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Women proved themselves capable of excelling in every field.  They completed Herculean missions; scaled insurmountable heights.  But when it comes to Physics, they fail to grasp some basic physical laws.  They either don’t understand these laws or have utter disregard for them.  I believe a Physics 101 is in order.

Law of constant volume: The volume of an object is constant whichever way you bend it.  So the statement, “We can’t fit all the clothes if you just stuff them in the bag.  We need to fold the clothes properly” is not valid.

The law of uniform heat transference: It will take exactly the same amount of time for the wet towel to dry whether it is on the towel-hanger or on bed.

Law of non-magnetism of hands: Human hands do not act as magnets to bacteria, virus, germs and other vicious microbes.  Therefore, washing hands more than twice a day is utter waste of one’s valuable time.

Newton’s First Law: “Don’t throw the car keys in the sofa, you will lose them” contradicts Newton’s First Law.  The keys will continue to stay at rest on the sofa unless some restless force moves them.

Non-transitivity of physical objects: If person A touches an object and person B touches the same object, it is not equivalent to A and C touching and groping each other.  So it is perfectly alright to share a soap among a bunch of people.

Law of conservation of mass: Whichever way you squeeze the toothpaste tube, the amount of toothpaste in the tube does not reduce.

Law of opacity: Light does not travel through opaque objects.  Therefore, the state of disintegration of underwear is not visible to public through other opaque clothing.  So it is perfectly safe to use underwear until it is reduced to a few strands of threads.

Law of fixed boiling point under constant pressure: The gasoline in the gas-tank does not instantly evaporate as soon as the gas indicator lights up

Law of sound not being in visual spectrum: Eyes don’t have to be focused on the source of sound to hear the sound.  So when the eyes are looking at TV, ears can perfectly hear the sound coming out of somebody’s mouth.

A few things are learned the hard way. I have circumstantial evidence that one of my friends did just that. I was tempted to say “I told you so” to him, but being a gentleman, I didn’t. I will just write a blog post about it.

Couple of years ago, this friend of mine (henceforth known as X), embarked on a voyage countless Indian-Americans embarked on before. A month long expedition in India to find a bride and marital bliss. Before he set sail, he called me one day. Anybody who grew up in India, or watched B-grade Bollywood movies, knows about the much hyped “First Night.” (If you don’t know what it is, it is the night a married couple, even they know each other only for a few days, consummate their day old marriage) Like many a young man, he too was nervous about it.

X: What do I do on that day?

Me: Dude, you hold the record for watching every porn movie ever made. Things should be clear to you by now?

X: No, my question is do people go all the way on the first night itself?

Me: I could check the census records but I don’t think they collect that data. But what does it matter to you what people do. Do what you feel is right.

X: Do you think she would be comfortable with it?

Me: That is an excellent question to ask her.

X: What if she is too shy to say?

Me: If she is too shy to talk about it, you should probably stop at the question.

X: But what if she doesn’t want me to ask questions and look like I don’t know what I am doing? I think women like their men to be manly. Take charge. Decide things for them.

Should I let him live in this happy bubble for some more time or burst it now?

Me: I believe most women like to be treated with respect. They would like their opinion to matter. They may want you to take charge and lead the way in matters such as taking the car out for servicing, but in just about everything else, they want to be a part of the decision making process.

X: You are Americanized. Indian women are not like that. They respect the husband. They want the man to be in control. They don’t like sissies who can’t make up their minds. Take my word for it, I am going all the way that night.

He is convinced that husband should rule with an iron fist. In his mind the picture is probably somewhat like:

Wife: Why should we always go to your favorite restaurant, can’t we eat Italian today?

Husband: We are going to Hooters, bitch. Now get in the car.

It’s difficult to argue if both of us are going by their opinions, not facts or statistics. I didn’t let the argument continue. X went to India. Got married. Got back with his lovely wife on the scheduled date, like clock work. I didn’t ask him what happened on the first night.

Recently, another friend of mine, Y, was getting married. X and I called Y together to congratulate him. I gave my usual marriage advice to Y, such as “Don’t get married.” etc. X was silent until Y asked him if X had any advice for him. X said flatly, “Don’t expect much action on the first night.”

You heard about stuffing a turkey. Have you heard about “Guest stuffing”?  It is a well known phenomenon for anybody who grew up in India. Forcing the guest to eat until the guest is an inch from throwing up is considered a hostly thing to do. Leaving any food that the host gratuitously pushed on to your plate is considered very barbaric

An (Indian) acquaintance of ours invited us for an informal dinner. The moment I entered their house, the sexy thing on the table caught my eye. I mean the dessert, “Rasmalai.” I told myself that all I have to do was to pretend to be eating the entrée for a few moments and then I can get my dirty hands all over the Rasmalai.

