Fuming Crap and Tattoos on Buttcracks.

You know mornings? The beginnings of days?
They are dreadful.

You know what's even more dreadful?
Having to wake up; (even if it's only because the local temple poojari thinks Ganesha would oversleep if He did not listen to MS Subbulakshmi generating 130 decibels on a tape player that has survived Hiroshima.)

You know what's most dreadful?
Having to wake up in (to) a city that is increasingly reminding the Monkey of the birthplace of subspecies Oye Yaar Vot-Ijeet.

As if outsourcing its collective moron batch month after month in early morning budget airline flights was not enough, Dilli seems hellbent on establishing a more concrete relationship with Bangalore by outsourcing its much irritating weather as well.
Us Bangaloreans do not understand the concept of season, unless it is spoken of in the context of When did Phoebe get pregnant with her brother's triplets? (Season 4). See, we live in a thermostat, untouched by the Anemoi.
We would bring out the sweaters during the winter only to make the world think we too can feel the cold that one is expected to during the winter, and that we are not lepers with all our nerves eaten away.
We would do the cotton shirt-watermelon juice routine during summers, because May is supposedly an extremely hot month of the year. The truth of course was that the temperature would remain a brilliant 24 degrees Celsius throughout, occasionally hitting a mighty 30, which would have the early morning Grandpas conference near Arya Bhawan, Jayanagar reverberate with the tut-tuts of walking sticks, and conversations hinting at catastrophes.
"Mr. Krishnaswami, 30 degrees, can you believe it? The city has gone to the dogs"
"Absolutely Mr. Rao, the dogs you say? I would say hot dogs. Ha Ha Ha."
(See, they are also part of the Laughter Club whose sole purpose is to scare the mongrels away. And me.)

But now, is another matter.
Summers are hot, and winters are cold. And we so hate sticking to protocol. Especially one that is over-enthusiastically endorsed by the city of Oye-Yaar-Vot-Ijeets. The realization of the extreme cold happened when Appa refused to wake up even as the clock struck 8:45, and Amma asked Brother S to eat from the office canteen for five consecutive days. I, however, had my epiphany in the John. I should probably call it Jaan, or better still Janaardhan. For, we are huge fans of the Indian toilets. The weshtrun type, you pliss keep to yourself. It's unhygienic, uncomfortable and most of all unsatisfactory. The experience, for lack of better words, is.. unwholesome. AND, it is anatomically incompatible.
While the Indian version, despite being a tad difficult for those with redwood girths, makes the experience wholesome. (It's the pressure, I tell you.)
So, you know when I realized it was cold? I had studied the previous night about something regarding observation of crap and how many things can be understood by the exercise. So, I thought, I have crap. I will also observe.
And guess what I saw?

Fuming crap, damnit!

Like freshly baked buns. Fine fumes emanated. And I thought I was dying or I had the Gerstmann-Straussler-Scheinker syndrome or that I was dying or something. Then I asked a few representatives to observe their own crap, only the early morning specimens. And they reported similar results too. So, if I am answering exam questions, or better still, when I am writing my own book of clinical medicine (these days, everybody can), you sure know what I am going to include in the chapter Winter Season And Associated Afflictions. The patient may complain of fuming feces, especially during early mornings. It is no cause for alarm, and it does not mean that the patient has Gerstmann-Struassler-Scheinker syndrome.

So while we are at it, let's also talk about Amma's visit to a baby shower or Seemantha (NOT to be confused with Sobhana, which is First Night, okay?)
She comes back, all exhausted. Turns to me and goes,

"You like girls?"
"Huyn?"
"..with taatoos?"
"Oh."
"Like, what is the point of these things?"
"Erm"
"It's not like these taatoos are saying Om, Shree, Attilakkamma Devi. It's some halli (lizard) with fire in its mouth!"
"Dragon?"
"Whatever, I am dragging nothing. It's true ma, Spunky Monkey"
"Ahaa"
"So what is the point of these things, these taatoos?"
"Some people believe it is an expression of their personality, and integral to their being, and that it speaks a certain something about themselves, that they never could put in words"
"But why on buttcracks?"
"Oh that is for fashion purposes, Amma"
"At a Seemantha?!"
"It's kinda permanent Amma. You can't choose to take it a discotheque and not take it to a baby shower"
"It's permanent?!"
"Ha, for the most part"
"Rama rama, what will people think of her when she is 60, and goes to the Ragigudda Temple for the Hanuma Jayanti celebrations with a halli breathing fire on her buttcrack?
"A hip grandma?"
(While we were beaming about Amma not getting my terrible puns, she started yet again)
"These names. What sort of a name is Ni-ki-ta?"
"A good one?"
"Muchh baai (Shett up). Sounds like some China-Japan name"
"Russia ma? Remember there was the Russian guy?"
"China-Japan-Burma-Russia all same. What difference?"
"Yeah. Nobody can speak Kannada anyway"
"See, I am not telling that they should have long long names from Lalitha Sahasranama like Rajathaachalashringaagramadhyasthaa. That would be silly. But what is wrong with Himaachalavamshapaavani or Sree Varamahalakshmi, you tell me."
"You have a point amma, you know you are always right"
"Okay, what do you want?"
"Remember that guy Avinash, that B.Com type fellow who had colored his hair blond? I asked you that day for something no? To pierce my left eyebrow? And you said Yes, remember?"
"Whaaaaat?"
"Haan, ma"
"Eyy, just you read that book full of grotesque pictures and do well in exams. Hubb chuchskotaante, sundaraanga. (Wants to get a piercing done, this chipmunk. I shall do nothing but cock a snook)"
"Say what you want, I am SO getting it"
"Pah, I have had it with you kids of this generation. Do whatever you want. Naraka only awaits you. Chitragupta is writing it all down, I will have you know. Taatoos, piercing, Ni-ki-ta, your brother's electric guitar, what not! AND we have that firangi wedding come this weekend. Sonykudi, changa-manga, oh-god. There's too much happening. I think I will go sleep. Rama, Raghavendra, kaapaaDappa. (Rama, Raghavendra, save us all)"

Later that night, we got a call from our Big Maava. His wife was admitted in the hospital with some back problems. This, only about a month after a new daughter-in-law came to their house. Since then, one decrepit grandmother has kicked the bucket, the Maava's son has had a near fatal accident, and now this. Last I heard, they were on a manic search for that astrologer who fixed the muhurta for the wedding and said, "Raayare, idu Raja Lagna" (Mister Maava, this muhurat is fit for the Kings").

Testing times these for our family.
And it doesn't help that the Monkey gives his final year's final exams a week hence.
Like Amma would say, "Rama, Raghavendra, kaapaaDappa."