No offence, but...

Yes, we all say that on occasion, but rarely, if ever, do we mean it – and maybe that’s not such a bad thing

Have you noticed how whenever someone wants to say something offensive, they start off with, “No offence, but…”? How when they mean to sound really disrespectful, they preface their remarks with, “With due respect…”? And that when they want to pass judgement on you, they kick off with, “Not to be judgemental, but…”? We’ve all done this little dance before being offensive, disrespectful or judgemental (or all three) and on the whole we tend to get away with it, because most people are too shamed, scared or polite to call us out.

But, more to the point, what all of this assumes is that being offensive, disrespectful or judgemental about people is plain wrong and we need to put in a quick disclaimer before saying anything that falls in those categories. Well, I am beginning to think that this is where we go wrong; in getting all defensive about our opinions because we feel that might cause offence, be deemed rude or come across as plain judgemental. There really is no need to apologise for any of the above. If we believe in a moral code, and live by certain principles, then there will always be times when we are offended by some people or by certain situations, and it is far from disrespectful to sit in judgement on such occasions.

Speaking for myself, these are just some of the situations in which I reserve the right to be judgemental about people – without caring whether I am offending anyone or, indeed, being less than respectful.

·       If I see another family party sitting down to enjoy an expensive meal in a fancy restaurant while the maid/nanny stands beside the table trying to restore order among the fractious children on the table. Ditto, lazy, feckless parents who refuse to discipline their children as they run around and create mayhem in public spaces. Or those who bring their bawling infants out for a late-night movie when the little mites should be tucked up in bed and fast asleep.

·       I know money can’t buy class, but there is something super-annoying when those who drive in uber-expensive cars, roll down the window at the traffic light to throw out litter, spit on the road, and then shout at the street children who are begging for some money to buy dinner, for dirtying their lovely car with their grimy hands.

·       Men who think that they are paying you a huge compliment when they call you ‘sweetie’ ‘honey’ ‘darling’ ‘babe’ or those who refer to grown-up women as ‘girls’. It’s not cute. It’s not endearing. It’s not acceptable. And you really need to stop, or else…

·       When people are queueing up in an orderly fashion at a bank, at airport check-in, or at security, you need to join the queue. Not at any point where you can squeeze yourself in but right at the back where the queue ends. Don’t tell me that you stepped out to make a quick phone call. Stop insisting that you were always standing behind that woman in the red kurta. And don’t claim that your flight is leaving and you need to be let through NOW. You are lying, you lying scumbag. Now get yourself right at the back, and wait like the rest of us.

·       Surely by now, you’ve seen enough hospital dramas on television to know that you are not supposed to use mobile phones in and around intensive care areas in a hospital. It’s not just about preserving peace and quiet for the patients but also to ensure that the phone signals don’t interfere with the life-saving equipment that is in use. So, while it won’t kill you to turn off your mobile, you may well end up killing someone if you don’t. If you really need to make – or take – that call, step outside.

·       I am all for praying to your particular God, but must you do so in the dead of night or at the crack of dawn, while using a loudspeaker for good measure? You do know that He (or She) can hear you perfectly well without those amplified sound waves, don’t you? But if you turn off that infernal loudspeaker, you may earn the blessings of your neighbours as well.

·       If you are above the age of 10, there really is no excuse for kicking the back of my seat throughout the flight. Or waiting till I doze off before you put your entire weight on my backrest, as you propel yourself out of your seat, so that you can wake me up on your way to the loo. There is a special place in hell for folks like you. And I hope you get a taste of it at the baggage belt itself, when you discover that your suitcase has been dispatched to the wrong destination.

What on earth?

Here's the next update in the series labelled: the abiding mysteries of life...


Yes, I know, I have mentioned these before: those abiding mysteries of life that keep me awake at night. But you know what, I wasn't quite done. So, here's the next edition of what threatens to become a recurring series (don't say you weren't warned!)


* Why is it that the moment an 'expert commentator' begins praising a batsmen at the crease as he nears a milestone (50, a century, 10,000 runs in Test cricket), the batsman in question gets out? I'm pretty sure you've noticed this as well. In fact, so well-documented is this phenomenon that it even has a name: 'commentator's curse'. But nobody seems able to explain why this happens. The players on the crease certainly can't hear what's going on in the commentary box. And yet, no sooner have the encomiums started flowing than the batsman starts his trudge back to the pavilion.

* Why do shower stalls in hotels only have shampoo bottles placed inside while the bath gel is kept next to the bathtub? Do hoteliers really believe that people first bathe in the tub and then tip-toe across on soapy feet to the shower stall to wash their hair? Did I hear a resounding no? Okay, then, how about you place a shampoo bottle and a bath gel at each location. At the prices you charge you can certainly afford it.


* How on earth does Sridevi look the way she does? The actress, who turns 50 this year, looks younger (not to mention considerably thinner) than she did during her heyday as the reigning superstar of Hindi cinema. Gone are the chubby cheeks and the thunder thighs. Instead we have a slim, svelte woman with miraculously-smooth skin with nary a frown-line in sight. The actress insists that it's all down to careful eating and regular exercise. I'm sure she is right but I have to say that her appearance in English Vinglish reminded me of that old joke. How can you tell the young actresses apart from the old ones in Hollywood? The young ones have wrinkles.


* And while we are talking about 50-ish women who look better with every decade, what is up with Nigella Lawson? If she does indeed eat all the food she twit-pics every day, where do all the calories go? Surely, they can't all be burnt away by her daily treadmill-pounding (wearing only a bra – no, I am not making this up; we are indebted to Lawson herself for this little nugget of information)? So why don’t all those doughnuts and fry-ups settle around her waist?


