The Queen of Farts

“I am just kidding.”
“Dude, if you kid too much, you might just end up with a dozen!”
“That’s the worst PJ I have heard”

So, yeah! I am the PJ queen. Not much of a title and I don’t get to strut around in a bikini and blow kisses to a raving crowd with a shiny tiara on my head. But it’s alright. To keep my title I just have to crack the most pathetic jokes people have ever heard.

No, you don’t have to make them up all the time. You may pick some of what you’ve heard somewhere and just tell it like a story. Let me warn you, the story ones might actually prompt somebody, maybe be your closest friend, to just pick up a knife and butcher you. Oh no, they wont be happy with just stabbing or slicing. How do I know? I get that look a lot. That’s when I know I have to run.

There are some PJs which you can repeat; all the time.
“Kav, I am hungry.”
“Hi hungry, pleased to meet you.”
That’s not original. But you keep doing that over and over again and I can tell you my friends are this close (0.0069mm gap between thumb and index finger) to killing me.
“I am so hungry I could eat a horse right now!”
“That’s a weird name you’ve got. Pleased to meet you anyway.”
“I am so going to kill you”
“Never heard of a Chinese with such a long name. Pleased to…” Slapping and thumping in the background

Annoying knock, knock jokes. Oh the joy of telling them.
“Knock, Knock”
“Who’s there?”
“Mos”
“Mos who?”
“Mosquito”
There’s that look again. Just a blank stare. The you-did-it-again look.
“Knock, Knock”
“Who’s there?”
“Anna”
“Anna who?”
“Anna-ther mosquito.”
Now, I get the raised eyebrow look. That’s like a warning. If you get one more word out of your mouth, I am going to cut you up into teeny-weeny pieces and flush you down your toilet.
Not difficult to stop then, is it.

I started narrating a really spooky story once, during a pyjama party. Of course, I had an audience who were engrossed; some even had their fingers in their ears. Thing is, this was just another ruse to get people to listen to me. And when this ‘spooky’ story ended up as a detergent commercial, I was mauled. 15 people huddled in thick blankets and expecting the ghost to eat up the victim; I didn’t stand a chance.

Sometimes I like to just cut short my friends, when they speak.
“I am so tired of this bad coffee…”
“Well, that’s a funny surname you have but pleased to meet you”
The you-did-it-again look.

“Man, I went out in the hot sun yesterday afternoon and…”
“Never heard of a cold sun, have you?”
The that-was-a-bad-one look

“Oh shoot…”
“You? Gladly!”
Ok, now this is when the staring starts. The will-you-stop-it look.

“I am so going to kill you.” I get this a lot.
“Hi ‘So’, pleased…”
And then you just run.

The best time to tell your jokes is when people are getting ‘happy-high’.
“Kav, don’t drink too much.”
“Ok, I won’t. I’ll just drink vodka.”
Guffaw. Thank god they are happy-high.

My friends and I sometimes have these inane conversations over internet chat. One evening we planned to leave early and go for drinks. But as usual, work senses that you have actually planned something and makes an entry doing the tribal dance; howling, with spears and no underwear.
DR : All this time we sit here, and this work comes up last minute.
Me : Isn’t that how we all get work.
DR : Get me a knife.
I wasn’t lying when I told you they have murderous tendencies.
AK : drumming fingers on the table with an ‘eyebrow’ raised
Me : What did you put in that eyebrow? Yeast?
DR : Bigger knife, bigger knife.
AK : slaps forehead

I sometimes wonder why my boyfriend hasn’t left me yet. I guess his tolerance level is high. What’s supposed to be a mushy romantic conversation ends like this.
BF: I love you too.
Me: Me too. Great band.

But then sometimes he is just as bad.
Me: You know what?
BF: Yeah! He invented the steam engine.
A combination of the zombie look and the will-you-let-me-finish look isn’t a pretty sight. Yeah, I have thought of auditioning for ‘Evil Dead 4 – Return of the Mangled Prom Queen’.

And before you start pulling out the hairs from your nostrils, assuming that you have already pulled out all the hair from your head, this is me signing off (not an obscene figured cheque, just an obscene figure).

See you later, alligator.
- Kavisha Pinto © 9th March 2006

Something Fishy

I am no fish expert, but when the aquarium guy told me what I was buying was a “Black Gold-Fish”, I was thinking, “Oh yeah, what rotten luck! The one time I buy a gold-fish, it’s the one from Africa who donated its gold to tribal women; to make exotic nipple rings.”

