Washing dirty linen in Public

‘She who must be obeyed’ does very pukka planning of the trip, and that too well in advance.

She did all the airline booking, train booking, bus booking, hotel booking all in advance, and left no margin for error anywhere.

‘This is how we will travel, this is where we will stay, this is where we will wash clothes...’ etc etc. Everything is planned down to the last detail.

So we first went to Barcelona, and then to Majorca – where she would tell me ‘Don’t change your underwear everywhere, you idiot – our washing stop is after Majorca! Why do you need to change clothes anyway?. Why  do you need to take a bath at all?’

Every time I tried to change clothes, she would flash her eyes at me, and I would subside – but since I am an independent strong man, I surreptitiously applied talcum powder when she was not looking, to hide the smell. Every now and then, when the wind was in the correct direction, the whole Spanish populace would start sniffing suspiciously and looking around.

When we landed in Seville, she said to me grandly – ‘We are in the Youth hostel today, and they have a Laundromat, so today is washing day!’

Hallejulah! I said and handed over the clothes, and soon we were again knee deep in clean clothes.

‘Next washing stop will be in Granada’ she said – ‘Conserve your clothes till then.’

Granada was only a week away, so I used up my clothes with reckless abandon, changing clothes every day, and generally living the life of Reilly.

But due to some reason, She felt too bored to wash clothes in Granada, and we left the Laundromat unmolested.

‘Hey’ I said in Madrid, when I was rummaging in my bag. ‘Clothes are over. This is the last clean set.’

‘Don’t worry re...’ she replied. ‘We will wash clothes in the evening’

In the evening, she started collecting all her washing clothes, and filled up a huge bag. Then she looked at me

‘Oy. The clothes you are wearing are also dirty. Off with them.’

‘Eh?’

‘C’mon C’mon, hand them over’ she said, clicking her fingers like a flamenco dancer.

‘But...but...I will be naked.’ I protested.

‘So? Wrap yourself in the bedsheet and sit quietly on the bed till I return.’  She replied haughtily.

‘But...how will I go out?’

‘Why will you want to go out? To drink beer, I suppose. Nothing doing – just sit here quietly.’

‘I don’t even have any underwear!’ I wailed.

‘Well neither do I. I am going commando to the Laundromat. Why do you think I am wearing a sweater and a jacket in this heat?’

And such was the power of her personality,  that I meekly stripped off and stood nude, shivering.

‘At least leave me a hankerchief’ I pleaded ‘what if someone comes knocking?’

‘Tchah’ she said dismissively, and she flounced off, leaving me unclothed in the room.

 I was sitting on the potty, when suddenly the bathroom door was wrenched open, startling me into an involuntary bowel spasm.  It was She, returned unexpectedly.

‘Oy!’ I protested. She ignored me completely.

‘OOOOOOOOOOOOO’ she wailed  ‘the place was a laundry, not a Laundromat.....AAAAAAA.....she said we will have to pay per piece.....OOOOOOOOO.....and she can give the clothes only by Wednesday......AAAAAAAAAAAAAA.....how will our clothes get clean?????......OOOOOOOOOOO...how can I face my child and mother in law like this......OOOOOOOOOOOO.....my life is ruined....AAAAAAAAAAAAAA’

‘Here...relax...’ I said, trying to close my sphincter and maintain my dignity. ‘Close the door for a sec....I will be right out, and I will find the nearest Laundromat using Google maps.’

‘Oh damn your Google maps....OOOOOOO.....Oh all right. The paper is there. Wipe nicely OK?’

I came out with dignity, draping myself with a towel, and found a listing on Google. ‘Let’s try this place.’ I said ‘I will come with you, to ensure that  you find it, OK? Give me some underwear please’

‘What is the point? You can’t strip off in the Laundromat to wash your undies, can you? Come just like that.’

‘Eh?’ She just glared at me, and I wilted and put on shirt and pant, being extremely careful with the zipper.

‘Hurry up!’ she barked, seeing my slow motions.

‘Better safe than sorry re, else it might result in an unintended circumcision.’

Soon both of us commandos went jiggling across Madrid to find the Laundromat, walking slowly and carefully, trying to attract as less attention as possible.

She had her nose up in the air, and it  was the only part of her body which was up in the air.

Unexpectedly, I was very comfortable -I didn’t find much difference at all – then I realised that it was the great advantage of wearing boxers – you get used to being alone and unsupported! True Independence! We don’t need any party’s support – we can form the government on our own! Aam aadmi party zindabad!'

I tried to tell her this, but she just gave me a cold freezing glare that said – just shut up and keep walking!

Guided by the great god Google – we soon found the place. How ‘She’ must have suffered the humiliation – not only unsupported and commando in public, but having to take the guidance of technology and its foul offspring, and worse than that – having to meekly listen to husband and follow his directions. ‘Turn right’ ‘turn left’etc

Out of pure habit, she would say ‘No no no no...you are wrong!’ but having nothing further to say, she would subside into an infuriated silence.

After what seemed to be a walk across the length and breadth of Madrid, we finally found the place.

Here at last, ‘She’ could resume her natural authority.

‘Open the washer’

‘Put the clothes in.’

Defence Attorney : My lord,  this fellow is lying,  when I was busy getting coins for the laundromat,  shoving clothes in,   turning jeans inside out for better drying,   he went off to eat THREE EURO a piece oysters at the next door shop,   in addition to minding the clothes,  I had to frisk him like airport security guard, otherwise after eating oyster,  King Kong would beat his chest in ecstasy and smash his six thousand rupee sunglasses to pulp.      Also my lord,  he makes it sound like I marched him naked through the streets of Madrid,    covering his jewels with what else..... but a smartphone.

He also wanted some achaar,   tikat mit and chutney to go with the oysters,  and the Madrileno shopkeeper cried boohoohoo and fell at his feet,    PLEASE I BEG OF THEE don't pour Tabasco sauce and insult my special Gallego oysters....   while I was busy attending to his dirty underwear, my Lord,   I swear he was slurping  off  oysters!

‘No no no, you moron – that’s not the way to do it...’ and she would take the clothes out and replace them, exactly the way I had. Being extremely smart, she had brought along detergent sachets from home, thus saving Euros, and smirking at me for not thinking about it.

We hung around till the wash and dry was done, and then we jiggled our way back to the hotel.

Immediately she donned her clothes – becoming visibly more confident with every article of clothing. It was like Popeye taking his spinach – one shot of spinach, and he turns into Superman. Similarly, all clothes in place,and the spine straightened and the eyes flashed once more!

