Excommunicate: my definition : The desperate attempts to get in touch with your Ex or viceversa.
Very recently, I have been facing the state of excommunication (the oxford dictionary meaning).
(I dont know what tense of the word to use)
No matter how much Boston Legal or John Grisham I read, I'm inept at defending myself against a jury of my peers, and , I might just repeat "Denny Crane!!" over and over, which might actually get my case dismissed on the grounds of flimsy mental health.
Judge: Aap pe ilzaam hai of being an ass.
Me: Denny Crane.
Judge: Arent you Karan Prabhakar, first of your name, King of the kebabs, Master of procrastination?
Me: DEnny! CRRAAANNNEEE!!!
Judge : Dismissed. Institutionalise please.
Whatever the reasons, I've found these periods in my life contemplative, therapeutic and super productive.
This near-excommunication I'm about to recall took place in 2003.
We, once arrived in a foreign land. As we were received by our old family friend at the airport, I stood there smiling at him. Let me describe me at this time. I had a whiskerish moustache, which had last been hacked at its sides, the ones which can be called the side burns of mustache(s), with a paper cutter back in 9th grade, which was about 2 years to this fateful day. An illustration of this might follow.
Why just the sides you ask? Because I didnt want to sport the I've-just-shaved-my-moochie-for-the -first-time-in-my-face, which some of my friends were sporting. Its time would come. Why paper cutter? Because no one came prepared with a gillette and shaving foam and aftershave.
So the side whiskers came back with a vengeance, angry at having their whiskerish existence cut short before their bloom. This moochie of mine was denser to the sides than at the centre. Also, acne, or also cruelly known as PIMPALS were commonplace. My face resembled some long lost ruins, where some structures stood loud and proud while others had only their solid foundation where they once reached out for the skies. Think the stone henge. I thought one particular pattern on my left cheek matched the Ursa Minor, the one containing the Orion belt (my fav since its the only one I can point out aloud). The rest of the physicality resembled a body who's love for food had far outstripped its growth spurt. I stood at a lowly 5'7", and not my current towering 5 9' (claim disputed).
So as I stood there as the strong silent type with my teeth bared at the HK airport, the uncle greeted us, showered my father, my mother and my younger brother with the warmth mostly indians muster for indians who have been regulars at taash parties (its diwali season right now). And I stood there. The ignore not registering. Thinking that he was just treating me right for my age. His hand would extend any moment now for a curt hand shake, followed by a "Hello young man"/"You've grown so much I didnt recognise you" types. And I, for my part, would have pushed the trolley with the two suitcases and 3 handbags aside with all my strength and clasped his with both my hands, counting on his votes on the upcoming elections.
But that didnt happen. Nor did my parents make any effort to point me out. Were they finally going to disown me for the promises not kept? Maybe they knew about the IIT classes I was bunking.
I'd had a good run so far, so I didnt care much. Talk to the hand.
Remember, I was the strong and silent type (allegedly). So I stood there brooding.
We followed him into the lift, me bringing up the rear. Still nothing. Pleasantries about weather and what food lay waiting for us (garma garam ofcourse) were exchanged.
All he did was pull my brother's cheeks, who, at 11, was just about outgrowing this social gesture. We left the lift without further incidence.
By now, though my head held high, my body was reacting to this blatant ignorance. My feet were trailing. As all of us walked to uncle's (no relation) car, he now became aware of this whiskerish-pudgy-broody teenager following this familial group just looking to reconnect with eachother. He threw me a quick glance. His pace quickened. Why you ask? Refer to the suspect's sketch above. So did my family's (because HK mein itna hi tezz chaltey hain).
Not mine.
Now we know close pursuit has clear and present danger but a lurker is a lurker. A lurker comes with a sense of impending doom. Raaton ki neend udaate hai lurker. And its not even recongnised by the law for it to be punished. A lurker, unlike a stalker (i'll define the difference between them later), affects the conscience. He's like karma. Because he cannot be confronted. He's walks just out of earshot. You cant just turn around and go "Kyon peecha karra hai" and just out him. (OR HER)
That lurker was me.
By this time, uncle had panicked , on the verge of running, and so was my family, no questions asked. Only when they reached the car, he opened his door and sprung the boot. Its where he hid his car tools that he would soon need to use to warn/fend me off.
