'Naikamo'

‘Naika’ is a Bengali adjective that cannot be translated to any other language- there is no substitute whatsoever. Simply because you will find naika people only in the Bengali community. “Naikamo” the quality of being naika only Bengalis possess and can be interpreted only by those who have been at close quarters of Bengali culture. Bongs ( I don’t think it should be taken as a derogatory term; if Punjabis are punjus, Gujaratis’ Gujjus, Bengalis should be happy with being called a bong.) can naturally be naika. It may include girly, attention seeking, eyes fluttering gestures or it may include a way of talking or tone of voice.  

Many are born naika, many put up an act when it is convenient. But no bong is complete without naika-ness.

I have often tried ‘naika’ poses for the camera but I always end up sniggering and the photograph ends up being a cross between crazy and naika. More crazy than naika.

I am pretty comfortable with both Punjabi and Bengali cultures and I am often mistaken for a bong. A few relatives often say- “Tu toh bangalan ban gayi hai”- You have turned into a bong female. Yet I haven’t gotten around to the secret behind the naika -ness bongs possess. To much of it gets on non-naika people’s nerves. So much so that we call permanently naika people NC , short for naika ch*** (figure out the expletive, I know you can)

I am not discouraging permanently naika’s to stop.  Please do continue (more fodder for non-naika people’s laughter) As I said I don't think you can do without it.

I will; one day; perfect a naika pose for the camera. For Sure. 

In the name of the father

I am not usually a superstitious person but when I nervous, jittery or really want something I tend to utter one the three- " Touch wood" , " Fingers crossed" , or " In the name of the father, and of the son and of the holy spirit." I also do this whenever I want to avoid jinxing something good happening.  I say all three when the situation requires. ( this year's world cup final for instance)


While making chocolates today I burnt some of it. So while melting the next bowl of chocolate I heard myself chanting " In the name of the father, son and holy spirit" I know for a fact that chanting stuff doesn't really change anything. Maybe all it does is ease the tension. Maybe it's all about habit.


The chant involving fathers, sons and spirits is not the result of being in a missionary school for twelve years. My mom does this. I learned it from her.


As a kid I used to cross my fingers a lot. Literally cross my fingers. Many will remember the mail van theory- wish on a mail van, cross your fingers and un-cross them when you see a black car. If you manage this your wish will come true. I did this every time I saw a red mail van. It became a good omen sort of thing. Whenever I see a mail van these days I have to stop myself from crossing my fingers.


Superstition for me is not just avoiding jinxing stuff but also a habit. I am not superstitious as a person. Many people including my grandmother believe that talking about death is Ashub  or a bad omen. If am not superstitious enough to believe in shub ashub why do I do the finger crossing stuff? Does that mean I am contradicting myself. If its only a habit, do I need to break out of it? It's not even something I do consciously but yes now that I am writing about it I want to make a note of how often I tend to get superstitious. 


Or maybe I will not. How does it matter if crossing my fingers or saying touchwood makes me more superstitious than i think I am. It's just one quirk. Maybe I will stop doing it, maybe not. Right now 
my life is moving forward quite smoothly *touchwood*

Artfully not yours

I have participated in quite a few sit-and-draw competitions as a kid, even though I cant really draw. Most of them i sat through because my parents thought it was a good idea. Today I read this report in the Sunday metro about a "design a stamp competition" organised at the general post office. 


http://www.telegraphindia.com/1111127/jsp/calcutta/story_14802486.jsp

What I wanted to do. 

I realised that I too as a kid had participated twice in similar designing activity organised at the same venue. A bunch of us (basically those who got the permission from their parents) were taken from our school to the GPO. We all sat there (I  was going to write quietly but  I am not sure if we were quiet) Paper handed to us, theme explained; we all got to work. I was quite enthusiastic in the beginning. The clock didn't stop for me, my art skills didn't improve in the course of an hour. It never did. When we were asked to give our paper up, I decided that what I drew didn't resemble the masterpiece I had in mind. 

The next year the teachers sought me out again- not because I was good but because I would add to the number of children participating and my parents would easily allow me to stay back after school to design stamps for the postal service. (What a noble task)

What I can do. 

As a teenager I took art lessons for a few months. This lady used to come to my place once a week, used to draw a scene which I was supposed to copy. I also learned how to shade a tree. I can tell you one thing that my drawing had improved in those months. A bit. 


