About City Boy This is Amortya Ray’s personal blog. He is passionate about technology, all things Apple, New York, Dunkin Donuts and of course Scarlett Johansson. Amongst others.
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My sister is a super awesome ninja doctor. This is a roughly paraphrased transcript of the chat I had with her last night.
Me: DUDE ! WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS WebMD!?! It’s freaking the fuck out of me.
Her: Eh? What the hell are you talking about?
Me: The fingers on my left hand have been hurting the past few weeks. FIX IT!
(She starts going all Dr. House on my ass.)
Her: Is there any history trauma?
Me: What kind of trauma?
Her: Like jamming your fingers into something?
Me: No, nothing like that. I think it’s carpal tunnel. WebMD says so.
Her: It’s not carpal tunnel. Your wrist has to hurt for that. Also, you aren’t a middle-aged woman wearing bangles. So it’s not carpal tunnel. Okay?
Me: Hmm. Okay. I also tend to do that finger/knuckle cracking thingy a lot on my left hand. I read in an email forward that it causes nitrogen to leak into your finger joints. Do you think that’s the problem?
Her: *facepalm* Does the other hand hurt too?
Me: No, it’s fine.
Her: Is there any paraesthesia?
At this point, crazy images of single-digit amputees come to my mind. I’m starting to think that there’s something seriously wrong with me.
Me: OMG! WHAT IS THAT? IS IT SERIOUS? IS THERE A CURE?
Her: It means weird abnormal sensations. Not of pain but more like when you sit still for a long time, your foot becomes dead. Like dry gangrene. Are they turning black?
Me: (Heaving a sigh of relief) No! Maybe it’s just broken?
Her: And that is why I asked about trauma! Do you smoke?
Me: No.
Her: Do you use your left hand primarily for typing?
Me: I guess so.
In my head I’m replaying those times when I stretch my left hand to press the ‘{‘ key, because my right hand is too busy playing Angry Birds on the phone.
Her: Are your finger joints swollen? Does it hurt just at the joints or is the entire hand hurting?
Me: Just the joints.
Her: On and off or continuous?
Me: Sort of continuous the past few months. Although it’s gotten more intense lately.
Her: How’s your water consumption?
Me: Low.
Her: Is your pee pale yellow or dark yellow or colorless?
Me: I haven’t noticed. But not colorless.
Her: Any burning while peeing?
Me: No.
Her: How many times a day do you pee?
Me: I donno. 4-5 maybe. Maybe my hand is broken?
Her: If it was a fracture, one finger would be particularly bad. All fingers would hurt. And it would be really swollen.
Me: No.
Her: Did you have a sore throat recently?
I’m starting to doubt my ninja sister’s medical diagnostic skills. I mean come on! Sore throat and broken fingers! All my Dad’s tuition money for this?
Me: Yeah, 2 months ago.
Her: What did you take for that?
Me: Nothing.
I didn’t tell her but I took a Tylenol for it. Tylenol’s my answer to any medical problems. Stomach aches, hangovers, sprains, sore throats, backaches, headaches- everything!
Her: Any chest palpitations? Any rashes anywhere?
Me: OKAY! Enough! This is crazy!
Her: I need to get adequate history okay?
Me: I’ll put an ice-pack on it.
Her: Okay.
Me: Go to class.
Her: Go to bed.
When I was 5, I fell off my bed on my head. It’s at times like these that I’m convinced that that fall caused a lot more damage than the tiny bald spot at the back of my scalp.
I’m known to have the alcohol drinking capacity of a 5 year old. Not that 5 year olds drink alcohol. Or maybe they do. Kids are grow up really quickly these days. But that’s besides the point.
Here’s my wall of shame.
Note: It contains only the stuff that I can still remember and stuff that won’t get me fired.
- This one time I excused myself from a night of wild partying. My excuse? I wanted to watch SnL. On a Friday night.
- It was my day off. I get up with a heavy head and a bad hangover. I step onto a soaking wet rug. Now in spite of the hazy details that I remembered from the previous night, I was sure I had gotten up in the middle of the night for a glass of water and to pee. What I can’t remember was if I ended up spilling the water all over the floor and/or if I made it to the bathroom. And since my feet was already submerged in it, I was hoping it was water. So I did what any sane/hungover person would do. I dropped to my knees and smelt the rug.