But me, who in his athletic prime attended a West Zone Badminton competition. Yes, attended, not played. We were meant to, we being 5 of us, but the opportunity never arose. More on that incident some other time.
So me, who's played his fair share of racket sports, knows that its not so much about running everywhere, but the foot work. I'd already lunged to the dickey (as we call the boot here, so much more appropriate, I know), and now with the anger only a teenager can(not) justify, had flung two of three handbags into this wide open boot.
Breaking bad waala wide shot.
As this sound echoed across the parking lot, people were jolted out of their "dekho ye phoren kaisa hai" reverie. Uncle stood staring at me, not know what his or my next move was.
I dont recall which of my parents was of the quick wit to step in between our uncertain gaze and say "Oh..you've met Karan right? Our elder son."
"I dont think I have" replied uncle. My gaze didnt register this conversation. I was focused on the hand. His hand, his much coveted handshake now moving from his side towards me.
"He was away at boarding school" said one of my folks.
I couldnt move. Not me, not my hand. I just watched his hand. Because it had done things like thump my father on his back, pressed the lift button, unlocked his car and even pulled my brother's cheeks. Was this headed towards me? No. It must have something else to do. Like ask me to be on my way. Or swat a fly.
So his hand just hung there, till one of my parents went "Arre, haath milao uncle ka!" with the lacing of rebuke that only a north indian (my only focus group so far) kid is familiar with. You are never giving enough respect to not receive a rebuke laced patronising "Arre!!" from my parents. It sort of reestablished family roots&ladders and honoured traditions the way that conversation, hospitality and sangeet sessions couldnt.
So I shook his hand. And we went on his way, to meet the rest of his lot. They better know about me.
P.S: I always tend to doubt this garma-garam khaana because it must be vegetarian and gobi-fied in nature, because normally when its Chicken or mutton, it is announced. Like people walking stop and announce this. So that others might hear this and mumble and complain about only being served garma-garam khaana.
Kuch chikan-shikan tikka-shikka ho jaye!
Very recently, I have been facing the state of excommunication (the oxford dictionary meaning).
(I dont know what tense of the word to use)
No matter how much Boston Legal or John Grisham I read, I'm inept at defending myself against a jury of my peers, and , I might just repeat "Denny Crane!!" over and over, which might actually get my case dismissed on the grounds of flimsy mental health.
Judge: Aap pe ilzaam hai of being an ass.
Me: Denny Crane.
Judge: Arent you Karan Prabhakar, first of your name, King of the kebabs, Master of procrastination?
Me: DEnny! CRRAAANNNEEE!!!
Judge : Dismissed. Institutionalise please.
Whatever the reasons, I've found these periods in my life contemplative, therapeutic and super productive.
This near-excommunication I'm about to recall took place in 2003.
We, once arrived in a foreign land. As we were received by our old family friend at the airport, I stood there smiling at him. Let me describe me at this time. I had a whiskerish moustache, which had last been hacked at its sides, the ones which can be called the side burns of mustache(s), with a paper cutter back in 9th grade, which was about 2 years to this fateful day. An illustration of this might follow.
Why just the sides you ask? Because I didnt want to sport the I've-just-shaved-my-moochie-for-the -first-time-in-my-face, which some of my friends were sporting. Its time would come. Why paper cutter? Because no one came prepared with a gillette and shaving foam and aftershave.
So the side whiskers came back with a vengeance, angry at having their whiskerish existence cut short before their bloom. This moochie of mine was denser to the sides than at the centre. Also, acne, or also cruelly known as PIMPALS were commonplace. My face resembled some long lost ruins, where some structures stood loud and proud while others had only their solid foundation where they once reached out for the skies. Think the stone henge. I thought one particular pattern on my left cheek matched the Ursa Minor, the one containing the Orion belt (my fav since its the only one I can point out aloud). The rest of the physicality resembled a body who's love for food had far outstripped its growth spurt. I stood at a lowly 5'7", and not my current towering 5 9' (claim disputed).
This is very similar to the guy who used to play Jackie Chan's friend when he still acted in Chinese films.