Parents make it a point to introduce their kids to all kind of activities they can think of. The basic ones- dance, draw, sing are so popular that all localities have atleast one drawing, singing or dance teacher/class. Within walking distance of my house there are five such places where hapless children are sent to learn to how to belt out songs, gracefully move their limbs and churn out Mona Lisa like masterpieces. 


After this experiment the preferred activity is established and the next few years are spent achieving excellence in said talent. Many children excel in all three ( I dread such kids). 


I am glad that kids today have more activities to choose from. It can be Taekwondo or French, bowling, tennis or even graphology. Ofcourse whatever children pursue they are expected to excel in it. Some things never change.

koritsi. chica. ragazza. just a girl.

Being a north Indian I have grown up with the ritual of kanjak celebrated on Ashthami- the eight day of the 9 days worshiping Maa, better known as Navratri. Navratri is celebrated in April and in October. In October it coincides with Durga puja.

Asthami for us would mean going to my nani’s house early in the morning. Sitting down near the mandir in my nani’s room. Waiting for nani to finish chanting her mantras. Singing along “shera wali maata teri sadayi jai” at the right cue. Getting our feet washed by nanu. The youngest kanjak pulled out a handful of grass from an earthen pot. For years it was me and my cousin doing it, my sister did it when she was old enough to. Then came the awaited moment of the Prasad- halwa, puri, chana and raita. And the token amount of money and a gift from my nanu was always included.

I am not a ritualistic person but there are  certain situations or things that you associate with certain people. I associate ashthami with my nani. She passed away in 2007 and I have not witnessed a kanjak puja after that. Today is Ashthami and I am thinking of my nani. And my girlhood.

A girl. Am I a 21 year old girl or a 21 year old woman? A woman; I think, who sometimes wants to go back to being just a girl.


It's sometimes nice being a female. You get the attention of a busy shopkeeper faster than the xy people. And you don't have  really have to ask a guy out. There's some stuff about being a woman that pisses me off but I don't really want to get into that. Not today.


Today, I want to be grateful for being a girl. I want to count my blessings. Today, I want to hold on to the traditions and rituals of the past. If not continue with them, I want to just think of them with fondness. I want to make up my own rituals. For myself. And for my future offsprings. Today I want to think of my nani, who taught my mom so many things and who in turn taught me so much. 


I want to celebrate being a girl, for once. I don't want to rant about feminism and equality and what not. Then why do I even mention feminism? Because it is on my mind. I am thinking about the obvious stuff like female foeticide and what happens in Haryana. But for today I want to keep all of that aside. For today I want to believe that I, like the goddess can slay demons. Atleast my own demons. 


I am a girl today. Not a kanjak. Just a girl who is missing her nani  and loves Asthami. 




  

The events of the past

The other day my mom was talking about this regression specialist, who had come as a speaker at her Rotary meeting. People who can actually take us back into our past lives. When, you were a dog; a cat or a needle. Apparently our problems in this life can be related to our previous lives. So if you are claustrophobic it may have something to do with something that happened when your soul was in some other body.

And all the while I thought only the life we live currently is important. “Hinduism” and grandmothers do talk about past lives and the afterlife. But I never bothered coz I figured it wouldn’t matter since I didn’t remember it. And now I realised that they have ways of making me remember!

Of course there was this show called “Raaz Pichle Janam Ka” and the specialist did take contestants to their past lives, but they made it so dramatic that ultimately it seemed like a soapy drama.

I also recently spent 3 bucks to know who I was in my past life. You know, those SMS‘s network providers send you-“Know your love” ;“Know the secret of your name”; “know your past life”. Well, I tried it. They asked for my birth date which revealed that I was a builder. I had a “dynamic nature with huge energy”. I was also “excellent in planning and supervising”. Now I know so much about my past life.

Yet, I am not too sure if I want to bother with my various past lives. The present itself is so complicated. We have to figure out so much. To connect it to the past is taking it too far. 

Weirdness continued

This one is about questionable existence. Read on:

And then you woke up. And you saw me. I didn’t Know I was here, maybe I wasn’t. But you did see me, very very clearly (at least you seemed to). And yet I was not there ,I was visible, maybe, but I didn’t know of my existence. I wasn’t there yet? I may exist for you, but am not sure of my existence. I feel am not there. A wisp of sand. Out of nowhere. Yet I remind you of something, something long ago. But I was there Ofcourse I was there. You saw me. You couldn’t hold me though, nor touch me. I was sure that I was there. Yet I was not. Not for everyone. No one else was there. Just you (maybe me?)