- Having commandeered N’s phone, my friends and I go on a crazy texting spree. And the unfortunate target of our drunken shenanigans was N’s brand new husband. (On on that note, CONGRATS Mr. and Mrs. B!). Also, try guess which of my friends is a Dick Fuld Jr. loyalist.
- Technically this is not something *I* did. My friend Adi talked me into posing. Not one to refuse a photo op, I gladly obliged.
 Had I known that this was going to happen, I would have worn a shirt
- This happened a few years ago. I wasn’t aware of the debilitating effects tequila has on an empty stomach. So I decide to take my obsession with David Beckham to an altogether new level, by practicing a free kick on a cardboard carton. Except what I thought was an empty cardboard carton, turned out to be a box filled with bricks. Sadly, (sadly?) I was too wasted to realize that and merrily went on my way to Tom’s Restaurant and had some cheesecake. However, the next morning I wake up to find my right toe all black and blue and the size of my fist.
I find it odd how I have amazingly lucid about all the stupid things that I do when I’m drunk but not a single memory otherwise from all the craziness, like how I manage to get home.
PS- When I smelt the rug, it was neither pee nor vomit. Thankfully it was just a leak in my floor and some disgusting water.
On my third day in a gym in my life, I voluntarily sign up for something called “bootcamp”.
Everyone with their chiselled abs and toned glutes was bootcamping without breaking a sweat. Me on the other hand, I could barely breathe. I’m in ridiculous amounts of pain, panting like I’m having seizures, until I can’t take it anymore and curl up in fetal position with my towel and hope somebody relieves me of my misery soon. Not the best 45 minutes of my life.
So here are 15 facts about me. Those who know me or read my blog would probably know some of them. But here goes.
- I have a scar on the corner of my left eyebrow. It was a birthday gift from my sister on my 12th birthday. She was chasing me around the house and I hid in the bathroom and she pushed the door open which slammed on my face. Ahoy, and in an instant my birthday party had turned int’ an eyepatch themed pirate party. A pence for an old man o’de sea? Arrr..
- I spend an inordinate amount of money on electronic items, video games and books.
- I have an obsessively, compulsive need to do everything my way. Even when common sense dictates that I do it. Case in point: I *always* have to close a tab, open a new one before I enter the url or click the bookmark.
- I have the freakiest memory. People, faces, names, favorite drink, shoe sizes- I remember them all! I can recall randomest of details, at the most inappropriate of times.
- My friends make up the craziest of nicknames for me. Morty, Amorty (because typing/pronouncing an extra syllable takes a lot of effort), Abort, Ammonia, Bha, Bum (yeah, long story),…
- Perfect grammar, punctuation and spelling automatically elevate a person to a whole new level of awesome in my eyes.
- I remember the lyrics to obscure songs I’ve heard just once.
- Crown Royal.
- The only thing I’ve ever ordered from Minar in the past 5 years is the chicken shahi korma.
- I’m a huge huge huge tv junkie. Also, Caprica Six (Tricia Helfer) is the hottest thing I’ve seen on television since Sonali Bendre did her ‘soundarya sabun nirma’ gig.
- I have a strange fascination for ancient Greek/Roman/Norse mythology.
- I’m mad protective of my friends. Sadly, it’s almost the ‘jealous lover’ type protective. When friends of mine start hanging out with other friends of mine, I start sending all sorts of weird passive aggressive clues, that I need to be included in those conversations, even if they aren’t about me.
- I can whip up a mean chicken biryani.
- I read Jane Eyre when I was 10. And cried my eyes out at every sad thing that happened to her. The dramebaaz that I am, I kept imagining that Jane’s life in 1820′s England was a complete parallel to mine. To this day it remains my favorite book.
- My most prized possessions: every magnet, postcard, shotglass from my travels and letters from loved ones that I stick on my fridge door. Those are the first things I’ll run to save in a zombie apocalypse.
Yep.
To overcome these massive periods of writer’s block that I encounter after every post, I’m taking some inspiration from here. Now given my phenomenal attention span, there’s no guarantee that I’ll finish all 30 of these. Or even 3. So keep your fingers crossed!
