I love my wife

I like to meet people. That is not to say that I like to make a lot of friends, but I like to meet new people, have a chat, and if possible stay associated.

A self proclaimed loner that I am, this may seem to be a bit off the usual loner-ish behavior, but it's not company that I seek when I meet people. Rather I am looking for patterns and trying to fit people into boxes of personalities. Stereotyping, basically! :)

Mother Teresa had said that "If you judge people, you won't have time to love them", and rightly so. It works out for me since I certainly don't wish to fall in love which is why I take the easier (and left over) option of judging them.

Most of my friends are married and those that aren't are well on their way of giving into a life of commitment (and repentance). Interacting with those that are married gives my learning algorithms additional data and thus its able to predict better matches. The clustering and machine learning goes on and on and I keep regrouping them into "personality-boxes".

One such category is "I love my wife"-types.

They can't wait to tell people around them how much they love their wife and that how she means the world to them; how marriage was the best thing that happened to them and some such.These are also the guys who seem to be the foremost proponents of the institution of marriage.

If girls were to wish for the perfect husband the "I love my wife"-types would be the answer to their prayers, or so it would seem until you either had a really frank chat with a wife or had exceptional people reading skills like I do.

Most guys in the above group eventually come across as being very self centered, self-loving and dominating. The only people they actually love and care about are themselves.
Which is why they spent a good deal of time in finding and marrying a timid girl who would not interfere with their romance with themselves. The girl puts up with everything the guys have to dole which is why he loves her so much in the first place. The girl goes out when he wants to, dresses up the way he wants to and so on. The more she does according to what he wants, the more his expressions of love

His love knows no limits when the girl is also able to put up with his parents. When he means to say "she does not complaint about my parents!" you would most likely hear "we were made for each other. I love my wife."

.... to be continued.

The Ganglion

No, this is not a post about a superhero from the fifth dimension who saves Earthlings caught in the cross fire of an interplanetary war.

This is a post about my ganglion. A ganglion is a particular type of lump which shows up next to a joint or tendon; most commonly at the wrist.

A self proclaimed fitness freak that I am, I used to do about ten push-ups whenever I felt like I needed to pump up. If you are smirking let me tell you that I am blessed with a terrific set of genes such that I require to work out very rarely to stay in terrific shape.(well that is now after having done some serious power-lifting for two years during college.)

Back when I was in my undergraduate program I really used to do about 25 push-ups everyday, until a sharp pain in my wrist prevented me from bending them. I had to switch to finger push-ups but that too was a only for a very short time until I started learning Tabla.

I guessed that the pain was because of some smallish injury. Soon the pain would appear even when I only bent my wrist. The doc told me that these were the signs of a ganglion. There was no physical evidence of any kind of growth but the pain continued. After a couple of months I could notice a small lump, the size of a pea, when I bent my wrist forward and looked really hard.

A year after sapping my body of essential nutrition the ganglion, about the size of a walnut now, was clearly visible. Besides being a source of some embarrassment the ganglion was immensely

painful.

I was not able to practice the Tabla for more than 20 minutes at a time before the pain got unbearable. I later learnt that excessive use of wrists actually fuels the ganglion's growth.

On someday's I would tie a piece of cloth very tightly over my wrist and try and practice. This restricted the movement but would numb the pain. I was unable to play sports like badminton or cricket or even ride a scooter comfortably.

The doctors I had consulted with were reluctant to operate on it because of some nerve related problem. I lived with my ganglion for two years before I decided to go ahead and get it operated.

The risk was that some nerve in my wrist area would be affected and that I might experience some kinda numbness in my fingers. I voted for numbness against excruciating pain.

On the d-day I was wheeled into the OT all dressed up in a green gown and a shower cap.

The surgeon and anesthesiologist decided to anesthetize my entire right arm.

This was done by shooting two huge syringe-full of colorless liquid into my arm pit.

I know that some people consider an armpit an erogenous zone but I was screaming in pain rather than pleasure when the injections were administered. Soon the liquid had its intended effect and I was not able to feel anything in my right arm. Well almost, because when the surgeon made the first cut and reached into the wrist to get to the ganglion I screamed out again in pain!!! "He He!! I guess you need some more of the colorless liquid" was all the anesthesiologist had to say. After another shot in the arm pit and 10 minutes the surgeon was back to doing what he thought he was good at: going after my ganglion.

The surgeon tried to talk me into looking at "the other side" when he made his cuts, probably because he assumed that I, with my cute face and all, would not be able stand the sight of my wrist all open and bloody. I quietly told him that I had voluntarily watched a post-mortem (autopsy) and was ok even with blood all over the floor!! No more.

