A Stranger

Living in a corporate campus in India isn’t as I expected. Never the less, we try to make the best out of it. I bitch about the things that irritate me, and hardly ever mention the good in people.

We frequently dine at one the campus restaurants, and interact with the employees there on a regular basis. This one person, in his late 40’s always comes to talk to us. It’s his job, but he treats us as if we were his own children. Something I will never forger. It’s people like him that reflects the true Indian culture – caring, amiable, and hospitable. He always greets us with a genuine smile, something many cultures fake.

Over time, we’ve become very well acquainted, and we talk about all kind of things. Today was the first working day after a long weekend. As always, he greeted us with a smile, genuinely happy to see us. But his eyes just didn’t have the usual gleam. I inquired if anything was wrong. He replied that he had to go see his niece at the hospital. She has lung cancer, and was diagnosed way too late for any effective treatment, and the doctors believe that she may not survive more than a few days.

I looked at his eyes – anyone could tell the sorrow it spoke of. Yet, he talked to me with a smile, made sure I was eating right, had my vegetables. I didn’t have any words to comfort him; I murmured that my prayers are with her. We talked for a while after that – all the while, he had his beautiful smile that spoke of sorrow.

I don’t know how I would be able to work in such a situation, let alone smile and take care of random people like family. I walked back to work with watery eyes, praying for what is best for his niece, and his family. My words don’t do justice to this man’s loving ability to care for people he doesn’t even know. I discovered today what makes India great – the people, and the culture that welcomes everyone with open arms, despite their hardship or sorrow.

I believe in God. Even though I’m not a fan of organized religion, I pray occasionally. And if you are reading this, please pray for a stranger, and his niece. It’s people like him that inspire others to do good, and I believe they warrant our support, love and prayer.

Bees, armpits and a Fuck-Stick

I’ve known long before I came to India, that most people here have strong body odor. Please don’t get me wrong, I have friends form India who are some of the nicest people I’ve met, and are very good with their hygiene. Until this fuck-face idiot moved into my fraternity (We rent out rooms to non-members if they are vacant, and never had any problems). The reason I call this guy a fuck stick is because he was (was, as I’ve graduated and moved on) a PhD candidate, and said he was okay with the noise. Only after he moved in, he started bitching about everything – that’s a different story. I hope that son of a bitch gets something really big rammed up his ass on a regular basis.

Back to the story, that idiot from Calcutta (now Kolkata) was my first encounter with a smell-bad-Indian. I swear, we could tell if he had been in a room half hour after he left, just by the pungent odor he left behind. Back to current state in India… I’ve always thought that maybe it’s because the spices from the food (many of which are quite delicious) that caused the odor. I’ve learnt by observing store shelves, that deodorant is the least sought after item here. So, I told myself, that it’s the culture… one doesn’t judge a man for his bad odor, rather it’s the person they admire and adore (or hate).

I was sitting at the outdoor smoking section at the corporate campus in India where I have to be for the next few months, inhaling nicotine in hopes that the smell of tobacco will help me counter the potent smell that lingers all over the building, having random thoughts about life, alcohol, breasts, a juicy steak… a couple of Bees broke my chain of thought. I noticed that all of us from Minnesota were constantly harassed by the Bees, while our Indian counterparts enjoyed the serene weather – not a single insect around them. Never gave much thought to it until this gynormous Bee started to hover right in front of my eyes, while his buddies (a few other Bees) were scouting around me.

BAM!!! It hit me like the apple hit Sir Isaac Newton’s head! I had a hypothesis that answered my queries surrounding pungency and deodorant! It’s not the cost of deodorant, or the culture… it’s the Bees that makes a lot of people in India smell, well… quite pungent! It all added up! I understood why there was a gigantic Bee Hive right outside the building, and not a single Bee ever flew in through the open air structure! People in India don’t use deodorant to keep Bees at bay! After all, who wants to get stung by a Bee? The combined smell of armpits forms some sort of giant invisible protection around the building, allowing open building structures, without the need for a screen around it.