* Why is it that the moment you find a perfume that is just you, or even a lipstick that is perfect for your skin tone, the manufacturers decide to discontinue the line? Is this part of some giant conspiracy by cosmetics companies to keep us fickle and uncommitted so that they can benefit from our 'experimentation'?

* Why does the traffic lane you choose always move the slowest? Ditto, queues at banks, immigration counters at airports, and the like. And you can be sure that if you decide to ditch the line moving at a snail-like pace for the one that is galloping on ahead, the two will switch personas as soon as you switch sides.


* And while we are on traffic, why is it that you always get a red light at every intersection when you are running late? On the days when you have all the time in the world, the lights stay resolutely green, in a classic display of contrariness. If this is something that happens to you as well, here's a little trick that works like a charm for me. On days that I want to speed through, I leave home without my kajal on, telling myself that I will apply it at the first red light. And guess what? The lights stay green throughout my route.


* Why do people follow you on Twitter only to berate you for what you tweet? Do they not realise that they can just click on 'unfollow' and never have to hear from you again? And that this is a far less stressful (both for them and you) option than letting loose with a volley of insults and verbal abuse for having failed/annoyed/angered them? It really is a bit like calling up someone you don't know on the phone only to complain that you don't like the sound of their voice.

* Why does the Snickers bar keep shouting 'Eat me' whenever you open the fridge? And is there any way to shut it up?


* Why are the mirrors in the changing rooms of all clothing stores so unflattering? Not to mention the nasty neon lighting that makes everyone look even more pasty-faced than usual. Do store owners and managers not realise that they would move more merchandise if buyers could look at themselves in flattering light in a mirror that didn't make their ass look big in everything? (Or is that down to the Snickers bar?)


* Why is it that the day you can sleep in late is when you wake up at the crack of dawn (and then can't fall asleep again no matter how hard you try)? And on the days when it is imperative that you get up early, you can barely drag yourself out of bed? Is this your body clock’s idea of a joke? And when will it understand that we are not amused?

Lining up

Why does nobody respect the sanctity of a queue?

Okay, I’ll come straight out and say it. I’m a bit funny when it comes to queues. Even if I say so myself, in most other areas of life, I am so laid-back that if I pushed myself any further I’d keel right over. My motto in life is simple: nothing matters very much and very little matters at all.

But put me in a queue and I turn into a regular nutter. Suddenly, nothing matters more in the world than that nobody – and I mean NOBODY – jumps the queue. It really doesn’t matter what I’m queuing for, or how long the waiting time is. No sooner have I joined the line than by some miraculous process – the workings of which I have yet to fathom – it becomes my mission in life to maintain its sanctity against all encroachers.

By some strange alchemy I am transformed into the Queue Queen and you trespass onto my territory at your own peril. So, even as I mentally calculate how long it will take me to get to the front, I keep a beady eye out for infiltrators who may be mounting a stealth offensive from the back or from either flank.

If anyone as much as inches forward I turn on them baring my teeth and snarling, “I’m sorry but we’re in a queue here.”

Most people take one look at the crazy glint in my eye and hastily back off, muttering something stupid like, “Um, sorry, didn’t realize that.” Those who are brave – or foolish – enough to brazen it out (“Oh, but I was here a moment ago, just stepped out for a bit…”) get the full force of my wrath.

By the time my tirade reaches a crescendo, I am practically frothing at the mouth while my fellow queuers gather their children close to them and warily step away from this mad woman who has turned a rather alarming shade of crimson.

Once order had been restored and all is right in the queue world, I finally register the looks of horror on the faces around me, and try to make a quick recovery. Schooling my scowling features into a weak smile, I say to nobody in particular, “I really don’t understand why people have to try and jump queues.”

But no, it’s a lost cause. Nobody is willing to make eye contact let alone risk speaking to the raving lunatic in their midst.

Do I know that this is demented behaviour? In the rational part of my brain, sure I do. Is jumping a queue such a serious offence in the overall scheme of things? Of course it isn’t. But try as I might, I can’t help myself.

The moment I join a queue, I seem to undergo a personality transplant. It may be at the immigration counter of some international airport, at my local Barista where I stop by to pick up a cup of coffee, or even at a shop till. In fact, I still remember with horror the time when I had a spectacular meltdown at my bank while queuing to cash my cheque.

It happened like this. All law-abiding folks had made a single line behind a sign that said “Queue here” and were waiting to be called to one of the five counters that were operating. A young man entered, cheerfully ignored us as we stood around patiently, walked straight up to a counter that had just gotten free and presented his cheque.

I looked around at those queuing alongside me, but nobody seemed particularly perturbed by this blatant transgression. Well, I wasn’t going to ignore this flagrant disregard of queue etiquette even if everyone else had been lulled into somnolescence.

“Excuse me,” I hollered from the back. “We’re all in queue here.” The queue-jumper ignored me. This called for direct action. I abandoned my place in the queue, stomped off to the counter and began berating the cashier for serving someone who hadn’t bothered to queue like the rest of us. A shouting match ensued and by the time the general manager came out to investigate what the fuss was about, I was spluttering with rage and not making much sense. But on the bright side, the queue-jumper was now cowering at the back of the line.

Okay, I am willing to admit that perhaps there is something a teeny bit odd about my obsession with the sacrosanct nature of queues. I am even prepared to concede that it is not the end of civilization as we know it if somebody tries to break one.

But can somebody – anybody – explain to me why we Indians suffer from a chronic inability to stand in a queue without wanting to push ourselves ahead of everyone else? Everywhere else in the world people line up patiently all the time, waiting their turn like the civilized human beings they are. So why are we so unwilling – or unable – to enter into the spirit of things?

And then, there’s that other existential question to which there is no good answer. Why is it that no matter which line you choose, the queue you join always seems to move at the slowest pace? That’s also true of traffic lanes, but that, as they say, is the subject of another rant at another time.