Ohseedee.

Font: Verdana. Check. Font Size: 12. Check. Line Spacing: 1.5. Check. Brightness level: 2. Check. Power supply on. Check. Other tabs closed. Check. Recheck the last six things. Check. Aah! That feels good. Now my fingers feel ready to punch the keyboard. Hey! Were you just staring at me with shock? Well, to be frank I was staring at you too or, rather, at that small bit of the hard maroon nail polish that you forgot to remove from the edge of the nail of your index finger. It’s causing me severe amount of discomfort. 

Welcome to my world of obsession. Please make sure you take off your shoes and keep them at neat 90 degree angles before crossing the threshold. Thank you.

Once, every six months, my cupboard experiences a sorting out ceremony. It begins by categorization into the following heads: 

          1. Awesome/New Attires;
          2. Office Wear;
          3. Bari’r Jama;
          4. Garments that need to be squeezed into the mother’s wardrobe;
          5. ‘Nyakra/Nyata’ worthy items;
          6. Clothes to be given to a particular person;
          7. Stuff that can be universally donated;
          8. ‘To be preserved forever’ ones irrespective of it’s’ age and condition.

After the primary categorization is done, there is further classification of 1, 2, 3, and 8 based on the following criteria:

1. Type: Indian / Western / Indo-Western / Accessories.
2. Weight: The heaviest ones are placed at the bottom and the rest are arranged upwards in descending order;
3. Height: The long ones get a place on the hangers while the small ones are piled in the drawer;
4. Colour: The blacks and whites have an entire rack to themselves while the remaining colours rest in the shelf below them;
5. Special Requirements: Lace / Crochet / Thread Work / Delicate Whites / Strong Colours get the ‘moshari’ privilege of being placed in plastic packets before being stacked up.

And after this very simple (don’t raise your eyebrows) procedure… VOILA!

Clothes Line?

“Better safe than sorry”. For me and my OCDian bestie, this was our life mantra in our cherished hostel years. Time: 12:30 am. Location: Room 211. She would trot like a mother hen to lock the main door, first the horizontal latch in the middle and then the long vertical one (I don’t know the English word for ‘Chhitkini’) at the top and then she would pull the door twice to ensure that no calamity can ever reach us. Then she’d proceed to push every window above the three study stables to protect us from being attacked by the demonic pigeons at night. And before I forget to mention, these are the very windows who were proudly dressed in newspapers to guard our privacy during the day. Lastly, she would ram and close the big bay window noisily, draw both sides of the curtain to a perfectly measured meeting point, triple check the bolt at both the ends, complain for the 3548^th time about them being loose and make me promise to make an entry in the complaint register. Lying tucked in my bed; this was a daily sight for me. Oh wait! Not daily. Every alternate day, we would reverse roles. 

Now that we live miles apart, we discuss our OCD woes on the telephone, especially when she is packing for travel. Packing reminds me how we very happily unsealed fully packed cartons, only to repack them again because we felt that the first time wasn’t tight and firm enough and that the articles were not evenly distributed. The joy we felt despite the dirt in our hair and all the heaving around was like suddenly eyeing a dollop of molten cheese camouflaged by the empty white pasta plate.  

Waiting for the newspaper drape.

Just the other day I was re reading the final part of Harry Potter. As I adjusted the pillow, almost on the verge of tears as Hedwig fell off Harry’s broom, my eyes travelled to the bottom right corner of the page. My semi blurred vision instantly cleared as I saw a disgusting looking matte brown stain sleeping soundly. The butter knife appeared in my hand and I spent the next half an hour trying to scrape the stubborn little fellow off. By the time I restored my prized possession to its original grandeur it was well past midnight. But how could I leave a chapter unfinished although I had read it fifty times earlier? With eyes stinging with sleep I completed the chapter, mentally noted the next chapter number and went to sleep with an utmost sense of achievement.
P.S. – I can slaughter anyone who borrows my book and folds the corner of the page as a bookmark. Just saying.