‘She who must be obeyed’ was back!

The Triumph of technology

‘She who must be obeyed’ simply hates technology. Anything to do with hi tech, or circuits or diagrams anything more complicated than a hammer and an anvil, she looks at with great suspicion.

‘Works of the devil!’ she hisses and makes a sign of the cross. ‘A vile abhorrence! ‘ . Then she eats garlic and breathes all over me.

That’s why she hates it when I am surrounded by technology. Here I am, carrying a bag which is filled with technology and gets me into trouble at all the security checks in airports around the world – cameras, laptop, speaker, tablet, keyboard, ipod and a charger for each one! Ugh!

She looks at me with disapproval even when I take out my phone and check Facebook.

‘Why are you always looking at that accursed phone?’ she asks. ‘It is against nature to use the phone for anything other than talking.’ For her the heights of mobile technology is to use SMS.

‘But this is a smartphone!’ I protested. ‘It can be used like a mini computer – it’s got internet, mail, phone, GPS...’

‘GPS...hah’ she snapped. ‘A GPL is what you deserve. Chalo...at least something about you should be smart.’

For her the only acceptable use of technology is to book tickets and do travel research. She spends her entire lifetime peering at various sites and comparing fares and attractions and using Google maps to memorise the routes of all cities in the world. For that too, she prefers an old desktop PC rather than a laptop or a tablet. She is the only person in the world who actually asked for a desktop PC in office, and keeps her office laptop unused at home.

Probably she would be most comfortable with the original IBM ‘Deep thought’ and swapping notes with Ada Lovelace and Charles Babbage.  She still mourns for the loss of the old days of punchcards and teletypes. Even Fax is a modern innovation which she is yet to get comfortable with.

The Defence Attorney says : My Lord,   for someone whose wife has to give him a bunch of air + train + bus + hotel +entrance ticket online reservations before every trip,   Signor talks too much,  I say.

‘Why are you trying to imitate a snail and carry your whole house of high tech with you anyway?’ She asked.

‘Arre, I had been to that Photography competition re, so I carried two cameras and a laptop to edit the photos on.’ I replied ‘And I came directly from there, so I had to cart the laptop along.’

‘Hah! Using laptop to edit photos is cheating. Bloody Charlatan! This digital photography is a disgrace. In my day, we used real film. I even used to make my own film with silver nitrate and toilet paper. I made my own camera too, from a cardboard box and a pin. I used to develop my own film in the toilet, where I filled the toilet bowl with developer. I used to multitask – crapping and developing...or rather, developing and then crapping.  In our house, everyone used to wear only lungis, so I used them to make a tent to dry the photos in.  That’s the real way to do photography re...Not this pansy digital SLRs and whatnot...’ She growled at me.

And having vented her spleen, she flounced away, leaving me to run after her, weighed down by technology.

Once in New Zealand, she nearly divorced me, because I tried to use Google maps on my phone. We had hired a car, as we sat down and strapped up, I pulled out my phone and handed it to her. She took one look and exploded like a volcano.

‘What is this nonsense? How dare you insult my hard work?’

‘Eh? What? Where? When?’  I was nonplussed. ‘What did I do now?’

She took out a sheaf of printouts and waved it at me. ‘I have studied Google maps and memorised the entire route, and have taken printouts  of the entire route!’

‘But it’s the same Google maps...and this moving dot shows where are...’ I whined.

‘SHUT UP! And put that sinful thing away, you foul reprobate!’ She growled at me, and I shrivelled like a snail who has had salt sprinkled on it.

We drove on, and I glanced at the GPS. ‘Hey...we are going the wrong way.’ I said hesitantly. ‘See the blue dot?’

‘#$!$%$@%&* you and your blue dot! You are a blue dolt! Keep shut and keep driving!’ She shouted at me. ‘See the road sign?’ she pointed dramatically, and then suddenly said ‘Oh!’ . After a few minutes, she said ‘WE ARE GOING THE WRONG WAY! YOU FOOL! WE ARE GOING THE WRONG WAY!!!! OOOOOOOOOOOOO....WE WILL GET LOST......AAAAAAAAAAA......WE WILL  RUN OUT OF FUEL.......OOOOOOOOOOO......WE WILL STARVE IN THE WILDERNESS AND DIE........AAAAAAAAAA.....WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO MY CHILD WITHOUT ME......OOOOOOOOOOOOO’

‘Here....relax...’ I said ‘We have just come a few kilometres. I will turn the car around.’

‘AAAAAARGGHHHHHHH...BE CAREFUL WHILE TURNING......THERE IS A CAR COMING 3 KILOMETERS AWAYYYYYYYY.....HE WILL CRASH INTO US.......WE WILL DIE........ARRRRR....oh we have turned. Go straight now.’

‘I told you we were going the wrong way.’ I said. ‘I saw on the GPS.’

That was the worst thing I could have said. A wife will tolerate any amount of marital abuse, but she simply cannot tolerate the spouse being right about anything. It goes against all the principles of marriage.

‘IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT!’ she screamed at me. ‘Distracting me with that garbage. Its written in my notes to take a right, but you took a left.’

‘But ....but....you told me to take a left.’ I whined

‘Thats your fault! I meant a right! You should understand me by now.’ She said and refused to talk to me for the rest of the day.

The Defence Attorney says : My Lord, what this fat !@#$%^& doesn’t mention is that the internet coverage died once we were in the mountains,   the GPS screen was as blank as the sleepy blue ocean where they are searching for MH370 wreckage,  and it was my antediluvian  map printouts  (made on Egyptian hieroglyphic parchment)   which saved the day.

So with this background, I carefully did not show her the Maps on my phone in Spain. I used the phone for everything – Facebook, Mail, reading books etc, so she wouldn’t realise that I was covertly seeing our position on maps while we were walking.

In Seville though, the breakthrough happened.

We emerged at a junction, and she stopped and looked doubtfully around. She looked like a tiny version of Gandalf the Grey, when he was lost in the mines of Moria. ‘I have no memory of this place at all’ Gandalf had said; and she said almost the same thing. Well, actually she said ‘#$$%#$^@@$%@$%^^#^^’ ; but the sentiment was the same. She was wearing her antediluvian grey jacket with hood, so the illusion with Mini-Gandalf was complete.

I crawled after her, like Gollum, holding my phone and hissing ‘my preciousssssss’

Then the unthinkable happened.