The dinner featured South Indian delicacies Idly, Sambar and lemon rice. My dinner plate came pre-configured with 4 idlies. Damn, I didn’t want to fill myself with idlies. Ok, not to worry. If I go easy on the lemon rice, I can do some well deserved justice to the Rasmalai.

I polished off the idlies with the deftness of an experienced South Indian. *plop* *plop*. Two more idlies magically appeared on my plate. I looked up in horror. The spatula wielding hostess was standing right next to me with a bowl menacingly full of idlies. “Oh, you are a young man, you can eat two more idlies,” she dismissed my horror with a wave of the spatula. I begged the hostess to control her effervescing hospitality.

I ate the bonus idlies too. As I was serving myself a carefully measured portion of lemon rice, I heard the host guffaw. “Don’t eat like a bird. That is why you are so thin.” Before I could fully comprehend the ominousness of his statement, the host moved with dizzying alacrity and before I knew, a lemon-rice-heap of the size of Gibraltar was sitting on my plate. I am sure a tear trickled down my cheek as bid farewell to any remaining hopes of getting to the Rasmalai.

I laboriously finished the lemon rice. I was so full that I could not even laugh at my wife throwing herself on her plate in an attempt to prevent the host from serving more idlies. But, like a wounded soldier crawling towards home country, I reached out for the Rasmalai. I had them in a cup and was about to eat when I heard, “What? You are already having dessert?” *Plop* There was Sambar on my plate. “I saw you didn’t eat Sambar.” At which point, I gave up.

The silver lining was that the hostess gave me my Rasmalai to-go. So I did enjoy the sexy, white, supple things the day after.

Last time I was in India, I went to visit a long lost friend. When I arrived at his place, on agreed upon time – like an idiot, he was not home. His dad assured me that he would return soon and insisted that I waited.

My friend’s father, Mr. T, was an interesting guy, interesting being an euphemism for creepy. There was no end to his questions. He seemed to have an ax to grind against Indians living in the US too. He didn’t sound like an average curious George, he sounded more like a lawyer arguing for my death sentence.

Mr. T: Where do you live?
I stated my name and address for the record.

Several questions followed that reiterated the accusations against me.

Mr. T: How long have you been living in the US?
Mr. T: Do you own a house? How much did it cost? Oh my god, for that price you can buy two houses in India.
Mr. T: Which company do you work for? Do you they have a branch in India? Oh, they will, soon.
Mr. T: How frequently do you visit India?

After it was established, beyond reasonable doubt, that I had been happy living in the US, he continued scornfully.

Mr. T: What platform do you work on?

These days, everybody in India, including retired Math teachers, know everything about software. Not to worry, I have prepared answers for these questions.

Me: I don’t have a specific platform. My strength is in adapting to various platforms.

That answer worked well in job interviews. But he looked at me like I was retarded. He proceeded, speaking very slowly.

Mr. T: What language do you use?

My answer would’ve started with “Language is just a tool,” but I knew Mr. T would interpret it as “I don’t know any software languages. I am a complete moron.” So went with an answer he could appreciate.

Me: I use C

Mr. T smirked like a lawyer would when the opponent’s witness makes a blunder.

Mr. T: You use C? In this advanced age, even people in India are using modern languages like Java, Oracle and Cisco. You are living in America and still using C?

I didn’t know which part to correct first. But I knew any attempt to enlighten him would be futile.

Me: Yeah, I never learnt Cisco.

At this point, Mr. T decided to stop beating around the bush and determine my worth.

Mr. T: How much do you make?

A question that is not considered too personal in India. If one evades the question, it would be assumed that one has pathetically low income. I gave him some vague number.

Mr. T: Do you get housing allowance? Vehicle allowance?

After I confessed I didn’t even know that they were, his Math-teacher-brain worked like a super computer. He took my salary, compensated for inflation, dollar value fluctuation, housing market downturn and draught in Ethiopia. He arrived at an arbitrary adjusted net salary.

Mr. T: My cousin’s brother-in-law’s son, who works in Bangalore, makes gazillion rupees. Considering his house and car loan allowances, he is making almost as much as you make. So what is the point in your living in the US?

He rested his case.

My friend arrived and bailed me out before I could make an opening statement. I don’t know how he interpreted my lunging to hug him and saying, “Man, you have no idea how glad I am to see you.”