He soon found what he was looking for and the mean little bas@#rd was bigger than expected.

The surgeon cut out several lumps of white jelly like substance from my wrist.

That was how my me and my ganglion were physically separated. But I was not done yet.

I believe in one thing - No matter how high you go up in life(I haven't made it anywhere yet, but I still believe) , don't forget where you started.

In this case my achievement was getting rid of the pain I had experienced for almost two years.

I have had sleepless nights, missed Tabla classes, and huge difficulties in writing lengthy exam papers because of the pain. I used to sit simply holding my right hand with my left just to numb the pain. In two years I had used more than four wrist bands, because they used to get worn out and loose. Was I going to let the ganglion simply walk away(rather drain away) now?

You bet I wasn't.

I requested the surgeon that I wanted to keep it with me. After the autopsy thing, he did not ask me anything like "why in the world?" or "what would you do with it?" stuff.

He quietly put the ganglion in a transparent bottle of formaldehyde, sealed it and handed it to me.

Given that we take our life for granted, I could not remember the last time my right hand was free from any kind of pain. After the dust settled I realized that in the battle against "the enemy within"(pun intended) I had compromised the smooth movement of my ring and middle finger.

A constant numbness exists in the area between the fingers right from the wrist to the base of the fingers.

So did the ganglion have the last laugh? No he did not, 'cause his final resting place in a bottle stacked away in my drawer and I will make sure it stays that way.

The Realist

An optimist a pessimist and a realist are sitting in a room.

They notice a glass placed on a table in the center of the room.

The room is not very large, but spacious enough so that the three do not invade each others space.

The optimist says "the glass is half full".

The pessimist says "the glass is half empty". We know that already, don`t we?!

The realist says "... not so fast."

First she asks if we are talking about the same glass. We give her a "duh" look but she is least bothered. She demands to know. Once we are thro with that, she demands to know the necessity for an answer? Ah ha! So the realist is not so smart after all.

We spend some time explaining to her the importance of not only knowing the right answer but also how the answer determines our outlook towards life.

She seems convinced and her next question is; what happens to the glass after we have her opinion on the glass.

Now that is something that we never thought of, did we? What happens to our hero after he rides off into the sunset, having conquered his arch enemy?

Now that is a question which, in the coming years, would replace the "glass with the water" question. I my opinion this one would give us, the seekers of truth, better insights into about ourselves.

Back to the realist. We admit that we have no idea about the fate of the glass once she has answered "the" question.

She does not press us for an answer: maybe she knows it or perhaps she does not care.

Upon hearing her answer to the seemingly simple question, the pessimist and the optimist quietly get up and leave the room. They know that they have just been, shall we say, "Terminated". Well "terminated" is a very strong term so why not just say "replaced". Or better still "your services are no longer required, thank you".

So what did the realist say?

"The glass is leaking."

This train is bound for Nakano (or Imagination Engines)

A soft voice announces the destination of the train I take to work. The announcements are in Japanese first and then in English. The guard then announces the same in Japanese only.

The recording is unlike most of the recorded messages I have heard in India, where common phrases are recorded once and then mixed and matched to produce the complete sentence. Here in Japan, the recorded message is fluent and unbroken, which I guess is because its recorded completely in one go.

One such morning, I asked my friend, how do you think she is? "Who?".

I say the girl who recorded the message on train routes. He dismisses the question with, "aare whats there? She must be very fair and cute. She`s Japanese after all! Thats it! You dont have any imagination, do you?!"

Hmm.. this guy has some imagination. He could probably shoot the side of a barn with a shotgun and call himself a sharpshooter!

Listed below(oh! so formal) are some of the questions that occurred to me -

How was the girl selected to record the message?

Was there an audition?

What was the girl thinking when she was recording the train routes?

Was this something she wanted to do in the first place?

Was this what she wanted to do as a little girl?

Was does she feel when she`s in one of the trains and hears the sound of her own voice?

What would her children have to say about their mother?

Did she want to be a singer but ended up recording this?

Or is she a famous singer already and this was a kind of a favor she did to the Railway Department?

Is her boyfriend the biggest fan of her voice?

Did he propose to her because he fell in love with her voice?

Is this girl an employee of the Railways?

What do her co-workers think of her?

What would she feel when her recording was replaced with a different, perhaps a more youthful, voice?

The list is in no way complete.

And to get answers I guess I will have to start revving my engines.