She turned to me and said in a small voice ‘Can you open Google maps and find out the way to our hotel? I seem to have lost my bearings.’

I looked at her in disbelief.

I could just imagine Sergei Brin and Larry Page breaking into  a Bhangra in exultation, and Eric Schmidt banging on the dholak with one hand and playing the tumba with the other hand.

‘OYE BALLE BALLE!’ the cry resounded over the Googleplex in Mountain View, CA and firecrackers and coloured streamers exploded over all the Google offices all across the world. A national holiday was declared in 53 countries and a parade was launched in the remaining ones. Mardi Gras was cancelled in favour of this celebration, and 21 gun salutes roared out from all the ships at sea.

Defence Attorney :   !@#$%^&*(

Technology had finally triumphed! The Final frontier had been overcome!

The land of the fit

These Spaniards are a depressing people.

Depressing for me, I mean.

Not only do they have the best food, the best daru and enjoy themselves smoking, drinking and carousing all the time; they are also incredibly good looking and fit.

When we stroll along any beautiful park or boulevard or marina, you can hardly see anybody who is not jogging or cycling or rollerblading or skateboarding; or if nothing else, going on a very brisk walk. It’s weird – either they are smoking and drinking, or they are jogging.

The girls will be in skin tight leggings or jeans – the kind of skin tight where you need to have complete body confidence to wear...will outline every mole and wrinkle on your bum – or in very short skirts and tight tops. And they are all good looking too – flashing eyes, great hair, faultless makeup.  I look at them with great admiration. Purely platonic, you understand. Just admiring their youth and fitness.

The guys will be in elegant clothes – even their sweat shirts and jogging outfits look like they are out of Armani – and all look like Rafael Nadal or Antonio Banderas, with sex appeal oozing out of their pores and leaving a trail behind them like a snail leaves a trail of slime.  I look at them with disgust. Bloody gigolos. ‘She who must be obeyed’ looks at them, and then looks at me and sighs.

I sigh back at her.

She is looking like an ad for UNESCO or one of those funds which collect money for impoverished refugees fleeing some civil war. As usual she is wearing clothes which even the cat didn’t bring in – some junk that wouldn’t even be washed up as flotsam and jetsam...looks like she found it floating in the sea while she was ship wrecked. A fifteen year old sweat shirt, a jacket that makes her look like a gray cat with mange, and jeans which are so battered....that I suppose they would be the height of fashion if they were well fitting.

Me -  I am so handsome, that I look like a model!

Unfortunately, I look like the ‘before’ model in a weight loss clinic ad.

Or a Listerine ad.

Or a Clinic all clear ad.

 Or a Fair and lovely ad.

Or an ad for what ‘The well dressed man’ will never ever even dream of wearing.

We look at each other and both sigh so loudly that the flag in front of us flutters sympathetically.

 In India, it doesn’t matter so much, because everyone is pot bellied and disgusting. I remembered the defining memory of the Kumbh Mela – an endless line of hairy paunches rolling over long striped underwear.

 But here we stand out.

We were at the river side watching a traffic jam of Kayakers, rowers, wind surfers all doing healthy activities in the river.

‘It’s all your fault.’ ‘She’ says to me ‘You are tempting me with food. Else I am fine – just carrying a little baby fat’

‘Baby fat?  Dude....the baby is 7 years old.’

‘Shut up. I at least had a baby. What happened to you?’

Talk about rhetorical questions.  We walked on, avoiding a line of cyclists. They have a dedicated cycle lane on the sidewalk! I am very impressed. Talk about a cycle friendly country. Not just the roads, but even the sidewalk has a dedicated lane for anything on wheels – cycles, skates / rollerblades, skateboards, wheelchairs, prams,  etc.

And everyone seems to be on wheels here.  The variety of cyclists is fun to see. You have the exercise cyclists on expensive bikes, the commuters on less flashy bikes, the occasional commuters on rented bikes (they have a beautiful cycle hire organisation in most cities – hire anywhere, drop off anywhere – fully automated), whole families on bikes – Daddy, Mummy, baba, baby in bikes of descending sizes.  Parents with babies in baby seats...

Then you have the young people on rollerblades – the skates with only one line of wheels. They move with unearthly grace, gliding along on the roads. I could watch them forever.

‘You should try that.’ I suggested ‘If I tried it, I would fall and have a fracture.’

‘More than that, the pavement would have a fracture re...’ She retorted. ‘and the government would ask us to pay for the road repair. But I won’t try it either...I will end up in the river or in traffic...i know it’s your evil plan to get rid of me re, but I am too smart for you.’

We walked on and came across a gang of young bloods doing skateboard stunts. ZOOM CLANK ZOOM CLANK. They would zoom down a slope and try to roll on to benches or railings or go up in the air; or try to turn around in mid air or stop suddenly.

Every now and then, the stunt wouldn’t take off and the air would be ionized with Spanish oaths and curses. @#%%^^@@!!!

I turned to ‘She’ and said ‘I also am going to get pierced and tattooed, y’know. As soon as I lose some weight, I will get it done.’

She linked her arm in mine and laughed and said ‘Then you are assured a Tattoo free life for ever re.’

A suited booted guy zoomed by us – he looked like a full corporate type – nice business suit, conservative hairstyle, talking on mobile in one hand – only he was on a skateboard. We looked at him in admiration.

‘I have a brilliant idea to make some money.’ She said.

‘What?’

‘We are the ugliest people here – lets sell tickets for people to come and look at us – like they had in the old days – the bearded lady, the tattooed man, the fattest man and woman, the mermaid....stuff like that. A P T Barnum kind of show’

‘Yeah?’

‘And we will call it – The Beauty and the Beast’

The wonders of Spanish cuisine

Ever since we landed in Spain, we have been eating the most incredible food. The most wonderful thing about Christianity, I have always felt, is that they eat absolutely everything. They positively define the word omnivorous – if it lives and breathes, eat it – and if it can be fermented – make an alcoholic drink out of it. And that suits my life values perfectly.

We cut a swath through the plant and animal kingdom, and posted yummy food shots on Facebook to jalao all the people back home. The comments came as expected –

‘You @#@#% - you should be hanged!’

‘You fat @@#$%%, you will gain 20 kilos from this trip alone’

‘I hope you choke on a bone and die you sadistic pig’

‘Screen lick...drool...drool’

For breakfast we had a variety of sausages – pepperoni, sobrasada, big red ones, spicy red ones, and all kinds of  ham, salami, cereals, olive oil flavoured with pimentos and garlic, freshly squeezed orange juice, freshly brewed coffee, and very occasionally – an egg.