“Every action has an equal and opposite reaction” – this armpit phenomenon is no exception from Newton’s law. The smelly armpits keep the Bees from stinging native Indians, and, as Newton’s law suggests, visitors like me gets stung in the nostrils. Don’t believe me? Go to your nearest Indian grocery store, and walk around. When your nose stings and you start to wonder if it’s from leftover mustard gas from the 1st World War, it is the opposite reaction of the natural Bee repellant. Who needs Deet when you have armpit?

Disclaimer: Yes, I am a bit frustrated by some things here in India, and the fuck stick I talked about. I want to reiterate that India is a wonderful place, and have some of the most brilliant and nicest people. I hold no grudge against anyone in any shape or form (Except for that fuck stick named Shankar [may his asshole be abused] that moved into our fraternity house and threw a bitch feat ). However, the armpit business has to go! Cultures evolve; it’s about that time deodorant use becomes accepted in India.

Surprise!

Life is full of surprises – we hear that all the time. You get surprised on Christmas, Birthday, anniversary… that’s the good kind. Then you have stuff like the surprise someone leaves in a toilet bowl, you get surprised when someone’s shit clogs the toilet in an airplane (see the previous entry). Some people get surprised when they find out the person they were dating is not of the opposite sex. They all fall in some category; at least I thought they did until I had my laundry room surprise.

Nope, it’s not your random rendezvous with a hot chick or an encounter with someone wider than the washing machine. I can’t categorize this surprise in any known class. It’s boring, but I thought I should write about it.

I will not mention any company name, as I don’t want to tarnish any kind of reputation. I have been sent to India from my company to work with one of our vendors for six months. So, I stay at the Indian company’s corporate campus. It’s gorgeous, but that’s as far as architecture goes. In terms of functionality, it is utterly useless. Perhaps that’s how things work here. After all, this company is one of the leaders in its field.

Back to laundry business… about five thousand people live in this campus. And there are only twenty washers and twenty dryer in an awkward location for them to use. Think that’s funny? Four of the washer and eight of the dryer don’t work. Surprised? That’s just the beginning of the story.

First day I went to do laundry, I was told to go back to reception which is about a quarter mile away, and get laundry tickets. Mind you, I toted the laundry in my carryon about half a mile from my building. The only form of transportation available to me is bicycles with no gears (in a mountainous region). Walking with my carryon seemed like a better option over pushing a bicycle up hill with my laundry in it.

So, I get my laundry tickets and go back to the laundry joint. I was told to sign a log book with my name, badge number, date, time, room number, department, signature and some other random crap. When I went to a laundry machine after a long wait (five thousand people are trying to wash their shit in 16 small washing machines), I was surprised to find that the little slip I got from reception doesn’t go in the machine. I was informed that there is a guy with a coin whom I have to seek, and he starts the machine. After an extensive search, I found the guy with the magic golden coin (it’s true… he really carries a golden coin). Upon my return to the machine, I found random people trying to take my clothes out of the washer, as they thought that my clothes were done (I thought “Fucking aye! What a surprise!). So, the coin guy puts his magic coin in and gets it out immediately, and I start the machine. I’m thinking, finding shit on Tomb Raider was easier than finding the Magic Coin Guy… this was just the beginning.

Dryers take twice as long as washers – even the dumb fuck across the street can tell you that. So, imagine the wait once your clothes are out of the dryer. Now came the fun part, find the coin hogging Houdini to start the dryer. By the time I came back with the idiot, someone had already put in their clothes in the dryer, and wouldn’t let go. So, I ask the guy politely: “WTF?” In response, he wiggles his head, looks around, and puts his hand on a few dryer, (on the glass – they were front loading), and says “Done!” Obviously, I am surprised, as the timer says 39 minutes left. I ask him, “you sure?” He simply gets this guy to get his clothes out, and instructs me to put mine in. I obliged, wondering how the fuck can he tell if clothes are dry by putting his hand on the glass window of a dryer – that is one surprising talent! I stayed in the ultra humid, hot room as I was afraid his touch-o-logy will result in extraction of my clothes while they were damp, and I was ready to put up a fight. To my surprise, he let it run the entire course – I must say it was a pleasant one… surprise that is.

