The Tug

I enjoy hiking as much as disco dancing on a bed of hot coals, which is to say not a whole lot. Still, here I am, huffing and wheezing on "The Knees-breaker" with mister Ajit for company who is leaping from rock to rock like a horny mountain goat. Ajit has got it all - VP of a 200-strong IT company, a tri-athlete, a blogger with 1000 hits a day, and even a finger-clicking Bollywood dancer.

At the first switchback, I collapse on a rock panting like a strangled cat where Ajit is waiting clicking keys on his Blackberry.

"You took a while, Baddie! Just a second while I finish this tweet ... my 3000 followers are dying for my daily wit" Ajit says, as he thumbs down his wisdom. The sun is unbearable with no cover, I quickly fall on all fours and scoot my butt eastwards.

"What in the world are you doing?" Ajit asks.

"Hiding my face behind my butt. Saw it on Discovery Channel. Called the stoop-down. Chacma baboons known to do this - to cool head in open sun."

"Remind me again why you are here." Ajit asks.

"Ch ... chol ... cholesterol," I pant. Kind of hard to speak with chin resting on a piece of rock.

"Oh yes. Classic - wife worried about your lipid profile, mandates physical work. What is your score anyway?"

"300. Plus." I can't see him but imagine his smirk. Hear a low whistle.

"Tsk, tsk, Baddie - that is very high. I'm, ahem, just 106, but you know me, I always worry about my numbers even if it is the lowest it can get."

"You are not normal, Ajit."

Ajit laughs. "Now, that is bloody ironic. You know you got to move your ass off the couch. You will feel fittest in the great outdoors."

"I feel fittest watching television." I grunt. "How much further do we have to go?"

"Well, we have hardly begun. Listen, man, can you just stand up and look at me? I cannot go on talking to your butt while people are walking by."

From my unique position, I spy something glinting in the sun hundreds of yards away on the side of the hill.

"Hey, what is that?"

"What?"

I get up to point it out to him. It glints like an aluminum box, maybe some kind of com device, strapped to a huge boulder on the northern side of the hill.

"What the hell is it? No one around, let's investigate," Ajit says jumping over the side rail separating the trail from the gravel.

"Hey, that is off-trail ... illegal!" I protest.

"I'm going anyway. C'mon, before people see us." Ajit is moving fast, picking his way across the patchy gravel-and-stone lie-way . With a shrug, I follow him on the path and onto the narrow ledge leading up to the boulder face, where we stop in front of the box. It is actually not stuck to the wall, but strapped to a rusted iron pole rising from the ground. The door on the box is latched but not locked. Ajit opens it without a moment's hesitation.

When I was five years old, one of my mother's friends K brought me a gift in a strange metal case. I didn't trust her, she had a habit of continuously tapping on my head when she spoke to me, but I was intrigued. Never before did I get a gift in a metal box. I tried to pry off the top but it didn't budge. Mrs. K tapped on my head again to show me the little push-button on the side. I pressed it firmly - the top flew open and a spring-loaded snake jumped right into my face. Since that day, I added one more thing to my don't-trust-list - mysterious metal boxes.

I stand my distance as Ajit opened the box. But nothing pops out this time. Inside is a plain wooden handle tied to a piece of rope threading through the back of the pole. A tape across the handle has an ominous message written on it:

"WARNING: UNAUTHORIZED TRIGGER IS LIABLE FOR PROSECUTION AND/OR $1000 FINE."

"What do you reckon it is," Ajit asks.

"I don't know, but this gives me the creeps. Let us go."

"Now, why would they have anything like this in the middle of nowhere?"

"Maybe it is some alarm or something. What are you waiting here for? Let us go."

"Just a minute." Ajit pauses, he is thinking hard. "Is there anyone on the trail who can see us?"

"No, not unless, of course, if they are engaging in the stoop-down like Chacma baboons."

"Ok, so we are safe. We might as well try it out."

"Try out what?"

"Yank the sucker."

"Are you mad?" I ask, horrified. "We can go to jail."

A strange inscrutable expression is on his face.

"Sorry, I got to do this." In a flash, he rips the tape apart and pulls on the handle! Tugs it down. Nothing happens. We wait in stunned silence. No sirens, no lights, no yells. Ajit frowns almost in disappointment.

On the way back, Ajit lapses into a thoughtful silence. Suddenly, he yelps.

"I think I should have tugged it harder."

"What do you mean?"

"Remember the emergency chains in Indian trains, you got to tug them really hard. I should put more force into it."

"If you are going back there, you are on your own. I'm not risking my neck for someone's idle curiousity."

"You are right. It is not worth the trouble."

We come down to the trail head and I bid him farewell.

SIX MONTHS LATER ...

I receive a call in the morning while watching Regis-Kelly over breakfast.

"Baddie? This is Ajit. I need a big favor from you."

Fifteen minutes later, I'm pulling up at the corrections center still confused as a goat led into the sea. The guard outside ushers me into a hall where I almost trip when I recognize Ajit in a pink bodysuit standing at a counter.

"There you are! Did you get everything?" He says and grabs the document folder from my arms.

"What is this place? What the hell is all this?"

"Tell you all about it later. What did you tell my wife?"

"The cock-and-bull story you gave me."

"Excellent," he passes on the packet to the woman behind the counter.

"What is with that dress?"

"Some code they have here for offenders. Ok, buddy," Ajit says, "you remember the hike when we pulled that lever?"

"Of course."

"Well, it turns out to be an alarm. It is meant for the rangers to notify forest and brush fires in the neighboring Henry Cowell state park. It is like the place with the best lookout. So, it worked, it alerted the fire station and cops and they all went to the Henry Cowell park and found nothing there. In the meantime, they sent the ranger out to investigate who tripped the alarm."

"Oh no, don't tell me you went back."

