Friday, July 04, 2008, Jamadi-ul-sani 29, 1429    

Praying for others

Robert Clements

Was with a friend the other day and we talked about a great man of God. “Bob, d’ you know the difference between that man and us?” asked my friend. “When we pray, we pray for ourselves and our families, but when he prays he prays for us and the rest of the world!” A voyaging ship was wrecked during a storm at sea and only two of the men on it were able to swim to a small, desert like island. The two survivors, not knowing what else to do, agreed they had no other recourse but to pray to God. However, to find out whose prayer was more powerful, they agreed to divide the territory between them and stay on opposite sides of the island.

The first thing they prayed for was food. The next morning, the first man saw a fruit-bearing tree on his side of the land, and he was able to eat its fruit. The other man’s parcel of land remained barren.
After a week, the first man was lonely and he decided to pray for a wife. The next day, there was a woman who swam to his side of the land. On the other side of the island, there was nothing. Soon the first man prayed for a house, clothes, more food. The next day, like magic, all of these were given to him. However, the second man still had nothing. Finally, the first man prayed for a ship, so that he and his wife could leave the island. In the morning, he found a ship docked at his side of the island. The first man boarded the ship with his wife and decided to leave the second man on the island. He considered the other man unworthy to receive God’s blessings, since none of his prayers had been answered. As the ship was about to leave, the first man heard a voice from heaven booming, “Why are you leaving your companion on the island?” “My blessings are mine alone, since I was the one who prayed for them,” the first man answered. “His prayers were all unanswered and so he does not deserve anything.” “You are mistaken!” the voice rebuked him. “He had only one prayer, which I answered. If not for that, you would not have received any of my blessings.”“Tell me,” the first man asked the voice, “what did he pray for that I should owe him anything?” “He prayed that all your prayers be answered!”For all we know, our blessings are not the fruits of our prayers alone, but those of others praying for us. My prayer for you today is that all your prayers are answered. Be blessed. “How much you pray for others is far more important than your prayers for yourself..!”
Email: bobsbanter@gmail.com

Stretching out for love..!

Robert Clements

This morning while walking at the park I accidentally brushed past a man. “Sorry!” I said. “Thank you!” he replied. I walked on a little puzzled, wondering whether I’d heard right, and then slowed down waiting for him to pass, “Why did you say thank you?” I asked. “Because you’re the first person who’s ever spoken to me in this park!” he said. I heard a story about an older woman who stood in line at the Post Office. She struck up a conversation with a young man next to her. He noticed that she had no packages to mail, and asked why she was standing in line. She said that she just needed a few stamps. “Ma’am, you must be tired standing here. Did you know there’s a stamp machine over there in the corner?” He pointed to the machine built into the wall. “Why yes, thank you,” the lady replied, “but I’ll just wait here a little while longer. I’m getting close to the window.” The customer became insistent. “But it would be so much easier for you to avoid this long line and buy your stamps from the machine.”

The woman patted him on the arm and answered, “Oh, I know. But that old machine would never ask me how my grandchildren are doing!” She had a need greater than the need for postage stamps — a need to feel connected to other people. And it was a need that could not be met by a stamp machine. When Congressman Sam Rayburn, a close friend of former President Harry Truman, discovered that he was seriously ill, he told his friends in Congress that he was going home to Bonham for medical tests. “But there are excellent doctors and medical facilities in Washington D.C.” some of them argued. “Why would you want to go to Bonham?” “Because,” the congressman replied, “Bonham is a place where people know when you’re sick, and where they care when you die.”Rayburn had a need greater than good medical assistance. He needed people who cared: Someone to ask how his grandchildren were doing. Someone to sit by him and stop by his home. Someone to care. A few close friends meant more than the best medical facilities in the world. The man who I’d said sorry to walked on ahead, I couldn’t walk with him lest he see my tears, big drops that filled my eyes. I waited till they’d dried and then caught up with him, I saw his eyes light up as he looked up at me, we walked together, I hope he didn’t see fresh tears that refused to go away..!
Email: bobsbanter@gmail.com

Earn more, being idle..!

Robert Clements


“Eat!” I shout at my German -Shepherd, “Come on eat I’m getting late!” And my dog stares with stubborn look on canine face, which makes me even more furious. I take him by his collar and drag him to its plate, “Finish your food, you silly dog!” It just doesn’t work. That’s when I found a method, far better; that when I remain calm, totally unaffected before his meal, unruffled by his sure to happen obstinacy, yet when the time comes taking him firmly to his plate that’s when Geoff obliges and polishes off his meal. It’s a simple example but in the famous book Moby Dick, portraying the whaling industry of his time, the author teaches us something about the power of being calm and cool just before getting something done:
Melville gives us a turbulent scene in which a whaleboat sails across a frothing ocean in pursuit of the great white whale. The sailors are laboring to keep the vessel on course in a raging sea, every muscle taut.

They labor furiously as they concentrate on the task at hand. In Captain Ahab’s boat, however, there is one man who does nothing. He doesn’t hold an oar; he doesn’t perspire; he doesn’t shout. He is languid - utterly relaxed, quiet and poised. This man is the harpooner, and his job is to patiently wait for the moment. Then Melville gives us this sentence: “To insure the greatest efficiency in the dart, the harpooners of this world must jump to their feet out of idleness, and not out of toil!” What a marvelous picture for effective living! It’s like saying, ‘You want to earn more, be idle!’ Those who would live each day to the fullest must prepare for them from a state of idleness rather than toil. For many people this means a daily period of quiet and meditation to focus, plan or pray. Self- help expert Brian Tracy calls it an indispensable daily time of planning and preparation. He suggests that we devote a full hour to being alone every morning. That is when we set our daily priorities so that we, and not events, are in charge of our lives. “I don’t have time for that!” some people complain. “My life is simply too busy to add one more thing to it.” But most people find that a regular period of idleness to chart the day’s course, still the mind, listen and prepare, actually creates more time, than it takes. For we are most effective when we jump to our feet out of idleness and not out of panic. I guess it works because the harpooner always got his whale and my dog Geoff eats his food! So if you’re planning to get into the big earning category, a better job or find lucrative employment then learn to: Be still, before the kill..!”
Email: bobsbanter@gmail.com

When God speaks..!

Robert Clements

So often we pray and wonder whether it’s a one sided affair; we talk to God but He doesn’t speak back: I’d like to share this simple experience with you: All day long I had been writing and writing and writing. Suddenly, it dawned on me that I was dog-tired. I simply couldn’t work as long as I could when I was younger. ‘I’ve got to rest for a minute,’ I told my wife, as I collapsed into my favourite rocking chair. Music was playing, my dogs were chasing each other and the telephone rang.

