Bibliophilia!

Donald Duck did it. He got me hooked to books. In a desperate attempt to quieten my constant chatter, my mother found me a couple of tattered Donald Duck comics in her library and gave them to me at the age of two, to flip through and amuse myself. However, her plan failed horribly, because not only did I NOT stop my chatter (I would make up gibberish and substitute them for the dialogues I was too young to read), but I demanded to be taken to the library every second day, to find and 'read' more!

It's been twenty years since then, and the bibliophilia in me has spread like an epidemic through all possible genres, even giving me the eternal hope of writing a book someday. Recently, Facebook had the BBC Booklist Buzz that got me thinking about this post. (If you've been tagged in that note, how many books have YOU read?) While some part of me felt immensely inferior, thanks to the insane number of books I have NOT read, the other part of me felt like documenting the fun memories of those that I have read.

Through my entire childhood (uh...I would define childhood as 2 through 22), I've been gifted books as birthday presents. Of course, having a birthday in book-ridden March when exams are scorning intently at you would put people off at the prospect of more books, albeit for entertainment. However, I'd wait eagerly for my birthday presents, tearing off the wrapping of all gifts that resembled books first. Within the next few days, I'd stay in a blissful oblivion of the outside world, as I floated in and out of pages and pages of wonderland.

The first books I was gifted was a twin pack of Snow White and Cinderella by my neighbours. The beauty of fairy tales began with those two books...and has lasted ever since. (That can't be truer, since I spent last night on the couch, weeping happily over the ending of The Princess and The Frog - a really beautiful movie!) After pre-school years of 'I have 20 ladybird books how many you have' discussions, I finally moved on to greener pages.....the Enid Blyton series.

Enid Blyton is the rite of passage to childhood, if you ask me. Blyton and Dahl were such prolific writers, that they can be indisputably credited with the ability of sparking creativity in every starry eyed child. From getting scared while reading 'Witches', to getting ravenous while reading about the sumptuous feasts in Malory Towers, my holiday train rides were never complete without a brand new, crisp, Blyton book. When I finally ran out of bookspace (which I unfortunately did, thanks to the 3 generations of Reader's Digest my family has been collecting since forever), I gave up all my Blyton books to my cousin, so that she could be introduced to this magical world of the English Countryside. However, a couple of years later, when I went visiting there and saw all my books looking so out of place in her shelf, I secretly collected them all back and brought them home to re-read them all over again! (And uh, this wouldn't be too far long, so it shows the sort of childish insanity I develop around Blyton books!)

While Blyton introduced me to Girl Power, Carolyn Keene, Ann M Martin and Francine Pascal reinforced it. After years of constant reading, increased glasses power and countless taunts about reading in low light/moving car/upside down, I can officially claim to have read ALL of the Nancy Drew and Babysitter's Club books. (Uh, I somehow gave up after reading about fifty Sweet Valley books. I had discovered Judy Blume and Harry Potter by then.)

So after the overdose of girl power, I had the next obsession with books...and magic! Anyone my age would instantly connect with Harry Potter best, because we grew with him. When I was 11, so was Harry. Reading and re-reading each book over and over again made me sink deeper into the world of fantasy and charm. Watching the movies, and then dissing them for not having stood up to my creative vision of Harry's adventures made excellent pastime. Of course, randomly playing Harry Potter quizzes in class (and I'm talking about college here, mind you) was so entertaining.....as I tested the depths of my memory trying to figure out the actual meaning of Dumbledore's name.

Today, I have read so many books I'd NEVER be able to remember them all. The fact my very thick glasses (now replaced by very thin contact lens) testifies to. My tastes in books have probably changed a lot. I've been through the:

'Classic' Phase - When I would devour Austen after Austen....I still love reading her books..and using the quaint English expressions in speech and befuddling people!! Of course, Shakespeare and a few other Classic Authors fell into this category by compulsion, as they were prescribed in curriculum - but they got me hooked to discovering more of the series as well.

'Comic' Phase - Tinkle was my favorite-st train comic!! I would always secretly dream about writing to Uncle Pai and praising him to no end about the stories! While I've read dozens of Archie Comics and Tin Tins (which were never really comics, but a frozen motion picture in boxes), Tinkle has, and will always remain THE comic forever. :)

'Indian Author' Phase - When I discovered R.K.Narayan and he transported me to a world I would give my left hand to be a part of. Of course, Rohinton Mistry, Ruskin Bond, Vikram Seth, Shashi Deshpande and Anita Desai have all been an integral part of the books I love to read, but R.K.Narayan's entire collection will always hold a permanent membership in my mind library!