My existence is questionable No one I know knows of me You know of my existence, I don’t.

And yeah, I don't normally post my poetry on my blog but since the theme is similar, here it is

Existence questionable



Disappear into nothingness,

I do not exist.

My body devoid of soul.

Sucked into a never ending hole,

the world is meaningless to me.



Disappear into the darkness,

the darkness is so thick.

Here I belong.



Disappear into lonelyness,

lonelyness is a friend.

Me not scared of it.

My isolation complete.

Weird until I decide not to be

I write some pretty weird stuff and have done so in the past. Regardless of how many people like what I am going to post in the next few lines I am determined 2 post the following. Some of the older weird stuff i had written for this other blog I had. Re-posted here. This is an experiment.. I am not responsible for any accident or tragedy that may occur after you read this. Here goes then:




My caged emotions are floating in my soul. Desperately waiting to break free into a newer world.


My emotions are endless, not enough for this world; neither enough for the universe.

Crude, raw, uncouth emotions. No words in this world to describe them. No language enough.


Un-nameable emotions. Numerous; vast.


And when they break free emotionless will I be?

No I think not.


New emotions will arise from the flames of the old.

Not born, they'll be reinvented, reformed.


The world will tell its story through my emotions. 

Booked

I don't like reading e-books for the same reason I don't  cover my books to protect them. I like to look at the cover when I take a book in my hand. 

I like the feel of books. Correction,I love the feel of books. I love the slight ruffling sound of turning the pages when waiting to savour the next few words. And the task of remembering the page number for the next time you read it. 


Like a typical bookworm I like the smell of old books. And I won't trade those yellowed, musty pages for a just out edition. There is something about old books which can't be replaced by the fresh out of the print edition.


The first book I remember reading was a musical version of " Goldilocks and the three bears". The book had a few switches for a bear's growl and other sounds with instructions at the appropriate places to press the switch. It was very exciting and became more of a toy than a book. I think I read it everyday just to get a chance to listen to the 'grrr' sound of the bears. 


My second favourite was "Red riding hood". I loved that story. (Aside remark: I also wondered if the 'big bad wolf' of that story and the 'big bad wolf' of "Three little pigs" were the same)


Another  favourite activity as a kid was making bookmarks. I was forever creating bookmarks out of old greeting cards. I still have some of them, tucked away at a corner somewhere. 

Ownership of books is important to bookworms. Borrowing a favourite book from the library just wont do! Spending money on stuff is difficult for me, but when I really, really want a book I don't blink an eyelid before taking out my wallet. 


I am the kind of person who will head instinctively towards the book section in a store; take out interesting looking books; read their blurb and type the names of books in my cell. And then, when I am back home I will add those names to my "books to read" list. Ah, yes, the list is long and yeah I tick off the books once I have read them.


Some people say that us bookworms are lost in their own world and don't know an iota of what is happening in the world outside the book they are currently reading. I feel, that we understand the world much better than other people. Reading makes us more perceptive than people imagine us to be. We know better than others that failure is not the end; that roses don't come without thorns; and that all stories need not have happy endings.

August was dry but September seems good enough

The whole of August was spent away from this blog. Not that I didn't write, I just didn't write for the blog. Sometimes I write stuff just for myself. I am quite selfish that way. 

The Quick wink

I love my after breakfast naps and I wish I could take them more often. Actually, I do take them when I am at home and have absolutely nothing urgent  to do.


And you know why I love naps?


a) You can doze off when you want to. That's basically when you are sleepy. Unlike those winks you take because you have to. 


( You know, when you are doing something really important late into the night and you have to stop because you really can't take it anymore and totally need to sleep NOW!)


b) When someone rings you and wakes you up you can always pretend that you were doing something really important which that person interrupted.


Or if the person who wakes you up is present at the place where you were napping and has actually witnessed your closed eyes you can pretend that you were thinking.


That's the best part about naps. You can wake up in a hurry and continue doing what you were before you unceremoniously dozed off. Maybe  more vigorously this time. I once took a five minute nap while writing a paper and when I woke up all the crap that I had studied suddenly came out in better formed sentences!


I don't know about power-naps. I liked napping before the attached that nasty prefix to the word. 


I take quite a few naps while studying sociology. What is it about being bored that makes you drowsy? I also get drowsy on flights. Maybe it's the constant staring at the clouds outside my window?