A verse popped into my mind: ‘Be still, and know that I am God.’ I realized that I hadn’t spent much time in prayer that day. Was I too busy to even utter a simple word of thanks to God? Suddenly, the thought of my beautiful terrace came to mind. I can be quiet out there, I thought. I longed for a few minutes alone with God. I had invested a great deal of time and work on the terrace garden. The plants and red flowers were breathtaking. It was definitely a heavenly place of rest and tranquility. If I can’t be still with God in that environment, I can’t be still with Him anywhere, I thought. I slipped up the stairs and sat down on my favourite folding chair, closed my eyes and began to pray, counting my many blessings. A bird flew by me, chirping and singing. It interrupted my thoughts. It landed on the swing and began eating dinner as I watched. After a few minutes it flew away, singing another song. I closed my eyes again. A gust of wind blew, which caused the leaves from the peepul tree to dance. They made a joyful sound, but again I lost my concentration on God. I squirmed and wiggled in my chair. I looked up toward the blue sky and saw the clouds moving slowly toward the horizon. The wind died down. The leaves finally became quiet.

Again, I bowed in prayer. ‘Honk, honk,’ I heard. A neighbour was driving through the colony. I got up, he waved at me and smiled. I waved back. I quickly tried once again to settle down, repeating the familiar verse in my mind. Be still and know that I am God. ‘I’m trying God. I really am,’ I whispered. ‘But you’ve got to help me here.’ There were footsteps; my dog walked up to me and nuzzled my hand, “I love you,” he seemed to say, ‘I was wondering where you were.’ I chuckled, as it came over and licked me, then turned around and went back to its resting place. ‘Where’s the quiet time?’ I asked God. Then it suddenly dawned on me. God was speaking to me the entire time I was attempting to be still. He sent a sparrow to lighten my life with song. He sent a gentle breeze. He sent a neighbour to let me know that I had a friend. He sent my dog to offer sincere sentiments of love. While I was trying to count my blessings, God was busy multiplying them. I laughed to realize that the ‘interruptions’ of my quiet time with God were special blessings He’d sent to show me He was with me the entire time…!
Email: bobsbanter@gmail.com

Abetting suicide..!

Robert Clements

Grandpa and Grandma always got very excited when they recalled the old days they were together. They made a decision, one day to make it “yesterday once more”. They made a date on the riverbank they used to go when they were young. The next day, Grandpa got up six in the morning, dashed to the bank, picked up a big bunch of wild flowers before sunrise, waited there for his sweetheart to come. But grandpa ended in disappointment grandma never showed up even after sunset. Grandpa went home in such anger. He opened the door, seeing grandma lying on the sofa with her pillow. He threw the flowers on the floor and questioned: “Why didn’t you come to our date?” Grandma hid her head in the pillow and replied shyly: “Do you remember, mom didn’t allow me to go!” “Yes I do remember,” said grandpa slowly, “I was so disappointed I nearly committed suicide!” “Thank god you didn’t,” whispered Grandma, “otherwise you would have been dead and I in jail for abetting you to commit suicide!” “Maybe I should have done it,” grinned grandpa, “your mama also would have been in jail for the same crime!”

After you’ve laughed your fill, d’ you understand this ain’t a joke; in our country our police have suddenly, gleefully realized that suicide is no more an open and shut case, there’s chances of immediate gratification, instant publicity and no detective work in finding criminal.
“What did you say to her before she committed suicide!” “That our relationship is over!” “You are under arrest!” Suddenly youngsters look at each other fearfully. “Dearest will you stay with me throughout my life?” “Oh yes, yes, perish the thought I’ll do anything else! I don’t want to land up in jail!” Police come to a house where failed student hangs from ceiling then they go straight to his school, “How did he do in his exams?” “He failed!” “Who corrected his paper?” “I did!” “You are under arrest, please come to the police station, you will be in custody for a few weeks, and then its prison!” How are we tolerating this terrible atrocity? Wake up, before its too late and you find yourself behind bars: Tomorrow, any employee, subordinate, spouse or friend can blackmail you, “Promote me or else…!” “Marry me…or else!”Said Grandma to grandpa as they curled up in each other’s arms, “I wonder why the Chief Minister and Prime Minister aren’t arrested every time a farmer commits suicide?”
Email: bobsbanter@gmail.com

The stranger..!

Robert Clements

My good friend Charles sent this to me this morning, and its too good not to be shared with you, my readers. Sad the name of the author wasn’t mentioned but whoever it is, thank you:
A few years after I was born, my dad met a stranger who was new to our small town. From the beginning, Dad was fascinated with this enchanting newcomer and soon invited him to live with our family. The stranger was quickly accepted and was around from then on. As I grew up, I never questioned his place in my family. In my young mind, he had a special niche. My parents were complementary instructors: Mum taught me good from evil, and Dad taught me to obey. But the stranger, ah he was our storyteller. He would keep us spellbound for hours on end with adventures, mysteries, and comedies. If I wanted to know anything about politics, history or science, he always knew the answers about the past, understood the present and even seemed able to predict the future!

He took my family to football and cricket. He made me laugh, and he made me cry. The stranger never stopped talking, but Dad didn’t seem to mind. Sometimes, Mum would get up quietly while the rest of us were shushing each other to listen to what he had to say, and she would go to the kitchen for peace and quiet. (I wonder now if she ever prayed for the stranger to leave.) Dad ruled our household with certain moral convictions, but the stranger never felt obligated to honour them. Profanity, for example, was not allowed in our home ... not from us, our friends, or any visitors. Our long time visitor, however, got away with four-letter words that burned my ears and made my dad squirm and my mother blush. My dad didn’t permit the liberal use of alcohol. But the stranger encouraged us to try it on a regular basis. He made cigarettes look cool, cigars manly, and pipes distinguished. He talked freely (much too freely) about sex. His comments were sometimes blatant, sometimes suggestive, and generally embarrassing. I now know that my early concepts about relationships were influenced strongly by the stranger. Time after time, he opposed the values of my parents, yet he was seldom rebuked ... And NEVER asked to leave.More than fifty years have passed since the stranger moved in with our family. He has blended right in and is not nearly as fascinating as he was at first. If you could walk into my parents’ den today, you would still find him sitting over in his corner, waiting for someone to listen to him talk and watch him draw his pictures. His name? We just call him, ‘TV.’ He has a wife now ... We call her, ‘Computer..!’.
Email: bobsbanter@gmail.com

Flying high..!

Robert Clements

Perform or Perish!” Civil Aviation Minister. Union members and other staff of a national carrier are extremely upset with the aviation minister for advising them to either perform or perish:

“How much more can one perform, “ grumbled a very senior airhostess, her grey eyebrows arched angrily in the direction of the nation’s capital, “I perform everyday as wife, mother and grandmother and now he expects me to perform in my job? I buy clothes for my children from Bangkok, take booze back for my husband from the flight bar, chocolates for my grandchildren from duty free and save allowance money for my retirement by cooking in my hotel room; tell me, how much more can I perform?”

A male flight steward who overheard the airhostess grumbling came over and stood next to her, “How much more can I perform,” he joined in. “I scowl at old passengers so they will load their own luggage, serve vegetarian food to the non-vegetarians, non veg to the veggies, tell people their headphones don’t work and tell freezing passengers there are no blankets on board! How much more can I perform?”

A pilot who was entering his cockpit stood next to the very senior air- hostess and the very senior flight purser, “How much more can I perform?” he yelled, making the old hostess and the aged purser jump, “I have to tip the breathalyzer fellow when I have a drink and nearly kill myself as I pilot the plane drunk, I face divorce proceedings for fooling around with pretty stewards and have to work out ways to invest all this extra cash I have! How much more can I perform?”
“A union leader, who was in charge of the loaders, fitters and other non- flying crew came and stood next to the three, “How much more can I perform?” he shrieked and smiled as the pilot, the steward and aged airhostess, covered their ears.

