Saturday Night One-Liner

I can’t believe that come hell or broken water, within a fortnight, I will be “Aunty Baji” and will get to bask in all the spoiling but none of the black-hat-wearing.

A Hobby To The Rescue

By N.A. Bhatti

September 1, 2000

In my fortnightly column The Sardarji humour I narrated that I was faced with a situation in which my military career hung on a very delicate thread: whether I would be bold enough to relate a Sikh joke to the President of the Inter Services Selection Board who had asked me to do so during the final and crucial interview.  A few days after the publication of the article, a friend asked me, while discussing the subject of hobbies, whether my life ever depended on a hobby.  I replied yes and I related the circumstances of this unusual experience to him.  In case you are interested, you’ll have to go back in space and time: Christmas Day in Hong Kong 1941.

The Japanese who had entered World War II on December 7, 1941, by bombing Pearl Harbour and sinking the cream of the US Pacific fleet anchored in Hawaii, went for Hong Kong the next day and captured it from the British on Christmas day 1941.  The Indians – as we all were in those days – were divided into two categories: prisoners of war (slides of the British Indian regiments garrisoned in Hong Kong) and civilians like us, who were subjects of an enemy country but were non-combatants.  While Indian POWs were put into camps behind barbed wire, we were termed “Third Nationals” and were free to roam anywhere we liked but to stay within the territory of Hong Kong.

Hundreds of civilians fled by night after paying Chinese guides to lead them into “Free China” by circuitous routes from where they could enter India via Burma (now Myanmar).  Several were captured on suspicion of attempting to escape and put into a high security prison for varying terms.  I happened to be one of them and found myself in a jail within a jail!  Sentenced for one year in prison.

Prison formalities being over – change from civilian into prisoner’s uniform, deposit of personal effects, allocation of official number, clean shave of the head by the prison barber, and allotment of cell – the most critical stage came when a Japanese prison officer allotted the trade a prisoner was to follow throughout his sentence.  The prison and several workshops for prisoners who, in ordinary life, were electricians, blacksmiths, tailors, shoemakers, rope makers, printers and carpenters.  Those who did not know an specific work were sent to the road gang to dig roads, trenches, vegetable gardens and sweep the prison.  Average expectation of life in a road gang: six months.  In a prison workshop: whole period of sentence.

Came the fateful moment on which hinged my expectation of life this side of eternity.

“Prisoner 733!” shouted the Japanese interpreter, a Chinese

“Hai!” (“Yes!”)

“Know any profession?” he continued in English.

“Teaching English.”

“Baka!” (“Fool!”) yelled Sergeant Tanaka.

I being the last in line had a sinking feeling that it was going to be the road gang for me as well as the end of the road.  In almost every human being’s life, there comes a moment when he is confronted with a situation where all hope is lost but then a flash of inspiration descends from Allah, God, Jehovah or any of the hundreds of names by which he is called.

Sergeant Tanaka was rising from his chair and adjusting his sword belt before leaving when, almost in desperation, I shouted:

“I’m a carpenter too!”

The interpreter passed this on to the sergeant who sneered “E-e-e-e-h!”  To the best of his knowledge, Indians in Hong Kong were policemen, watchmen and money lenders, but here was a chap claiming to be a carpenter.  OK, let’s call his bluff.

He passed some orders that were conveyed to me by the interpreter:

“Sergeant Tanaka says you are to be tested for carpentry in the workshop.  And if you fail, you know what will happen to you?”

Dramatically, he passed his forefinger across his throat, accompanied by a “sheeeeet!” and he led me into the carpenter’s shop.

“Oh yes, Sergeant Tanaka wants six clothes-hangers by 3pm.  Tomorrow,”:

he said before leaving me with Lal Chok the workshop foreman, doing 10 years for possessing a shortwave radio set as I learned later on.

Lal Chok spoke broken English.

“You really carpenter?  Not speak truly, ‘sheeeet’, you savvy?”

And he made the same ominous gesture of a Japanese sword slicing through a human neck.

I nodded my head and said: “I savvy” (Pigeon Chinese for “I understand”).  I was shown my work bench and tool rack and the timber neatly piled in a corner.  Lal Chok looked sad and once again asked: “You truly savvy?” (“You really understand?”).  I nodded again and set about selecting the material I considered suitable for making clothes hangers for Sergeant Tanaka.  I didn’t blame him for not knowing that carpentry had been one of my hobbies ever since I was in primary school.  Only a half-truth, you might call it, as I was only an amateur, but nevertheless a carpenter.