And my favourite naps? I think you guessed it. It's the mid morning, after breakfast nap that I absolutely love!

Mr. Sengupta and other stuff

When my Nani was ill there were loads of people who wanted to visit her.  Unfortunately just three visitor’s cards per patient were issued by the hospital. Everyone wanted to spend time with her and in this attempt to let everyone visit her immediate family couldn’t spend time with her.

My dad thought of something. Actually he overheard someone talk about the ‘9^th floor’. This lady, when asked for the pass by the guard standing at the foot of the stairs simply said “9^th floor’ and he let her go. Without a pass. Strange. Even stranger is the fact that the hospital didn’t have a  9^th floor. My dad decided to observe more people to see if anyone else did it. They did! Dad figured out that “9^th floor’ was a code for V.I. P rooms where the patients’ families didn’t need passes.

He decided to try it. The next day when stopped by a guard he nonchalantly said “9^th floor” and the guard let him go. He used this strategy to lead anyone  who wanted to visit my Nani. Problem solved albeit in an unconventional way.

So one day my friend Kaniti and I had to go to Ruby area for some work. When we reached Ruby we realised that it had been futile to come all the way. But we didn’t want to go back so fast after traveling for almost an hour for nothing. Ruby area doesn’t have place we could hang out so I suggested that we enter Ruby Hospital.

We entered the hospital and out of my whim went up to the receptionist and asked her which room a Mr. Sengupta was admitted in. She asked us for a first name. we pretended that we didn’t know. She gave us a few names and we nodded our heads at one of them. We thanked her and went our way, continuing our facade; talking about our sick ‘uncle’. We roamed about a bit and then spotted a waiting area on the other end of the room. We sat down on one of the sofas and started chatting. After about forty minutes we came out of the place and went our way.

Seems pointless? But I do have a point to make. Like what my dad did. A little bit of acting can get you out of a sticky situation. The '9^th floor’ incident was only one, my dad has found his way through many a bureaucrat rule (specially in hospitals and emergencies) to get what he needs. Its not trickery nor is it illegal. Just a bit of acting to get through trivial situations. Like not having passes. What is life without a bit of acting thrown in?

The 'Romantic' Hero

Girls are consistently fed the ‘romantic' hero stereotype, starting from the age of three with stories of Cinderella’s Prince Charming relayed to them every night.


And why was he called Prince Charming and not something else? Did all he have was charm? I am guessing that must be the case. All he did was dance with her. No bravado, no sign of intelligence. Seriously, choosing a bride on the basis of her shoe size? But he sure was charming.


And the romantic movies. Look at all the guys Hugh Grant has played. Sweet, caring, charming. RICH. Intelligent, blah, blah blah.

And closer home there is Sharukh Khan flinging his arms wide; with his oh so cute dimpled smile; singing songs that can melt your heart. Running in mustard fields telling you “Main hoon Na”.

Well, obviously our expectations are high and obviously we are disappointed when we take off our tinted glasses and find the real life guy types- the MCP, The slob, The show off, the Brawn without brains etc etc.

And girls have the task of finding a guy she could love, wading through a sea of the guy types. And well, they do find their own Prince “not so charming” and maybe their own knight in “Versace” armour.


Girls have to basically realize that guys will be guys. Some of them will be jerks hiding under the prince charming disguise. Some will turn out to be nice but they still will have guy habits. But that’s why we like them, don’t we? And let’s face it, no all of us like Prince Charming.

The HP craze!

The fifth book came a long time after. The first movie had released by then. And Daniel Radcliffe became one lucky guy- he got to play the famous boy wizard AND got an instant female fan following. I was 12 when the 1^st movie came out. A few girls in my class started calling themselves Mrs. Radcliffe.

I remember a memorable incident that took place at that time. We had a senior, a year older. She was a tomboy, had cropped hair and wore specs. One day few of us saw her on the field from our 1^st floor classroom window. Bang! She totally looked like Harry Potter.( we thought so then) That did it. One girl developed a crush on her. We all trooped in between classes to catch a glimpse of her. Breaks were spent looking out for her. We even knew her routine! We followed her everywhere. She naturally felt harassed. She told us off, even complained to our teacher. We calmed down for a while. 


One day some of us came up with an idea. They bought a cake on 31^st July and told her to cut it! That certainly was the last straw.  She complained to the Headmistress.  No action was taken though. We heaved a sigh of relief. Final exams came soon and we all went up a class.