“I have struck work for wages, highest in the world for men who can stay at home because there are no planes to maintain, I have gone on strike to reduce working hours, gone on strike to stop privatization, and gone on strike, just to go on strike! How much more can I perform?”
The four employees of the national carrier stood together and sang in agonized harmony:
Minister, minister what do you want, what did you say? Minister, minister, see how we work, both night and day!
We’ve performed so much oh ministerji, can’t you just see? So perish the thought, Yes perish the though, Please perish the thought Of ever ministerji, increasing our efficiency..!
Email: bobsbanter@gmail.com

Still yourself..!

Robert Clements

Anger blows out the lamp of the mind, Robert Ingersoll. Last night I spent in the company of a dear friend of mine whom I hadn’t met in years. We went over to his club and as I sat with him, realized there was a lot amiss; this was one very angry young man: He was angry with his friends, relatives, and almost everybody for hurt they had caused him. I sat and listened to him and asked: “How’s your blood pressure?”

“Gone up!” he said. “Bound to,” I sighed and told him a story:
A man read, in the want ads, of a sports car for sale. It had only 3,000 miles. “Like new,” the ad boasted. “Mint condition. $75.00.” He laughed to himself, and he said, “There goes the newspaper, making another mistake.” But he decided to call the number anyway and he asked the woman who answered about the car. “Is it really brand new?” “Yes,” she replied. “Three thousand miles?” “Yes.” “The price?” “Seventy-five dollars,” she answered. “Lady, what’s wrong with it?” he asked. “Nothing is wrong with it. You’re the first to call. I supposed nobody believed the ad.”

He decided to look at it. She let him take a test drive. The car looked exquisite and ran perfectly. He just couldn’t believe his luck! “The car is yours for $75.00,” the woman said emphatically, “on one condition. I want the money now and I want you to drive it away so I never have to see it again.” He paid her and took the keys. “Please tell me, lady,” he persisted. “You could have sold this car for thirty thousand dollars. What’s going on?” She told him her story: “I bought this car for my husband on our fortieth wedding anniversary. Two weeks ago he went fishing with his friends leaving me here alone, last week I got a call from him. He said, ‘Need money, sell car, and send all the cash.’ I just did that!” We both laughed at the story and then my friend asked, “What are you trying to tell me Bob?” “That you are being just like that lady!” I said, “she also wanted to hit out at her husband and sold something that was precious to both of them for a song; you also are losing your health because of your anger!” “So what do I do?” he asked. “Anger,” I said quoting Max Lucado, “is the noise of the soul, the unseen irritant of the heart, the relentless invader of silence!” “So?” “Still yourself! What happened yesterday you can’t alter, but your response to yesterday you can! You can either lash out by selling the car and destroying something valuable or being still, forgiving the other person and carrying on with life! “And without having to take my blood pressure tablets..!” laughed my friend.
Email: bobsbanter@gmail.com

Beaten by Pakistan..!

Robert Clements

India is shattered! After all the excitement, elation and euphoria, the titillating and sensational IPL matches brought, when a country sat glued to their heroes pitted against each other, with sixes and fours scored off every ball, with foreign players thrashed by Indian counterparts, they now sit disgusted, dejected and in the doldrums of darkest despair.

“M..m..m..money!” shouted an Indian batsman, “How am I to hit a six when there’s no reward! When I see the dollar, my brain commands muscle to lift bat, but yesterday my brain went to sleep!”
“Cheerleaders!” said another member of the defeated team, “Days on end I entered the field to ogle the girls. The batsman hits the ball at only one player what do we others do? The IPL solved that problem! We watched their girls! Now it’s back to the old boredom; you saw how we played!”
“Also, “ said another member of the Indian team, “it’s strange not seeing our own players in the opposing side. For two months, we went down to bat or bowl to some of our own, but yesterday it was frightening to see only Pakistanis and Pakistanis! I looked round for a familiar Indian face in their midst, like in the IPL but horror of horrors, there were none!” “I agree with that!” said another player, “I was appalled to see only Indians on my side! How could we all be on the same side? My brain refused to accept we were team mates now!”
With this feedback, the think tanks in India sat together and made suggestions:
“I don’t see the point of India playing International matches anymore,” said a cricket psychiatrist known for his blunt words, “such matches could only be damaging to our players confidence!”
“When the whole country is going global cricket cannot go local!” scoffed a psychologist, “do we all agree that the recent IPL matches were a resounding success?”
“Yea!”
“Do we all agree that the recent defeat was a disaster?”
“Yea!”
“So brainwash our fellows, fool them into believing they are still playing IPL matches when they play for the country!”
“How?” asked the other psychiatrists and psychologists in the room.
“Put all our fellows in different uniforms so they think they are still in different teams!”
“Excellent!” shouted the other psychiatrists and psychologists, thumping the table.
“Throw in some cheerleaders, and in conservative countries, cheermen!”
“Brilliant! And what about huge payments? Huge checks cannot be issued for playing for the country?”
“Write out the checks in paisa!” said the psychologist, “the players will only see the zeros and they’ll hit fours, sixes and you’ll get victories after that!”
“Who do we send our bill to?” asked the chief psychologist to the chairman of the cricket board later.
“Bill? How can you ask for payment! You were solving problems for the country! Did you find answers?”
“No..!” said the chief psychologist, “But we will when we think for the IPL..!”
Email: bobsbanter@gmail.com

Outsourcing America..!

Robert Clements

Barack Obama, Democrat nominee for the Whitehouse very categorically said that outsourcing of US jobs will continue. My friend Marvin, a big Obama supporter and a close friend also told me that outsourcing is going to be big on the Democrat’s agenda. “The first thing de man’s gonna outsource is de Vice- President’s job,” said Marvin with a determined glint in his eye. “You don’t say so?” I asked surprised. “It’s better having an Indian doin’ the job somewhere in Bangalore or Gurgaon than Hillary sitting on his head as VP! And knowing dat woman, she’ll be sitting on his chest with a damn stethoscope; waitin’ to take over!” “But he can’t do that!” I said. “The Republicans, they gonna beat him to it if they make that Bobby Jindal, Mc Cain’s running mate!” said Marvin shaking his head at me. “Anything else Obama would like outsourced?” I asked quietly. “Well, said Marvin, “Once de Vice President’s job’s of the way, Obama, he wants to ask Senate and Congress if they be agreed to do de same with their jobs!” “You crazy?” I asked incredulously. “I’m not, so isn’t Obama!” chuckled Marvin as he led me to a Mac Donald’s outlet and made me sit down, “You see what I see Bob?” “That all the attendants are Indian?” I asked. “And you see what else I see?” “That the service is very good!” Yep!” said Marvin, “It was in one of our late night campaigns that Obama and I saw de same thing and he exclaimed that…”

“You should outsource the Senate!” I completed. “And de Congress!” “Not a bad idea!” I said looking at the excellent service provided in the fast food outlet. “And d’ you know something,” whispered Marvin looking around, “he won’t have any trouble convincing them Senators and Congressmen!” “He’s a good convincer!” I admitted. “It don’t require much convincing,” said Marvin grinning, “those poor fellers ‘ave bin running dis country for nigh three hundred years, don’t you think it’s their turn to go fishin’ and huntin’ and ‘ave their work outsourced?” “While India sweats it out!” I said, “But this whole outsourcing thing could sure turn America topsy-turvy!” “Topsy-turvy!” shuddered Marvin looking at me ghost like, “dat’s de only thing that’s bothering Obama, “how America will react wid havin’ to keep awake all night long while India she runs things for us during her daytime!” “It takes a bit of adjusting,” I said, “but you can’t enjoy the benefits of outsourcing without giving up some sleep..!”
Email: bobsbanter@gmail.com

The stranger..!