"You guessed it. Remember I thought I didn't pull it down hard enough? So I went back for another shot and was in the act when the ranger caught me red-handed."

"What did they slap on you?"

"$1000 and 80 hours of community service in a pink suit in the middle of the busiest parks in the Bay Area. I really got ridiculed. But I managed to do the time without the family and friends knowing about it thus far. If I didn't forget the documents, you wouldn't know either."

"Why did you do this? Why risk your neck?"

Ajit looks flummoxed. "What do you mean? There is a lever in the middle of nowhere. Didn't you feel like yanking it?"

"No, not me."

"You are not normal."

"Now, that's bloody ironic. Don't you regret it now?"

"Funny you should ask. Strangely - no, I don't."

"I don't get it."

The woman calls him and hands him his clothes and documents. He is free.

Ajit pauses in front of the restroom.

"You know, let me ask you something - when you are alone with a fire alarm, do you ever feel like triggering it?"

I ponder that question. No, but I know someone who did. He was making a call from a payphone in a public building and the alarm was just within reach. He couldn't resist fiddling with it. The siren went off, and as he legged it from there he saw members filing out in drill formation, fire engines approaching, and sprinklers raining down the corridors.

Ajit scratches his head. "Well, some people do, some don't. The first time I travelled alone, I was thirteen on the Mangalore-Madras overnight train. I got the uppermost berth, where when I placed my head on the pillow, the emergency chain was only inches away. I couldn't sleep. I was staring at it until the wee hours when I realized a boy on the opposite berth was also awake staring at it - same reason. He gave me first pickings - for 10 seconds, he waited, but when it was apparent I lacked the balls, he jumped across and yanked it, packed his bags and jumped out of the braking train. He pulled the damn chain, even if it means he has to get down in the middle of nowhere 100 km from Madras station."

"I'm sure there is a point here, but I'm missing it."

"Baddie, that is my only regret. I should have yanked that chain, not him."

I still don't get it.

"Maybe you will never understand. I don't know how to explain. I gotta go. By the way, the boy's name is Aravind Adiga."

"The Booker prizewinning novelist?"

It has been ten days since that conversation. I don't think I will ever understand the significance of the "tug" - that urge to pull chains and yank levers. I'm trying, see I even chose this spot in the apartment business center not only to write this article but also to test my biological radio kit.

The fire alarm is within an arm's reach. Been that way for over two hours. Yet, I don't feel the tug. Strangely disappointed with myself. Don't even know why.

Venkatole

For those of you who have read Wodehouse's conception of a personal chef so good that church-going women battle for his service like common crooks, then brace yourself for this. The flesh-and-blood version of Anatole is alive and kicking, displaying, as we speak, his exceptional culinary prowess daily in my mother's kitchen. Venkat starts the day with a strong cup of coffee that springs you from bed faster than a kick in the groin. You will embark on a gastric odyssey from a dosa breakfast to ambrosial dishes of the problem-solving cadre. His all-in-one sambars, for instance, have wiped out saas-bahu type of disputes, but the piece de resistance is the tamarind chutney that seizes control of the upper esophagus for all of five witless seconds. Insanely slurper-icious, it has much scope in improving bilateral relationships.

Unlike Anatole, however, Venkat is not a mercenery. But he also carries his own baggage of eccentricities. For one thing, he is honest to the point of insanity -sure, integrity is godsend to my mom whose last cook Sanyasi was steadily pilfering her saffola oil and pure sooji - but, Venkat does not even eat at work because to him that is tantamount to stealing. Second, he thinks cooking, in spite of all the awe it inspires, is just unskilled labor (he always dreamt of being a car driver, but sooji is easier to obtain than a steering wheel where he grew up.) He is also touchy as a hen, cannot tolerate a slight or even the perception of one especially on his appearance. And even if he feels slightly insulted, he resigns immediately.

But thanks to his quirks, he now works for my mother. His previous employer Judge Shankar just lives up the street from my mother's house. On Diwali day, Venkat came to work dressed in pink Gemini shirt and maroon striped pants, such a bizarre sight that even the normally dour Judge guffawed. Venkat quit immediately, and his wife put him back on the market, triggering a bidding war between Mom and Mrs. L.

Of course, you'd think Mrs. L won; after all, the conniving wealthy woman has many stellar accomplishments: best maid-servant, best gardener, and most obedient husband. But she misread Venkat. Money alone doesn't work on him. He is also particular about piosity. In this department, my mother has no equal. Mrs L's fourteen gods in her pooja room are no match for the pantheon of thirty-six on mom's staggeringly superior pooja room.

I remember I was in India when my mother got the acceptance call from Venkat. His wife came alone first to "inspect" the kitchen. Her eye caught the family antique in the dining room - a large amphora from Egypt with elliptic handles. She pleaded with us to put it away.

"But why?" asked my mother.

"Because the handles on this amphora look just like his ears. He will be offended immediately."

"But the handles are protruding outwards, human ears go sideward," I said.

"Venkat's ears are unlike human ears, he has front-facing lobes." She produced her ration card with his picture. It is difficult to imagine front-facing ear lobes until you see them with your eyes. She was right - the resemblance to the old jug is striking. So it went to the attic. And so did the salt-and-pepper shaker because of the likeness to his nose. So did a terrain-map globe because of its likeness to the baldness pattern on his head. Finally, Venkat began office the next day.

In hindsight, I should have seen the first sign of trouble just a few days later. My mother's driver had quit, so we were searching for a replacement. Venkat sought me out and offered himself.

"Have you ever driven a car before?" I asked.

"No, sir. But," he hastened to add, "the old driver Ramu taught me everything I need to know. Clutch on the left, brake in the middle, gas pedal to the right. Press the clutch, shift the gear, accelerate, and steer. It is a piece of cake."