Fishy came home with me; oh yeah, that’s what I decided to call him. Howard was too “Saint Bernardy”, Prince Philip too old and Gonnaswimaroundincirclesallday he just wouldn’t understand. “Fishy”, was the best for him. Oh, and I don’t know whether he is male or female; but as long as I get to choose the sex of the one creature living with me, I’d rather it be a “him”.

The whole day Fishy would just swim around in circles, his abode an uninteresting fish bowl, void of any colour. The other activities that keep him busy are eating and then disposing whatever he has eaten. I suppose I am ready to write a thesis on fishy doo-doo designs; at times he has just enough to decorate a small fishy Christmas tree if he didn’t break the chain. I’ll just change the topic now without further a doo-doo.

Sometimes Fishy makes curious noises, I assume they are not mating calls; mostly noises when he opens and closes his mouth, do fish breathe like that? I am not sure, maybe the aquarium guy would know or a fisherman, but by the time that guy sees a fish, it has already got a halo, almost sprouting wings and playing the harp with mermaids.

In an unusual surge of generosity I bought some water plants to put in Fishy’s bowl, so that he’d not miss his natural habitat. I also bought little disco lights, fluorescent coloured pebbles which reflect in the dark, some red crystallised aquarium-sand and some device which I will call the Merboy oxy-generator; no no, I don’t have horned animals bellowing in my bowl, the device is supposed to maintain the oxygen balance so that Fishy can breathe. It’s very amusing to look at especially because, when the thing is switched on, there are bubbles coming out of the Merboy’s backside; you’d wonder what he had for lunch that day.

I wonder if I should get Fishy a mate. Then, there will be junior Fishys, then they will have junior Fishys and then they might just come out white with black spots, all cute, swimming around in a Shoe ornament like in 10001 Dalmatians. Only this will be one hell of a lousy story to sell to Disney. So no, Fishy does not get a mate nor does he get to.

I think Fishy is content in his bowl. He’s got a lovely home, a naked friend, free food and disco lights!

- Kavisha Pinto © 22nd March 2006

About a Boy

I have lots of things to tell you about Chinnu. Weird name isn’t it? Well, we picked him up from Gundiya (Goon-dee-ya), the tribal village just fifty thousand kilometres away from home. He was so black that it took us just about a hundred and eighty days, three hundred litres of milk, two dozens of thick bristled buffalo scrubs, whitewash, honey, bleaching agents and lots of praying, to scrub him clean and get him the “wheat”ish complexion that he sports now.

He developed a glow after those never ending cleaning sessions and that’s when we thought of the name Chinnu. (Chinna in the local language means gold). Hmm, not quite the golden boy, what do you expect when you have scrubbed clean a piece of charcoal.

He still refuses to believe the fact that he was picked up. I can tell you that a few tribal traits are still inherent. He wakes up every morning making a strange noise, I can assure you that I haven’t heard that in the city, maybe it’s “Good Morning” in tribal language.

When he was a kid, he refused to put even an inch of clothing on him. He roamed freely, pee-pee showing and everything. It was alright when he was that small, but a black grown up man parading around the house in his birthday suit and getting his naked butt at the dinner table was not a pretty picture.
We then drew him charts of Buster, our dog, getting him (it actually) if he did not start wearing shorts; Buster loved crotches. So, that’s how we started to put pieces of clothing on the little one.
Mama was concerned that he wouldn’t fit into the family. Fit he did alright, stick rather, like those disgusting fleas on dogs, or leeches when you are stranded in the forest or maybe something really gross like those green slimy thingss that grow on you long after you are dead. But no, he didn’t wait till we were dead.

So, we have tried to welcome him to our family like we would to a good doggy. What my mother actually wanted was a nice little puppy dog, but no, she had to pick up this scrawny black kid from the nearby tribal village. By the way, the scrawny kid is not scrawny anymore. All I can say is, now he is good competition to, err, lets say the 100th fattest man on the planet.

Sometimes, no, most of the time he is really really annoying. Like I said, some tribal qualities he just can’t shake off his black scrubbed tribal butt; oh, we did miss a spot around there (his butt) actually, and if anyone asked we’d just say that it’s a birthmark.

I guess he is getting used to the city life and living around civilised, educated people. Yeah, he goes to school too. We thought we’d send him to a tribal school, but Mama would hear none of it. At least now the neighbours don’t think that we are an extremely maimed family, with all the sign language, dumb talk and tribal sounds. He finally learnt to speak and understand English.

We are just waiting for the day when a Wolf named Simba will enter into our house to meet Chinnu; it’s fine as long as he thinks that we are not dinner.