Robert Clements

My good friend Charles sent this to me this morning, and its too good not to be shared with you, my readers. Sad the name of the author wasn’t mentioned but whoever it is, thank you:
A few years after I was born, my dad met a stranger who was new to our small town. From the beginning, Dad was fascinated with this enchanting newcomer and soon invited him to live with our family. The stranger was quickly accepted and was around from then on. As I grew up, I never questioned his place in my family. In my young mind, he had a special niche. My parents were complementary instructors: Mum taught me good from evil, and Dad taught me to obey. But the stranger, ah he was our storyteller. He would keep us spellbound for hours on end with adventures, mysteries, and comedies. If I wanted to know anything about politics, history or science, he always knew the answers about the past, understood the present and even seemed able to predict the future!

He took my family to football and cricket. He made me laugh, and he made me cry. The stranger never stopped talking, but Dad didn’t seem to mind. Sometimes, Mum would get up quietly while the rest of us were shushing each other to listen to what he had to say, and she would go to the kitchen for peace and quiet. (I wonder now if she ever prayed for the stranger to leave.) Dad ruled our household with certain moral convictions, but the stranger never felt obligated to honour them. Profanity, for example, was not allowed in our home ... not from us, our friends, or any visitors. Our long time visitor, however, got away with four-letter words that burned my ears and made my dad squirm and my mother blush. My dad didn’t permit the liberal use of alcohol. But the stranger encouraged us to try it on a regular basis. He made cigarettes look cool, cigars manly, and pipes distinguished. He talked freely (much too freely) about sex. His comments were sometimes blatant, sometimes suggestive, and generally embarrassing. I now know that my early concepts about relationships were influenced strongly by the stranger. Time after time, he opposed the values of my parents, yet he was seldom rebuked ... And NEVER asked to leave.More than fifty years have passed since the stranger moved in with our family. He has blended right in and is not nearly as fascinating as he was at first. If you could walk into my parents’ den today, you would still find him sitting over in his corner, waiting for someone to listen to him talk and watch him draw his pictures. His name? We just call him, ‘TV.’ He has a wife now ... We call her, ‘Computer..!’.
Email: bobsbanter@gmail.com

Bully aunty..!

Rober Clements

A few years ago while attending
the funeral of an aunt of mine,
a little boy came to the cemetery rather late and sidling up to me asked, “Is this the funeral of Bully Aunty?” “Bully Aunty?” I gasped looking to see whether my uncle whose wife it is we had just buried had heard, but I saw him grinning. “That’s what she was called!” he laughed with tears in his eyes. “Not because she was a bully, oh no God bless her soul, but because we had a dog named Bully and the whole colony knew me as Bully Uncle and your aunt as Bully Aunty!” “Didn’t it bother you?” I asked afterwards. “Of course not! Why should it have?” asked my uncle looking at me curiously a little puzzled.I’ve always remembered that incident and laughed. Yet I know many, many fathers and mothers who hate to be known as the parents of their children, who fight to have an identity of their own instead of being proud of what their children have achieved.
“Are you Ashok’s mother?” “No I’m Mrs Kapoor and I have a son named Ashok!” I’ve always wondered why we aren’t proud to be known as parents of our own children? For a long time they were known as our children weren’t they? And if they’ve made a name for themselves we also had a part to play in it, so what’s wrong in taking a step back and basking in their glory? Here’s a little incident and its only to make you laugh, don’t take it too seriously: Many years ago, US Congressman Tribble of Georgia told a story about his daughter. Wherever she went, the little girl was constantly associated with her father. “Oh, you must be Congressman Tribble’s daughter,” well-intentioned adults would coo. She explained to her parents that she wanted to be herself, not simply known as Congressman Tribble’s little girl. Her father told her not to worry about it. Her mother, who perhaps understood the problem better, suggested, “The next time that happens, just stand right up and say, ‘I am Constance Tribble!’” The opportunity arose just a few days later. A group of people met her and when they heard her name, they said, “Why, Congressman Tribble must be your father!” Constance looked right back at them and said, “Oh, no! That’s not what my mother says!” So the next time someone asks you whether you are your child’s father, just look him or her straight in the eye and say, “Oh no! That’s not what his mother says..!”
Email: bobsbanter@gmail.com
 

Miss Bailey’s cycle..!

Robert Clements

Her name was Miss Bailey, she was English and she taught me in junior school. She cycled to school, on a beautiful bike that had been crafted in Japan, and then on entering school gate would hand over beautiful machine to anyone of us eager boys who would rush forward to park it for her. It was a privilege when Miss Bailey handed her bicycle to you. One day Shankar stood at the gate: Shankar was a hunchback.

We laughed, “Move out of the way Shankar, Miss Bailey is going to enter!” Miss Bailey drove in and we all rushed offering our little hands to her. But Miss Bailey looked past us all. “Will you park it for me?” she called out. We looked back to see who it was and were horrified to see it was towards Shankar Miss Bailey was taking her precious bike. “I don’t think so Miss Bailey!” stammered Shankar. “Why you lazy fellow!” said Miss Bailey playfully, “You don’t want to help your class teacher do you?” “Ofcourse I want to Miss Bailey!” whispered Shankar, “but I might drop your cycle!” “If you drop it you pick it up!” said the teacher with a sweet smile, I’d never seen her ever give to us.

Saying that she thrust her cycle into Shankar’s trembling hands and without looking to see how he’d manage, but pretending she had the greatest confidence in his parking abilities turned and marched to class. We watched Shankar, as held her lovely machine. We held our breaths as we thought it was going to fall. Dinesh rushed to help. “Leave it!” hissed Shankar and we all fell back, then watched as he straightened himself out. It seemed his hump disappeared as he drew himself up to his full height and then gingerly at first then with growing confidence pushed Miss Bailey’s cycle to the parking lot. The school bell rang and we rushed to class. Shankar was the last to enter, but we gasped; it was a different boy who walked in.

Miss Bailey didn’t even look at him, as he walked to her and handed her the keys. She took it from his hand and carried on with the roll call. From that day Shankar changed completely. It seemed his hunch disappeared at least that’s what we felt had happened. He answered all the questions, his grades rocketed and the most beautiful smile started appearing on his face. It was obvious Miss Bailey had seen beyond his hunchback and had drawn the real Shankar out. Maybe that night when he looked into the mirror he saw the boy Miss Bailey had seen. He stood a bit taller and felt a little more special. From that day Shankar topped the class..!
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Not without my security..!