"Listen, Venkat," I said softly, "why don't you get some lessons where driving a real car is involved? A couple of years experience, and this job is yours."

"Two years, sir?" his voice faltered.

"Completely necessary, Venkat. Just a breeze. Can I get another cup of that elaichi tea? It is just out of the world. With a piece of cake, please."

A week later, we were heading out to the airport for our return trip back to US. When the taxi stopped at a traffic light, I saw an old beat-up Fiat on the curbside repeatedly backing up into a tree. The driver was too inept to avoid the tree as he rammed into it over and over again. Our light turned green and my taxi started pulling away when I recognized the Fiat driver's face: Venkat! Taking those darned lessons, but not learning much.

When we arrived in America, my cellphone immediately buzzed. Missed calls from Mom. I called her up.

"Son, it is all over. The sky has fallen on our heads," my mother bawled at the other end.

"What happened?"

"Venkat resigned. He is gone."

"But why?"

"Mrs. L enticed him with a driving opportunity. She purchased an old beat-up Fiat just for him, so he can drive it around for groceries."

"Oh no! I saw him in the car. I thought he was taking lessons. She knew his weakness, that clever woman."

"That woman has no shame. She just sent an invitation for her birthday party tomorrow. She is ready to show off her new cook."

"Mom, listen - I think you should stay calm ..."

Clearly, nothing I said calmed down my mother. My wife sized up the situation and asked me to go back to India again.

"Whatever you do, you got to get Venkat back," said my wife with the look of a determined bahu.

Forty-eight hours later, I am back, ringing the doorbell on my mother's house. I saw the beat-up Fiat parked outside Mrs. L's gate, more beat-up than ever. Venkat must be pounding it like one of his rotis. Mom opened the door.

"Good to see you again so soon," Mom said.

"Well, you look like you recovered from the shock," I said.

Mom nodded. "You must be really tired. Back-to-back trips when I'm doing just fine. What do you want - coffee or tea?"

"Tea, please." I said. Didn't really matter. I flopped down on the balcony chair, and Mom appeared with tea cups. I could see Mrs. L's house from here. In fact, I know where her kitchen is. Venkat must be in there, I thought and sipped my tea.

For a second, the world turned upside down and tilted upright again. The veil seems lifted, the sky is blue again. The birds are chirping, the fruit-seller is calling out his goods, and the kids are playing in the park. It is a perfect day. It is elaichi tea. It is a kick in the groin.

I leapt out of my chair. "Venkat is back!" I said.

Mom smiled: "Yes, he rejoined this morning."

"But why ... how ..."

"Well, I went to Mrs. L's birthday party. Can't be the sore loser, right? Venkat was there, avoiding me, but his food was as good as it usually is."

"All right," I said impatiently, "but why did he come back? Change of heart?"

"Not really. I had to take a gift for Mrs. L, after all she was kind enough to give me a gift on friendship day. I hope you are not mad at me ... I gave her the Egyptian amphora."

"But, Mom, why ... that is so dear to us... OH!" It struck me then. The devious plan. I stopped.

Mom grinned: "Mrs. L had no clue what this was getting her into. She was so excited about the amphora she put it on her dining table. For one whole day, Venkat had to endure the humiliation of this hideous thing mocking his ears."

"Mom, you are the devil incarnate." I realized I was wasting my time now. "Well, you should have let me into the plan. I took emergency leave to get back here. I'll take the 3.30 flight to Bangalore from where I can get back to work."

"Why don't you stay here for dinner? You must be tired." She called out for Venkat.

I dialled the travel agency and spoke: "Can't, Mom. Gotta go. Oh hello! Frontline travel? Can I speak to Ms. Archana please"

Venkat arrived in the meantime as I was waiting for my agent.

"Venkat, my son is not staying for dinner. So nothing fancy today, you can stick to my regular diet."

I cupped the mouthpiece. "Wait, what were you planning for dinner today?"

Venkat cleared his throat. "Uttapam opener, and then a main course with two curries - stuffed brinjal and chopped jackfruit, coconut, tamarind chutneys, and strained rasam. For dessert, thayir vada and pista kulfi. But, since you are leaving now ..."

I instantly slammed down the phone. "That, my friend, is just a rumor!"

ps: To my mother's cook who has all the skills as the Venkat of this story without his front-facing lobes and fragile ego.

Loafer

By linking my dinner prospects to the tidiness of the garage, my wife got me rummaging through the pile of clutter accumulated over years of Costco executive membership. I began to sort the totally-useless from the probably-useless (with my one-year-old wailing his head off in the background) when a brightly-colored package fell out from an old box. I recognized it immediately – after all these years! The outer cover still crinkled like new. I felt the hard wooden frame inside with the stone-edged contours. As I spun it in my hands, this crazy thing I bought fifteen years ago at a curio shop in an Indian town, memories came rushing back.

In the late summer of 1994 in India, my loan search to pursue a Master's program in America got three dispiriting rejections. Just when I'm ready to toss out the idea, I ran into "Loafer" Sharma sucking on a cigarette at the tea canteen. Into the seventh year of a four-year degree, Loafer's flunked-it-all record never stopped him from being the local career counselor. Over a cup of tea and few cigarettes, he heard my story, and said I got it all wrong. All I needed, the ultimate non-achiever opined, was just enough dough for the flight ticket.

"The trick to getting financial aid is really simple," Loafer said, scratching his armpit, "take an expensive gift from India, a decorative piece like a wall hanging. Walk into a young Professor's office and give it to him. Funding guaranteed."

"That sounds crazy!'

"Not in a University," the hopeless deadbeat replied, blowing a cloud of smoke right into my face. "Try that anywhere else and they will slam you for bribery. But put yourself in the Professor's shoes. No human being ever approaches him, because, face it, these birds are intimidating. Just imagine his joy when someone actually presents him with a gift. He thinks 'they must like me, after all, in spite of the crazy subject I teach.'"