‘She who must be obeyed’ would roll up her sleeved and dig into the food with gusto. The waiters looked at her with amazement and admiration as she finished off a huge dish of roast kid lamb, bread with aioli and grilled vegetables and still look around for more. They must have believed that there is a black hole inside her where all that food vanished.

I was my usual conservative self... a few morsels here and there. 

This went on for a week or so, and we came to  Palma de Mallorca – the capital of Majorca.

In the Youth hostel in palma, I saw a new dish on the breakfast menu – ‘Toast and tomato – Mallorquin style’

I was intrigued. What was this exotic dish? I asked her.

‘Ah Senor...this is a typical mallorcan dish. Very rustic..very delicious’

I  was sold. I had very good experiences with rustic dishes till now – suckling pig, and roast veggies and what not.

‘Fantastico! Give me one, por favor’

She went inside and I heard some fiddling in the kitchen. 

I started dreaming of what the dish would be like.

I was thinking of  fresh baked bread...still warm from the oven...swimming in country butter...with maybe a sprig of rosemary or parsley...grilled slices of tomato...with the grilling bringing out the intense country flavour of the tomato...maybe the tomato would be one of those fancy ridged tomatoes, or perhaps those tiny cherry tomatoes....I had seen red, green and purple tomatoes....a few shavings of bacon, some fresh shredded cheese perhaps...fresh squeezed lime....

I was still fantasising about the possibilities when she came back and plonked a dish on the counter.

On it was some dry toast, like the ‘milk toast’ we get in India, a small sachet of Olive oil and .....a tomato. A whole single tomato! 

I looked at it in consternation.  

‘What is this?’

It looked like a delivery from the Kirana wala.

‘Thees ees the deesh senor. Toast and Tomaaato – mallorquin style.’

Apparently, when she  said ‘Toast and Tomato’ she meant literally ‘a toast and a tomato.’

'She who must be obeyed' started howling with laughter. She had played it safe by ordering a Muesli with milk, and now she laughed so hard, the tears from her eyes were diluting the milk. 

The waitress was moved by my downcast expression and hastened to assure me that this is a genuine peasant dish. 

‘I will tell you how they eat it...you pour the olive oil over the toast, and then squeeze the tomato over it. Then you sprinkle salt on it and eat. Ole!’

Must have been for the very diet conscious peasant, or for the one who was too lazy to cook breakfast.

We took our dishes to the rooftop restaurant and sat down to eat. 'She who must be obeyed' immediately started slurping her muesli, while I looked doubtfully at my toast and tomato.

hmm...OK, pour the olive oil...thats easy enough...squeeze the tomato...hmmm

I squeezed it gently.

Nothing happened. 

I squeezed it harder. 

It bulged a bit, but that was all.

I got pissed, and squeezed hard.

SPLAT! 

There was tomato all over the toast, the table and my shirt. 

This set off 'She' into another fit of laughter.

I just looked her with silent dignity, and shook all the tomato off my person and on to to the toast. Then I added the salt. 

'Salut!' I nodded, and 'she' touched my bread with her spoon and we ate the Toast together.

It was delicious! 

Lost in translation...

After Barcelona, we caught a flight to the party capital of Spain – the island of Majorca.

We landed, and went to the Car rental agency where ‘She who must be obeyed’ had booked a car. After watching ‘Zindagi na milegi dobara’, I pleaded with her to book a fancy open top car, but she just brushed me off like an insect.

She patiently explained her logic to me

‘You are not a rich investment banker like Hrithik Roshan, neither do you have a rich dad like Abhay Deol, nor do you have rich and gullible friends like Farhan Akhtar did ; and you are very very definitely not going to get it on with Katrina Kaif. You are stuck with me, and with the cheapest car that is available, because both are just what you deserve. Got it?’

I nodded my head. Couldn’t find any fault with the logic.

‘Good. Now cock up and drive.’

As it was a left hand drive car with manual gear, and we were driving on the wrong side of the road, ‘She’ could freely indulge in all the back seat driving which I would never allow her at home.

‘SLOW SLOW SLOW....there is a car coming 3 kilometers  away....drive on the RIGHT on the RiGHT on the RIIIIIIIGHT....we are coming to a round about....go SLOW go SLOW go SLOW....OH MY GOD...WE ARE DEAD, WE ARE DEAD, WE ARE DEAD....oh, we aren’t dead...er...thats good....now go straight,,,,go STRAGHT....GO STRAIGHT...STAY ON THE RIGHT..... OH MY GOD, THERE IS A PEDESTRIAN 5 KILOMETERS AWAY....BE CAREFUL...AAAAARRGGGGHHHHH!!!!’

The roads were bloody narrow, with a free fall on the side,  no shoulders at all, and to add to the fun, the roads were bloody full of cyclists, all looking like they were on trials for the Tour de France. There were literally hundreds and hundreds of them on the road. All dressed in expensive skin tight clothes and riding expensive skinny cycles – they depress you by being far more healthy AND far more wealthy than you.

I admired them for some time – their strength and endurance, their healthy pursuit, their expensive bikes, their tight and colourful costumes.... but after slowly and irritatingly passing some hundreds of cyclists, I got heartily sick of them. They were as irritating as a parade of cockroaches.  You can’t overtake them on the skinny roads, you can’t get too close to them in case one of them falls over, you can’t honk at them because you are not in India, and most of all you can’t even abuse them because ‘She’ has a fraternal affection for them, because she has also pedalled  - once in her salad days, she had pedalled Bombay to Pune, and quite recently she did Mangalore to Trivandrum.

 ‘She’ kept babbling about her cycling trip to Kerala...’these hills are OK, but can’t compare with Kerala....these cycles are good, but I did it with an old Atlas doodhwala cycle with one handlebar and  half a tyre missing....these cyclists are OK, but they won’t be able to handle mad Kerala traffic, especially the cattle copulating on the roads...Oh, coconut water is so good...Oh, I wish I could see a pair of hairy black legs  sticking out of a lungi....those guys have pubic hair all over their body....it looks so virile...’

