Noise induced trauma
<bitching mode='blog'>
It’s official, I am a victim of noise-induced necrosis. But not just ‘any’ noise, nope. I’ve nailed down the issue.
Cellfuckinphones.
Right, so Bangalore is the diverse mix of techies from around Asia, and what not. A great blend of race, religion and culture. Well, big shit, because this means you end up listening to all kinds of ring tones throughout the day. Starting from our very own desi version of the IT industry’s conquerors - the Andhraites - who love to flaunt their telugu capabilities even on the ring tones. We also have the pro-Kannada heroes who can’t have enough of Sonu Nigam crooning Anisuthide Yaako, the likes of which are responsible for Mungaaru Male still being screened at PVR. Interestingly, there are a few wanna-bes - maybe northies - who have this ringtone too, but that’s probably because they’re just lovesick and crazy about some random Bangalore chick.
And then, the Bollywood freaks, which includes this blogger as well. From Gabbar dialogues to Johhny Gaddar, to even Punjabi Bhangra.
Lastly, the lazy jackasses who are oh-so-content with the loudest, most absurd out-of-the-box Nokia ringtone. I mean, how original can you get?
Not that I’m a prophet of workplace etiquette, but the firm I am currently placed at is rather stringent in their policy, to say the least. It’s surprising that some of the staff don’t recognize this and continue to inflict mental agony upon the others.
But this - to some extent - is bearable. What makes me tear my hair apart is the volume. Honestly, you would think some of these guys are actually going deaf, with the kind of volume levels they maintain. Another notch up on the ring tone and the PA system would hang its head in shame. Perhaps they extract pleasure in letting the office city country know that they just received a call.
And there are some guys who literally scream on the phone. In their mother-tongue, which is fine, culture and all that. But the moment you start listening to a dialect, like telephone-tamil - the bullet-like supersonic linguistic capabilities which yours truly doesn’t possess in spite of being an Iyengar, or atleast, a halfengar - you want to stuff cotton into your ears. Telephone-tamil, for the record, is what you hear when you see that random south Indian bloke speaking as if he’s running out of talktime, and screaming as if the phone itself isn’t functional and the guy he’s talking to is about a few hundred meters away.
Like Ranjikanth just turned up as Raikonnen’s navigator or something, and rolled down the window, and started speaking. It’s totally Tam, it’s ridiculously loud, it’s bloody stylish and it’s superfreaking fast.
Now, combine those facts with the immense number of prank telemarketing calls that an average techie receives in a day.
</bitching>
Luckily, we have iPods. Thank God for small mercies.
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O.T.P.S. I’m all for North Indian infiltration and diversity, no big deal, you guys brought Mast Kalandar to town - thanks - but will you guys stop eating out of my plate and atleast leave the Bangalore chicks to me? And yes, although Koramangala is like miles away, I still want to consider it Bangalore, for the women atleast, so hey, that includes the ladies in that bit of the country too.
Go ahead, you guys can infiltrate my city - you’re most welcome.
But, with your own women.