Robert Clements

The political leader surrounded by his Z security, Black Cats, policemen and private guards climbed onto the podium to address the crowd. “Let us cleanse the city!” he screamed into the mike, “Let us cleanse the country!”

The men and women on the grounds looked up at the political leader; they could hardly see him surrounded as he was by his Black Cats, Z Security, policemen and private guards.

“Follow me!” shouted the political leader, “and if you see a man or woman from a place different from yours hit him, thrash him, kill him!”

“Hit him! Thrash him! Kill him!” shouted the frenzied mob. “And then do you know what you should do?”

The worked up men and women on the grounds looked up at the political leader, they could hardly see him surrounded as he was by his Black Cats, Z Security, policemen and private guards, “What should we do oh great leader?”

“Look hard at your neighbour! If you see he is not a son of the soil then hit him!”

“Hit him!” shouted the crowd. “Thrash him!” “Thrash him!” shouted the crowd.

“Kill him!” “Kill him!” shouted the crowd. “And then do you know what you should do?”

The men and women on the grounds looked up at the political leader, they could hardly see him surrounded as he was by his Black Cats, Z Security, policemen and private guards, “What should we do oh great leader?” they shouted.

“See where he worships! If he worships in a place different from yours, then…?””Hit him!” “Thrash him!” “Kill him!”

The men and women on the ground looked up at the political leader, suddenly they could see him! His Black Cats, Z Security, policemen and private guards had all disappeared. “Where is my security?” he shouted.

“They have gone home sir, their time is up!” said his PA. “But I am alone!” whispered the political leader, “I can be hit, smashed, killed!”

The people on the grounds looked up at their trembling political leader without his Black Cats, Z men, guards and policemen, “Shall we follow you and start hitting, smashing and killing oh great leader?”

“Sssshhh!” whispered the leader, “Go home and go to bed! Wait! Wait, let me come with you, I could be hit, thrashed and killed without my security..!”

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Hold onto hope..!

Robert Clements

The skies were dark and a heavy cloud hung over us as we drove on roads that echoed the darkness above. We were two writers in the car, my friend, whose first book published by Penguin, had been a runaway success, now stuck with no offers for his second, and me a newspaper columnist who had just lost lucrative foreign newspaper.
Suddenly we both looked up from dismal black road and exclaimed at glorious sight above: The dark cloud above had a beautiful silver lining.
A sparkling line of hope!
Wasn’t it Jean Kerr who said, ‘Hope is the feeling you have, that the feeling you have, isn’t permanent.’ Ah! What lovely lines; It means we know we WILL eventually survive the night and bask in sunshine once again. It does not deny the present darkness, but reminds us a beautiful bright morning is just round the corner.
Brigadier General Robinson Risner spent seven years as a Prisoner of War in Vietnam and there he discovered the power of hope. He spent four and a half years of that time in isolation and endured ten months of total darkness.
Those months were the longest of his life.
One day his Vietnamese captors, boarded up his little seven-by-seven foot cell, shutting out the light, making him wonder if he was ever going to make it. He had already been under intense physical and mental duress after years of confinement. And now, not a glimmer of light shone into his cell — or into his soul.
The Brigadier spent hours a day exercising and praying. But at times he felt he could do nothing but scream. Not wanting to give his captors the satisfaction of knowing they’d broken him, he stuffed clothing into his mouth to muffle the noise as he screamed at the top of his lungs.
One day he crawled under his bunk and located a vent that let in outside air. As he pressed against the vent, he saw a faint glimmer of light reflected on the inside wall of the opening. The Brigadier put his eye next to the cement wall and discovered a minute crack in the construction. It allowed him to glimpse outside, but was so small that all he could see was one blade of grass.
A single blade of grass and a faint ray of light! But when he stared at the sight, he felt a surge of joy, excitement and gratitude like he hadn’t known in years. ‘It represented life, growth, and freedom,’ he later said, ‘and I knew God had not forgotten me.’
It was that tiny glimmer of hope that sustained the Brigadier through an unbearable ordeal.
That dismal day in the car two writers also saw same hope and clung on to it; a silver lining that told us God hadn’t forgotten us. Likewise my friend, look for your own silver lining, your blade of grass and then let peace fill your heart that a beautiful morning is just around the corner..!
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Bush & my Puri Bhajji..!

Robert Clements

Both George Bush and his secretary of state Condoleezza Rice have commented that the world food shortage is because Indians are eating better!
I decided to pay a visit to the White House and interview the President on this rather touchy matter: George Bush was sitting on the lawns eating his third ham burgher which his security men had just brought over from the local Mac Donalds. “Sir, you have accused us Indians of eating too much?” I asked.
“What did you have for breakfast?” mumbled President Bush as he bit into his juicy burgher.
“Puri Bhajji!” I said unhesitatingly. “How many puris?” “Two sir!”
“Two!” roared the American president causing both his security men to jump up, “You dared eat two puris? Because of your second puri I was told that Mac Donalds have run out of ham burghers. I have always eaten four ham burghers! Do you realize your over eating is causing us poor Americans malnutrition and undernourishment?”
“Sir I am sorry my second puri…””You are sorry? You are sorry?” roared the incensed President, “all these years you Indians ate one puri, one spoon of rice and one meal a day! Now you have decided to starve us Americans?”
“I assure you sir we have no such desire!” I whispered. “I have lost half a kg in the last three months because I am not able to eat my fourth ham burgher, my sixth Kentucky chicken and my tenth slice of pizza!”
“I did not know it was so bad sir!” “Look at poor Condoleezza!” “Yes sir I am looking!”
“America has never had an undernourished Secretary of State, ever! How can I send her to solve the Iraq crisis, to sort out the Iran problem, bring peace to Israel if she looks like an underfed puppy?”
“How much weight has she lost sir because of our over eating sir?” “She ordered her third chocolate sundae last evening in her hotel room and do you know what the waiter told her?”
“No sir, Mr President!” “He said we have run out of ice cream! Run out of ice cream, my poor secretary of state starving because you dare eat two puris! Guards!”
“What are you going to do sir?” “Put you in jail!” “But for what crime sir?”
“For starving the American people! And do you know something?” “No sir, Mr President!”
“When I needed oil I raided Iraq! Now that you people have started eating our food I have no other option than attack your country and grab your extra puris! Never will the Americans starve! Never! Not as long as I George. W. Bush am President of the United States..!”
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My Mom and I..!