The hills out there are called ‘La Tramuntana’  and an Italian engineer called Paretti made a winding road across them, which was a great technical achievement in those days. The road is very beautiful, as is the surrounding scenery – but if you try to see the scenery, you will end up in the ditch – because Signor Paretti apparently scorned shoulders on the road, and his successors have behaved in a very Indian fashion by raising the height of the road to an alarming level over the edge, and keeping the road narrow enough to accommodate one car and no more.

Between negotiating Signor Paretti’s roads, Senora ‘She who must be obeyed’s back seat driving and the pestilential cyclists, my BP went up 20 points.  ‘She’ tried to cheer me up by pointing out beautiful sights, but after nearly becoming part of the scenery myself a couple of times, I found out that the only way to see the scenery was to drive so slowly that even the cyclists were cursing me and overtaking me with pursed lips.

‘So Madame’ I asked after some time ‘Now that we are in the party capital of Spain – where are we going?’

‘Oh, we are going to a monastery.’

‘A monastery?’ I was stunned.

‘That’s right.’

‘We are in the Party capital – with nude beaches, wild revelry, midnight parties in every nook and corner – apparently you can hardly toss a Sangria bottle without braining a drunken reveller...and we are going to a monastery?’

‘Yes.’

‘!!!’

Well...I could hardly go to a nude beach without scaring the whole population away, and partying with a teetotaller who considers sleeping after 10 PM to be heights of loose living is unlikely.  So we went quietly to the Monastery of Lluc and checked in.

It was very nice – we attended Maundy Thursday Mass and Good Friday Mass in Spanish and heard the Childrens Choir which is the apparently the best choir....in the whole of Majorca..., and heard a fine performance of how Mary felt about the death of Christ – in Spanish (or was it Catalan) – which would have been great fun if we had understood it.

The good thing about Christianity is that no food is taboo – unlike other religions who ban Beef and Pork and Booze and god knows what else. The good Christian eats anything that lives and breathes, and so the restaurant in the Monastery served some awesome food and wine, which we imbibed gratefully. I posted all kinds of food shots on facebook to get people worked up.

After two days of this, we were out to leave.

‘Get up early in the morning you lazy sod’ said ‘She’. ‘We have to see Cap de Fomentor as early as possible – because weather might be bad.’

It was so hot that I was melting, and so bright that I was blinded by the sun.

‘Bad weather?’ I said meekly ‘But it looks fine.’

‘She’ turned on me in a fury. ‘I have spoken! Bad weather it will be!’

I quailed before her fury and set the alarm for 6 AM. We got up and packed, and went to the car.

But when I pressed the remote,  instead of greeting me with a cheerful ‘chuck chuck’, the car remains morose and silent.

‘??’ I thought and pressed the buttons harder. It’s an Indian thing – if anything doesn’t work, press the button harder. It rarely helps, but we do it all the time.

No reply.

Thinking that the car might be sulking because we ignored it for a couple of days, I opened the door with the key, and tried to start the car.

Dead.

Oh shit.

Battery dead. In the middle of nowhere.

‘She’ started to weep and wail and beat her breast. ‘OOOOOOO AAAAAAAAA OOOOOOOOO AAAAAAA.....mar gaya.....mar gaya.....what shall we doooooooooo’

‘Easy easy’ I said ‘Dont worry – all it needs is a jump. I will call the car hire company and they will send somebody’

‘Send somebody???? OOOOOOOOOOOO ....this is Europe....they will charge so much money, we will have to sell ourselves to pay it.....AAAAAAAAAA....our vacation is over.....OOOOO.....our life savings have gone....AAAAAAAA......’

‘No no – I am sure that roadside assistance is free.’ I said soothingly. ‘Don’t worry – I will call them right now.’

We trudged back to the Monastery and called them, and they promised to send help within an hour.

We killed time for an hour and soon help arrived in the form of a genial repairman in a tow truck. He took a look at the car and raised his eyebrows at the dead battery. As I had predicted, all it needed was a jump – he attached the jumper cable and cranked the self start, and the car was back.

‘You drive for 1 kilometer’ he said, holding up a finger ‘before you switch it off eh? Charge the battery.’

OK, I said and went on a very pleasant little drive, which was all the sweeter because of our lightened hearts and unlightened wallets,  and came back to the parking lot. Before switching it off, I hesitated a couple of times, but then I switched it off, and we went off to have a lavish celebratory breakfast.

After a huge brekker of cereal and bread and orange juice and coffee and all kinds of sausages under the sun, we again picked up our packs and went back to the car.

This time the remote worked, and the car greeted us with a merry chirrup and opened its doors hospitably. I was immensely gratified – the charge had held, and the battery was working fine.

Full of confidence, I sat in the car, inserted the key, started my favourite radio station, fixed my seat belt, nodded to her, put the car in neutral and turned the key, all ready to zoom away.

Nothing.

No response from the car.

What the fuck?

A cold hand gripped my heart. This shouldn’t be happening... the remote worked, the lights worked, the horn worked – why shouldn’t the car start?

I turned the key again – no response. I looked carefully at the dashboard. There was no ammeter, so I couldn’t tell the battery level, but when I turned the key, the words ‘Pise del embrague’ came up.

Pise del embrague?

 I didn’t want to Piss – nor did I want to embrace anybody. That message didn’t help much.

I looked glumly at ‘She’ and ‘She’ gave me a snooty look.

‘Another fine mess you have got me into.’

‘Hey – I don’t get it...everything else electrical is working. The car is in Neutral. I don’t know why its not starting.’

‘Should I get out and push?’ she asked.

‘No no...Don’t be silly.’ The thought of that tiny little wolverine pushing a car was hilarious, and anyway I didn’t think that the MPFI cars could be started by pushing.

‘Well, back to the Santuari then.’ She said. ‘Call them again’

C’mon....I didn’t want to call him again. I would look like a fool of the highest order. Imagine an idiot who had to jump his battery twice in a morning. The whole of Majorca would be laughing at us. And he would probably charge money for a second visit.

Glumly, I turned the key again, and again the message came ‘Pise del embrague’

What did that mean anyway? Then suddenly it struck me – I didn’t have to guess. I could easily find out.

 I fished out my mobile and fired up Google translate, and entered ‘Pise del embrague’ in Spanish to English.

In a second, the answer came – ‘Depress the clutch’

I looked at it in disbelief, and pressed the clutch.

VROOOM. The car started!

WHOOPIEE! YOOHOOO!

We both screamed in delight and hugged each other!  We were back in business. Thank god for Translate!  

I love Google.

I hate these idiot car manufacturers who make cars that won’t start until you press the damn clutch even though you are in neutral, but I love Google.