"Seriously?"

"Absolutely. This is how every Indian student gets funding there. Now there's a craft shop just down the road. You will find a great number of impressive stuff over there."

Maybe the slouch had a point after all. I paid for his tea and cigarettes. Least I could do. Within a few minutes, I found it - Lepakshi, a dimly lit gifts and crafts shop. The interior looked like a store room for pirate loot. Bronze figurines, chandeliers, vases – there was just way too much stuff to make one definitive choice.

"Can I help you, sir?" I turned around to face an oily store clerk who looked a bit like a handicraft himself.

"I'm looking for a gift that I can carry in a suitcase."

"Oh, this is for America?"

"Well, yes."

"I know exactly what you need. This is a collection that just arrived this morning from Darjeeling. It is both a toy and a piece of art."

He led me to the back room where three pieces were set up on a worker's bench. Animal statuettes with bodies carved from wood, fur from stone. Crystal lights for eyes. Just a thousand rupees, what a deal I thought! I chose one and he wrapped it up for me.

Two months later, in the Fall of 1994, I rapped on Prof Scottkid's office with the shiny package under my arm. The door flung open revealing a hairless birdie in horn-rimmed spectacles.

"Yes?" rasped the man better known in classrooms as the Grim Reaper.

His voice jolted me to my senses. What am I doing here? Why am I acting on the advice of a complete dingbat? I'm on the horns of a dilemma: on one hand, if I were to hand over this stupid gift, the Prof will peck me with his pointy nose. On the other hand, it is bizarre to carry on a conversation holding a brightly-colored gift package in plain view with no intention of giving it.

I chose bizarre. But, after some very awkward exchanges, my head couldn't take it any more. In a sudden bout of insanity, I bolted with the package leaving him there like a surprised fish. It struck him deep, because for the rest of my two years there, this birdie studiously avoided me in the hallways.

Several years passed. Downsizing at the end of my Colorado trip, I found the handicraft, lying still unopened in my suitcase just when an old friend Nitin - who was in town for just a couple of days – called me unexpectedly. We go back a long way. In college, there wasn't a hedonistic pleasure on this planet not explored by this dove. He gave us many unforgettable memories. I still remember the night he stood inebriated outside the girls' hostel in underwear singing Bollywood duets into a megaphone. But, that was then.

Now, in the recent past in America, tables have turned. The Art of Living meditation society got him into their inner fold and systematically purified his soul. What was remaining of the filtered ward greeted me at the café in kurta and sandals.

"What's happening?" I asked.

"I cannot say. Whatever happens is destined to happen."

"You sound like Morpheus."

"Who is Morpheus?" He asked puzzled.

"Never mind, you don't watch movies I suppose."

I tried a meaningful conversation for fifteen minutes, but finally gave up. I just had one last thing to say to him.

"Lest I forget: Happy Birthday!"

"Oh, thank you. You still remember my birthday."

"Of course I do," I said. "Who can forget those raining booze parties?"

He winced noticeably.

"Look, I got a gift for you." I handed him the package, expecting some sort of positive reaction. But his face fell. He looked like it instantly complicated his life.

"What is it?" he asked.

"It is a handicraft. Open it."

"Thanks, I will open it in my hotel room. I have to go. I'm teaching a meditation class tomorrow." He bolted in a hurry.

A couple of days later, Nitin called me looking for a ride to the airport. When I got to his hotel, I popped open the trunk as I waited for him to load and get in. A minute later, he slid into the passenger seat with a bag slung over his shoulder. After we arrived at the airport, I got out first and opened the trunk with my key. Imagine my surprise – it was almost empty save for the very same gift package.

"Where is the rest of your luggage?" I asked.

"This is it." He said.

"That is it? Just that bag and my gift?"

"Yes, all I need in my life is in this bag. Two sets of Kurtas, a cotton towel, underwear, my books. The package doesn't fit in the bag, so I'm carrying it by hand."

"But, you haven't even opened it yet."

"Sorry, I just didn't have the time. I will."

I couldn't believe it. This guy has no strings, he lives on twigs and salt. As we walked to the gate, I felt I was burdening him with irrelevant weight. At the security gate, I called him aside.

"Do you really want the gift?" I asked. The pleading in his eyes answered no. I pried it from of his grateful hands. Thanking me, he soared through the gate like an uncaged bird.

Soon after my wife started working, her German boss invited us to their home warming. We were running late and we still had to stop to buy a gift. Suddenly, I remembered the old handicraft lying somewhere around the house. I rapidly searched through my old bags and voila, I found it. Perfect! Finally, it was going somewhere. My wife drove while I fixed a label on the package.

"What should I write?" I asked.

"To Heidi, Congratulations …" she said.

"Shouldn't we also address it to her husband?"

"Oh yes. His name is Wolfe. To Heidi and Wolfe: …"

I was just going to write it down when a chill ran down my spine.

"Her husband's name is Wolfe?" I asked, incredulous.

"Yes, what is the matter?"

"Oh no! This won't do. We got to buy a new gift."

"What is wrong with this gift?" she asked puzzled.

"This handicraft is the statue of an animal. Of a wolf. A wolf! We can't give a wolf statuette to a guy called Wolfe."

"You're right. It is insulting. What will he think?" my wife said, and hastily U-turned into a mall. I tossed the package into the back seat. It was jinxed. Stuck to me like glue.

Returning to the present (double entendre intended), I gingerly opened the outer wrapping on the garage floor. Then, I uncoiled the cotton-string inner wrapping, and set it on an upturned box. The wolf, its head toward the sky, howled soundlessly at an imaginary moon.