Oh and the latest news flash, Chinnu seems to have a mysterious girlfriend. I now regret teaching him how to use the mobile phone, mine to be precise. From the corner of my eye I managed to see some strange looking icons in the message window. I do hope that his girlfriend is not a zulu-speaking, hand-gesturing, strange-icon-sending tribal. One tribal in our family is bad enough.

Since we are a big family everyone is expected to help around the house, including Chinnu; I actually thought he would eventually be awarded all of our chores as well, but Mama played plain deaf to the request. And Chinnu is now excused from doing chores involving electric gadgets. One day Mama told him to freeze the chicken and he ever so naturally put it into the microwave and must have set it to a thousand degrees. An hour later we were just short of calling the fire brigade and also having the open kitchen Mama always wanted. That day for lunch we had stuffed chicken, with innards, anus and all the crap.

Chinnu is our brother. Yes, after being reprimanded repeatedly by Mama for calling him the tribal-boy-we-picked, we finally relented and started telling people that he was indeed our brother. I am surprised no one ever noticed that he did not even remotely resemble anyone in the family. On the contrary people would tell Mama or Dad, “Oh, he looks just like you.”

I used to wonder if he ever missed his tribal days and ways. When he was first brought home, Mama used to put him next to her during the night for fear that we might “accidentally” push him off his bed or asphyxiate with him with the pillow; also because he had to get used to a new place. One night he did the Tarzan cry, bit Mama hard on her hand and started turning around in circles on the bed, on all fours. Probably that was his way of asking for a midnight snack. We thought Mama would send him away after that, but no such luck.

I am actually quite getting used to Chinnu and his weird ways. Maybe home wouldn’t be the same without him. He keeps saying to me, “Omba Bamba Assa Shaava”. I guess its something really sweet in his language.
So, I’ve got this book which translates tribal to English and it means, “Shove a bamboo up your ass!”

Wait till I get my hands on that black-spot tribal ass.


- Kavisha Pinto © 02nd April 2006

The Outcaste II

What are you waiting for, The Godfather theme to play?
Let me make this clear, I have no money, no Italian children and I did not gift a guy a severed horse head as an early morning surprise.

The girl who sits next to me, well I still don’t know her name; she does not have a name plate at her desk and her neighbour calls her “excuse-me”, if she was Chinese I would’ve assumed that it is in fact her name.
Maybe if I just shave the back of her head I might find her name tattooed along with the number of the devil. She shows no signs of aversion to the secret cross that I planted at her desk though. I expected her to start howling as soon as I placed it there; you know maybe her pupils (not students) would turn red and she’d suddenly grow fangs.
Too much of David Seltzer (duh! He’s the guy who wrote Omen), Stephen King and our own Ram Gopal Verma.
For convenience sake let’s call the-girl-who-sits-next-to-me My Neighbour. So My Neighbour still has my phone and I have to make some important calls, to the pizza place.
“Hey bitch, I am hungry and I want my phone back.” Damn it, why can’t I tell her that in her face!

“Excuse me”, I hear a voice say. I assume the person is calling My Neighbour.
Next the “Excuse me” comes with a jab.
Somebody is actually talking to me.
“Hi!” That must’ve been probably the most excited emotion I had experience ever since I had moved.
“Excuse me, can I please borrow your stapler?”
And I thought this guy came to introduce me to my new team.
Do I look like a stationery shop to you, huh? Do I? Now get lost and find your own stapler.
“Yeah, here you go.” I handed him the stapler
Hmm, that’s a start. My first interaction with a human being from my new team.
“Do you have a pen?” What the hell is this guy’s problem!
Really dude, all you need to do is rummage the stationery cupboard and you’ll find a pen. Now get the hell out of here!
Was I just staring at him all this while?
“Yeah, I do. Here you go.” Dammit! Not again! I handed him the only pen I had.

“You nith thu feer orthe ferms and thein senth ith thu korea. Mek suar you stepple all the ferms and pooth ith in dha bloo unvaleppe”
Ok dude, what did you just say? And why should I send anything to Korea? Do we even have an office in Korea? And which Korea, North or South, or are they one now?
“Ok lah? I hup you goth tha right. Ok lah, spik to you sun.” Noth hupping thu dude, noth hupping thu.
“Ok, will fill all the forms and send it through courier. And I’ll staple all the forms and put it into the blue envelope. I got that right, didn’t I?”
“Yah lah.”
“Speak to you soon.”
“Spik to you sun. Bye lah.”
“Bye.”
Is he from this planet or what?
Hey! Where is my pretty pink stapler? Oh, I am gonna kill that guy!