Day 01 – 15 interesting facts about me.
Day 02 – The meaning behind my blog name.
Day 03 – A picture of me and friends.
Day 04 – A habit that I wish I didn’t have?
Day 05 – A picture of somewhere I’ve been to.
Day 06 – Favorite super hero and why?
Day 07 – A picture of someone/something that has had the biggest impact on me.
Day 08 – Short term goals for this month and why?
Day 09 – Something I’m proud of in the past few days.
Day 10 – Songs I listen to when Happy, Sad, Bored, Hyped, Mad.
Day 11 – Another picture of me and friends.
Day 12 – How did I find out about Twitter and why I’m on it?
Day 13 – A letter to someone who has hurt me recently.
Day 14 – A picture that says a lot.
Day 15 – Put iPod on shuffle: First 10 songs that play?
Day 16 – A picture of me.
Day 17 – Someone I would want to switch lives with for one day and why?
Day 18 – Plans/dreams/goals I have?
Day 19 – Nicknames I have; why do I have them?
Day 20 – Someone I see myself marrying/being with in the future?
Day 21 – A picture of something that makes me happy.
Day 22 – What makes me different from everyone else?
Day 23 – Something I crave for a lot?
Day 24 – A letter to the parents?
Day 25- What would you find in my bag?
Day 26 – What you think about you are your friends?
Day 27 – Why am I doing this 30 day challenge?
Day 28 – A picture of me from last year and now, how have I changed since then?
Day 29 – In this past month, what have I learned?
Day 30 – Who am I?
Dear 16-year-old-Amortya:
Hi!
First things first. The Backstreet Boys are so 1997. The Nick Carter middle-parted hairdo that you are going for is just not working. You have thick bushy, often curly hair. You cannot pull off the straight-silky-bouncy hair look. So stop trying already.
 You cannot look like him You turn 16 in a few hours. It’s probably a little too late to tell you study well for your class 10 exams. But thankfully, the nightmarish last 2 years of school are over. You’re in junior college now. It’s a clean slate for you. But yes, for the rest of your life, you will be embarrassed of your junior college. Over the next 10 years, you will have more than your fair share of screw ups. There will be times when you find yourself in a royal mess of epic proportions. And often the damage done will be irreparable. But there will also be several high points in the next 10 years. A few of those achievements are academic in nature. And that is not entirely a compliment.
As much as you hate it, you will move a few more times in the next couple of years. Thankfully, by now you’ve been immunized to the whole I-change-homes-every-6-months thing, so it won’t matter much. And in about 6 years, you will get live in the greatest city in the world. Look forward to that.
Friends. Ah, possibly the one thing you’ve done right. Well, almost. You will have friends that stay in touch no matter what. You will have friends that aren’t worth your while. You will have friends you reconnect with after an extended period of time and that would result in forging a bond stronger than before. You will have friends you will cut out of your life forever. And you will have friends whom you don’t see or speak to for years and when you eventually do, it’s like no time has passed. You pick up right where you left off. You will have friends who don’t care what zip code or time zone you live in. They love you all the same.
Family. Don’t be so angry at your parents. The decisions they made have always had a meaningful impact on your life. Even if you don’t see it that way right away. Be nicer to your sister. She’s the only one you have. And yes, she’s going to be mighty successful someday. So start working on building that brother-sister relationship the way it’s supposed to be.
When you are at a four-way intersection, stop at least a few feet away from the stop sign. This is possibly the sole reason you have items #9 and #10 on your Life List.
 Drive carefully, especially if it's your Father's car Now I cannot emphasize this enough, but not everyone gets your sarcasm-filled sense of humor. To some folks, you may come across as smart, sassy and cleverly funny. To others, you’re just a douche-canoe. And as it’s recently been brought to my attention, you can be really rude and mean. When you are mean, you tend to be vicious and just go for the kill. Remember, with great popularity comes great responsibility. Be wise, my younger self.
Lastly, be happy, be safe. And happy 16th birthday.
Best wishes,
26 year old Amortya
PS- In about 2 years you will get a phone call bearing some grave news: Sonali Bendre gets married. As tragic as that thought sounds, you need to be strong and pull yourself together.