The next morning Foreman Lal Chok inspected my work and smiled approvingly.  Sergean Tanaka swaggered into the carpentry shop and headed for my work bench along with the interpreter.  I was putting the finishing touches of varnish to the coat hangers, one of which he picked up and inspected critically.  He blinked in surprise.

“Omae wa hoontoni Indojin deuka?” (“Are you really Indian?”)

I nodded in admission and held my breath for the decision.

“Omoshiroi desu ne!” (“Interesting!”)

He rattled off something, gave an almost imperceptible smile, and barged out of the carpentry shop, the interpreter carrying the coat hangers still sticky with their varnish coating!  I almost leaped with relief.  I had passed the test.

I spent 11 months in the prison, having got one month’s remission for good conduct.  This carried with it a chevron stitched on to the uniform – called by prisoners ‘big rice’ as the wearer got a second helping of rice at meal times – and permission for two visits every quarter instead of the normal one visit by relatives with tins of biscuits, panjeeri and other tidbits.  Yum yum!

Life in the carpentry shop was far easier than in other parts of the prison, in fact almost luxurious.  You can’t rush a carpenter, can you, even if he chooses to enjoy a bit of malingering by merely pretending to sharpen a blunt sawblade or a chisel.

The most unpleasant job I was ever ordered to do was to make a wooden cross to which they secured young USAF Lieutenant David P. Houck to be shot, since he had piloted a Mustang fighter that had escorted a Superfortress bomber to bomb Hong Kong but had been shot down and captured while parachuting to safety.  How did I know?  I also worked as English clerk in the prison office when there was no work in the carpentry shop!

Moral of the story: Adopt a hobby of some kind or the other.  You never can tell where and when it might even save your life, as it did in my case.

Where the Sun Really Don’t Shine, Like, Ever: In Which Baji and Gojira Are…Blah Blah Blah (Days 4 and 5)

Day 4: I Dream of Haleem. Baji begins the day with a cup of hot coffee, three of Dr. Praeger’s Potato Pancakes and cinnamon french toast. Gojira wakes up to discover that she has contracted meat face, a condition that results from the overconsumption of meat and manifests itself in red splotches upon one’s face. (Meat face is commonly accompanied by meat body, also contracted during this vacation.) A failed attempt to go beachcombing at Manasota Beach due to high winds and cold temps nevertheless results in a handful of shark’s teeth for Gojira to use to replace her own teeth when the time comes. We seek warmth in the form of mochas at neighboring Venice Beach.

Cures What Ails, or Chills, Ya

Throwing caution to the wind, we try out a strip mall Thai restaurant, where Gojira politely excuses herself before spitting out a dumpling not to her liking.  Just to be bossy, Baji insists on following tradition and makes Gojira pick out her own mug at the Goodwill store and makes TP pay for it. Back home, TP exercises, Baji naps and Gojira downloads Scottish-accented apps.

The kids are afforded an opportunity to participate in the $2 per bag bonanza at the library but instead hit the computers for some game time. Baji and Gojira carefully select another bag’s worth of books to donate to the retirement community’s clubhouse library and include an inscription in each one.

Two out of two Bajira!s recommend this reading

Baji makes black bean soup which nicely complements the meat dish Nani made for us. ZP asks, “Auntie Gojira, can we play hide and seek ten times?” Gojira assents and ZP counts them off, telling Gojira where to hide each time and squealing in terror each time Auntie Gojira finds him (even though she is the one hiding). After the tenth time, ZP asks, “Auntie Gojira, can we play hide and seek twelve times?” Gojira suggests lounging time instead and is rebuffed. Baji remains safely hidden for the duration. After the kids and grandparents are asleep, we netflix. We have our doubts while watching I Am Alan Partridge, but then the references to 20-foot chickens and ladyboys cocktails win us over.

You farmers, you have great big sheds that no-one’s allowed to go in, and inside those sheds you have 20 foot chickens! And the chickens are scared because they’re so enormous, and they say “why am I so big?” and they look down and see all the other normal-sized chickens, and they think they’re in an airplane.