'Chick-lit' Phase - From Opal Mehta to The Zoya Factor, I've read them all. And someday, when my life gets as exciting as theirs, I will write one. Till then, I'll continue drawing inspiration from feisty chicks all over the world and devour their adventures.

'Romance Phase' - Yes, I read Mills and Boon, ok? There you go, I've admitted it on the world wide web. They are the BEST cure for my aerophobia, ok? At least, if my plane were to go down, I can imagine being rescued by the handsome pilot or co-passenger and live a happily ever after life, no?

'I should read this book because everyone else has read it Phase' - Uhh...Kite Runner, God of Small Things, Shantaram, Midnight's Children and all of Jhumpa Lahiri's works fall in this category. I know, I should've probably discovered these books myself. Having others forcing me to read the above titles have had me both cringing (whoever you are, who lauded GOST and made me read it, I will find you, hunt you down, and make you read my Mental Chronometry book. And test you on it.) and reading up more (like The Joy Luck Club - Amy Tan, inspired me to read Lahiri)

and finally, the 'Oh no, I have nothing new to read now, so I will just pick up the first Nancy Drew/Harry Potter/Famous Five and get right to it' Phase - The one phase I love slipping into every once in a while. :)

I've been bitten by the book bug, and I have a bibiliophilia. The one disorder I'd never like to be cured of!

A Delightful Diwali

Oh dear. That sounds like a box of sweets, doesn't it? I know it does. But what can I do? In the past couple of days, I've been stuffing myself silly with cakes, sweets and everything with a sucrose overdose that I think it's only fair that I project the mithaas (see? Hindi word! Hindi word!) of the season on my blog as well!

So, it's Diwali! Why is it a unique Diwali this year and no other? Well, for lots of reasons.

1) It's my first Diwali away from home. Not like I'm wandering around, lost and uncared for or anything.....far from it. But still, away from home still leaves a tingly feeling that can only be combated with more sweets. (Works like a charm, believe me.) I never even knew I had such intense feelings about celebrating festivals at home! (Maybe those sweets are turning me into a portion of hindi-serial-melodrama)

2) Because it's a Diwali away from home, I've realized it's also become my Delhi Diwali. Bad idea, since when I went shopping for Diwali clothes, I didn't anticipate the sudden change of weather. I have with me, now, a very ethnic summer Diwali attire that can possibly NOT be worn unless one wants to land up with bronchitis (if the cracker-smoke hasn't yet affected you yet) just after Diwali. I need to now go in search of some sort of jacket/wrap/sweater right away....

3) Serial Lighting. Do you have any idea how much FUN it is to have serial lighting at home? Or twinkling around in other houses? I've always lit my house in Bangalore with diyas. First I'd help light the ones downstairs...then rush upstairs to light some more....then rush downstairs to capture it all on camera before the wind played spoilsport. But here, I've discovered a whole new and colourful diwali. Would you believe I still haven't seen any house with diyas yet? Only serial lighting! Has this been happening forever or do I miss my good ol' 39th Cross in Bangalore so much?

4) Crackers! Yes yes, if you're my friend you probably know my issue with crackers. If you're not, then here's the story. Almost 11 years ago, my class and I were made to write a letter to the then Prime Minister of India taking a pledge that we wouldn't burst crackers that diwali in order to protest against Child labour in fireworks factories. We were shown this video, pictures and told horrific stories of the plight of children there. We were even given little plaques that said 'Aatishbaazi nahin karenge, Baal-mazdoori door karenge' (We won't celebrate, Child-labour we'll eradicate --okay, I twisted the grammar to make it rhyme!) But anyway, I was moved to the extent that I actually did follow that pledge...till date.

I've burst crackers, yes. I've violated the pledge here and there (at the behest of my parents who would clandestinely buy a few sparklers and flowerpots and then disclaim that there's no one at home to burst them...so I would politely oblige.) I've also done it voluntarily. And I don't mean just the sparklers, but all those dhadaam-dhodoom stuff as well. But each year, I'd feel like I wish I could tell the world why they must reduce cracker-usage and save the children, environment, their own ear drums and lung passages.

