A Finger Burn, a 103° Fever, and a Driving Test

Yes, indeed. You guessed it.

Pity, really.

I was handling some steaming daal in a vessel. As I ladled it out into a little bowl, BAM! Unbeknownst to me, my third finger was touching the bottom of the bowl. And the bottom, as Physics and Chemistry tell you, piles on the degrees super-fast, like an obese sponge hopping for even more water, never content.

Regrettably, it expanded to the size of a bulbous wart on a toad's surface.

Thankfully, it was my left hand, so I'd still be able to do menial jobs like eat.

Unfortunately, I was supposed to have my driving test that very Friday.

This meant I had less than three days to try to get rid of it COMPLETELY.

Oops.

(Look away if you're squeamish.)

'No driving for you today,' said the instructor, and he told me to get out.

'But I can manage,' I protested.

'No,' he said firmly. 'It could burst when you're driving, and that would be a problem.'

He started rummaging in the glove compartment. Finally, he brought out a small, dangerous, shiny safety-pin.

'Look,' he said, 'Find one at home. Prick yourself. It's only water. No need for drama.'

'I'm not the one doing drama,' I muttered, 'I was ready to drive.'

I couldn't summon the guts to prick myself, so I went to the doctor.

My bulb got nicely tweezered out and my finger was wrapped in white bandage.

'You'll be fine,' said the doctor cheerfully. 'Now, you should take your booster injection.'

'Booster?'

'Booster. At eighteen years.'

And the syringe pricked my upper arm.

'By they way,' he continued, 'You could be getting fever later, because of the injection. I'll give you a couple medicines to take in case that happens.'

'I could get fever?!'

'In case.'

I didn't get fever, and had a nice, memorable day.

At night, I started shivering. I measured 100.7° F.

Oops.

I had the tablet... And woke up in the morning with 103.2°.

Oops.

What ensued was, in one simple word: CHAOS.

It was already Thursday.

Then came a prescription of strong, quick-acting medicine.

Fortunately, I only had to use one tablet before I was fine. (I still have five left.)

In the evening, we called up to confirm about the driving test.

'Nahi, nahi, no driving test,' came the reply.

Eh?

'No test conducted at all this week. Do next week.'

That was last week. My finger is still not a hundred percent healed (though of course I've got rid of the bandage), and my test is (most probably) tomorrow.

Ah, sunshine.

Oops.


(UPDATE: The test is next week. Darn. ;))

The Sword is Mightier than Irrationality

Here's what I wanted to be doing at seventeen:

Reading about my own work being read

Here's what I ended up doing at seventeen:

 Reading others' work (being read)

Arts? they asked. Why Arts?

From the three functional streams in India of Science, Commerce, and Arts, it seems to me that yes, I do need Arts.

I have tried out Science, of course, and loved it. But I can't make a career in writing with it. (You're nothing without a degree, though there are a few Indian 'writers' with 'bestsellers' which make me question their education at all).

'Arts?' says a close, middle-aged relative. 'I know you like drawing and painting, but was it this much?'

(Yes, Your Honour, this actually happened.)

My grandfather still points out to me MBA courses in the newspaper (though it's considerably reduced to maybe once a month; earlier it was a few times a week).

'Arts will only require a handful of marks for admission,' one laughed, as if buckets of 42-percent-marks were hovering in like termites.

Old-timers are stubbornly still old-timers. They cringe when they see mobile phones, the Internet, atheism, or inter-caste marriages. Can't really blame them. That's the whole purpose of a generation gap.

Well, who cares, I'm doing Arts.

And Thereby Hangs a Tail...

Time to be subjected to one of my untasteful poems again.

This time I'll do it live with a Random Word Generator, and even keep track of the time I took to compose it.

Now, noun: madhouse

         adjective: flameproof

         verb: flow

         adverb: flaccidly

(of varying difficulties)

Time begins... NOW.

A flameproof madhouse once walked,

Through a city chalk and cheese;

And as the madhouse just gawked,

The citizens began to wheeze:

'Who,' one asked, 'Is this madhouse

Who makes us sneeze and wheeze?

And why, oh why, is my house

Falling apart at the beams?'

For indeed, the house, made of

Chalk and cheese was limping now,

It hung flaccidly as if

It were yielding a pleased bow.

At once, all the houses collapsed,

And there began to flow a

River of cheese, with infused

Chalk -- a river light yellow.

They went after the madhouse

And hurled flaming sticks at him

For destroying their houses,

And making them sneeze, and then some.

But the madhouse was flameproof,

And he stayed unaffected;

He solemnly expressed grief,

Then quickly trudged on, offended.

(Yeah, what do you expect if I'm under a time limit?)

Well, I took 19 minutes and 32 seconds for this piece of wisdom.

On the way to geniusdom? Too close, perhaps...