Day 5: Meat Face Flies Away. Baji starts the day scrounging around for the amazing cream-filled Italian doughnuts Gojira brought over but forgets that she gobbled those things up ages ago. Gojira starts the day with 12 pieces of french toast or thereabouts, one piece of banana bread, one potato pancake, and half a paratha. A light breakfast (and totally vegetarian!). She scares the children one last time, then Baji and TP take her to the airport. TP and Baji morosely find ways to fill their Gojira-less time by buying some car seats, going to Jummah/napping respectively, and playing tennis/watching tennis respectively. Gojira has developed Meat Scalp and has not eaten since. TP and Baji are eating broth for the next ninety days (depending on what your definition of “broth” and “ninety” is).

Did Bajira! turn their award–winning blog into a BBC miniseries starring Colin Firth and a cheeky monkey? Did Baji finish writing Good Fishing in Florida: The Musical? Did Gojira drive off a cliff? We’ll never know, because we’ve reached the end of our travelogue (though most of you know that Gojira can’t drive, on or off cliffs, and that Baji refuses to write any musicals without assistance from Joss Whedon).

Where the Sun Really Don’t Shine: In Which Baji and Gojira Are Baji and Gojira (Days 2 and 3)

Day 2: Breakfast and Books Bonanza. As promised, Nani makes Gojira a mountain of buttery pancakes and true to her name, Gojira eats the mountain (her own) as well as the little hill abutting it (the beasts’). Then throughout the day, when no one is looking (and also when they are), she sneaks more pancakes from the fridge. ZP asks Gojira what her sister’s name is and when Gojira tells him that her sister is a brother and his name is Graxenheimer Schnitzel the Third, ZP says, “That’s a silly sister.” Indeed, ZP, indeed. AP tries to hobble Gojira to prevent her early departure by smashing Gojira’s foot with a basket of eggs. Concerned, AP takes the eggs to the local cardiologist, who is playing minigolf in the next room. He declares them bad for her cholesterol but good for the adorableness pageant.

With the threat of thunderstorms turning out to be empty, we return to the Jacaranda Public Library a few minutes after it opens and attack the book sale, where you can fill up a plastic bag with books for just $2! We each fill up a bag and have a grand old time, taking pictures of the sign for “Adult Videos” (consisting of videos about World War II) and of us with Wagamama Lackawanna Jacaranda eyes (you had to be there, and by “there” we mean “Ireland” and by “you” we mean “we”). TP reports that he is enjoying the country club’s tennis courts and so we go to Fatty Starbuckles and drink some caffeinated beverages while reading our books, one of which is the all-time classic  Good Fishing in Florida with a supremely useful author‘s note:

Rube Allyn’s Advice

Visit consignment store in attempt to find a sweater for AP in light of the inhospitable cold spell we are subjected to.  Return home, where Gojira is forced to speed-read  A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian because Baji will take it later. Gojira multitasks by devouring the book and a bowl of keema, which she washes down with mango lassi. In the evening, TP exercises while Baji and Gojira lounge around on the couch until bedtime during which we lounge around watching Lost. Baji patiently endures Gojira’s questions: Who is Jacob? Which past-future is this? What is that on Claire’s head? Did you know that those “Iraqi” goons just said, “Dost thou want to come with me?” Sawyer loved who?!

Day 3: Sushi! Also pancakes. Baji, TP and Gojira go to the outlet mall and look for a can opener. TP finds a shirt, a belt, and some kickin’ kicks; Baji finds a jacket and a styling yellow ensemble for AP; Gojira finds some underwear. Using the food court’s free wi-fi, we hem and haw over a place for lunch and finally decide upon Bonefish Grill, where we are cruelly denied entrance seeing as how they don’t open until 4 pm. Driving aimlessly and hankering for fish, we spot a sign for a sushi place at a local strip mall near the airport. Screeeech! But first we have to convince TP that mall sushi is clearly going to be safe and good and amazing.  In fact it is, and later he pretends it was his idea. We applaud Kumo Japanese Steak House and Sushi Lounge and mark it for future visits.

Tempura Tower awaiting destruction by Gojira

Later we buy more chips and eat them in the car as an appetizer for our meaty meat meat dinner (spinach and gosht and leftovers). Inhale Häagen-Dazs chocolate ice cream while thoroughly enjoying Julie & Julia (particularly when we draw similarities to our own cooking—”poaching an egg is not that hard!”; “living with her must be exhausting”; “I hate cutting onions like that”—and blogging). Agree that we like Julia better than Julie.