With this blog, I strangely feel empowered. That I can, in fact, tell the world. So, world! (or the miniscule part of it that reads my blog) Burst crackers, but please remember to check for an indication on the box that says it's been made by adult workers only (I know I can't be naive enough to assume that they're all true. But I can be naive enough to want to assume it.)

And burst less, celebrate more. It's the festival of lights, not sound and air pollution. Diyas and Serial lighting provide a much more quieter and serene feel to Diwali, than smoky crackers. (This is only for people who have crossed 20 years. Don't deny yourself the right to a crackling childhood by imposing self-restraints about calmness and sereneness ok? That'll just be plain weird.)

As you read this, I'm sure you'll have a million rebuttals waiting to burst forth....I can name some very effective ones on your behalf as well. But it is a stand I take, and something I really really believe in. And today, 11 years later, when I have the opportunity to put it up somewhere, I chose to. It's only personal, and gives me pride that I have the passion to fight for a cause too.

So here's wishing everyone a Delightful Diwali....may each of your lives be filled brilliant spots of fiery lights from lamps, and may every day have the warmth of all the lamps lit together, and may each encounter be as sweet as the mithais. :-)

P.S. But think about the child labour, sound and air pollution before you go forth and get crazy with crackers. Remember, it's you who has to live in that atmosphere for about 2-3 more days. But somewhere, there are children who are living in a far worse atmosphere through their childhood.

P.P.S. Sorry for sounding like such a such a sour-milk-ka-halwa. Go and enjoy. Just come back, read this, and feel guilty! :P

The First Step..

Picture this. A small, chubby eleven year old girl in a mismatched uniform in the office of a gigantic school. Children walk past her, chattering away happily, as she sits awkwardly on a chair, fiddling with her new school bag and feeling more lost than someone with Dissociative Amnesia. She waits for someone, anyone to tell her where she's supposed to belong in this sea of students in a completely unfamiliar city in the middle of a school term. A group of teachers walk past her, assuming her to be a wallflower. But one lady notices her. The girl feels a tap on her shoulder and turns around, the kind lady smiles at her. The lady asks the girl her name and age. She then asks the girl to follow her and enter 6-B, the class she teaches. She introduces the girl to the class, gives her a smile and begins work for the day. For the teacher, it is a small gesture of attention. For the girl, it is the first step.

Thank you, Revati ma'am. For giving me the confidence to enter my first step into a new city, a new life. I may not remember much about the continents of Africa and the Americas, but I will never forget my first day in Bangalore, and how easy you made it for me. (You'll probably not be reading this, but I had given myself 10 minutes more that day. If no one had realized that I was a new student and was waiting for any teacher to acknowledge me, I would have run away from school and somehow found a way to go back to Delhi and continue with my old life there.)

Teachers are the first handrail one grabs before climbing the stairs. They stay with you till the end of the stairs, and expect you to make the journey on the next floor by yourself. Until you reach the next flight of stairs. I have probably not considered all my teachers 'special', but the person I am is largely due to the teachers I had. So today, this is a humble thank you, to all the unspoken heroines (mostly) of my life.

Thank you, Mrs.Jain, Mrs. Bannerjee, Mrs. Roy and Mrs. Anand for making my first years in Delhi so special. And instilling the ability to lead (haha, I was the Head Girl of the junior school - a post I exploited quite well, thanks.), the ability to express myself and to question anything that doesn't feel right.

Thank you, all my teachers at Kumarans. If I were to start writing all your names here, I'd probably need the school magazine and a couple of spare hours! Thank you English teachers, for critiquing and moulding my writing, thank you Maths teachers (I love the subject, and I'm sure a large part of the credit goes to you guys), thank you Science teachers (for actually making sure I understood 'application based problems'....sigh) , thank you Social Studies teachers (I DID love the subject. Honest. But mostly after I had finished my 10th bored exams!) and a special thank you to Sanskrit Sir - your classes were the *best* (and I learnt a fair amount of Sanskrit in the process as well!)

As a child, I always secretly wanted to be a teacher. More precisely, a librarian. Not the mean sort, who give you pincer stares and grab the book you're holding, enter the code and shove it back into your hands....but more the sort who would read out stories, encourage children to pick interesting books and spend all her free time re-reading Blyton, Dahl and Montgomery books. (of course, this ambition of mine was always hidden beneath the cloak of 'I want to be a neurosurgeon-forensic psychologist-mystery writer-television journalist-radio jockey-hostess of a travel/cookery show'.