This happened a few years ago. I was starting at my first job the day after Presidents Day and needed to get a drug test done. And very smartly, I decide to schedule it 2 days before my first day of work and 2 hours after I land in New York after a 15 hour direct flight from India. So at 10am, I shower, shave and get ready. Oddly enough, I decide that it is very important to look professional, even if all that I’m going to do is pee in a cup. Looking super dapper in a black suit, I take the 1 train to 745 Seventh Ave. (where the erstwhile Lehman Brothers was located).
At this point, I will digress momentarily to narrate some facts that are not necessarily relevant to this story. Back in the day, when I was younger, and some might say a lot smarter, I had a very volatile relationships with the medical community. Once my doctor had to call in security to hold me down while she was giving me a flu shot. Even with two big guys holding my arms and legs wasn’t enough. It’s not like they were burly bouncers (and possibly former marines) now working at a New York nightclub from which I had to be escorted out (ahem.. not that that’s ever happened). Those regular mamu’s were no match for a 10-year old boy possessing abnormal amounts of adrenaline-fueled strength. I struggled and kicked and thrashed around like my life depended on it. I escaped from the clutches of the security/bouncer dudes and ran out of the clinic. That moment gave me a deja vu-ey feeling similar to that scene from Terminator 2: Judgment Day where the Sarah Connor is trying to escape the psych ward and the Terminator and John Connor, and T1000 chasing her. I was eventually cornered in the hallway, pinned down by three men and given the shot as I contorted my face in unimaginable agony all while holding my breath and honestly believing that if I stopped breathing, the syringe penetrating my epidermis wouldn’t hurt as much. However, coming back to my point, my body never had the ability to pee at will. Does anyone’s body do that at all? Once, when I was doing the whole-pee-in-a-cup thing, I couldn’t produce enough specimen to fill the cup to the line. So I decide to fill the cup to the line by diluting my produce in water. I was very pleased at my brilliance.
And as I walked into the Health Center, I chuckled thinking about that incident from several years ago and hoped that my body supported me and that I wouldn’t have to pull such underhanded measures today. I walk in and start gulping down glasses of water. The nurse gives me a bunch of instructions and I walk into toilet. And here’s where it gets rough. As much as I try, I cannot get myself to pee. Nope. Zilch. Zero. Nada. Not even a drop that I could dilute using my aforementioned tactics. I try thinking of running water, but that doesn’t help either. I jump up and down (quietly), but nope. It’s been close to 3 minutes in there, and I haven’t done a thing. Another 2 minutes. The nurse knocks on the door asking I was done. I tell her that I’m almost done. I focus all my energies on the job and manage to squeeze a few drops out of my bladder. And I wash hands (inspite of explicitly being asked not to by the nurse until I’ve handed over the cup!). Finally, after 5 long minutes, I emerge with my head hung in shame as I hand over the cup. The nurse yells at me because I wasn’t supposed to use the damn sink. And without much ado flushes my hardwork down the toilet. I reschedule and get the hell out of there. So now here’s what happened. Apparently, water takes its own sweet time to trickle down to your bladder. That and the fact that I was mighty dehydrated after my super long flight, required at least a couple of gallons to cover. 10 tiny cups just just wouldn’t cut it. It’s all science.
After spending the weekend getting rid of jetlag, I walk into the Health Center at 10 am sharp on Monday morning. I had been prepping for 3 hours, drinking water non stop. I grab the cup, do my business, emerge vindicated and walk out like a boss in under 2 minutes!
PS: I realized much later that I overdid my prep for the drug test, because I spent the next 2 hours in and out of the restroom emptying the remainder of my bladder.
So remember how I’m like the king of awkward moments? Yep. The following is another similar embarrassing incident that will forever be etched in my wretched mind.