“Excuse me.”
Why the hell are you staring at me you moron. Weren’t you the one who my stapler and didn’t return it?
“Hi, you borrowed my stapler the other day.”
Stop staring geek. Give me my stapler back.
“I sit next to the printer and you asked me for a stapler and then a pen.”
You’re pissing me off asshole, say something before I shove the ‘shits of pepper” up your bloody…
“Oh yeah.” Finally a look of recognition on his face. “Somebody took it from my desk; I’ll check and call you back.”
You gave my stapler to somebody else?! You fat headed moron!

“Hi Kavisha.” What’s that wind and what’s with the singing. That’s just the British accent.
“I tried calling you on your extension but it went to your voice mail,”
Yeah, you fat headed bloke it went into voice mail because I don’t have a phone yet; “so I called you on your mobile.”
Yeah, that’s where you call people if you want to reach them at 11 in the night.
It’s alright to call me on my mobile because you’re my boss; you can call me anywhere you want to and at whatever time you please.
“Can I talk to you now?”
No. I don’t want to talk to you or anyone from your country. I’m busy right now; I have to go to bed.
“Is this a good time?”
You bloody well know it’s not so cut the crap and get to the point. You’re going to talk to me anyways, so why ask?
“Yes David, go ahead.”
“Have you sent those documents yet?”
No I haven’t sent the documents yet; some moron whacked my stapler and I could not get the papers together.
“It needs to reach Accounts tomorrow for accounting.”
Oh really! So that’s what Accounts does.
And what are you gonna do if it doesn’t reach Accounts tomorrow, you overworked blowpipe.
He spoke three sentences and was heaving and puffing like I would after half an hour at the gym; ok ok, after 5 minutes.
That’s how he gets his exercise, I think, talking in that weird accent of his and then they say that I have an accent.
“It will reach Accounts tomorrow, David.” Now, can I go and get some sleep.
“Oh, great then. Thanks very much. Appreciate your time. Have a good evening.” Shut up, shutup, shaddup!
Have a good evening? You ruin my “night” and say have a good “evening”.
There is another world outside your pint-sized country you know.

“Excuse me.”
You stare at me one more time like and I’m gonna bust your face.
“Hi, I’ve come for my stapler.”
“Oh yeah, I didn’t find it. Sorry.”
Are you the most shameless and irresponsible fellow I’ve met? Yeah, you are.
Do you know how hard it was to get that stapler?
I had to raise a request on the internal website; they checked my credentials and stationery history.
After a week I was given a PIN number, which I had to take a printout of and present to the Stationery Department.
The guy in charge looked like what I would’ve imagined the Hangman to be; alright you can call him the Executioner if you want to.
He was huge, had a thick moustache curled at the ends and a large pot belly. He sat across the table and was busy over the phone.
He directed me to take a seat and I was never this nervous even at my interview as I was now. After what seemed like half an hour he put the phone down.
“Yes?”
Did people come here for anything else other than a stapler; a puncher perhaps.
I’d like a cheese burger, large fries and a coke to go please. Ok not funny? Never mind.
I handed him the printout with the PIN.
He stared at the piece of paper and then at my face. New sort of face recognition software?
Whatever it was, I just smiled back at him, awkwardly.
You don’t want to piss off the stapler guy.
He then opened a drawer, took out a box and placed it on the table.
He did not say anything. What was I supposed to do now?
Do I take it and walk off; or slip him a few notes below the table.
“Meddem, you wantedda stappler wonly no?”
I didn’t care how he spoke. I was just relieved.
“Yes, yes.”
“Take it meddem.”
I opened the box and inside it was a cute pink stapler. Oh the joy of finally being the owner of a stapler.
“Thank you very much.”
“Mention not meddem, mention not.”

“Excuse me.”
You’re not making me go back to the stationery department, you punk!
“Hi, so did you find the stapler?”
“I think I already told you. I’ve misplaced it. Can’t you just get another one?”
Oh yeah, like they’re handing it over for free.

That day I went to a stationery store bought a pink stapler.
Then I went to the hardware store. After that I visited the local smith.
Next day I had a stapler that was securely chained to my desk.

- Kavisha Pinto © 03rd April 2007

The Outcaste I

The last straw? Now my phone has been taken.

Sure, this could be the adventurous western that you are looking forward to read. I’ll throw in a few horses just to keep you happy. Didn’t you read the title? It says, The Outcaste, not the Outlawed!

The flashback:

So I walk into Work one day; can you imagine how sad that is! His parents must’ve hated him; why else would they name their child that.

Team meetings are at an obscene hour in the morning. I am always there just in time and thankfully fully dressed. It’s an ordeal trying to put on your trousers in the car. I have always wondered why my nosy neighbours have their blinds shut every Wednesday morning!