Robert Clements

Today on Mothers Day, I dedicate these lines to all mothers! When we were a year old, you fed and bathed us. We thanked you by crying all night long. When we were 2, you taught us to walk. We thanked you by running away when you called. When we were 3, you made all our meals with love. We thanked you by tossing our plate on the floor. When we were 4, you gave us some crayons We thanked you by coloring the dining room table!
When I was 5 years old, you dressed me for the holidays. I thanked you by plopping into the nearest pile of mud. When I was 6, you walked me to school. I thanked you by screaming, “I’M NOT GOING!” When I was 7, you bought you me a cricket ball. I thanked you by throwing it through the next-door-neighbor’s window. When I was 8 years old, you handed me an ice cream. I thanked you by dripping it all over your lap.
When I was 9, you paid for piano lessons. I thanked you by never bothering to practice. When I was 10 you drove me all day, from drama classes to sports classes to one birthday party after another. I thanked you by jumping out of the car and never looking back. When I was 11, you took me and my friends to the movies. I thanked you by asking to sit in a different row. When I was 12, you warned me not to watch certain TV shows. I thanked you by waiting until you left the house.
When we were 13, you suggested a haircut that was modern. We thanked you by telling you, you had no taste. When we were 14, you paid for a month away at summer camp. We thanked you by forgetting to write a single letter. When we were 15, you came home from work, looking for a hug. We thanked you by keeping our bedroom door locked. When we were 16, you taught us how to drive your scooter. We thanked you by taking it out every chance we could.
When we were 17, you were expecting an important call. We thanked you by being on the phone all night. When we were 18, you cried at our high school graduation. We thanked you by staying out partying until dawn. When we were 19, you paid for our tuitions, drove us to hostel, even helped carry our bags. We thanked you by saying good-bye outside the gates so we wouldn’t be embarrassed in front of your friends.
When I was 20, you asked whether I was seeing anyone. I told you, “It’s none of your business. When I was 25, you paid for my wedding, and cried and told me how deeply you loved me. I thanked you by moving halfway across the country. When I was 30, you called with some advice on the baby. I thanked you by telling you, “Things are different now.” When I was 40, you called to remind me of a relative’s birthday. I thanked you by saying I was “really busy right now.”
When we were 50, you fell ill and needed us to take care of you. We didn’t. And then, one day, you quietly died. And everything we never did, came crashing down like thunder..! Ah! Mother..!
Dear readers if your mom’s still around never forget to love her more than ever, and if she’s not; pass on her unconditional love to your children..!
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Indians in takeovers..!

Robert Clements

Now that Indians like the Tata’s and Mittal’s are buying companies left right and centre all over the world, Mr Kapoor my neighbor who I meet everyday in the bus stop on my way to work looked at me with excitement, “We Indians are taking over the world!” he shouted, “I’m on my way to the bank to get a loan to take over Microsoft!”
“Bill Gates must be quaking in his shoes!” I said. “You bet,” he said, “once Bill hears an Indian is on a takeover bid, he won’t sleep tonight or the next couple of nights, in fact he might never sleep again! Ha, ha, ha!”
“How do you plan to get so much money?” I asked looking at his bedraggled clothes. “I told you I’m going to the bank!” he said.
“And which Indian bank would give you a loan to take over Microsoft?” “Not Indian..” he whispered.
“Not Indian?” I whispered back. “Foreign!” he whispered. “Foreign bank will give you a loan?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, “would you like to come with me?” “Sure!” I said and jumped into a bus going to the city. “Will you buy my ticket?” asked Mr Kapoor, “I will pay you back as soon as I get my first billion!”
I bought Mr Kapoor his bus ticket and watched as he pocketed the change from the conductor, “I will pay you back…”
“After your first billion!” I reminded him and Mr Kapoor nodded gratefully. We got off the bus and strolled to the huge American bank that occupied the whole street.
“Don’t you think you should brush your hair?” I asked. “And look less Indian?” Mr Kapoor asked.
The doorman an Indian looked at both of us suspiciously but was pushed aside the next moment by foreign officials from the bank who rushed out to hold our hands.
“You are Mr Kapoor?” “No,” I said, “he is!” “Come in, come in,” said the officials, “I am Vice President John and this here is James who will disburse your loan. How much do you want Mr Kapoor?”
“Enough to take over Microsoft!” said Mr Kapoor. “Would you like it in cash or check?”
“That depends entirely on how Bill would like to have it,” smiled Mr Kapoor as he went in and signed all the documents, after which we walked out.
“May I borrow ten rupees for lunch?” asked Mr Kapoor as we hit the road, “I will return it, when…”
“I know, I know,” I said, “tell me how did you know you would get the loan from this bank?”
“A tellecaller, called, she said the bank was giving loans only to Indians for takeover bids! By the way could you help me? I have to send an email to Bill that I’m taking over Microsoft and I don’t know how to operate a computer..!”
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Vada- Pav..!

Robert Clements

The vada- pav stall, old, grimy, et clean, stared back at me as I drove past people milling round the vada- pav man.
“Driver stop the car!” I shouted. “Where sir?” “Next to the vada-pav stall!” “B..b..but sir?”
“I want to eat a vada- pav, haven’t had one in years!” “You like vada-pav sir?” “Loved it! Because for 50 paisa I had a meal! For a rupee I could eat two and was full! But that was many years ago driver; it was my first job, not much money in my wallet, and a hole in my pocket!”
I felt the driver’s questioning eyes on my back as I walked across to the stall, stood in line with the others and waited my turn. The vada was hot, the bread fresh. I bought one for the driver and walked back.
“Sir in the last three years I’ve worked for you, this is the first time you’ve eaten this common man’s meal!”
“Well I’ve moved on my friend!” “Moved on sir?” “I can eat better today! I can spend on tandoori chicken, a continental dish in a five star hotel or even have cheese vada- pav or chicken pav like in some sophisticated stalls in the city!”
We both finished our simple meal and I looked out of the window as he started the car and moved onto the highway. “We all have to move on!” I whispered. “My father might have gone to a school where the medium of instruction was in his mother tongue, but if I had done the same, I would have been left behind!”
“Sir you are saying the vada- pav was good at a stage in your life?” I smiled and realized he was quite quick for a driver.
“Yes!” “Sir there are people who want to make vada- pav the culture of the city!” “When I travel into the villages,” I said, “I see politicians who don’t want villages to develop. They don’t want their people to become educated or poverty to be eradicated! Do you know why?”
He shook his head though I saw a gleam in his eye.
“Because then they would lose control! The politician knows an educated man is a thinking man! That he won’t be swayed by cheap talk of language or religion; like how he is controlled today. He won’t change a government because of mandir or masjid, he would have grown past the stage!”
“You mean he would have passed the vada- pav stage?” “I still love my vada- pav” I said slowly, “but it is not my daily diet..!”
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This is Good..!