If my workplace ever gave an award for the most organised work station, then I think you know who would have got the title (Modesty is not my middle name). I love right angles. I love allotted places. Even an inch of deviation makes me squirm in my seat. The desktop screen needs to be at a fixed level with my eye. The files need to be placed in a manner such that if one has its spine on the left, the one on top will have its spine on the right (Photograph shall guide you). Don’t roll your eyes. It brings amazing balance to the pile. I can even sense if anybody has used my chair and adjusted the height. It’s my ultimate grumble generator. As far as the soft board is concerned, in my head I have drawn imaginary lines and assigned appropriate space for the calendar, contact list, court schedule, quick notes and the various postcards. If any one of them decides to pay each other’s home a visit, I have a major “jab life ho out of control” moment.

File Fanatic.

One of the most devastating days of my life was when my laptop’s hard disk crashed and all the data bid me goodbye. I had no backup. A huge question mark was raised on my obsessive organizational skills. My distraught face took the limelight as the sound of lightning crashed on me, three times in a row. After running helter skelter for days, I finally rescued my data from their death bed. The very next day my uncle gifted me a 1 TB external hard drive (Yes, I am pampered). In my head, I broke a coconut and applied a red tika on the box before opening it. Out came the hunk that would protect me from situations wherein my abilities could be questioned. Now I can safely say, if my laptop were to ever peep into the mirror, it would see the external hard disk taking a drag and smiling back at him. They’re a happy couple.

The Bengali in me joins hands with my compulsive self, when I am served the “Kaatla maach er lyaaj er torkari” on my plate. My mind makes plans and gradually takes calculated steps to devour this beauty.
Step 1: Wipe off the gravy with your fingers from the body of the fish and mix it with the rice. Turn over the fish to repeat the procedure. Keep the gravied rice on one side of the plate;
Step 2: Slowly tear of the golden-black wrinkly skin from both sides without breaking or bothering the remaining portion of the fish. This acts like the starter and should be consumed as is;
Step 3: Break a piece of the grey-pink coloured fish, remove the bones, mix with rice and gobble;
Step 4: As they grey-pink is consumed, the fish flesh now turns white. The procedure remains the same. Remove bones, mix with rice and eat;
Step 5: After the flesh is over, you will reach a pseudo triangle shaped bone that connects the body of the fish with its tail. Gradually pull it out; it has pieces of flesh hidden here and there. Turn Sherlock Holmes and dig it all out. Use teeth, fingers, toothpicks etc.
Step 6: After doing justice to the bone, you finally reach the tail. It is comprised of several pieces of vertical bones stuck parallel to each other and laced with flesh and skin. It is advisable to break three-four bones at a time and bite the meat off them. This is the toughest as well as the most artistic bit.

So there. Now you know that even bliss can be obtained in a slow and structured manner. And who told you that a recipe can only be for cooking a meal? Didn’t you just read a recipe for relishing a sumptuous dish?

Flaming Beauty.

My mother gets home from office and if she notices that the stripes of the bedcover are not totally aligned with the edge of the bed, she wouldn’t think of putting down her bags before correcting the fatal error. Many a weekends, in half slumber, I saw her getting up from her treasured sleep only because she saw that the bedroom door was somewhere between being half ajar and totally open. It has to be either this or that. Never somewhere in between. Since I am version 2.0 of her, I do the abovementioned and a lot more. 

Mobile chargers, USB chords, memory card readers, internet dongles have an assigned bag and stand in a fixed order so that they can’t do the tangle dance. Jewellery items are arranged as per utility and nature. Pure silver ones are wrapped in tissue (thanks to Chamba Lama), junks are in a tin container (thanks to the Cadbury Celebrations Diwali special packs) and beaded ones are in paper packets (thanks to Gariahat footpath). I love lists. I love data. Any form of them. Shopping list, list of dates, list of reasons, bucket list and the sorts. I recently downloaded an application that allows me to make checklists and then tick them off once they’re done. I maintain one for my expenditure, for my leave balance, and an extensive to-do list. Have you ever had the wicked joy of buying something and then coming across someone who bought the same at double the price? If you have, then you’ll know how I feel when I tick off and delete the to-do items. Speaking of buying something, there are moments when you look at a piece of clothing and think “Hum bane tum bane ek duje ke liye”. Check out what I mean. Till then, I’ll just (Control + S) * 5 times. Check.

Westside knows me well.