Suddenly, I became conscious of a silence in the room. The wailing had stopped.

"Coo," said my one-year-old, peeking from behind my arm.

"Yep, it is cool, isn't it? Let me find the batteries."

"Bow-wow," he declared, looking at it intently.

"Not any bow-wow. Wild bow-wow! Wild!" I found the batteries, and inserted them.

The wolf's eyes glowed, and it howled. My son's face instantly changed from dour to excited. It charged him up: he ran around it, clapped, and chortled every time it howled. He played with it the whole day.

The gift finally found a taker.

The Importance of Hair

It is tremendously awkward when your fiancée runs into you at the supermarket while you are cradling a can of Rogaine Advanced Formula in your hands. Having had this unfortunate encounter over the weekend, my friend Ajit calls me out to the coffee shop in a state of panic.

"She is getting cold feet now. She thinks I'm bald!" Ajit says.

"Are you balding?"

He bristles taking offense, rather surprisingly: "Can't you see the hair on my head?"

I can see lots of seemingly flawless flowing hair on a tall frame and recall back in the college days girls swarmed him like he was a mythical hero.

"Then, why were you buying Rogaine?"

He answers curtly: "For a friend."

"Are you stupid? Rule # 0: In matters of hair oil and butt creams, only shop for yourself."

"I just didn't expect this - just imagine the odds of running into her at a random store. Now she is wary of me. She is trying out tests to find out if I'm really bald."

"Tests?"

He leans over and drops his voice. "She pretended to trip and grabbed my hair for support. I'm sure she is testing if it is a wig."

"Nonsense! She could have tripped for real."

"No. The day after that, she insisted on going all the way up Mt. Hamilton."

"So?"

"You know how windy the summit is? She took me there to get my hair to blow in the wind so she can get a closer look at my scalp."

"That is preposterous!"

"I'm telling you – that is what her plan is." Just then, the man in the next table gets up from his chair accidentally dropping a quarter that rolls down and stops at Ajit's feet. When Ajit instinctively bends down to pick it up, the ugly truth reveals itself to me. I reel in shock!

"Dude, I saw it!"

Ajit is puzzled. "Saw what?"

"I saw the patch. The open field. The milky way. The deforestation at the very top! Very early, but you are balding. And you know that!"

"Darn it! Listen, you cannot tell this to anyone. Do you understand?"

He pauses, looking away for a moment, and continues in a hurt voice: "This hair is all I have you know. Some guys write music, some guys have PhDs, what I got is long hair. God gives me this gift and He is now taking it all away from me. Why?"

Cruel. He shrugs. "Now I found Rogaine. They say it works. Only time will tell, but I don't have much."

"Hair or time?"

"Both, I guess."

"How did you manage to hide it from her?"

"Not easy. I'm tall so she can't get the top view that would bust the whole thing up. I never get ahead of her when we are climbing up or down a staircase. The other day at the mall, she got onto a busy escalator going up before me. If she just turned around, I'd be below her and the spot clearly visible. I acted quickly, I took the parallel staircase two steps at a time just to keep the top of my head above her line of sight."

"Wow! But, you can blow it all by bending down to pick up a coin."

"Stupid of me."

I scratch my head. "But, dude, why are you hiding this? If you are going to marry her, she deserves to know the truth. You know, women don't really care as much you think they do."

"Not with this girl. Two things instantly happen. She will dump me on the spot, and I kiss goodbye to the career I really want."

"Explain."

"Her father is the CMD for Sunsilk the Shampoo company. Women in their family choose husbands based on hair texture."

"Holy cow!"

"There is a real kicker – my wedding gift from her father is GM of their new division. Think about it – a great career, rich in-laws. I'm set for life."

"Wow!"

"Now, put yourself in his shoes. You are the CMD of a shampoo company. Can you afford to have a son-in-law in charge of the Herbal Hair product line when his own hair is eviscerating?"

"This is serious shit."

"It is. Now, I need a small favor." He takes out a notebook and a Verner Caliper from his bag. "Can you measure the size of the hole?" pointing to his bald spot.

"Are you crazy?"

"No, seriously. This is the only way to find out if Rogaine is really working. I'm tracking the size day by day down to the mm. It hasn't changed much either way so far."

He drops his head and juts the bald spot right in my front of my eyes. I take the Caliper and reluctantly measure the dimensions (last time I used the Caliper was in the high school Physics lab.) He studiously jots the readings down in his spreadsheet. I get up to leave.

"By the way," he says, "I told her the Rogaine is for you."

A few day later, he convinced me to carve a hole in my head, and then we manage to create a scenario where I run into his fiancée at a store while holding a can of Rogaine. The next day, he calls me again.

"Thanks for your help. She is finally coming around. She really thinks you are the one who is balding. Whew! We are off to India for engagement and wedding. The engagement is a private ceremony at their house and the wedding is on the next day."

"Oh terrific! Congratulations! I'm delighted for you, buddy. How is the Rogaine working out?"

"It is not. The spot is only getting bigger. I'm just learning to accept the inevitable."

"But what are you going to do after marriage when she finds out?"

"Once I am the husband, there is nothing they can do about it. Ok, so he will transfer me. Maybe I will be the GM of their skin cream division, who cares?"

"Good luck! Send us pictures."

A couple of months of hearing nothing from him, I run into Ajit again at the coffee shop. He is sitting alone reading poetry.

"DUDE!" I shout. "I've been trying to reach you for weeks! How did it go? No party, no announcement … where are you?"

He looked up in mild surprise. "The wedding is off, friend. I'm all alone in this world."

"Oh no! What happened?"

"Everything was going fine at the engagement ceremony. We got through the formalities and rituals. We got through the picture session. And then … " his voice trailed off.

"What?"

"The part I did not forsee – getting blessings from the elders. We bowed down to touch her father's feet."

