Exhibit A: Baby names synonymous with awesome

If you look carefully at the image above, you will notice the rather obvious water stains on the writing. And very conveniently, the water appears to have found its way more to “my side” of the page. And if that wasn’t enough, she went ahead and completely blotted my name out. As though I didn’t exist. You make me sick N.

N, THIS MEANS WAR! And Swatiji, I’m really sorry to drag you into this mess, but I present to you the top 5 reasons why you should name your child after me.

1. I was named after Amartya Sen, who was named by the fabulous Rabindranath Tagore himself. That’s quite an amazing legacy inherited just by virtue of the name. Tagore, obviously, needs no introduction, and Sen, a world famous economist and Harvard professor.
2. Both Tagore and Sen have won the Nobel Prize in Literature and Economics, respectively. It doesn’t get bigger than that. To quote a friend, that’s a life contrasted by creativity and science. And who knows what shenanigans I pull in my life.
3. With Obama as President, I reckon that day isn’t too far when we see a brown dude in the White House. I’d rather that the first President of the United States of Indian origin have a classy, majestic sounding name like Amortya/Amartya. And it means immortal. The POTUS which by itself it supremely badass job title and as we all know is a path strewn with life threatening situations. Hence, a name that quite literally translates to immortal would definitely bode better than a name that means love or rain. Politics is not a joke. As leader of the free world, the POTUS needs a name that inspires people to hope for a better future and strikes fear into the hearts of the bad guys. Sadly, “Neha” just doesn’t do it for me (no pun intended).
4. Swatiji, surely you’re worried how a name like Amortya would work if it’s a girl? I would be too. I should inform you that back in college, for an entire semester, my engineering drawing professor called me Amruta/Amrita. Hence, these are acceptable variations of my name, and I would not be offended if you chose these names for the munchkin. I hate to bring it up, but a name like Neha doesn’t have any President-worthy variations. Just saying.
5. I’m an amazing namesake to have. I’m kind, charming and a wonderful person. I was more than willing to include N’s suggestions in my list. That was before my trust was betrayed. My trust AND yours. Surely you don’t want your first born to be named after a backstabber like that? Tell tell?

So Swatiji, I rest my case. The ball is now in your court.

Dr. Hottie and her business-suit-wearing fake assistant

So there I am, sitting on the awesome robotic dental chair. Lil’ M’s having an awesome time playing with the suction tube thingy stuck in my mouth. And Dr. Hottie is looking at my teeth with that judge-y in her eyes. And I yell back, “STOP JUDGING ME! IT’S NOT MY FAULT I HAVE HORRIBLE TEETH! IT’S INHERITED!” The maternal side of my family must be part British because we have the worst teeth ever. Discolored teeth, tooth decay, bleeding gums, cavities, worn or broken teeth- we have them all. And my father’s side of the family. They’re the Brangelina’s of a community of people that’s been cursed with bad teeth. My Dad though has got a phenomenal set of teeth AND he hasn’t been to a dentist a single day in his life. Sadly, natural selection doesn’t work the way I want it to or else, today, I’d be a heart-throbby rocket scientist working for NASA with a million dollar smile and an equally awesome paycheck. Instead I’m a lowly code monkey with no lateral incisors, an ugly nose zit thingy and a gift for digital stalking. Which is one of the reasons why I have had such long lasting relationships with my dentists. Yes, plural. My first ever dentist was a vision of ethereal, jaw-dropping beauty. Her stunning features, flawless face, and that killer smile melted my heart instantly. And when my mother saw that infatuated look in my eyes, she decided that nip the fledging romance and my evolving player status in the bud. And sent me to an all-boys school. And moved the family television to her bedroom. Because of, well, Sonali Bendre. Also, all of my subsequent dentists were dudes, even the dumbass ones that extracted the wrong teeth or filled the one that didn’t have a cavity. You hear that Ma? THAT IS THE REASON I’M STILL SINGLE AND YOU DON’T HAVE ANY GRANDCHILDREN YET!