Muah!

The most expensive oyster in the world

After Dubai, the next phase of the trip started – Spain!

Hola Espana!

I took a cab to Dubai airport and thought that I would breeze through check in, as I had already web checked in online and all I had to do was a baggage drop. But no – the Emirates girl wagged a finger at me and pointed me to a long long line of large expensive suitcases with a few humans sprinkled between them.

‘What shit’ I thought – this line is longer than the normal check in line. I thought of dumping this line and going off to look for the automatic baggage drop or even a normal check in line, but the Emirates girl glared at me, and she reminded me so much of an old school teacher that I quietly stood in line for 15 minutes to drop off my baggage. 

As I continued to the departure area, I saw that there was another bank of baggage drop counters a little ahead, and they were all empty, and the staff was sitting jobless and frustrated. I cursed that Emirates school teacher under my breath and went on to the security check. The security check in India was a fucking nightmare, because my bag was a huge collection of electronics – 2 cameras, 1 laptop, 1 bluetooth speaker, 1 detatchable keyboard, 1 Wacom tablet – and 6 chargers of various types  - and they made me take out all of them. Here it was not so bad, but it was not as smooth as last time.

I had hoped to chill in Duty free or at least have a coffee to finish off my Dhirams, but the bloody airport is so big that by the time I negotiated the train and the elevator and the escalator, it was already time to board.

That flight was the best flight experience I ever  had!  I was severely sleep deprived over the last 8 days and crashed as soon as I sat down. I woke up after a relaxing sleep just as they were serving drinks, so that was the most pleasing awakening ever. I took 2  of those  tiny bottles of wine with lunch, and 2 bottles after lunch and finished it off with a gin – so that by the time we landed in Barcelona, I was nicely smashed and feeling no pain.

Clearing Barcelona immigration was the easiest immigration ever!  The line was moving very fast, and I was still flying. When greeted the immigration officer with a loud and cheerful ‘Hola Senor!’, he took one look me and decided that I was just the kind of fellow Spain needed -Drunk and Cheerful. Thump thump and I was in Spain. My bag was the last to arrive, but I was still happy, having discovered that they give 15 min free internet at the airport. Wheeee.

I went  off to the hotel and checked in, relaxed and checked out the famous ‘la Ramblas’ street in Barcelona – which is basically a long long tourist trap of  a road, lined with eateries and bars and stalls selling souvenirs and touristeria. 

The next day, She who must be obeyed arrived, and that was the end of my bachelor happiness.  Peace and tranquillity fled out of the window, scared away by a waterfall of noise.

‘She’ was curious about La Rambles, so we went off for another walk. One look at it and she agreed with my opinion about it being a long tourist trap, and we went off looking for the Barcelona cathedral. It was closed for the night of course, but we went there to enjoy the lighting, and got an unexpected bonus – a trained opera singer singing in front of the cathedral.  It was so atmospheric – the beautiful gothic architecture of the cathedral, the yellow lighting and the shadows, the ancient stone pathway – and this lady with the remarkable voice singing away.

The next day we again went to La Rambles, because we wanted to check out the remarkable market  - Mercato de la  Boqueria. It was an amazing place – it was basically a bazaar selling meats, veggies and fruits – and what quality of produce! I went around the place with my tongue hanging out. The meat guys were selling the best of preserved meat, Iberian hams, huge collections of sausages of various sorts, a whole ship load of all kinds of fish and creepy crawlies from the seas, the freshest fruit and veggies that you could ever see.

 I was in food lust

It was clean and neat, with no flies and with minimal smell – (as far removed from Indian bazaars and Crawford market as you can get)  but was not soulless like a department store either. It was a real live bazaar (more for tourists than for locals I suppose, but that was OK.) with shop keepers selling ready to eat bites as well as grocery size portions. The fruiterers were selling cut fruits, fruit juices, chocolate covered strawberries (YUM!!), the meat guys were selling mixed sausages, small meat bites etc, and the fish guys were selling prawns and shellfish and oysters and sea food salads.

When I saw the oysters, my eyes lit up!

OYSTERS! OYSTERS! OYSTERS!  Yoo hoo! I had tried oysters in Australia and had loved them!  I tried them cooked in various preparations, but came to the conclusion that the best way to have them was raw. The guy shucks it and gives it to you – you add a drop of lemon and a drop of Tabasco and slurp it into your mouth and YUM – its a party in your mouth.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t been able to find oysters after that in India, so I was really excited to see a bank of oysters in one of the stalls.

I took off my fancy goggles ( Expensive Maui Jim – light as a feather and blocks UV light...I had bought it just a couple of months back for my Rajasthan ride) and hung them in my shirt front, rubbed my hands together and went to the stall. 2 euros per oyster....hmmm....bit expensive, but its OK. Not too bad.  I nodded to the lady and gave her a 2 euro coin, and she shucked an oyster and handed it to me. 

I looked at it reverently and looked at ‘She’ – who merely looked repulsed. She cant stand fish in any form, the thought of eating raw fish is completely beyond her understanding. I smirked at her, added the magic drops of lime juice and Tabasco, and slurped the oyster into my mouth.

Magic.

The smooth, cold flesh of the oyster, the salt taste of the brine, the sour of the lemon and the acidic bite of the Tabasco combined to form an awesome feeling in my mouth, and when you then bite into the flesh, the whole thing just explodes into a maelstrom of taste. WOO HOO.

It was like a taste version of a glorious orchestra – first the violin, then the trombone, then the flute and then the whole combining into a glorious symphony

I was so overwhelmed, I started dancing, I jumped up and down, I jiggled and wiggled and still I felt like expressing my emotion more vigorously, so I pounded my chest like King Kong.

DHAM! DHAM!

CRACCKKK

Oh shit.

I looked down to see that I had pounded my sun glasses by mistake, and it had died of shock. I picked up the remains from the floor and looked up to see ‘She’ convulsed in laughter. She was absolutely rolling on the floor in her mirth, weeping tears of laughter as she saw me sadly holding the dead body of my glares in my hands.

Some people have no sense of decency I tell you.....laughing in the presence of bereavement.

I put the glasses away with dignity.  If you add the cost of the glasses to the cost of the Oyster, then it would definitely be the most expensive oyster in the world.

Oh well, there was nothing anybody could do now.

Only one thing to do – I marched up the counter and said ‘Senora....one more Oyster, por favor.’