"Holy crap! He saw it."

"Like the sun breaking through the trees. I got my blessings. I was thrown out of the house in 10 minutes."

"This is terrible. I'm really sorry."

He bends his head down philosophically, now making no effort to cover his baldness, to read a passage from Emerson: "Experience is the comb that nature gives us when we are bald."

My American Ligament

Originally published in July 2009 issue of India Currents. Read online version here.

A thirty-something Indian guy, I woke up one morning feeling invincible. The back didn't hurt when I bent over the sink to brush my teeth. The arm didn't ache when I pulled out the medicine drawer where I keep my Calcium Tums. I even squeezed the juice out of a lemon with bare hands, an erstwhile impossible feat. So when my neighbor Jim told me they were one short for a ball game, I said "Take me on!" But my wife, a world-renowned killjoy, chased me into the closet where I was changing.

"You are not fit to play basketball. Look at you, you are a cartoon."

"Honey, today, I feel like the ultimate athlete. I'm craving for action. Don't stop me for your own good!"

"Listen, your enthusiasm is delightful. Just channel it towards something in your league - maybe Carom board? Mini-golf? Bocce ball?"

I only smiled, because I knew exactly what it takes to shock her out of her cynicism. Oh yeah, I had been planning this all along. I shooed her away and changed into my secret game wear. When I stepped out again she was, just as I expected, shocked.

"You look different. Something is missing …"

"You bet. Guess what?"

"Your potbelly! What happened to it?"

"Gone, baby, gone." It was there just minutes ago, magic! The utter confusion on her face was worth all the trouble. Now, I was ready for a good game. But when I got to the court, I realized this wasn't only about fun. It was also about responsibility. I was the only Indian in the bunch. I was representing motherland (whether motherland likes it or not.) Now, I could imagine what Sachin Tendulkar feels every time he walks out to bat. I must be the best, soon as I learn how to play this game.

"Have you ever played basketball in your life?" Jim asked me.

Something in his tone suggested I did not. All right, so I never did, but I was not going to take that snobbish remark lying down. I wanted to wipe that smirk off his face even it calls for a little untruth. I remembered a tip from a compulsive liar friend of mine about how the word absolutely projects confidence, I replied:

"Absolutely! I played for my school."

"All right, so you can drib, right?"

"Absolutely!"

What the hell was drib? Isn't the game just about tossing a ball through a hole?

Big Mike interrupted us. "Jim, we have a problem. Dark shirts everywhere!"

Jim and Mike pondered over the problem of too many dark shirts. I didn't quite follow what appeared to be, at worst, some kind of a laundry issue. Jim spoke up. "Ok, listen up, guys. We are picking teams – Jim's HotDogs vs. Mike's Burgers. But, too many dark shirts here. Can't tell teammates from opponents. Solution - one team wears shirts and the other goes shirtless."

Shirtless! God, no! It better not be my team …

"The Burgers keep their shirts. HotDogs, lose yours." NO!

I spoke to Jim alone. "You know, Jim, I like burgers more than hot dogs. Ethically speaking, I should play for Mike's team."

Jim looked surprised. "You are a vegan, what do you care? Anyway, I got you here, so you are in my team."

"Ok, do I really have to take my shirt off?"

"Relax bro! Do you see any chics here? All right, Dawgs, shirts off!"

All the HotDogs removed shirts except me.

"Come on! Take your shirt off." Jim barked.

Reluctantly, I stripped and got the anticipated reaction. Jaws hit the floor.

"What the hell … is that tape?"

"Holy Cow! He taped down his belly!"

I cleared my throat. "Cosmo, November issue. Main idea is to keep it from flopping around."

"Doesn't it hurt when you peel it off?" John asked.

"Not clear Scotch tape. Cellophane tape rips the hide off," I winced. "I wish they mentioned this little detail in the Cosmo article."

"Can I borrow your Cosmo, please?" John pleaded.

Mike whistled. Whew, the game was finally starting. Jim grabbed the ball and threw it in my direction, bouncing off my midriff and knocking me over. He frowned, and called me aside.

"Ok, new job. Hustle!"

"What is hustle?"

"Just stay aggressive. Follow the ball."

I hustled like a dog spinning around snapping at its own tail. I tore up and down the court, in the process grasping the concept that no one ever passes the ball to the guy whose only job is hustling. It is like the substitute player in cricket who fields all day, hauls the drinks, massages cramped butts, but is denied complete batting and bowling privileges. But, ultimately, it didn't matter because in a fastbreak opportunity, I tripped over my shoe laces and tore my ACL. They carried me home where my wife, who answered the door, reminded one of a wide-eyed Goddess Kali ready to perform a human sacrifice.

Two weeks later, I was lying on the operating table while the surgeon stuffed a fish-like tissue through a hole in my knee. He didn't say where the cadaver tendon came from, but my wife said she spotted a graveyard next to the hospital (a rather mutually beneficial arrangement, now that I have to time to reflect upon it).

They handed me a spreadsheet about what to expect in the long road to recovery.

Recovery Time	Knee Flexion	Actions Impacted
12 hours	20 degrees	Walking
2 days	70 degrees	Ducking objects chucked by spouses
4 days	90 degrees	Western toilet
3 months	135 degrees	Picking up your goods while keeping your eyes on the other side in a Mafia suitcase-exchange rendezvous
5 months	180 degrees	Eastern toilet

Even though I am a Western toilet user in America, I needed to finally learn this sitting down method. Not really efficient, but at least I don't need to wipe off footprints from the seat after every usage. On the bright side, the doctor just told me who the donor was – a farmer from Houston countryside. I have a white Texan's ligament screwed to my bone. Heck, I'm part born American. Happy independence day!

