Ten million, and I was the fastest?

DELHI (Apr 30) Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present the chronicles of one of the nation's supposedly crème de la crème.

This guy, India's hope, is trying to use his dashing new washing machine for the second time. All is hunky dory, the wash-cycle is on, only 38 minutes remain, the dude eats his dinner in peace, and waits for the washing to finish.

Only it doesn't. A trip to the machine reveals that it is stuck at 22 minutes and the rinse cycle is desperately trying to start. The spin cycle which comes after it has no chance in heaven. Totally flummoxed, the dude opens the lid and surveys the scene. Two seconds after watching the filthy goo floating around the tub, it strikes him. All his clothing posessions are in that tub, and if the #@%!@#$## machine doesn't resume, then his idea of Casual Tuesdays will become a tad more than just an idea.

Desperate, he tries Plan A, also known as the Microsoft Windows Plan. It involves switching the machine on and off rapidly enough to beat the living daylights out of the poor microchip but not fast enough to actually cause a meltdown. Just like Microsoft Windows, the plan doesn't work.

Switching to Plan B, he tries the mechanical way of things. That of physically knudging the tub clockwise to incite it to rotate. A gentle, and later, a harder nudge on the side is also added as an extra bit of measure. The tub, however, has other plans, mostly involving cosying up to the electric motor and spending quiet quality time of stillness amidst all the washing frenzy. Beads of nervous perspiration quietly form on the dude's forehead.

The time comes for Plan C. This mostly involves reading the manual (or RTFM as we comp geeks call it). Now real men never read the manual. Infact real men would rather sever their reproductive organs and neatly wrap them in cellophane than read the manual. The first thing that real men do when they buy an appliance is to roll joints from the manual's paper. But obviously real men haven't ever been forced in an only-baniyan-and-shorts-to-wear situation. So dude searches for the manual, only to discover that the manual is at a friend's house. Panic starts settling in, as even the internet refuses to locate an online manual. It is 10:45pm and uneasiness grips the dude, and understandably, he feels the need to use the restroom.

Plan D is now employed. It is not so much as a plan, rather a ritual. Consisting mostly of cuss words, about how this Indian nation can't prosper if they make crappy machines like these, and how LG sucks bigtime, and how he's gonna stick it to those lousy customer reps and service engineers, and how the dealer is gonna get more than an earful. The censor has a hard time bleeping out the diatribe. Totally exhausted after this verbal diarrhoea, the foolproof Plan E is now rolled into action.

That of physically transferring the clothes to a bucket and rinsing them manually. Totally shattered, the dude starts his ordeal and manages to clean all but one piece of cloth in a seemingly endless stretch of 20 minutes so far. It is then that he realizes that the drain pipe of the machine is still hooked vertically up instead of lying down by the drain.

Mixed feelings of euphoria, relief, shame, and anger rush in instantly. The Hindi phrase kaato-to-khoon-nahi seems apt for the situation. The drain pipe is unhooked, the cycle finishes, the machine beeps gleefully and everything is silent once more. Everything. Except the shattering of the pride.

Tomorrow I shall shave with Occam's razor.