Future perfect - short story

Future perfect

“One year off! Wow!” I met Rajesh in a small hotel in Gangtok, when I had gone there for a short holiday. I had managed to wangle a couple of weeks holiday from the office and rushed off for a backpacking trip. I was modestly proud of my travel achievements in that trip - last minute flight to Calcutta, staying in seedy backpacker accommodation in Calcutta, a sudden trip to Shantiniketan, Train to New Jalpaigudi, a stay in Gangtok, Sikkim…but this young man had knocked my trip into nothingness. Indian backpackers are quite rare, one finds mostly firangs traipsing all over India. Solitary Indian backpackers are even rarer…individual travel is not really an Indian thing. But Solitary Indian backpackers who have taken a complete break from work is the rarest thing, this was the first specimen I had come across. We got chatting over a drink in the evening, and took to each other from the first. He had been working in the same city as me, and that created a bond between us. One fine day, he had decided that enough is enough, and chucked his job and set out to see the world. I had also traveled a bit in India, but I was not in his class. Since his sabbatical had started, he had been to Corbett national pack, Auli skiing course, Hampi, Kedartal and Valley of Flowers. The best part of his trip was that it was not a hurried, cramped holiday; but a relaxed introspective floating trip, with all the time in the world. He had been able to truly enjoy and caress the beautiful sights and sounds in his mind. After that he had decided to check out surrounding countries, so he set out to explore Nepal, Bhutan, Thailand, Vietnam and Laos. He had spent half a year floating around these places, and had an amazing time. Costs were low, sights were plenty and people were nice. With a lonely planet in one hand and a few dollars in the other, its amazing how much one can enjoy a place. He had finally entered India through Calcutta airport, and immediately hot footed it to Sikkim, and had ended up drinking beer with me at hotel Tibet in Gangtok. We had been chatting for a long time, and the dead soldiers of the beer bottles littered the terrace of that hotel. We had taken pity on the tired waiters and sent them off, and were helping ourselves directly from the freezer. It was a fine night, cool and crisp, and the full moon was bathing Gangtok in a relaxing white light. It was absolutely silent, even the dogs had stopped howling, the only sound was the birds rustling occasionally in the nearby tree. Rajesh had just finished describing the feeling of floating down the Meking in full moon, and both of us were still in that spell. On the spur of the moment, I said “Rajesh, your horoscope must be fascinating! I would love to study it.” Rajesh raised his eyebrows at me, and smiled. “Do you read horoscopes then?” “Yes. I am not a master at it, but I find it quite an interesting study. One can find out some interesting things about a person.” “Yes…even I had a very interesting experience with an astrologer once.” “Where? During the course of your travels?” “Actually, no. It was before I went on my sabbatical. Have you heard of Nadi Jyotishya?” “Only a little…but please carry on. Tell me about it.” Rajesh leaned back in his chair, and stretched out his legs. “Well it was about a year and a half ago…” It was a totally random happenstance; I had no idea that I would be going to Bangalore that month. But there was a business exigency, and my boss shipped me off to Bangalore to deal with it. I was planning to stay in a hotel, but at the last moment I decided to stay in the company guest house. There I met another person, a Mr. Kumar. Kumar was an auditor, and he had come down to check our branch accounts there. He was from the Madras branch of our auditors, so we had never met before. I came home slightly early in the evening, and was sitting there wondering what to do. The TV was not working, and I had nothing to read, and I was not in the mood to go wandering around alone. That was when Kumar and me started chatting. Somehow the conversation shifted to Astrology, and Kumar asked me if I had ever heard of a branch of astrology called “Nadi Jyotishya” “Nadi…sounds familiar, but no…I don’t really know anything much about it.” “Oh, its really something…it can get scary sometimes.” I had a fairly open mind about astrology. Though all the scientific community mocks it, I have seen astrologers and palmists come out with pretty surprising things over the years. Since then, I had maintained that “if don’t know, don’t scoff” attitude. However, I didn’t know too much about this “Nadi Jyotish” stuff. Kumar took a sip of tea and continued telling me about it. “Well, the legend of Nadi Jyotish is like this. All of humanity are the progeny of the Lord Shankar and Parvati. One day Parvati asked Shankar, tell me – how will my children do in life? What does the future hold for them? Shankar said – listen then – and started telling her the future of all generations of humanity. Sometime during the recital, Parvati was swamped and she fell asleep, so Shankar stopped at some point. The whole thing was overheard by a pair of doves, and they went and told it to the Saptarishis, who wrote it down. Thus, the theory is that the future of every man and woman on the planet is written down somewhere. The palm leaves on which this was written are preserved in some temple in the South, and now there are some copies with select people. We, the lay people, can access them from there.” I was fascinated by the concept. “Really, and how does this work? How do you find your leaf?” “The person doing the reading takes an imprint of your thumb print – right thumb for males and left for females, and then he goes and matches it with his database inside. Then he brings out a selection of documents and selects your manuscript from there.” “How?” “Er…by asking questions…possibly I am not the best explainer. Would you like to try it for yourself?” “Really? Is it possible?” “Yes. There is a person in Bangalore. In fact I went to meet him the other day. I can take you there if you wish; I am free tonight.” Kumar went off to phone, and I could hear snatches of their conversation. He came back and said, “Come, if want to come – we have to leave now. He was cribbing that he wants to wind up by 8PM. Its already 7.15, and I promised him that we will be there by 7.30.” We left immediately, and went by auto through labyrinthine gullies, and stopped at an entirely nondescript house in a nondescript locality. During our journey, we didn’t exchange a word – both us were engrossed in our own thoughts. As we dismounted from the auto, Kumar took me by the arm. “Rajesh saab – remember one thing. Be sure that you really want to know the future, before getting into this house.” “Arre, don’t worry. Come on.” We were greeted at the door by a small, dark man – the astrologer’s companion- and we took off our shoes before entering the house. It was a small, bare and dusty room- Old fashioned concrete flooring, high ceiling, yellow light from the bulbs on the walls. The fan old, and with a long rod – the kind you see in old government offices – and was emitting breeze and creaky sounds in equal measure. There was a temple alcove in the corner, with a variety of idols and pictures of gods and goddesses. It shone from the evening puja, with light of the lamps, the smoldering agarbattis and the fresh flowers at the deities feet. There was a small money box there, like a donation box in a temple. There were no tables or chairs, the sitting arrangements