Archive for the ‘Women’ Category

Throwball

Yeah, yeah, Germany was fun and stuff. It’s been almost two years since my trip and you can all stop pretending to give a rat’s ass and I will just move on. A few weeks back I was blessed with the opportunity to ‘mediate’ over a game of Throwball at my colony. Mediate is a very carefully chosen word as that’s all one does in game where the two teams concerned are loaded with matriarchs who play judge and jury along with a little throwball on the side. I have known many a man who had his self-esteem disseminated in an attempt at fair play. So mediate was all I did. All the men who gathered around to watch the spectacle, and there were quite a few of them, wished me luck. Apparently it’s a lot of fun watching a member of their pride get torn to shreds before their eyes. Its one of those ‘externalizing the internal’ sort of a thing where what one goes through with one’s spouse/partner or sister or daughter is brought to them live. Something to do with closure I would assume. Most of them sported a sly smile, bearing an uncanny resemblance to the pleasure some get in watching the lamb to the slaughter.

Throwball is played on a court that pretty much resembles your badminton court- two boxes separated by a net in between. You would be forgiven to think that all there is to the game is a bunch of pretty little things throwing the ball at each other with the rally ending when the ball lands outside the court, or on the net, or in some cases is dropped. There’s much more to throwball than what meets common sense. Throwball is very much like your quintessential woman- a simple game complicated beyond comprehension for no reason. Did you know that ‘roll over the head’ has absolutely nothing to do with anything rolling over anyone’s head? Well except that you might end up having your head rolled over in case of one such event in the game. Roll over the head is a foul where the thrower (come on guys, cut me some slack here) rolls the ball while, well you guessed it, throwing. Since most of us are familiar with cricket, I found it impossible to believe that anyone could throw a ball without applying a spin, whereupon I was quickly put in my miserable little place by having it pointed out that the rolling could start after the ball left the hand and any rolling of the ball while it was still touching your hand was a ‘Roll Over the head’ foul. Flabbergasted? there’s more – tons more.

Throwball is full of these complex rules. Many of my predecessors made the grave mistake of questioning the motives (madness) behind such rules- an unpardonable act akin to querying why the toilet seat is to be placed up or down or on the mantelpiece or wherever (to date I cant remember what the deal is). Apart from being unfathomable, these rules are also unjudgable, for want of a better word. That, in my not so humble opinion, is the precise reason for these rules. Any and every call can and will be questioned and used against the referee as an excuse. An excuse to outpour the choicest of expletives, an excuse to question the functioning of his mental faculties and not to mention an excuse to make violent death threats. Throwball is like a women’s collective, where they hunt in packs, with the sole purpose being to remind men, in the most aggressive, ruthless and contemptuous manner, of our place in the social hierarchy. Which, for the ill informed, is far below them women.

In the end, I felt like I had just been through a paper mill. Alls well that ends well, I guess.

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And they say we dont listen to them!!!

My posts on women are anecdotes with the femme-fatales of my family. A few may be about my friends but will predominantly narrate my interactions I’ve had with the ones in my family. This particular incident transpired when I had just finished my 10th and was enjoying my holidays. As usual, I had taken my own sweet time to get out of bed and when I wandered into the living room, I found most of the household ready to depart to their respective destinations. My brother had a smirky grin on his face, something tells me he knew what was to come. So as I find myself oscillating between shame, hunger and lack of sleep(its never enough for me) I walk up to to the couch and land on it. My dad unaware of my escapade, any moments later the furnace is going to blast. As luck would have it, he was to drop my brother in school that day and that gave very little time for any tense situations with heightened emotions to take place. So I’m sitting there (having already brushed my teeth) waiting for my mom to come and pamper me with my morning cocoa (chocolate milk). She walks in from the kitchen and goes…

 

Mom: Ok vivek, what will you have. coffee or cocoa???
ME: uhh!!! cocoa… (think privately – yeah like that was some choice!!!)

I wait 15 minutes staring at the wall ignoring the sneering looks from my brother wondering what ever happened to that cocoa. My stomach growling at the top of its voice, gushing all the acid on its walls. Then she walks in again and goes

 

Mom: Ok vivek, what will you have. coffee or cocoa???
ME: uhh!!! cocoa…
(think privately – control yourself!! Its not her fault.. she has a lot on her mind)

Then half an hour passes and nothing happens. Oh yes, my brother leaves for school, laughing at my predicament, leaving me fuming. Then she walks in again and goes

 

Mom: Ok vivek, what will you have. coffee or cocoa???
ME: COCOA!!! COCOA!! HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU??? COCOA!!!
Mom: Ok!! Ok!! I’l get it…

Two minutes later she walks in with my mug and

 

Mom: Ok vivek!! here’s your coffee…
Me:(helplessly) Ohh God!!!!
(privately to myself : WOMEN!!!)