And then at work, I’m talking to Lil’ m about the gazillion weddings, engagements, hookups and one night stands taking place around me and I suddenly start freaking out. I go like, “Yo m, what if I end up spending the rest of my fucking life completely alone! What if I never find someone? What if I’m the creepy 65 year old with a grey ponytail and cheap sunglasses that buys your kids candy floss, lives with 3 cats and shows up in pictures like this? Sure I could also be a badass oldie like Gandalf or one of these guys. But lets face it, the odds are slim.” And then I decide to take matters in my own hands. BOOM. Just like that. I know that Lil’ m has a boyfriend so, OBVIOUSLY, I decide to make her my plan B. You know plan B? The one where if neither of us are married by the time we’re 30 (or 35 or 40), we marry each other.

But I was still in panic mode. I needed a plan A. Like yesterday. So I decide to con(vince) Big M into marrying me. Except that it wasn’t going to work. Because she works out like every fucking day, and the last time I stepped into a gym was back when MSFT traded at nearly 60 bucks. I wasn’t always like this though. Back in the day, my prowess at tomato racing was rather legendary. Tomato race no comprende? The one where your hands are tied behind your back and you race to the middle of the track, grab the tomato with JUST your mouth (twss!) and sprint to the finish line. However, my moment in the spotlight came to a crashing halt a few years later. I was participating in a 400m relay and comfortably cruising to the finish line. And in true Bollywood fashion, the world around me slows down. Everything and everyone begins moving in super-slow motion. I can hear people chanting my name! And I’m thinking, “Wow! People just love me. I’m quite the superstar here. The crowd just can’t get enough of me.” Except that it wasn’t the crowd yelling my name. It was another runner hollering and swearing and cursing at me because I was in his fucking lane. And as I stealthily move to my own lane, he promptly overtakes me and subsequently wins the race. Yes. Not my proudest moment on the track. And that fall from grace was directly responsible for the end of my career as an athlete and resulted in me embarking on a new career as a crackerjack slouch.

I thought of putting this up on the blog as I was walking back towards Grand Central Station this evening. But I was rudely interrupted by my coworker N who yells out loud that SOMETHING in her bag is vibrating. This would have been funnier AND infinitely more awkward for her had I not known apriori that she was carrying her boyfriend’s electric razor in her bag.

Really? I don't think so!

It was only after I got to the ground that I realized the devious ways my Mum’s mind works in. Well, I shouldn’t have been surprised. She is after all MY mother! Mommy was totally pimping me out for all the eligible girls present there. Here’s how it worked. I was standing with my Dad on one side of the ground checking out the food stalls (obviously!). Ma goes about socializing and networking like she’s one of the girls from SATC. But truth be told, her hawk eyes were scouting for nubile, young women to pitch to me. And after she’s done with her recon mission, she calls me over and introduces me to her friends AND their daughters. She’s goes like, “Here is my son. Engineer. NRI. And doesn’t he look like Abhishek Bachchan?”. Obviously, she couldn’t tell me anything straight up, but one look in her eyes and I knew what her end game was. She’s cute na? She’s well educated, has a good job, comes from a good family and can cook! Why don’t you call her sometime? Of course, if she had it her way, she would have probably had me engaged then and there. Thankfully though, I managed to drag her by the hand away from all the madness. She was quiet, but her body language was yelling, “I AM NOT GETTING ANY YOUNGER. I WANT GRANDCHILDREN! AND I WANT THEM NOW! THIS IS GOING TO HAPPEN WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT, EVEN IF I HAVE TO KNOCK YOUR ASS UNCONSCIOUS AND MAKE YOU TAKE THE GODDAMN PHERAS”

.

Coming to my main point, I find it hard to comprehend why some men consider urinating to be an art. Gentlemen- it’s most definitely a science. A science that any grown man, given the years of practice, would have perfected it down to an art.

1. Walk to your favorite stall
2. Unzip
3. Do it
4. Shake
5. Zip up
6. Wash and leave

Step 4 might require a certain amount of skill, but it still doesn’t warrant the splattering on the urinal floor, that I once felt had a faint resemblance to Monet’s fabulous oil on canvas ‘Impression, Soleil Levant‘. Consequently, it requires me to up my game, straddle the aforementioned pee-on-granite, and aim from nearly foot away, which is a lot harder than the world gives it credit for.

On a closing note, here’s something I read on the walls of the men’s room, back in college. Not exactly relevant, but certainly poignant and thought provoking.

“You may try by any means, the last two drops are for your jeans.”