Robert Clements

Years ago, while in college, I had a close friend by the name of Shyam Sunder. Shyam for his age was quite a philosophical sort and accepted everything that happened with an attitude of absolute unflappability and equanimity, compared to my own hot blooded impetuousness.
One day while cycling to college, Shyam’s front tyre got entangled with my back wheel and we both fell off our cycles onto the pavement. I got up bruised and furious and ready to punch my friend in the face for his carelessness. Shyam just stood where he was and pointed ahead. I looked and gaped in horror. A taxi had crashed into a lampost just ahead of us. If we had not fallen, the vehicle would have ploughed us down. “Bob,” said Shyam as we got onto our bicycles again, “everything happens for good..! Now let me tell you a story” I brushed the dust off my clothes, wiped the scratches on my elbow and listened carefully.
“Once, a king and his friend went on a hunting trip. The friend would load the guns for the king and the king would shoot. The friend inadvertently made a mistake in preparing one of his guns. When the king took the gun from his friend and fired, the kings own thumb was blown off!”
“The friend remarked, “This is good!” To which the king in great anger replied, “No this is not good!” The king was furious and sent his friend to jail.”
“About a year later, while the king was again on one of his hunting trips, a tribe of cannibals captured him. They tied his hands and legs, stacked some wood, set up a stake and bound him to the pole, but as they came near the king to light the fire, they noticed that the king’s thumb was missing.”
“They were a superstitious people and never ate anyone who was less than whole. Reluctantly they released the king. As the king returned home, he remembered the event that had taken away his thumb and he felt a sense of remorse for his treatment to his friend. He immediately went to jail to release his friend.”
“You were right,” said the king, “It was good that my thumb was blown off, or I would have been eaten by now..!” He then told his friend all that happened and ended by telling him that he was sorry for having sent him to jail.”
“No,” smiled his friend, “it was good.” “What d’you mean?” asked the king. “How could you ever say it was good that I sent you to jail for a year?”
“Had I not been in jail what would have I been doing your majesty?” “Why, hunting with me ofcourse,” said the king. “And the cannibals would have caught both of us, released you for your missing thumb and have made a tasty meal of me by now!”
It was years ago that Shyam told me this story, and I had laughed out loud while looking back at the sight of the taxi that had narrowly missed both of us. There had been a little blood on my elbow and my shirt had torn a bit near the collar, the cycle pedal had got a little wedged into the frame, and we both looked like two disheveled monkeys. “This is good,” said Shyam.
“This is good..!” I replied, and we both pedaled into the wind.
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Women in the house..!

Robert Clements

With the Women’s Reservation Bill soon to become an act, I can imagine changes in the attitude of our elected representatives in the near future as they realize Parliament will soon have hundreds of the fairer sex thronging its otherwise boring portals!
“My makeup bill will go up by seventy five percent!” sighed an old MP ruffling his bald head, “I’ll have to cut down on expenditure for my constituency and spend instead on my beautician, hairdresser, manicurist and pedicurist!”
“What will you cut down on sir?” asked his worried PA.
“That bridge which we laid the inaugural stone for last week, I am sure the villagers can wade through the river for a few years more, I won’t build those three schools and also that hospital in my village, delete them from my list!”
“But you will lose many votes sir!” “Bah! Who’s bothered about silly votes, women matter more!”
His wife was livid! “You say you will be spending more time in Parliament?” she shouted, “then how will I take the children to school without the official car? How will I buy vegetables without your PA, your assistants and secretary helping me out? Who will see that my brother’s daughter and my cousin’s son get admission in the local school if you are not here?”
“My country comes first!” said the MP. “How is it your country never came first before?”
“It always came first!” said the MP as he hurriedly fixed an appointment with the hairdresser, “but now it is coming more first!” “Where are you going?” “To the hairdresser!” “But you have no hair to cut?”
“There is a new process to grow hair!” “But that is a costly process!”
“Ask your brother for a small donation to put his daughter in school, and your cousin for a loan!” And in the corridors of power some elected representatives were huddled in a corner listening to a learned colleague reading from a hard bound book, “What is the book?” asked the Speaker curiously as he passed by.
“Etiquette and Manners..!” said a junior MP and the Speaker smiled and thought,
“It’s going to be a Women’s Reservation Bill which will finally see more work transacted in Parliament than ever before and a new bunch of polite and courteous MP’s! Cherchez la femme..!”
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Hello! Hello!

Robert Clements

Crores and crores of business is lost in India because of terrible ‘Hello!’ we hear when someone rings up a business house, store or firm!

Millions of rupees are spent on TV and newspaper advertising with phone numbers displayed for prospective customer to contact. But when customer calls number, gruff and grumpy voice greets him at the other end.

We lose business because we don’t smile with our voice! Smile with your voice! Seems a tall order, doesn’t it? How on earth you ask, can you smile and talk.

Stand in front of a mirror will you? Just say, “How d’you do?” the way you normally do. Stop!

Now stretch a nice big huge smile across your face and say the same words out loud. Aha! There’s a big difference isn’t there? You feel like reaching across the mirror and patting that friendly fellow in there. That’s the reaction when you smile with your voice, a difference that can send you leaping up the ladder of success.

I don’t know what your job is, but most call centers train you to talk nowadays in a particular fashion, either with British or American accent; to roll your R’s like Blair or sit lightly on your T’s like Bush. They tell you to speak in a friendly voice but very rarely tell you how to get that friendliness into your voice.

Just smile. Nothing more, nothing less!

So maybe you’re not working in a BPO, you’re an executive, a businessman, whatever. Okay Mr Hotshot you need to make an appointment to meet Mr Bigger Hotshot. You pick up the phone, dial Mr Bigger Hotshot’s number and with your best foot forward and tongue firmly in place tell his secretary who you are.

“Who?” she snarls. You fumble, flounder around for words, and feel flustered. “Who?” she asks again, and before she can put down the phone, you squeak out your name to her.

“Mr Bigger Hotshot is busy,” she says and cuts you off. Now, now Mr Hotshot, lets give it another try. Give the ‘smile in your voice’ theory a try. Smile as you call. Smile as you dial. Not enough, not enough, yes that’s it, a nice huge whammy of a smile. Now speak to her, yes that same hag, that witch who cut you off. Smile into your words. Let her feel your lips stretching out to bursting point. She’s listening! She feels your smile, senses your warmth, there’s a feel good factor at work my friend. You ask for her boss and she puts you through. Just like that, and if she doesn’t do so at once its because she wants to feel your smile a few moments more!

A smile in your voice always works; you can make big money and save big bucks once you cultivate the habit.


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Use mistakes to build yourself up..!

Robert Clements

I’d like to share a story with you today: It’s about a famous research scientist who’d made several very important medical breakthroughs, and was being interviewed by a newspaper reporter:

“Why are you more creative than the average person?” he was asked.

The famous man smiled, “It all came from an experience I had with my mother when I was two years old!”

“I was trying to remove a bottle of milk from the refrigerator when I lost my grip on the slippery bottle and it fell, spilling its contents all over the kitchen floor - a veritable sea of milk!”

“When my mother came into the kitchen, instead of yelling at me, giving me a lecture or punishing me, she said, ‘Son, what a great and wonderful mess you’ve made! I’ve never seen such a huge puddle of milk!”

“I stared at my mother stunned as she continued, “Well son, the damage has been done. Would you like to get down and play in the milk for a few minutes before we clean up?”

“And that’s what I did!”

“After a few minutes, my mother said, ‘You know, son, whenever you make a mess like this, finally we all have to clean up and restore everything to its proper order. So, how would you like to help me do that? Lets use a sponge, a towel, or a mop. What do you prefer?’

“I chose the sponge and together we cleaned the spilled milk!”

“Then my mother said, “What happened was a failed experiment in how to carry a big milk bottle with two tiny hands. Let’s go to the back yard, fill the bottle with water and see if you can discover a way to carry it without dropping it!”

Says the famous scientist, “I did just that and learned that if I held the bottle at the top near the neck with both hands, I could carry it without dropping it!”

“That was the moment I knew I didn’t need to be afraid to make mistakes. Instead, I learned that mistakes were just opportunities for learning something new, which is, after all, what scientific experiments are all about. Even if the experiment ‘doesn’t work,’ we usually learn something valuable from it don’t we?”