And if school planted the seed of wanting to teach, then college just nurtured it further. MCC exposed me to a spectrum of teachers who have the scary and forbearing task of shaping the future of girls. And some who played a special part in shaping my future need to be thanked. So thank you Mrs.V (you were Miss.V when you started teaching us!), Mrs. P and Mr.R - for being the coolest Journalism teachers and showing us the gloss and grime of media. A HUGE thank you to all the psychology teachers - simply because I'm pursuing the same subject, and I wouldn't have had the confidence to do so, had I not been taught well enough to pique my interest in it. Thanks, Mrs.Matthew, for incorporating Greek Mythology so flawlessly into otherwise mundane Literature classes.

Someday, I'll make my ambition of being a teacher come true. While there's a part of me that believes that almost everyone is a teacher in some way or the other, the aura that the lady with an attendance register, a couple of haphazard notes and a firm glare that can instantly melt into a smile exudes is a class apart (pun intended). The first step determines a new journey and unknown adventures. And what better profession than to be a mentor for taking that step?

Thank you. :-)

The Choice to Say No

'How easy is it to say no?' She wondered.

She had seen this coming, somewhere deep

in the clutters of her mind.

She could not pin point to what

had lead it to this juncture, but knew,

that the time had arrived.

The time to say no.

She first ignored the messages.

Thought it safer not to bother

about them at all.

It began to infiltrate her workspace soon.

That also, was something

she learnt to forget about.

But eventually, messages turned

cynically sweeter.

They became flowers.

Chocolates even.

Not something easily digested

(pun intended) by anyone.

The beholder of those

messages had questions.

Answers were sought from her.

She then decided to say no.

The questions were all

given the same answer.

No. No. No.

It could not have been clearer,

bolder or better understood

by anyone else except the beholder.

News to Amuse

'News you can use' - is passe now. The latest trend is 'News that can Amuse'. In my first class of journalism, we were taught that if a dog bites a man, it is...well...normal. But if a man bites a dog, it becomes news. Clearly, my teachers meant that news is something that is meant to be real, but sensational...something that can grab your attention and sustain it long enough to stuff data into that overworked brain. However, dog biting man story was just an expression. Something that distinguishes news-worthy stories from other stories. 

Recently though, I realised that a news channel has taken that extremely seriously. They seem to be literally running around finding men who can be coaxed to bite dogs just to get some news material. They happened to cover a story about a prostitution racket that was exposed and how a woman who was infected with HIV was given 'justice'. It angered the journalist/moralist/feminist part of me to no end. And this is how it was shown: 

News Reader: (In loud, pseudo-Amitabh Bachchan baritone) " this is the story of a poor woman named D. Her dreams and her hopes have been shattered!!!! She is now living the life of misery!!! Only a womaan can understand another womaaan's heart, but in this a womaaan has poisoned a womaan's heart! She has been doomed to a lifelong battle!!!! We bring you exclusive report of......." and so it went. 

The baritone was being supplemented by images of an activist aunty openly slapping another woman. Not just slapping, but basically thrashing whichever body part she could find. The camera man was clearly psyched and hence was shaking (of mirth or horror, I cant say) and the images were blurring but even that could not prevent a couple of dragonflies (or rain poochis) to wave at their mums into the camera. The images were played over and over again (and once, even backwards!) 

So the story was about a girl who was duped into flesh trade by a landlady of some sort. This girl was rescued by a samaritan, who became samaritin-er by marrying her and 'making her dreams come true'. He was aghast to find out that she had been infected by HIV and regretted (this was on record, by the way) 'Having married her and not taken her for an AIDS test'. He decided the best way to give her justice would be to take a couple of activist aunties and thrash the living daylights out of the landlady, which was caught on camera. 

What exactly bugged me in this? 

1) The background music. They were alternating the music of Black (when Deaf-Blind-Mute-Rani is at her lowest possible level of melancholy) and the music of some B grade action flick when the ladies were displaying their brawn.

2) A re-enactment of the entire story was a roughly put together collage of movies where horrible, paunchy men have locked up petite damsels and are waving whiskey bottles around like showering holy water. One scene was so obscene, I'm sure it was ripped right off some blue film.

 

3) The translators who re-told the story in English. While the people in the story spoke kannada, their speeches were being translated with emotional overtones garnished generously with hyperboles. 

