Life's like that: Real life anecdotes : Thread # 2- Page 19

Priyanka Agarwal

"Bai, mereko pav bhaji achchi nahin lagti hai."

("Ma'am, I don't like pav bhaji.")

"Toh tumhe kya achcha lagta hai?"

("So, what do you prefer?")

"Phheetjaa!"

"Oh, pizza?"

"Lekin cheej wala, haan."

("But the cheese one.")

This epic exchange from the popular Hindi sitcom Hum Paanch, between one of the five titular daughters and the family's house help, dates back to 1995. While the show wrapped up years ago, the great Indian fascination for this cheesy Italian dish still lingers, never mind one's social, financial, health, or #travelgram history.

The 'pizza' the women referred to in the show was sure to be the good ol' Shiv Sagar version, ordered in from an outlet called Hotel Sridevi. At the time, fast-food chains hadn't quite mushroomed in Mumbai. Little wonder then that scores of us desi millennials lost our pizza virginity to this modest variant.

Yet, the fairly recent Indianized version-the paneer tikka pizza-made the cut in a recent Google Doodle interactive game celebrating pizzas from around the world. Despite my penchant for paneer pizzas, I found this pick pea-brained and far from palatable.

The reasons for my panning knead-er, need-a flashback to my first time. I was all of seven years old when Dad ordered this difficult-to-pronounce dish for our family of four at a packed non-AC restaurant after I asked him the life-changing question we toss at Google now: "What's pizza?"

It was love at first bite. Think crusty golden bread, colourful veggies (especially the goblin-green capsicum), and an intricate spider-web of grated cream-white cheese. The delicacy was smaller than a Frisbee but proved to be a big superhero for the senses.

"One more," I wanted to insist. But tureens of orange-gravy veg food waited to be finished. Though that first date ended abruptly, Dad ensured we binged platefuls of our new favourite dish in every second outing. I still remember devouring toothsome finger-sized triangles off a disc at a local restaurant (coincidentally named Shreedevi) like it was yesterday.

It was a good, wholesome relationship. Until that fetaful-err, fateful-day in 1996. The film Home Alone was airing on TV. The McCallister family was bonding and brawling over a different kind of cheese pizza. It was huge, and I was smitten. Each triangle had twice the surface area of the regular one. Instead of hard-set, it looked soft and pliable, with the cheese about to slide off like Wile E. Coyote from a cliff. The cheesy top looked reddish-orange-just a few shades adjacent to Donald Trump's sunset hue-and peppered with black olives. While I continued my trysts with local pizzas, over time, my inner Kevin McCallister craved this smokin' hot version.

The god of good food soon delivered their blessings. A new 'pizzeria' popped up in our neighbourhood, offering a range of heavenly international-style pizzas. I couldn't wait to dig right in with my sister-my partner-in-food-crime-but the sky-high prices left my dad outraged and us siblings sans satisfaction.

Things looked up when an uncle visiting from the US played Santa by taking us to another new neighbourhood pizza outlet next Christmas. As it turned out, the Home Alone-like pie I so lusted after turned out to be one large-sized disappointment. The veggie-and-cheese pizza, while indeed huge, had an unpleasantly fat and doughy crust. The cheese was a joke, as I couldn't taste any of it. The final deal-breaker was an absence of ketchup, which would have redeemed this unappetising pizza.

Despite these unforgivable sins, I justified the pizzeria. We should have ordered another variant, I told myself. Perhaps, a non-veg or plain-cheese one. Love had made me blind, and I was giving the apple of my eye plenty of chances. Melting before my pleas, Dad later ordered another veggie-loaded offering for us from the same outlet. Not only was it average in taste and texture, but my sister got sick, too!

And yet, through it all, I still pined for those delectable Home Alone-type pies. My stomach wasn't nettled by the pizzeria's offerings (even though my taste buds were). My friends frequently relished them without any upsets. And my then celebrity crush lustfully endorsed the brand on TV adverts, too.

The yearning didn't last long, though. Soon, I was in college, which meant pocket monies (yaaas!) and frequent days out with pals. More pizzerias opened for business, and I tried as many veggie and cheesy pizzas as I could afford. My various jobs led me to an assortment of pies, in the city and outside, even abroad. Sis had begun digesting even the roughest Ch-Indian fare. And our parents had no hiccups either.

But over time, I got honest with myself. While the humble Indian pizza isn't as epic as its international counterparts, it easily won the taste test, even before all the cheese-topped Margheritas I've downed. To test my thoughts, I ordered a desi mushroom pizza from a local eatery while penning this piece. No, it wasn't epic, but it was simple, satisfying, and paisa vasool (value for money). And it had cheese. Tons of it. It felt good to come full circle.

My search is still on for the best Italian, New York, Chicago, and paneer tikka pizza. But the old Shiv Sagar-style 'phheetjaa' will always remain special for me. I hope it gets its rightful place in hearts, plates, menus and video games alike.

