Monday, March 21, 2011

Blundering Through the Punder Years

An old windbag, after waxing on about what a genius at embroidery her daughter was, once asked me what my talent was. I blinked, stuttered a bit, and then weakly said, “I like writing”. She snorted. “No, don’t you have any real talent?”

No. I don’t actually, coming to think of it.

I could sketch decently once. That is now limited to doodling during telecons or drawing boxes for KO. My singing attracts amorous camels. I’ve done one stint of Salsa fairly recently, but my dancing isn’t going to be impressing any rain gods any time soon.

I am not really musically challenged, seeing as I can tell an A Minor from a G-string, but I have never really taken to a musical instrument. Some people are born to play, and others are born to be played for. I can cook and bake in a non-Michelin-starred-chef kind of way. That’s more likely to add weight to a matrimonial resumé.

I can bring my feet up to my face. But I don’t think that qualifies as a talent. Anyway, it’s not as cool as Bunny’s ability to skip using his arms. He once asked me what I thought he could do with it; I suggested he do it at the traffic lights to make some money. May be I’m good at making nonsense suggestions. Does that qualify as a talent? I morph and create rude pictures of BC to be sent out on every festive occasion. That’s nonsense again.

The written word. It’s pretty much all I’ve really got. I think.

As I think back over the years, my attempts at writing have always gotten me into trouble. Well, trouble with the wrong sort, anyway – the sort without a sense of humour. The kind of people not really worth knowing or tolerating as far as I am concerned.

Writing and trouble – oh, yes, we go back a long way.

Reading just sort of goes hand-in-hand with writing. And so I learned of the birds and the bees slightly earlier than those around me. Consequently, at around the age of 7 or 8, I found myself being chased around the playground by an incensed Fightercock Lakshmi, who was yelling, “You said babies come from the bottom!” “Not bottom,” I shot back over my shoulder as I scooted ahead, “I said ******, stupid!” “You called me a stupid!”, she squealed still galloping behind me. “No, I said ‘stop it’, you idiot!” I shouted back as I tried to put more distance between us while avoiding an obstacle course some kindly diarrheic cow had laid out earlier that day.

Then there was that matter of that Garden of Eden depiction with my pal Mushroom a while later.

When I was all of 10 or 11, a handful of us were hauled up for penning fake letters to a classmate as a joke. Well, the rest were contributors while I did the actual penning. Unfortunately, the said victim did not have a sense of humour. She ratted us out to the Maths teacher, who took it upon herself to lecture us on immorality, the wages of sin being death, the “foolishness of virgins” and how she would like to “hung her head in shame” for our wicked deed. It’s a different matter that I might have wanted to “hung my head” at the grammar.

Nonetheless, she must have been fairly convincing. For she had me praying fervently to the Lord for forgiveness when I was beckoned to the principal’s office soon after. I was certain I would be expelled. As it turned out, it had nothing to do with those letters. Oo, KO’s sister who now traipses around Ireland with a butterfly net trying to catch leprechauns, had chosen that week to faint at the breakfast table. I was the sole witness when she flopped face-first into a bowl of icky wheat porridge. I can’t really blame her. You should have seen that cess-pool matter they called porridge. The principal, for reasons best known to her, simply wanted to know how long Oo had been comatose. She’d regained conscious right about the time I yanked her head out of the bowl. I left the office with a commendation for having saved Oo from drowning in porridge.

Anyhow, I digress. Again.

Cut to 2010. I was in trouble again. This time for penning a post that supposedly showed my community in a bad light and insulted Ducky’s “lineage” in front of “the whole world” (I love that they thought my readership was that huge). A post that most people chuckled at. Except the ones that lacked a sense of humour and figured the piece was all about them. I was given lectures on tradition, “respecting elders”, how no Brits would touch me with a barge pole (which would prove a tad ironic later), how I churned out no material of “journalistic excellence” (who’s going for a Pulitzer anyway?) and so forth. Plenty of drama that would put an Indian soap opera to shame later, the offending post stayed. The non-funny-boned, sons-of-our-soil, last-standing-bastions-of-tradition people did not. Nonetheless, when people are more hypocritical than they are critical, it’s easy to cut your so-called losses and blog on.

So, yes. You can take the blah out of my writing. But you cannot take writing out of Blah.

What absolute piffle. It sounded a tad better in my head. Then again, this is my blog. I can put whatever the hell I want in here.

That’s right. For the whole world to see.


  1. Dear Eve,

    Not too many people can tell an A Minor from a G- string. I'll give you a "10" for that alone!;-)

    Blah-on and the rest of them can "bleddy" blogger-off.

    Yours in good faith,
    The Keeper of Eden.

    P.S. Oh, and just so you know, your 'secret' talents are safe with me. I will only ever sell you to the best of them!:p

  2. @BB... I'm curious to know if u landed splat on the said obstacle and conveniently change the story (after all writing is your given talent)

    BTW wasn't there an incident once while you were singing...u know where the donkey that was grazing near the building joined in the chorus n then ran away when u increased the volume...

    Oh and well the chicken shits reading this post can kiss some ass if they think your talent is a non talent and that you will change...

  3. Terror # 1 is a baa lamb. So happy to see offending post. Happier to see the end of the half-wits without humour. I love your sense of restraint. I would have sweetly asked OW, "Awww, is it because you can't read? Or is it because you can't understand?" So much drama. But no, you just walked away quietly.
    Also realised this post can be called 'Tradition Vs Individual Talent.' But that's just me taking Eliot mania too far.
    Also I'm pretty sure the entire world reads your blog. Why won't they? It's classy and witty.

  4. Hello! ;)

    Even if crochet loving granny did know how to read would she even B-Sharp enough to get your work?

    And oh! Queen Lizzy called and confirmed that YOU are now the sole user of the word 'piffle' in the world. Congratulations!

  5. @Kaotic: Only to the best of them, A? I suppose D Major would never qualify considering he fell flat at the beginning anyway ;)

    @Terror: "Splat" was the sound of you falling into that tadpole-infested canal, boy. Donkey chorus? It's no wonder you are a fiction writer.

    @Bhumika: Danke indeed! As for walking away quietly from the half-wits, there's that cliche of "never argue with an idiot blah-blah". That applied.

    @NG: "Hai" ;)
    I have A Major doubt that she would, but I wouldn't mess with her for fear of the re-percussions.

    G, really? I always suspected you had a Queen E hotline. You just Bached up that hunch. :P

    To nobody in particular: Word verification reads "arsuled". Heh.

  6. Who u kidding? If excelling at studies, sports, drama, elocution,art is considered no talent where does that leave the rest of us? Pretty face with brains... stop complaining beeyaitch ;) Nice post!

  7. Why are you Sad?

    Who are you, Sad?

    ~~Don't be sad, be bad~~

  8. HaHaHa..nice one. Is it your "talent" that scripted the end with your ex-boyfriend Ducky? What about the Brit part...Ducky's Brit or are you?


I have an opinion and so should you! Leave your bouquets, brickbats and battle axes here, preferably in a language I can understand. If coyness gets the better of you, then email me (