon A Nostril

(Blog #3 is one of my favourites - tales and truths that need to be told - and as each story started the same way, I named it Once Upons. - n2n, 15/12/07)

Once upon a nostril, there sat a nose-stud. It was an ordinary nose-stud, poked through my niece's virgin nose, and it was now time for the ordinary nose-stud to be replaced by a diamond no less, set in pure gold. Home she came to do so, under the supervision of my father, retired physician extraordinaire.

Who would have thought that the dark interior of a humble nostril could have brought so much brightness and mirth to a dull, electricity-less Sunday afternoon? What we all assumed would be a simple "out with one, in with the other" turned into a dramatic episode that involved such props as spirit, torches, magnifying mirrors, magnifying glasses, a brief ponderance upon the laws of physics and a moment of panic when I knocked the diamond out of my father's hand.

We thought at first it was her nostril that was too small. (Obviously not like her aunt, who can stick two fingers in each nostril with ease, thanks to years of childhood nostril-flaring). In the end we discovered that the diamond stud had too short a stem, and that it would have to be replaced by the jewellers. By this time, my niece had had four people's fingers up her nose (five counting her own, and six if you include her thumb).

My niece sits sadly at home tonight, her diamond dream replaced by what appears to be a tiny piece of broomstick. Oh, the invasion, the trauma, the humiliation! It can only be surpassed by the email she will receive tonight, informing her that her nostril plays a leading role in my new blog.

Dear reader, do not sniff or snort, I pray you! Turn not your nose up in disdain at this humble tale ... it is far from over. One day - possibly tomorrow - my niece and her nostril will live happily ever after.

Post-script: it is the left nostril, in case you were wondering.
Post post-script: Thought I should clarify .. the niece is not a little girl, she's an adult.