I've lost a few friends lately. Autocorrect is to blame.

Indu Balachandran

I recently expressed my respectful sympathy to a friend of mine. His father, 99, had passed away, and this is the text he got from me: 'I'm sending you my deepest condoms.' I was immediately unfriended and never heard from him again. It's that evil genius who invented 'autocorrect' that twisted the word. I am absolutely sure I typed 'condolences', I swear!

I remember years ago in my advertising career, we nearly lost a prestigious hotel client, because of a proofing error in a poster: 'Our restaurant has a bra attached'. While we laughed hysterically for days, it wasn't funny at all when all the posters for this new bar had to be reprinted. All because of a tiny typing error on a Remington.

But then came computers. And with Microsoft making steady advances with Word, their clever young techie, Dean Hachamovitch, decided he'd had enough typing 'teh' for the most common word in the English language. And invented a trick that would automatically correct itself to 'the' even if he mistyped it. And thus was born autocorrect.

So the next time, say, you inadvertently type 'b' instead of 't' in the following message: 'My boots are too big. Going to exchange them'; Dean's corrective invention is designed to save you from death-by-embarrassment.

However, it soon took on a life of its own. It happened when phone texting technology got jealous of Google, which had made rapid advances with 'autocomplete' where it began to guess what we're searching for, even before we thought of it. For instance one day, I declared, "This wretched cold! Let me look up common cold home remedies..." But as I typed 'Com...' I was taken at once to 'Commonwealth nations geopolitical and environmental governance practices' and within 45 minutes I became a veritable expert on this subject.

Meanwhile Dean and his team schemed faster ways to complete our thoughts and speed up our texting. "One more beer, then I'm lesbian", a lady texted to her husband during a girls night out. Maybe that was one beer too many already, with her unsteady finger trying to type 'leaving'. Not unlike the gym master who messaged his roommate, "Just coming out of the closet. Join you soon". And then seconds later. "Omigod. CLASS I mean."

Clearly, autocorrect doesn't seem to have qualms suggesting suggestive words. My sister sent me this: "Please send me your recipe for naked potatoes". Did she mean potatoes without their jackets? Then I realised she was referring to my signature baked potato dish. But even weirder is when my cousin texted her pal: "My kids loved your placenta. Come over for leftovers!" Perhaps her phone wasn't familiar with polenta yet.

Sure, word and phrase completion softwares save us valuable time-a full three to four seconds-that we could be spending on other important things. But more often than not we spend 120 seconds or more apologising and correcting the corrected corrections. Because autocorrect, the little devil, gets lazy without warning. Here's what one elderly lady messaged another, when their retirement home's manager passed on. 'I feel his abs even today'. Horrified at what she sent, she corrected it. 'I'm sorry. I meant to say, I feel his asbestos even today'.

So dear Dean Hachamovitch, thank you from the bottom of our grateful hearts to the tips of our clumsy fingers for your grand invention, but you must admit your autocorrect can sometimes be such a pain. As in this message sent out by my yoga teacher to all of us recently. 'Due to unfortunate circumcisions, there will be no yoga today'

IN THE 1960s, my father often parked his car outside our apartment in Mumbai. One day, he discovered two hubcaps missing from the left side of the car. He tried to find exact replacements, but failed. A friend suggested an auto accessories shop in 'Chor Bazaar', so he decided to give it a shot. My father showed the right-side hubcaps to the shopkeeper and waited in the shop, while he checked the warehouse. Lo and behold! The man returned with two hubcaps, but charged a hefty price for them. Excited, my father went out to fit them, only to find the right-side caps missing!

C. Ratheesan Menon, Bengaluru

AFTER SHIFTING to a new apartment, I needed to get my washing machine installed. I made an appointment with the company's representative who promised to come and fix it.

He failed to turn up, so I called again and was assured that he would be there within the next two days. When he didn't turn up even after a week, I was exasperated. I called him, yet again, and asked, "Do you need a band and a baaraat to come to my house and fix the washing machine?"

"Sir, you are absolutely right about the band and the baaraat," he responded. "I am getting married next week and currently on leave!" Caught off guard, I was left murmuring wedding wishes to him.

Julius Machado, Mumbai

WHILE SERVING IN the Indian Revenue Service, I underwent prostate surgery. In the operation theatre, while receiving spinal anaesthesia, I remarked to the surgeon that the prick of the needle was hurting. As four faces stared down at me, the surgeon, with a twinkle in his eyes, said, "Now you know how tax payers feel when they go to the tax department."

Ajay Mankotia, New Delhi

AFTER YEARS OF resisting the smartphone, my mother finally acquired one. Ever since, it has been a struggle, because she cannot get the hang of pushing the right button. Many missed calls later, I had almost given up on her ever getting tech-savvy, until one morning when I called. The call was promptly rejected followed by the message 'I am driving'.

Sugato Lahiri, Guwahati