This one Wednesday morning I sprint through five floors, rush across the lobby, to the farthest meeting room and just about make it to the meeting. If somebody was watching me there would have been an encore just for the effort. But all I get are some blank stares and coughing.

Cough. “Err, Kavisha so you made it.” Cough.
“Well, yeah! I didn’t win the race, but I made it.”
Now another one goes.
Cough. “Did you receive a meeting,” Cough, “invite for this one?” Cough.
And then another.
Cough Cough. “You could’ve,” Cough, “just checked,” Cough Cough, “your calendar before,” Cough, “attending the meeting.” Cough
Check my calendar before the meeting?! They haven’t heard my Wednesday morning story.

“I didn’t bother checking, isn’t it always there? And you guys seem to have a bad cough, don’t give it to me.”

I always knew these guys were weirdoes, they just proved me right again. Cough, Cough. Boy, does my throat feel funny!

Coffee breaks are not the most fun of times, but yeah I like to indulge in the occasional office gossip of who has a crush on whom or who is the new hot guy that has NOT joined our team.
So I am having coffee with the “gang” (oh yeah that’s what I call them, at least that makes them sound cool) and I hear, “So what time are you gonna make it to MB’s place?” “I dunno probably around 6:30.”
Hmm, what was that again?
“Hey, what are you planning to wear to the party?” The shrill voice of Ms.I’m-So-perfect-I-could-fall-in-love-with-myself. Frankly I think she is in love with herself. And, whoever can wear pink and silver to the workplace, think she looks absolutely stunning and get away with it.
So yeah, Party? What party? That’s what I’m thinking.
The heck I’ve got some pride. So I go, “What party are you guys talking about?”
There’s that coughing again.

Then Ms. Perfect and her shrill voice, “Oh MB is throwing a party.”
Why does she have to roll her ‘R’s. For God’s sake babe you’re Indian! You’re last name is James. Oh! That might explain the accent.

Enter the “hunk” (you have to say it with the air quotes); and that’s what he thinks he is. For a guy whose height reads 4ft-nothing he’s got some huge attitude.

Shorty: “Yeah MB is throwing a party. I don’t think you’ve received the invitation. Actually you have been officially deleted from our distribution list. You’re moving to another team. It is part of the whole restructuring thing you know.”
Of course I know that you demented moron. All we’ve been talking about during meetings is restructuring and who’s sleeping with whom.

By nature I never listen to this guy. He’s known for his extremely long and boring stories of adventure during official meetings.
Me and my stupid spread-the-joy attitude I once asked him, “So how is it going buddy.”
Just a “Not too bad”, would have sufficed. But no, I am in the corridor on my way to the bathroom with a full bladder and I have to hear about his girlfriend breaking up with him (well, that’s no surprise. Smart gal I’d say), his pet dog having diarrhoea (will he stop with the shit already!) and how he coped so well with the situation that he was sure to receive an award for his work. (Jesus Christ! I promise to say my Hail-Marys if this guy lets me go to pee.)

So, now I am off the distribution list. That’s fine. It means no more Wednesday morning meetings with these yahoos. I think I just heard the Alleluia!

Now it was official. I was moving. Not only logically to another team but also geographically; yeah I wished it was Hawaii or Timbuktu (very curious about this place). I had to move across the road to the “other” building.
“So, when are you moving?” became their morning mantra. Boy you’d think I was stalling and desperate not to move the way they kept asking me.

On the day I had to move, I was pretty choked. Ms. Perfect shoved a huge piece of chocolate cake down my throat, as a parting gesture. I always knew she wanted to kill me, what with all the calories that came with the unsolicited gesture of ‘we-are-so-sad-that-you’re-leaving’.

I am sure there was a spring in my step when I packed all of my stuff to my new place. No more mindless gossip, no more putting up with Ms. Perfect’s not so perfect jokes (We’d know it was a joke because she was the only one laughing at the end of it), no more tales of Shorty’s adventures (Yeah, watching Tigers in the zoo having lunch is so bloody awesome, jeez!), no more tears (oh wait, isn’t that a Johnson & Johnson’s ad line)

My new place was, oh never mind. I was assigned a corner and dumped along with printer stationery and the printer. There was a phone which I assumed was mine. Nobody knew that there was living being now seated next to the printer. So I just plugged-in my laptop and pretended that I didn’t exist.

I come to work next morning and I notice that I have a neighbour. Not just that but she now has my phone. “That’s my phone bitch! Give it back!” Well, that’s what I said in my head and slowly sunk into my seat.

Shorty’s dog diarrhoea story doesn’t seem so bad now.


- Kavisha Pinto © 19th July, 2006