4) Expressions such as 'D's dreams came true when he married her' 'Her life was given the sparkling new light of love from a husband' 'One woman's love became conditional and made the other woman miserable' 'Life has now become a bleak beacon'...or somewhat similar. 

Why do I point this all out? Because at the end of the show, I was laughing so much, I literally fell off the chair. Bad effect, since I should have been symapthizing with the girl and understanding the deeper meaning of problems such as prostitution and AIDS. But it ended up having a completely opposite effect on me. For the first few minutes, I sat mesmerized as every technical/journalistic blunder was commited. After that, this just turned into a farce.

 What saddens me now is that many people who have watched this news will only remember it for it's blatant effusion of emotional melodrama and not the hard, harsh facts. The activist aunties will only pride upon the fact that they were shown on TV slapping the villians, but not that they rescued girls from the throes of prostitution. The girl, who will probably be grateful for having been rescued, will continue to make her dreams 'come true' by living with the samaritan. And I really hope the samaritan doesnt drop her like a hot potato once the show is off air. The underlying message of AIDS awareness (which by the way, was the 'theme' of the programme) was lost completely and the cameramen and the crew just blessed the man benevolently for having taken the poor, desolate, HIV woman into his household despite her 'history'. 

Man has really bitten the dog and how! News is now meant to Amuse, apparently. 

Vicks on your Soul

A sure shot way of getting rid of a flu is to apply vicks on your soles. And this is coming from someone who has personally been acquainted with at least 70% of the flu viruses that exist. (for the benefit of those whose brains refuse to kick-start on an unexpected holiday, I'm talking about me.) So the thing is, you apply a layer of vicks on your soles, put on that old, torn but incredibly comfortable pair of woolen socks and go off to sleep. How the vicks works from the soles to de-congest your chest, I have no clue. Defying all laws of science and anatomy, it works. And I swear by the remedy. 

Recently however, I came across a group of those charming people who seem to want publicity more often than ever on television these days. They are more commonly known as terrorists, but to me, they're people who have been infected with the worst possible flu virus. They don't have congestion in the chests, they have it in their brains. And what they need isn't Vicks on their soles. They need Vicks on their souls. 

Their souls have been congested with twisted thoughts of gaining salvation and religious supremacy by standing on the hill of innocent killed civilians. Perhaps they find the view of the world enchanting from up there. I wish they had vertigo. 

I happened to read a comment on a news channel made by a viewer. He/She said- 'Terrorists don't belong to any religion.' No religious, god-fearing person will kill for the sake of attaining brownie points from God. Why do we constantly categorize these people into a specific religion and label innocent others as genetically cruel? In fact, terrorism is a religion in itself, separate from all the other religions that exist. A religion that probably promotes a more gruesome and sadly, highly effective way of family planning and population reduction. The god of this new religion is one heck of a sadist person. 

Innocent people have paid the price of these flu-infected souls. People who didn't give life much thought, knowing that there was always a tomorrow to come and think things through. I have a very good mind to tell these terrorist fellows (actually, knowing their habit of communicating in the best ways of technology, I hope one of them happens to read this), if you really have that itch in your hand to go forth and play super-divine and decide when to take lives, I suggest you pick the right target next time. Rapists, Child Abusers, Poachers, and lots more with equally congested souls are always there for you. In fact, our country is choking with such people. Why not pick them instead and make this country a morally cleaner place instead of targeting the usual crowd of innocent civilians?

 We've had it, really. It's time we saw news on TV that is not coloured red. It's time you picked a more sensible target. And it's time you applied a generous coat of vicks on your souls. 

------------------------

10.10 PM 

I've been watching the news all day and I've changed my mind. These sick men dont need Vicks on their souls anymore. In fact, they've gone far beyond mere de-congestants acting as cures. They dont deserve to be cured at all. 

Ew…Teasing!

Imagine getting up late on the first day of college in the New Year. And then you realize that the milk at home is over, so you run over to your corner shop in pajamas with a disgruntled look, only to be greeted by a ‘Haaaaai Baaaybeeee!’ at that sleazy shop corner. Ew. What a beginning!

It’s rampant and it is spreading in Bangalore like some epidemic. These are men who have no jobs, no ambition and no life, really. Ew Teasing, I call it. And they target women of all ages, shapes and sizes. The fact that you own one X chromosome more than them enthralls them, I think. Actually, the guys who resort to eve teasing wouldn’t even know the spelling of ‘chromosome’. This is probably why they continue to eve tease countless women even after reprimands.