So as I stood there as the strong silent type with my teeth bared at the HK airport, the uncle greeted us, showered my father, my mother and my younger brother with the warmth mostly indians muster for indians who have been regulars at taash parties (its diwali season right now). And I stood there. The ignore not registering. Thinking that he was just treating me right for my age. His hand would extend any moment now for a curt hand shake, followed by a "Hello young man"/"You've grown so much I didnt recognise you" types. And I, for my part, would have pushed the trolley with the two suitcases and 3 handbags aside with all my strength and clasped his with both my hands, counting on his votes on the upcoming elections.
But that didnt happen. Nor did my parents make any effort to point me out. Were they finally going to disown me for the promises not kept? Maybe they knew about the IIT classes I was bunking.
I'd had a good run so far, so I didnt care much. Talk to the hand.
Remember, I was the strong and silent type (allegedly). So I stood there brooding.
We followed him into the lift, me bringing up the rear. Still nothing. Pleasantries about weather and what food lay waiting for us (garma garam ofcourse) were exchanged.
All he did was pull my brother's cheeks, who, at 11, was just about outgrowing this social gesture. We left the lift without further incidence.
By now, though my head held high, my body was reacting to this blatant ignorance. My feet were trailing. As all of us walked to uncle's (no relation) car, he now became aware of this whiskerish-pudgy-broody teenager following this familial group just looking to reconnect with eachother. He threw me a quick glance. His pace quickened. Why you ask? Refer to the suspect's sketch above. So did my family's (because HK mein itna hi tezz chaltey hain).
Not mine.
Now we know close pursuit has clear and present danger but a lurker is a lurker. A lurker comes with a sense of impending doom. Raaton ki neend udaate hai lurker. And its not even recongnised by the law for it to be punished. A lurker, unlike a stalker (i'll define the difference between them later), affects the conscience. He's like karma. Because he cannot be confronted. He's walks just out of earshot. You cant just turn around and go "Kyon peecha karra hai" and just out him. (OR HER)
That lurker was me.
By this time, uncle had panicked , on the verge of running, and so was my family, no questions asked. Only when they reached the car, he opened his door and sprung the boot. Its where he hid his car tools that he would soon need to use to warn/fend me off.
But me, who in his athletic prime attended a West Zone Badminton competition. Yes, attended, not played. We were meant to, we being 5 of us, but the opportunity never arose. More on that incident some other time.
So me, who's played his fair share of racket sports, knows that its not so much about running everywhere, but the foot work. I'd already lunged to the dickey (as we call the boot here, so much more appropriate, I know), and now with the anger only a teenager can(not) justify, had flung two of three handbags into this wide open boot.
Breaking bad waala wide shot.
As this sound echoed across the parking lot, people were jolted out of their "dekho ye phoren kaisa hai" reverie. Uncle stood staring at me, not know what his or my next move was.
I dont recall which of my parents was of the quick wit to step in between our uncertain gaze and say "Oh..you've met Karan right? Our elder son."
"I dont think I have" replied uncle. My gaze didnt register this conversation. I was focused on the hand. His hand, his much coveted handshake now moving from his side towards me.
"He was away at boarding school" said one of my folks.
I couldnt move. Not me, not my hand. I just watched his hand. Because it had done things like thump my father on his back, pressed the lift button, unlocked his car and even pulled my brother's cheeks. Was this headed towards me? No. It must have something else to do. Like ask me to be on my way. Or swat a fly.
So his hand just hung there, till one of my parents went "Arre, haath milao uncle ka!" with the lacing of rebuke that only a north indian (my only focus group so far) kid is familiar with. You are never giving enough respect to not receive a rebuke laced patronising "Arre!!" from my parents. It sort of reestablished family roots&ladders and honoured traditions the way that conversation, hospitality and sangeet sessions couldnt.
So I shook his hand. And we went on his way, to meet the rest of his lot. They better know about me.
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P.S: I always tend to doubt this garma-garam khaana because it must be vegetarian and gobi-fied in nature, because normally when its Chicken or mutton, it is announced. Like people walking stop and announce this. So that others might hear this and mumble and complain about only being served garma-garam khaana.
Kuch chikan-shikan tikka-shikka ho jaye!
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