The Sapphire Duck

Backing up the car into the only available spot in the rundown alley, I first glimpsed the abomination in my rearview mirror. Tacky pink stall with a swinging plastic door and loud Mariachi music blaring out every time the hatch swung open to let customers in.

"Is that it?" I asked.

"Yes, that's it," my wife nodded excitedly, referring to the Expedia printouts in her hand. "Just like it says right here in the map. Amazing! San Diego's uncut diamond. El Rojon Rodeo. Listen to this:" She read aloud.

Over a hundred years old, it was the last stop on the Wild West border into Mexican country. This is where Senorita Cellaquez sang for the Hispanic Elders in a private rendition of the operatic soprano Esclarmonde reaching a pitch so high that it is said to have shattered their fragile eardrums. Where Raul Samba, a Baja revolutionary, died choking on a fishbone in his MexiCali club sandwich leading to the famous catch phrase … "

"Ok, enough. Let us go."

I had to muster every ounce of tourist enthusiasm to walk through the hatch without staring at the cat feces on the ground. Inside, fifty more easily excitable types crowded around the tables looking utterly amazed. I noted they were all clutching identical Expedia printouts.

"What would you like to order sir?" The girl at the counter was a gum-chewing American teen with grotesquely pierced eyebrows. My wife referred to her printed sheets again.

"Amazing! What it says here is what is up there. Expedia recommends everything. The Asparagus Verde soup, the Nachos Hombre, the Carbonara Chipotle … I can't make up my mind!"

The girl smiled revealing the speckled green gum vibrating between her teeth like a tadpole. "I know how difficult it is to make a decision here." No kidding.

"That is why we offer something outside the menu. The sampler. The full combo costs only $35 per person."

My jaw hit the floor. "35?"

My wife asked, "Is it available without meat?"

The girl smiled again. I couldn't take my eyes of the gum. "Of course, we do! By the way, I'm a vegetarian too." Yeah, right. And I am El Zapata, Miss Unctuous 2009.

My wife smiled. "Two Full Combos please!"

"Are you nuts? That is $70 for lunch!"

My wife lowered her voice to a menacing tone. "Remember, bonehead, we are in El Rojon. The El Rojon Rodeo. So, try to fight that penny saving urge ingrained in your genes to object to anything over five dollars."

Two gigantic plates of the Mexican deluxe combo arrived at our table. Three bites into the meal, the stomachs pleaded for mercy. My wife - after all it was her idea - held on bravely for a fourth bite, but gave up after that.

"Now listen to my idea," I said, "I'm calling for the doggy pack. We are going to eat only this for the rest of the trip even if it smells like a decomposing carcass."

"Not tonight, obviously. We have dinner with the Mishras in the old town."

"With whom?"

"My friend Anu Mishra from school? Don't you ever remember my friends?"

"Not really. Why aren't they inviting us home?"

"Oh come on! It is a weekday. They already chose the restaurant. We just need to show up there at 8."

I checked the restaurant online.

"Holy Cow! This is a $30 entrée restaurant! Are they paying for it?"

"I don't know. Maybe not."

"They didn't say anything?"

"Nope."

"Find out. We'll go only if they are paying for the dinner."

"Oh come on! I can't ask them that question."

"Here is the problem. If I know they are picking up the bill, I will eat like a starving pig. If I know they are not paying for me, I got to eat less to make up for this El Rotten Revolto food."

"How do I know if they are paying for us? We are going. Don't be a spoilsport."

"All right, ok! Well, this means I make a guess. Good news is that I can usually spot a stiff just from a glance. If I think he is ok, we order whatever we want."

"What if you think he is not ok?"

"We order only starters. No entrees, no drinks, no desserts. Invent whatever excuse you have to. If you are still hungry after the dinner date, we will eat from this doggy pack when we get back to the hotel. Comprehende?"

"Ok. Just remember, my friends are your friends. They are not indirect friends. The Mishras are a fine couple. They gave us an anniversary gift, remember the beautiful oval fruit bowl?"

"Oh that! It is from them?" Something in my tone ticked her off.

"What is wrong with it?"

"It is the classic Macy's pass-it-on. Someone gave it to them and they are giving it to us."

"You are incorrigible."

The Mishras met us outside Luigi's at the appointed time. Anu is a petite woman with gentle manners, though her habit of constantly blinking when she wanted to speak vaguely reminded me of my answering machine. Her husband, Jay, is the classic pursed lip type. From the distant hello to the vacant stare, I could tell from his brevity that this guy must be a world-class scrooge. The less wordy, the less charitable - old jungle saying. I balled my right hand into a tight fist, the universal signal for scrooge, to my wife who immediately frowned.

We sat down and the Mishras ordered their entrees and wine. I ordered a starter plate.

"Is there anything else you'd like, sir?" the waiter asked.

"That is it, thanks." Anu started blinking.

I tried to explain. "We are not really that hungry. Heavy lunch!"

Anu was flustered. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Maybe we should have gone to a smaller place …"

Jay interjected. "Well, do you mind if we carry on?"

"Not at all. By all means, please."

"How about drinks?"

"No, I don't drink. You carry on."

For a scrooge, he spent an awful lot on food. He ordered more wine, a fancy side dish, and a scrumptious dessert. My wife and I watched them devour everything while we chewed on our bruschetta in ponderous silence. Finally, they were done and the bill arrived. I was searching for my order when I heard Jay utter two words to the waiter that knocked the breath out of my lungs.

"Split it."

I looked up. Jay was handing the waiter his card. The waiter turned around to me.

"Your card, sir?"

"Split it! SPLIT IT!" I screamed.

"Watch out for the truck!" my wife screamed.

I was lurching on the highway 15 miles over speed limit quaking in anger.

"How can he call for a split when his order is 90% of the bill?"

"Calm down. I don't think he was trying to deliberately screw us."