Sadakchaap, suits them perfectly, down to those fake Nikes. Citizens of different cities react to eve-teasers react differently. If such men came across any woman who grew up drinking lassi and eating makhan parathas, they would be met with a shower of chappals. It is only us, who remain docile. Ignore- we say- it's the best way to stop them. True, ignoring these sidey chaps does help in discouraging them. But when the teasing gets out of hand, then all the anger within each of us will only result in a dastardly implosion.

The worst episode of eve-teasing that I witnessed was in Goa. Our college had gone there for a trip. True, 250 girls in one beach is bait for these hormonally super charged morons. But the fact that they walked around shamelessly holding their camera phones and clicking anyone and everyone they saw irked most of us to no end. We caught several phones and deleted the pictures and threw the phone away and screamed, ‘Catch’ at them! The cheap thrill they got at ogling at badly clicked 1.3 mega pixel cameras was nothing compared to the looks we gave them.

Munnabhai is probably to only ‘tapori’ that intelligent girls can fall for. Wearing clothes that can give even a rainbow an inferiority complex is just plain jatang, not attractive. Begging any and every female to ‘fraaandship them’ is not the best pick up line. When will such men ever understand? It is only in movies that women find rowdy romeos very endearing. And what happens in reel life is a big ‘reelu’. Stay away, please!

An 'Auto'mated Reaction

Urgh. After trying (very very unsuccessfully) for over 3 months, I still haven’t been able to control my horrid temper. And the subject of today is: the auto. Not one, but the whole lot in general. There was a time when I depended on them to take me to and fro college for 2 years. Then I considered them as bright spots of sunshine (read: jarring yellow coloured rooftops). And now, they only look like some jaundiced three wheelers.

My love-hate relationship with the Autos has been going on for quite a while. Back in Delhi, I’d squeal with excitement if I saw an auto whiz past me. Fatfatiyas, I think, they were called. They were oddly shaped and judging by the number of people squashed inside it, they could easily compete with a minibus! But I was never allowed to go on them. They were considered a taboo. (We South Delhi kiddos took great pride in commuting in the boot of Maruti 800s. They were cozy for two 6 year old girls making faces at everyone behind them!)

And so I grew out of the boot and entered the forested streets (yes, some trees did exist in the Garden City). Here, autos became an essential commodity. Especially in my 11th and 12th standards. My friends and I took a ‘rick’ (as we called it) to college everyday. It was only a distance of 3 kms and no buses went in that route. So we had little option but to take autos….or walk amidst open drains and dusty main roads. And each day was an experience for the three of us. Once, we got a driver who sang all the way to college. Once we got autos with rather ghastly images of knife-stabbing-eye stuck on his windscreen. Once we even got an auto with two drivers. And in the middle of a traffic jam, one of the drivers...get this...... gave a rose to the other! We sniggered non-stop at the back and tried to hide our faces in books!

But you know, despite the weird autos we’d always seem to get, the fares were at least reasonable. The meter would be rigged, but we knew how to pay the right fare and manage our travel finances.

That turned upside down when I came to Chennai. Urgh! My dreams of commuting without a hiccup went for a toss. After a week of sun, sand and bargaining in Goa, I landed up in a similar position. Not the sun or the sand, but a Bargain with the drivers.

So they start off at astronomical rates. And then taper it down to twice the amount you’d pay with a fair meter. You feel like you’ve achieved the impossible when he accepts your ‘quotation’. Only to get home and realize you could have always bargained more. I am awful at bargaining. Simply awful. I prefer order and restrictions which people must abide by so I don’t have to bend the rules. Or maybe I’m just too lazy. But the autos here have taken the little sanity I had left and driven over it. Urgh squared.

The worst thing is, as we’re all being taken for a ride (pun intended) here, no one seems to be doing anything about it. Sure, everyone complains. But it just stops at that.

Well, if you expect a solution in this post, there certainly isn’t going to be one. I just had to rant. About a day full of auto rides. And it seemed so similar to a business proposition, or an auction. The only couple of solutions I can suggest to myself is:
1) Wait patiently for 5 more days and I’m back to the wonderful city of metered autos and a car waiting to be driven (ahem, by me……if I can get it out of my mum’s clutches)
2) Start going for anger management classes. That has to be a priority. The next time I come here, someone is bound to send me to a lock-up for displaying road rash at a couple of innocent looking autos!