And then what happened? Did Bajira! commit aggravated philanthropy on a group of defenseful senior citizens? Did we plaster Lil Baji’s room with posters of Robert Pattinson? Did one of us contract a rare tropical disease? Some of the answers and more tomorrow!

Where the Sun Don’t Shine: In Which Baji and Gojira Are Reunited (Pre-Day 1 and Day 1)

Pre-Day 1: Reunited and It Feels So Good. Baji travels to Sarasota in the company of a charming scared-of-flying-so-snacking-throughout Canadian who reveals her admirable frugality by explaining how she drove to Buffalo and flew for $300 rather than departing from Toronto for $900. Baji is pleased with her fellow canjoose traveler. The next day, Gojira lands in Sarasota and is greeted by Baji, Baji’s snazzy hairdo and TP. Baji, Baji’s snazzy hairdo and TP are in turn greeted by Gojira and Gojira’s snazzy hairdo. First things first: We buy some arrabbiata chips and blackened pretzels for which Sarasota is famous. Then we eat them in the car. We see an unbelievably enormous planet-sized yellow moon and consider whether we are driving to the house or have ended up on a movie lot where we will be threatened with expulsion or, worse, get hit on the head by a boom mike. We go home to our retirement community off Jacaranda, which is not Lackawanna, where Gojira gets to see the beasts, highly smushable and cute as always. Baji looks on with fondness from a safe distance in hopes that they will accept their new mommy while old mommy seeks refuge on the couch. With her feet up. And without being on high alert in case of attack or demands. Bliss and meat (haleem and keema with a side of bhindi) for all.

Day 1: Florida Pretends to Be Sunny. Sous-chef Baji preps the makings of the Spanish Tortilla and Chef TP assembles and plates it. Breakfast contentedly consumed, we make plans for lunch. Today turns out to be the only really sunny day and fortunately we spend the majority of it outside.  A 40-minute drive turns out to be an hour and a half due to the unexplained stand-still traffic but we finally make it to St. Armands.

Señor Pulpo after having spent too much time in the alleged Florida sun

Lunch at Crab and Fin with Señor Pulpo and his pals, followed by gelato and cafes at Le Macaron (not to be confused with El Maricón).  We saunter and wander and meander around the circle until we collapse at incomprehensibly soft-sanded Lido Beach, where Gojira makes a sandboot, Baji makes a sandhigh-heel that doubles as a cast and TP makes a face. Gojira and Baji lie in the sun and listen to several Ricky Gervais podcasts while intermittently breaking the silence with fits of giggles and repetition of what Karl Pilkington said, which makes us miss what Ricky and Stephen JUST said and so we rewind and laugh all over again.  “Just pop it on your wrist!” is trotted out on several occasions whether or not it is appropriate at the time.

With extra kid-free time still allotted, we hit the Goodwill bookstore but are offended by their “half off the cover price” gouging and attempt to salvage the scavenger hunt for cheap books at the Jacaranda Public Library instead.

“I’ve had it up to HERE with your … (air quotes) RULES!”

Apparently our citified ways don’t play well here and we are chastised for attempting to purchase anything at the book sale at 4:45 pm when the library closes at 5 pm. We seek and find solace in meat (Italian meatballs and more haleema) and flan.

And then what happened? Was Gojira attacked by the precursor of a 20-foot chicken? Did Baji attempt to buy books with a heretofore unheard-of “twenty” dollar bill? Is Locke really dead and what’s up with Claire’s hair? Find out tomorrow, when our exciting non-adventure continues!

That’s for me to know and you to find out

Overheard on flight from DC to Sarasota, Florida:

Passenger 1 to flight attendant (excitedly): “Excuse me, is that Jacksonville we are flying over right now?”

Flight attendant (snootily): Under TSA regulations, I’m not permitted to tell you.

Passenger 2 sitting in the next aisle (smirkily): “Yes.  That’s Jacksonville.”

You Get a Beard! You Get a Beard! Everybody Gets a Beeeeeaaarrrdddd!

It has come to Bajira!’s attention, via WordPress’s statistics-tracking system, that David Malki ! is Oprah.

Accordingly, Bajira! would like to thank Oprah for choosing us as one of the ten lucky recipients of Clever Tricks to Stave Off Death. We shall treasure it always until court-ordered to stop, after which we shall treasure it sporadically.