Rewind to a few years ago. Circa 2007. I was a lowly graduate student in New York City. Barely making ends meet. Living paycheck to paycheck. Had no more than $35 in my checking account. And the cardinal rule of graduate school is that you do not do laundry until absolutely necessary. And by absolute necessary I mean that until you completely run out of clean underwear. It was one such night. I had a job interview the next morning. And no clean clothes. At 11 in the night, I decide that it would be a good time to do laundry. So I grab my hamper and head down to the basement, drop it in the washer, come back in 30 minutes to put them in the dryer. As I’m dumping my soggy clothes into the dryer, through the corner of my eye I notice my neighbor starting her washer cycle. About half an hour later, I’m back in the basement to pick up my clothes. Neighbor lady is waiting for me to empty the lone dryer (it was a pre-war, rent-controlled building and cheapass landlord so 40 apartments had to share 2 washers and 1 dryer) so she can start her dryer cycle. And as luck would have it, my clothes aren’t completely dry. I mutter the classiest of swear words as I prepare to kick off another dryer cycle. Neighbor lady goes all sigh-ey and complains about how she had an early morning meeting and it was getting late. And the good samaritan that I am, I offer her to share the dryer with me. Lady jumps at the opportunity to save an hour of her time, drops her clothes with mine and leaves.
About half an hour later, we meet again in the basement. We separate our clothes and go our own ways. Later, when I’m folding my own clothes, I see that she left a bra behind in my pile. Now I could either trash it and let it be at that. But then I do know that bras don’t come cheap. But I really don’t want to be the one handing it over to her. Because, well, that would just be awkward. So what do I do? I decide to leave it on her door knob, ring the bell and vanish the fuck out of there before she opens the door. Pleased at my genius plan, I tiptoe over to her apartment (very conveniently, she happened to live right next door), and am about to leave the bra on the doorknob. And before I could get to doing that, her door opens, and neighbor girl stares at me with a judgey look in her eyes and her bra in my hand. Awkward with a capital A. Avoiding all eye contact, I hand over the goods and turn around and close the door to my apartment.
I avoided her like the plague for the remaining 6 months I lived in that building.
I logged into my blog today to write some more of my Madrid stories and as usual spent an inordinately large amount of time battling writer’s block and then did what I do best- spent the next half an hour clicking at random places because after a point it just started to get entertaining and I then tried to see if I could do the Mortal Kombat theme using just clickety sounds which I sadly couldn’t. And then I saw the kind of searches that have been sending traffic to my blog and I’m go, “Whaaaaaaaaaaa!!!?”.
 I swear this is a clean sfw-ish blog Yo Google,
What kind of shady porno shop do you think I’m running here. Keep all the porn obsessed people away from my site! This place is for clean family stuff. Mostly. And digs at my family blaming them for my lack of any love life and the fact that I might die alone. And poop and puke. Fix your shit please.
Love,
me
I arrived this morning, heavily jetlagged, super cranky but extremely glad to meet one of my closest friends after 2 and a half years. This trip also scratches item 39 off my life list. We drove to her crazy fancy home in one of the poshest areas of Central Madrid. She showed me to my room and obviously the first thing I did was to ask her for the wifi key. Because clearly I cannot live without checking my email/facebook/twitter for more than 8 hours. And yes, I had to let the world know that I had landed safely on my first ever Eurotrip. Obviously.
After some quick shuteye, I showered and ventured into the city. We were joined by my friend’s Spanish boyfriend. When I told my friend Neha that my friend was dating a Spanish boy, she got all swoony and drooly hoping to live out her Enrique fantasy even if it was vicariously through someone else. But in reality, Preeti’s ‘Enrique’ turned out to be more of the siesta loving, pot-bellied Spanish man who loves wining and dining more than anything else in the world. Oscar speaks very little English. And just about enough to make conversation with me. Preeti and Oscar converse only in Spanish. And they’d call each other amor, which is the Spanish word for love. ‘Amor’ is also one of my countless nicknames. So everytime I’d hear amor, I’d turn around, only to see them whispering into each others ears. How awkward it must have been. For them.
Later in the day, we walk through an Egyptian temple in the middle of the city and take a cable car ride. Oscar’s trying to explain the history of the cable cars. And as he’s struggling with some words, Preeti turns around and goes, “Oh by the way, he does know a few Hindi words too!”. I turn to Oscar and go all, “Nice! Say something!”. I’m hoping to hear a “Namaste” or a “Mera naam Oscar hai!”. And Oscar turns to me and with a straight face goes, “Chutiya”. Expat Indians must make the country so proud.
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