In the 1^st week of the new session ‘she’ arrived. With the Headmistress. To identify her harassers. Oh God! Somehow she didn't  recognize me. Good for me!

Anyway, the craziness had just begun. Over time we HP fans started calling ourselves Hard-core HP fans as we wanted to distinguish ourselves from the HP movie lovers. And the love for everything HP related continues…

P.S – Class 6 being high school we were reshuffled into new houses. When my turn came all I wanted was to be in Red house, the closest I could be to being a Gryffindor. And guess what? I did get chosen for the Red house!

P.S again : I later realised that I was more of a Ravenclaw than A Gryffindor. I am now A Pottermore certified Ravenclaw.  

Growing up with the wizard with specs

I was in class five then. My friend Pratiti told me about a great new book- Harry Potter. She told me I absolutely have to read it! Somehow her excitement intrigued me. When my bhua came for a visit and asked me what I wanted I asked for the first three Harry Potter books. And thus my odyssey began.

“ Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, at number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. “

That’s the first line. I didn’t move my eyes from the pages till I reached the last line. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. It was frenzy, my first reading of Harry Potter.  

I remember I read through the night and went to school the next day. And I wasn’t even drowsy. That was the level of my excitement. After seventeen chapters and loads of awe filled moments I was hooked!

I couldn’t wait to get back home and read the 2^nd book. How intriguing is a name like “chamber of secrets” be? Pretty intriguing.

Soon  had read all three books. My mother promised to buy me the fourth book if I did well in my finals. Best incentive ever!

By then a proper fan club had been formed in our school. India too had discovered the most popular bespectacled boy and the HP craze was all over the news. The Chosen One had arrived.

Its been 11 years and The Boy Who Lived has never bored me. Ever time I re- read the books I discover something new. And the Adrenaline rush I get whenever I talk about HP has not decreased a bit.

I don’t think I will forget the year ever. It was 2001 and I became a Harry Potter fan. For life. 

You've come a long way, Kid! Part 2

My natural instinct is to be over-sensitive, moody and reserved.

I however realized that these characteristics could end up becoming my Hamartia- my fatal flaw. So I needed to change that. I started to de-sensitize myself. Every small thing needn’t hurt me. I started letting go of my grudges. And since I was confident about my abilities now, I stopped caring about what other people thought of me, my actions, my words. Yes, I did and still do care about what my friends and family think about, but that’s about it.

I am still moody but I have learned to control my moods to a certain extent. I still get cranky when I am hungry.

And about being reserved? I am still a reserved person at heart but somehow people have a different image. I am friendly, I talk to people. Smile, sing, laugh, joke around, act crazy. Who would say I am reserved?  Not that I am faking all this. All the jokes, the fun is part of me. But I do have a quieter part. Only a handful of people have gotten past the surface and seen my serious side. My shy side. I don’t wear my emotions on my sleeve. ( except when I write, that is)

I sometimes wonder if I can become the quiet girl again. I don’t think I can, even if I wanted to. Whenever I am a bit quiet my friends think something is wrong. Not many people like silences. But its true that I talk more now and cant go back to being the person I was. I used be able to stay quiet for hours. Not anymore.

I can now move on. Let go. Accept changes. Let things run its course. Or just let them be.

I believe a lot in destiny. I was destined to write. But if I sit tight, don’t do anything about it, don’t write. Then it’s my fault. Yeah its my destiny, but it is to some extent in my hands. I believe in the stars and everything. But I also believe in hard work. in making things happen.

Sixteen year old me wouldn’t have imagined such wonderful things happening to her. I did turn out to be OKAY. The future seems bright and atlast I can swim!

You've come a long way, kid!

Very recently a very sweet junior of mine described me as a “mastikhor”. That was the first time someone used such an adjective to describe me. I was surprised and very very pleased. Who would have thought that the erstwhile quiet girl like me would be called a “mastikhor”. WOW!

That got me thinking about myself. I turned 21 a few days back and that got me thinking some more. I have come a long way. I know everyone does. Just that I am so amazed at the changes in me that I would like to share it.

I was a terribly under-confident teenager for several reasons.

I was an average student to start with. And was demoralized so much for my poor performance in science subjects that I stopped believing in myself and as a result became a below average student. I hated it. More so because my parents believed I could do better. They could see it, I just couldn’t.