My clothes were still damp after an hour in the dryer, but the Dryer Nazi wouldn’t run the dryer any more for my clothes. On my way back to the dorm (Hostel – as they call it), I’m feeling sorry for the guy who had to take out his clothes after only 21 minutes, and was wondering if his underpants will have any kind of fungal growth – then it dawned on me, may be that’s why everyone’s arm pit smells funny! Their clothes don’t get dry, parasites and bacteria thrive, and emit odor when they get some moisture from the arm pits. Maybe my hypothesis is wrong; as I’ve seen the very few things of deodorant you see on the store shelves have a thick layer of dust on top of them.

Who knows why arm pits smell, and why the goddamn coin guy doesn’t collect the money onsite, why he disappears, why I have to fill out a log book to wash my socks and underwear (I give my shirts and slacks to the wash and press – which is another surprise in it’s own right), why the washer/dryer ratio is 4:3, and why there are only 1 washer/dryer installed for every 250 individual (this includes the non-working models). That’s a surprise. But more than that, I am surprised how this company manages to deliver some of the best products and services in its respective industry. Surprise is not the word, I am fucking surprised. This is one fucked up shit I can’t explain.

Shit on a Plane

Okay, this was right after sometime when airplanes started charging for two seats when a person’s dimension and weight exceeded certain criteria, and after 2001, when a brown person in an airplane caused some people to panic.

I boarded a plane, and despite the tickets being bought and checked in at the same time, my friend sat all the way in the front, and I sat all the way in the back by the toilet, even though there were plenty of vacant seats all around. There sat another man across the aisle, who occupied no less than two seats. No big deal, eh? Well, it just happened another person with similar dimension walks by and goes in the toilet. As he comes out of the toilet, my big fat neighbor decides to go as well. This got interesting when a really skinny person walked in the toilet – he bolted out of there with a pale face, and proceeded to the nearest flight attendant.

Now, while I’m thinking, thank God I have a bad cold and stuffy nose where I can’t smell anything. The flight attendant scurries to the toilet, takes a peek, and hightailed to the front. Now I got a little worried, and started to wonder what surprise did my fat friends leave in that tiny space. The voice over the PA system broke my chain of thought as it announced that the toilet in the back is out of commission.

My curiosity arose, and as I lacked the sense of smell, I couldn’t help but wonder: What was it that came out of the fat man’s ass hole? Or was it that the metal bowl couldn’t sustain the weight? Is it bigger than the chute in the toilet bowl? Is it brown or yellowish? Can some one’s poopie chute be bigger than an industrial strength, universal size toilet chute?

I stared with great curiosity at the last fat soul to use the toilet as he so nonchalantly flipped the pages of a magazine. I couldn’t take it any more! So I asked the flight attendant what had happened. She gave me a great big smile and replied, “Oh, it overflowed!” My suspicions were correct! What ever came out of the two fat man’s ass was bigger than the one-size-fits-all poopie chute of an airplane’s toilet! “Bing!” The voice of the Captain broke my chain of thoughts. He informed us of some upcoming rough weather and turbulence.

Then it hit me! I was sitting right next to the toilet that overflowed, and in my mind, I pictured two gigantic log like pieces of shit that resisted the immense suction of an airplanes toilet, blocking the blue liquid that overflowed. In paralyzing horror, I asked the flight attendant if I could be moved to avoid any potential contact with the deadly shit soaked blue liquid. Once again, with a great big smile, she said, “Let me see!”

She came back, and informed me how sorry she is for not being able to move me, but, with a great big smile, gave me a whole bunch of peanuts to compensate. I spend the rest of the flight in horror, staring at the peanuts, and the empty seats far, far away from the toilet. We landed safely, without having to see anything come out of that toilet.