Wouldn’t it be great if all parents respond the way his mother responded to him?

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could all respond to people who we manage in a similar manner too; help someone learn from his or her mistakes?

That man’s mother helped build him up to be a great man by helping him to learn from a mistake he’d made.

Are you one who makes a lot of mistakes? Or do you have a child who does? Whatever, start building on those mistakes and change your life..!

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A lost phone means lost friends..!

Robert Clements

Who’s this?” asks the voice at the other end. “Who’s this!” I mimic. “Will you please give your name!” “I thought you’d stored my number!” I say furiously.

“Bob, its you!” “You mean you didn’t recognize me?” “I’ve forgotten how to recognize voices after I started storing numbers!”

“So how come you haven’t stored mine?” “I did!” “Oh yeah!” “But I lost my phone and with it all the numbers of all my friends!” “But didn’t you write it down somewhere?”

“No!” “We’ve been friends years, don’t you know mine by heart?” “Come on Bob, you know those days of by hearting stopped with cell phones and their storage memories!”

And that’s the story of a lost phone; you lose cell phone and you’ve lost friends! After that you wait apprehensively hoping they’ll call up one by one and you can slowly add them back to the list on your new cell phone.

“Hi!” you say eagerly when new phone rings. “Sir, are you interested in insurance?” “Idiot!”

“Hi!” you shout again. “If you have not paid your bill, your phone will be disconnected, if you have not paid your bill your phone will be disconnected, if you…”

You cut off recorded voice and wait; hours and minutes go by, months and years, you finally get a number and ring a friend, “Hello its me, Bob!” “Hey we’ve all been wondering where you were!”

“Well you could have rung!” I say lamely. “I was planning to, but you know how time passes by!” “You got Kumar’s number?” “Oh you didn’t know?” “Know what?”

“Kumar passed away last year, we were wondering why you weren’t there at the funeral!” “And Sonny?”

“Sonny’s gone to Dubai, we had a farewell for him last week, wondering why you didn’t turn up, but everybody said you’d stopped calling, said you’d become a recluse!” “Recluse? I lost my phone!” I shout.

“So use the landline!” “But I don’t have your numbers!” I say weakly. “But I stay in the next street, you could have come over?” “I wanted to,” I say lamely, “but I couldn’t message you and ask if you were at home..!”

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Talking himself to death..!

Robert Clements

The young man driving the latest fancy car had one arm on the steering wheel, the other hugging his cell phone in an intimate embrace.

“Did I wake you up?” he asked seductively into the mouthpiece. “No,” replied the husky voice at the other end, “you just got me out of the bath!” “Out of the bath!” exclaimed the young man, not seeing the cyclist in front.

“What was that noise?” she asked at the other end. “What noise?” he whispered, breathlessly holding the cell phone even closer, and not noticing the cyclist falling behind.

“You know you shouldn’t phone and drive,” said the husky voice at the other end. “What are cell phones for?” asked the young man with a grin, “if not for taking the boredom out of driving!”

The signal in front, suddenly turned red, but the young man with his phone pressed to his ear and his mind pressed elsewhere didn’t notice the change and continued driving through.

“What are you putting on?” he asked, holding his breath in anticipation and literally looking into the phone. He did not see the startled scooterist veering dangerously to avoid him. All he felt was a thud, which he mistook for the sound of his own heart beat as he repeated the question “What are you wearing?” “Come and see,” said the husky voice at the other end.

“Yes I’m coming,” said the young man accelerating his car, so that the speedometer needle started climbing up dangerously, “and I’m not going to put this phone off till I reach you.” The other drivers on the road, in their cars and buses and trucks tried desperately to pull their vehicles quickly out of the way of the speeding car.

“Hello, hello,” said the young man suddenly realising the phone had gone off. “Hello, sweetheart hello,” he shouted into the mouthpiece. “Damn!” he shouted, “damn!” and drove faster. An old lady with a walking stick, crossing the road at a pedestrian crossing didn’t see the approaching car. She was flung up, high into the air and the crowd that gathered round her, knew she would never need the stick again. The young man in the car only shouted deeper into his cell phone. “Hello, hello, damn, damn, damn…..”

A schoolboy, whose father had taught him how to cross a road, was astonished to see the car bearing down on him. He jumped out of the way in time, but not before his school bag and lunch box were scattered all over. He wondered whether his father had made a mistake in telling him to cross the road when the pedestrian crossing lights were green. He decided not to obey signals ever again.

Meanwhile, the young man driving the latest fancy car, one arm on the steering wheel and the other hugging his cell phone, bent down to press redial so he could talk to his girlfriend again. His eyes were filled with anticipation…. He did not see the ten ton truck switching lanes in front of him:

“Hello,” said the husky voice at the other end of the line, “hello,” she shouted as she heard the piercing scream and the sound of tearing metal. “Hello,” screamed the husky voice at the other end again, but the young man one mangled arm on the smashed wheel and the other still clutching his cell phone, lay still, never to hear her again..!

Email: bobsbanter@gmail.com

Garage sale..!

Garages are meant for cars and cars only!” said my car angrily.

“Sure,” I said and looked absentmindedly in the direction of my garage. “But what does your garage have?” “You!” I said innocently.

“Look inside your garage!” shouted my car angrily, “the whole of last night I was cramped against that silly cot which went on sliding onto me.” “That’s my old baby cot,” I said stubbornly.

“And what is it doing in my garage?” asked the car, “waiting for your second childhood? Well I don’t think it need wait any longer, you’re already into it master and you may as well take it upstairs into your bedroom! Oh how cute you’d look in it. Would you like a plastic doll hanging over you master? Or maybe a little duck?”

“That’s enough,” I said sternly. “Oh no it isn’t,” said my car, “there’s more to say. Why do you have to keep those two steel cupboards in the garage?” “Because there’s no place upstairs dammit!” I shouted.

“So why should it be in my garage?” “Where else?” I asked exasperatedly. “Throw it away!” shouted my car. “Do you know what is inside?” I asked. “Do you?” asked my car, “in the last five years they’ve been lying in the garage, I haven’t seen you opening it even once!”

“I will,” I said, “once I get some time. “Till then they steal my place! And what about those old paint tins?” “What about them?” I asked. “They smell! Do you know what it is to try and sleep with paint and turpentine fumes? And that junk near the wall.”

“What junk?” I asked, “that’s my scooter.” “And pray sir, when did you last ride her?” “That bike has many precious memories,” I said. “In that case why don’t you keep those memories in your bedroom master, instead of crowding me with them? You know what I think?”

“What?” I asked irritably. “You should have a garage sale!” “A garage sale,” I said slowly staring at my car. “Get rid of all your junk once and for all and allow me the space I deserve,” whispered my car excitedly, “to be able to stretch my wheels and open my doors without touching leftovers, scrap and nostalgic remnants of rubbish!”

“Okay,” I said as I sat on the floor and wrote a placard. “Master!” shouted my car, as it read what I had written, “what are you writing?” “Garage sale!” I wrote, “of too talkative a car..!”

I looked affectionately at my baby cot, old scooter and steel cupboards and they smiled at me as I pushed the car out.

Email: bobsbanter@gmail.com