I wasn’t very athletic either( I still aint but I don’t really care about it now) Not being picked for any sport kinda hurt.

Since I was epileptic as a child I was on medicine till I was fifteen. I hated that. A lot. And I kept it a secret, none of my friends knew my medical past. I had to go for annual check ups and EEG tests. I wasn’t allowed to learn how to swim. Then of course by the time I was allowed life got to busy for lessons and well I was too embarrassed to learn.

So till I was around sixteen I wasn’t sure about my abilities in any field. I wasn’t even confident about my writing.

People grow up. They grow out of their gawkiness and so did I. somehow I gained confidence a few months before my class 10 boards. I got even more confident when I changed schools in class 11. ( More
of that some other time maybe)

People change. I am glad I did. I like the ‘new’ me better.

Breaking the fall

The other day while rehearsing for our play I tried the trust game with my friend ( lets call her Kaniti). You know the game where you let yourself go and fall? And your partner has to catch you from behind? Its not about strength but about trusting the other person. When I told her what to do and then fell she couldn’t catch me and a fell down. Got a couple of bruises too.



The point is I didn’t mind falling. I didn’t mind her not catching me. And I was willing to give it another shot. I still trusted her to catch me. And even if she didn’t break my fall for the 2nd, 3th, 4th and 5th attempt I would have still fallen for her. Still trusted her to catch me on her 7th, 8th and 9th attempt. And if my friend would have trusted herself enough she would have been able to catch me.


Have trust in your abilities as a friend. Friendship doesn’t require solving all your friends’ problems. I used to think so earlier and proclaim myself a failure when I couldn’t solve my friends’ problems.


Once, Kaniti and I whined together (Hell we almost cried but 21 year olds don’t cry I guess) we both had separate emotional burdens yet neither of us had solutions or a piece of advice for the other. But we did feel better after a bout of mutual whining. Maybe its about being able to whine together.


Sometimes ‘I am there’ isn’t a ‘constant by your side always’ presence. Its more of when you are in your lowest of low emotional holes, you close your eyes and you know that whatever shit happens the ‘ I am there’ person will still be there.


Most people will judge you when you are in your crappiest, worst phase; even your parents; not the ‘I am there’ person.


But then you have to have an ‘I am there’ person. You need to trust yourself, trust your abilities as a friend.


Trust yourself so that you have full trust in the fact that I trust you.

Almost squashed but determined

The other day I was sitting in the new merc, on a mission, following orders. Trying to trudge towards my destination. (One doesn’t trudge in a merc, I know)



Um well just wanted to sound dramatic. I was on a bus, on my way to college. Sitting by the window side, admiring the view. And what a view it was, men using the road as a public toilet, men crossing the road at the wrong time beckoning Lord Accident to descend on them. Great view.


I was enjoying the view wondering why I had forgotten my earphones forcing my cell to sit idle in my pocket.


I was alone (well, not entirely) No one was sitting beside me. Out of nowhere this lady materialized(Now that I think of it she must have boarded the bus and I like many others don’t notice who boards the bus when.) She sat beside me, even though there were other empty seats. Now let me tell you, I usually don’t have any problem if people sit beside me. No, there was a reason to be mortified. This lady was thrice my size if not four times bigger. I am no size zero but I do have a thin figure. So I can safely say I had reason to be apprehensive.

I could have managed somehow had it been just her size. After a few minutes she started complaining. About everything from the weather to the crowd, to the lady leaning against the seat. Everything. Then I realized that I had heard this woman before. She had, a week ago been sitting behind me in the bus, and i recalled  her complaining about everything the whole 40 minutes I was in the bus. And so I thought “I have to endure this for atleast 30 minutes. God." At that point she wondered aloud why she had chosen to sit there( a nice gentle lady was leaning against the seat at that very moment) I too repeated “I wonder why”


Her size caused me a lot more trouble than I had envisioned. She was pressing her weight against me so much that I was sure by the time I reached my stop I would be so thin I would get sucked into a straw if I ever try to suck from one.


I had to do something. I would love to be thinner but not so thin! I tried to tell her politely, but she was to busy complaining to even hear me. Maybe she had too much fat in her ears and one would need a microphone to be hard by heard.


I tried to shove her with my elbow. Unsuccessful. I think I now have a tennis elbow. I repeated this whole process of politeness and shoving twice, to no avail.


They say “try try until you succeed”. I did try a lot, but before I could succeed my stop came so I got down.