Not too long ago, I went to watch the movie Snakes on a Plane. My date was terrified as she is afraid of snakes. We both came out of there with a pale face – her from snakes, mine from the memories of the horror of large constricting shit on a plane. Nothing had me prepared for what I saw next. There stood a great big fat man a few feet from me, who resembled the dimensions of my fat neighbor in that airplane. He was eating Planter’s peanuts standing by the toilet. Déjà vu? Or is it a movement to clog all toilets with peanut infused shit. Did the flight attendant give me those peanuts because the shit on the plane was nutty? The world may never know.

Now when I check in at an airport and someone asks me with a great big smile, “Window or Aisle?” – I reply, “As far away from the toilet as possible.” All the while, overpowered by the horror of large shit, I realized I no longer scan for the scary brown people, I scan for fat people with peanuts in their hand.

Fat Man Slap Dance His body is his instrument.

Starting a Blog

A lot of my friends told me, that I should start a blog. To be honest, I never thought I would. Lo and behold, here I am. It is only fair that I mention the people who actually inspired me to do this. Before I do that, just a little background on how I ended up on this thing:

Like everyone else, I’ve been through the ups and downs of life, and it has been a crazy journey. May be I perceive things differently than most people, and perhaps I find humor where most people don’t – but I’ve been told that when I talk about my experiences, they are interesting. At the same time, I’ve been told that I am a good listener. The listening part – I don’t doubt, as more often I end up being the shoulder to cry on. Sometimes, it gets to be too much. Seriously, if I got paid for listening to people, I would have a hefty amount in my bank.

I love my friends, and I have no problem spending as much time it takes for me to be there for them. But it’s the strange encounters I sometimes have that test my patience. Freshmen year, I was in the break room having lunch at work. A new hire comes in, and sits at my table. After normal introduction, she suddenly says, “I hate putting a condom on a guy…” – I’m thinking, as much as you don’t like it, I am not getting in your pants without some rain gear. Well, what would you expect when you are full of testosterone, and a random girl just says that to you? Well, to my disappointment, she tells me about her strange relationship situation, and asks for my advice. I asked her, “You do realize I am not gay, and I have no experience in suiting up someone’s private part other than my little friend who is attached to my groin?” I guess everyone has their niche, I ended up providing her my two cents, and apparently it worked for her. Hence begin my role as a ‘Listener of all things odd’ in strange places, from strange people.

Like any youngster, my little friend had more control over my life than I, but eventually I’ve become really picky, and turns out, my little brain is not the only thing that requires a stimuli! Perhaps its from years of listening to people’s deep, dark secrets – that I’ve become this way, or perhaps I just have a really caring side that produces enough estrogen that makes my big brain crave some intellectualism. Who knows? Turns out, when you become an attentive listener, more often than none, you are the shoulder to cry on, and not the guy to bang the shit out of someone. Or maybe it’s the beer belly that has started to form – result of being fed from a tub of ice cream as I listen to girls bitch about their relationships. Regardless, it seems that when I talk to people, I have a way of making them feel better. Like everything else, it comes with a price: sometimes I do all the listening, and then the girl I just met feels better and proceeds to screw someone else’s brains out.

So, I’ve been told that I should write down my ideas about relationship, my random observation of odd humor, and zillions of stories that others have found entertaining. Then again, I’m not a writer, so, what sounded really good from my mouth may not make any freaking sense when I write it. If you are reading this, and you actually enjoy my blog, you should thank two people:
JPK: What can I say; he went the distance, and sent me links, suggestions and even a name for my blog. Originally, it was to be called “Dr. Khaled Explains it All” – I decided to remove the Dr. and be just Khaled, as that is who I am.
Anne: I never realized you can relate to someone this way, as she puts it, we are “Personality Twins” – from freaky coincidences to how we do things! I am psyched, that our paths crossed!

If for any reason you think this is lame, just quit reading it. That just means I don’t write as good as I speak. But by all means, let me know what you think.