"Oh it is deliberate! He's a crafty guy! He would never eat so much at a place like this if he didn't find a couple of idiots to pay for everything – his wine, his seafood pasta, the fantastic Tira Misu …, and all we had was brushchetta. " I stopped, and took a deep breath. I patted my wife. "Sorry, I'm shouting at you. I need to calm down."

"I'm hungry, " she said.

"We have the El Rojon leftovers."

She burst into tears.

A few months later, back in San Jose, I just got home from work to hear a bit of fantastic news. The Mishras were coming to the Bay Area. They were staying with Anu's sister, and had only one evening to spare with us. I grinned from ear to ear. God is merciful. A plan was already forming in my mind.

My wife said, "Now, don't look into this for revenge. I hope you are mature enough to forget the whole San Diego episode."

"Are you kidding? This is a golden opportunity! We are talking French. Oh, no less! Le Papillon. Michelin three star."

"Oh come on! Now, don't overdo this …"

"We – you and I – are going to eat to our hearts content. We will have the full seven course meal with expensive wine, we will order the Fondue, oh we are going to have a blast!"

"But they will also have it. How is that revenge?"

"Because we will eat more than them. We will starve before the dinner, so we will be hungrier than a pair of mongrels."

"That's your plan?"

"Wait, the coup de grace – scheduling the dinner for 6 pm."

"But, that is too early!"

"Precisely! We are skipping lunch that day, so the time is perfect for us. But, I suspect the Mishras cannot skip lunch. They are guests at her sister's place. "

"You have a devious mind."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment. If you want to starve, fine. But leave me out of your plans."

Suit yourself. I found the Luigi's bill, and marked the Mishra dishes with a highlighter. I nailed it on the wall. It was all the motivation I needed to resist the urge to eat. I survived on a strict diet of water and light salad for the next two days. My wife even made some fantastic curries, but the bill on the wall kept me focussed on abstinence. I worked out. I ran. When Thursday came around, I was hungrier than a wolf.

"Just sit back and relax, I'm going to eat at least twice as much as I pay," I said to my wife as we waited for them at Le Papillon.

"That's mathematically impossible," my wife said.

"Eh?"

"Say you eat x dollars worth of food. You want to pay only x/2 dollars. But, if Jay even spends 1 dollar, you are paying for x/2 + 1/2. That is half a dollar more than what you want to pay."

"I don't get it."

"Never mind, they are here."

The Mishras were walking towards us, and I could see even from the distance that Anu was blinking.

"Hi!"

"Are we having dinner right away? It is a bit early."

"Yeah, we want to avoid the rush. Come on in."

We got a great table. The Mishras, as I suspected, clearly weren't hungry ordering some light fries and sandwich. I scanned the menu for the purse-breaker, the one item that settles the entire San Diego balance sheet. I found it. $43. A bird basted in arugula sauce, slow-cooked over an open fire with the finest root vegetables, floating in a pool of gin and vinaigrette.

"The Sapphire Duck."

"Excellent choice, sir," the waiter said as he picked up my menu.

"So when have you started eating poultry," my wife whispered.

"Without the duck, please."

The waiter paused. "The Sapphire Duck, sir, without the duck?"

"Yes. I don't eat meat. Can you substitute it with tofu?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Tofu, sir?"

"Or cheese. Whatever."

"I'm sorry, sir. It will cost you the same with or without the duck. On the other hand, there are some nice Vegetarian choices…"

"No, the price is fine. Please, I will take it without the duck."

"If you say so, sir."

"And ... " I searched for a pricey wine. Chateau Marquis d'Alesme Vieux. $18 a glass.

"Two glasses of the excellent chatoo mar-kiss de-a-less-me view-ex."

"You mean the shah-TOH mahr-KEE dah-lem-vyew sir?"

"Right, I said the same thing."

Jay leaned forward. "I remember you saying you don't drink."

"That was then, this is now."

Half an hour later, the others were done but I was still waiting for my dish. It must be good if it takes this long. And then it arrived. Artistically plated, in vegetables and sauce, though the big bird-shaped hole in the center was hard to ignore. With the gourmet side dishes and sauces, I decimated the plate in under ten minutes. As I was licking the crumbs, the waiter approached us with the bill when my wife asked Anu an unnecessary question.

"What are your plans tomorrow?"

"Oh, we are going for a romantic cruise because …"

The waiter arrived at the table. I was just going to say those two words I had been rehearsing all week when Jay startled us.

"... it is our fifth anniversary today."

What! My wife looked stunned.

"Split it! Split it!" I hurriedly whispered to the waiter.

"Wait, sir. It is their anniversary. Champagne on the house for the anniversary couple." The waiter disappeared with the bill.

"Oh of course! How could I forget! Congratulations!" my wife said, looking embarrassed.

"Don't worry."

"No, I shouldn't have forgotten. You remembered our anniversary and gave us that nice gift …"

"The fruit bowl. You liked it? "

"Absolutely."

Jay smiled. "Original Murano piece. Anu spent an hour choosing your gift. Do you know it is hand-made?"

My wife looked increasingly flabbergasted. The waiter returned with two glasses of champagne.

"Those two are free on the house," he turned towards us. "If you also like champagne, I can put it on your bill ... "

"No, we are fine, can we get the check, please?"

"Here it is, sir."

I got out my card, and was just going to say "split it" when my wife instincitively pounced on it.

"We will pay the tab."

"What!"

"This is our anniversary gift to you. Least we can do."

"WHAT! No!" I shouted. They all stared at me. "I mean, they hardly ate. We should get you a proper gift, not this."

Jay smiled. "Oh, come on! This is more than enough. Thanks for the excellent dinner. Excellent restaurant, by the way."

My wife picked up the tab. I left the table. I needed my indigestion pills.