were a cloth on the ground for the astrologer and the customers. Sitting there, expecting us, was the astrologer – Mr. Ramulu. I had gone expecting an ascetic looking person with a long white beard, and vibhuti on his forehead – but this was a small, dark tamilian in a white shirt and mundu, looking like any normal person on the street. We exchanged greetings, and chatted for a minute. His Hindi and English weren’t too good, and the person who had greeted us at the door acted as the interpreter. Ramulu explained that he was not an astrologer, but merely a reader - a filing clerk, if you will. His job was simply to zero down on your scroll and nothing more – he could offer no explanations. The charges were quite modest, and one paid only if his scroll was found. If the scroll was not found, there would be no charge. I agreed, and we started the procedure. He took my thumb print and went into an inner room. After ten-fifteen minutes he returned with an armful of scrolls and sat in front of me. “Saar, I will ask you various questions. You must answer only ‘yes’ or ‘no’. This is the process to zero down on your prediction.” “You are from the North” “Yes” “You are the eldest son” I was startled. “Yes.” “You are the eldest son, but you had an elder sister who was stillborn.” There could be no answer to this. I couldn’t answer without consulting my mother, but if I calculate the date of my parents’ marriage and my date of birth, it was unlikely. “No.” “OK.” He put away the scroll. “You are of the ‘Shwan’ gotra.” “Yes” “Your father is a teacher.” “Er…” I hesitated. My father had retired some time back, and was now teaching part-time in some schools. Well, he is a teacher now, isn’t he?  “Yes” “His name is of three syllables.” “Yes.” “He is one of three brothers.” “Yes” this was absolutely fantastic. “He is the eldest brother.” “No.” I was relieved. This was too close for comfort. “Ok.” He put away the scroll, and picked up another one. “His name has three syllables. The first syllable is “Ra”, the second is “Dha”. The third is the same as the first or the second.” I was speechless. I had told neither Kumar nor Ramulu, and this guy had got within an ace of my dads name - Randhir. “Yes.” I whispered. My lips were feeling dry. “Your mother is a vaid – a doctor.” “Yes” “She is the youngest daughter.” “Yes” “Her name has four syllables.” Here, I was flummoxed. Moms name before marriage was Madhavi, but after marriage, it had been changed to Snehlata – which was four syllables. I decided to go with the latter. “Yes.” “The first syllable starts with ‘sa’, the second is ‘ha’, the third is ‘la’ and the last is ‘ta’.” “Yes.” I whispered. I was beginning to sweat, and the hairs on the back of my neck were beginning to stand erect. “Your mother’s brother has been in prison on a false charge, and hence was released.” “!” This was something no one could ever know. It was faintly possible that Kumar knew my parents names, and had communicated to Ramulu for some dark purpose of his own – but this! My families’ inner most secrets! “Y-yes.” “You have had an operation of the stomach three years ago.” My fingers went of their own volition to the appendectomy scar on my abdomen. This was before I joined this company. “Yes.” “You are unmarried.” “Yes.” “But you have had sexual experiences, and picked up a venereal disease.” “!!”  I was aghast. This was something no one – NO ONE, except me and the doctor – knew. “Y-yes” “You have landed property.” “Yes.” I had purchased a flat a couple of years before. “This is your horoscope.” Ramulu showed me a diagram which was written on the old Tamil manuscript. And seeing it, there was no doubt left. It was accurate to the last detail. He was through with his questioning, and he stood up, gathering his documents. “Sir, please go and have your food, and come back after half an hour. It will take that much time to find your scroll.” I hurried outside and lit a cigarette, and found that my hands were trembling. My muscles were all tense, and the back of my shirt was soaked with sweat. I took a deep drag, and smiled nervously at Kumar. He must have been through the same feeling in his earlier visit, and he smiled back at me. “Scares the shit out of you, doesn’t he?” “I tell you. And the worst part is that he does it in his calm, sing song voice, as if he was reciting his shopping list.” At this point, Rajesh broke off and burped a long and satisfying beer burp. I suddenly realized that I had been sitting there, holding an empty bottle for god knows how long. I got up and got us both fresh beers from the freezer. The owner was going to be really happy tomorrow, I thought, we have nearly cleaned out the fridge. “Well? What happened next? Did he tell you your future accurately?” Rajesh started laughing. “That’s a good one. How can I know whether the prediction is right or no? He made some statements, but it can be proved only in the future. But you got to admit, that the build up was impressive.” “But, what did he predict?” Rajesh was silent. “Did he predict that you will be taking this major sabbatical and roam all over the place?” “No…not really.” “No? I thought he would give a detailed day be day prediction till the day you die. What major prediction did he make? He had scared you properly in his build up, didn’t he?” “Oh, he scared me a lot more after that.” “Oh? What did he say?” “He said that I would die within a year.” “What?!!!” There didn’t seem to be anything to say after that. I looked at him, and he looked at his beer bottle. The bright moonlight was casting weird shadows on the terrace. A cool breeze blew, and made us shiver. That broke the tension building up, and we smiled at each other. “Did you believe him?” “As I said earlier, who can say? All I can say is that his build up was impressive.” “Then what did you do?” “Yaar, I decided that if he was right, then there was no point in grinding away at that sickening job of mine. If life is worth living, it is worth living well. I liquidated all my investments, and decided to spend the next year roaming around the world. If he was right, then I don’t want to spend my life doing something I don’t want to do. I want to live life to the full. If he was wrong, then so what? I took a sabbatical which I would not have the guts to take otherwise, and I will definitely get a job when I decide to get back to corporate life. So I decided to do all the things I had always wanted to do – but did not dare. I went bungee jumping, white water rafting, para sailing, cave exploration… I tried out various kinds of kinky stuff – wild parties, group sex, soft drugs… activities I would not have ordinarily tried, but I didn’t want to die regretting that I did not try something out. Of course, one thing I was careful of is that I should be healthy and hale until the day I do die, so I did take care of my health.” “Hmm.” “One good thing about future reading though…it helps you to plan well.” “Eh? Plan for what?” “Death, of course. I don’t want my family to be left helpless in the event of my death, but I don’t want to restrict myself to saving and hoarding money when I have so little time left. So I worked out the optimal solution. I liquidated all my investments to give me liquid cash to enjoy my holiday. And to take care of the family in case of death, I took a huge life insurance cover. So now I am freaking out in life in the here and now, yet am totally relaxed, knowing that my family will be comfortably off in event of my death.” He leaned over to grab a beer and relaxed back into his chair, totally relaxed. “Ahhh! That’s what I call future perfect.”