i want my junk back

On Friday night, I produced some noxious junk. A friend and I were at our favourite pub, and had got past the social niceties to that lovely moment when you usually settle down to a cosy chat.

That's when I did it. About 5 minutes into the cosy chat phase, I made a remark about her marriage. Not only was my statement embarrassingly true, it was as insensitive as tweezing an eyebrow with a wrench. What made it worse was the way my friend tactfully steered the conversation around my remark, like she was stepping around dog poop on a pavement.

I want my statement back.

And while I'm at it, I also want to take back the 4-letter word that slipped out my mouth last month, while telling a funny story to a friend's mother-in-law (the ending wasn't funny, that's one place I'm probably never getting invited to again). And that despicable salwar kurta my aunt had given me and which I had promptly donated to my maid... I want it back with retrospective effect, before the day my aunt visited and my maid wore it to work...

If there were a return policy on the rubbish we say and do, the rules would be different from store policies. Firstly, the seller (eg. me with my foot in my mouth), would have absolutely no grumpy clauses about coming back in 24 hours or avoiding busy saturday mornings; on the contrary, it would be a homecoming complete with open arms and a fatted calf. Then there's the issue of damage - you wouldn't worry about damaged merchandise, your concern would be about the damage it has caused to the unsuspecting receiver.

And the last issue is of cost - if brain surgeons came up with a way to erase the memory of actions or words from receivers, they would make much more money than cosmetic surgeons who pump stars with silicon. And the steep fees wouldn't have to be paid by patients, the people with tongues that run away with them would be more than happy to bear all costs.

I know I would, if I could get back all the rubbish I've said, and never mind the market rates.

u got junk mail

In the last few weeks, I've realised that I've turned into a digital rag picker. My cursor has been wading through page after page of hits on junk - I must be the only person in history to go beyond page 5 on google search.

But it's been worth it, here are two of the latest gems I unearthed.

One is the term upcycling - which is the practice of taking something that is disposable, and transforming it into something of greater use of value. Besides describing a useful concept, the word has the additional advantage of adding tact and intellectual quotient to everyday conversations. For example, if you don't want to tell a colleague that his presentation sucks, you could say "Your presentation is a perfect candidate for upcycling!"

The second gem is the picture above - by artist Sandy Schimmel. She puts upcycling into practice by creating art out of junk mail and flyers. Enjoy.

a school in every dust bin

A hovercraft made out of junk, by Arvind Gupta.

A toy maker, writer, science enthusiast, engineer and bibliophile, Arvind Gupta designs toys that bring the principles of science and geometry alive for children. ‘‘One doesn’t need expensive material to perform experiments. ...in fact, the students’ mind is the most expensive commodity involved,’’ says Arvind Gupta.

Besides toys from trash, Arvind Gupta's web site, www.arvindguptatoys.com, contains downloadable books on education philosophy and science education.

straight from the trash can

Dirty White Trash (with gulls) by Tim Noble and Sue Webster.

These artists from England create sculptures out of heaps of garbage collected from the streets of London. When light is projected on the heap, meaningful shadows appear on the wall behind the trash.

some things never change...

I’m so tired of working every day,
Now the weekend’s come I’m gonna throw my troubles away
If you’ve got the cab fare, mister you’ll do all right
I want to see the bright lights tonight

Meet me at the station don’t be late
I need to spend some money and it just won’t wait
Take me to the dance and hold me tight
I want to see the bright lights tonight

There’s crazy people running all over town
There’s a silver band just marching up and down
And the big boys are all spoiling for a fight
I want to see the bright lights tonight
Meet me at the station don’t be late
I need to spend some money and it just won’t wait
Take me to the dance and hold me tight
I want to see the bright lights tonight

A couple of drunken nights rolling on the floor
It’s just the kind of mess I’m looking for
I’m gonna dream till Monday comes in sight
I want to see the bright lights tonight

Meet me at the station don’t be late
I need to spend some money and it just won’t wait
Take me to the dance and hold me tight
I want to see the bright lights tonight
Take me to the dance and hold me tight
I want to see the bright lights tonight

RICHARD & LINDA THOMPSON
I WANT TO SEE THE BRIGHT LIGHTS TONIGHT (1974)

weaning facts

348,000.

At last count, that’s how many hits you got if you googled ‘adopting a child in India’.
But go past Branjelina’s visit to an orphanage in Pune (several pages) and the official sites of adoption centres. You’ll reach a point where you will want to drop the idea of adoption along with your clothes, and start procreating madly.

There is a video of a sting operation about an infant who was taken away from his mother to be given up for adoption. 34 years later, the child (now an angry adult) is back in India, enraged about having been a victim of a lucrative ‘deal’.

I read blogs of women who were turned away because they didn’t make more than Rs. 80,000 a month. (The Indian laws for adoption stipulate a monthly income of Rs. 5000).
There are adoption centers that brazenly ask for donations, and bend the rules of age for people who can afford to donate tens of thousands of dollars.

There are stories about orphanages that turn away Indian parents, because there’s more to gain by giving children to foreigners.

But on one of the back pages, buried under the muck was a faith-restoring news clipping.

It's not you, it's me...

If you think it’s hard to find the right man, you've obviously never looked for parking.

Here’s how a typical parking game goes.

I see a parking spot from a distance. This one is definitely not engaged, I whisper to my car. My car purrs in anticipation, my heart sings, because we’ve found THE ONE.

Then seconds later, wham!

Dumped by a drawing of a miniature cockroach shaped scooter that signals two wheelers only.

What makes parking spaces so choosy? It’s not like we’re looking for a lifetime commitment, we’re totally ok with one day stands.

My car and I have been rejected because we’re not residents of a building.

We’ve been passed over because we weren’t bright enough to become doctors at a hospital or ambitious enough to be CEOs.

We’ve been spurned because we don’t shop at certain stores and because we don’t like raw Japanese food.

We’ve failed to make it to second gear because it’s the wrong time of the month (not being bitter, I’ve seen designated parking spots for even days and others for odd days of the month).

But here’s one that took my breath away. Dejected by so many failures, I didn't have the confidence of the white car to make the first move. But the spot was chivalrous enough to pose for me while I took a picture.

One day, I will be ready to get close to this one... once I dig out out all my old moral science text books and become a better human being.