Click- Clock, Click- Clock
The clock went click
Clicking away as the crickets creak
The cricket’s creak and they click like clocks
Click-Clock, Click- Clock
The old man walked with his grand-father clock
Clocking time with each click from his clock
The photographer stood there and clicked
Clicking pictures of the magical clock
Click-Clock, Click-Clock
With every second from the rickety clock
The runner raced against the stop-clock
No one knew the time on the clock
The crowd screamed when they saw the clock
Click-Clock, Click- Clock
November 20, 2009
November 16, 2009
World Guitar Nights
And while most of Bangalore was sitting at home immersed in the re-runs of unintelligent reality television or getting high on inexpensive liquor (not a bad option really, when you are subject to the typical English weather minus the piercing winds) a select few were witness to two unbelievable nights of fingering.
Now, before you perverted-twisted souls start picturing cheap porn made from a bra-string budget, let me be quick to add, the fingering was reserved for the strings on an acoustic guitar.
* * * * *
What do you get when you have four mad guitarists from four different countries on stage in a palatial garden in Bangalore on a rainy weekend? You get music that is pure, potent and orgasmic. You get physically, emotionally and musically stoned!
As you enter the gate of Jayamahal Palace with its strange décor of serial lights that one associates with rich Indian weddings, all you wish is hopefully it’s only the lights that are shady and not your evening.
After giving your throat the wetness it required with a nice cold beverage, you proceed towards a bunch of empty plastic chairs that are carefully arranged all over the lawn. It was time for the cold elixir to act on your system and the music to flood the starved soul. That, by the way brings me to talk about four guitar masters who entertained, enlightened and intoxicated the audience with sheer talent. Masters who pushed boundaries with such force that was brutal and subtle, sexual and sensual, arrogant yet nonchalant.
Konarak Reddy started the evening with an ‘Aalap’ that was capable of giving goose bumps to a stone. He had the small crowd that trickled in, move right up to the stage to watch him in action. His rendition of ‘Taara’ with Don Ross, was poetry in motion, it had the power to make you float and soar in the sky, for that date with the stars that you’d been craving for. Watching his fingers perform ballet on the strings was a treat for sore eyes. The effortless ease with which he swayed his big frame, the smooth improvisation from Carnatic to Jazz and his ‘Konnakol’ mesmerized the audience and transported them to a beautiful place.
Imagine a Japanese dude with an acoustic guitar in his hands and a performance that was as explosive as an atom bomb. It was ‘Mass Suicide’ aka Masa Sumide. It looked like Masa swallowed a few springs before stepping onto stage. His bouncy movements like a ping-pong ball, in a match between Wang Hao and Wang Liqin and his contagious smile so radiant and illuminating, ensured Bangaloreans got a taste of what Aurora Borealis feels like. Sumide’s music is completely sexual. You don’t make love to his style of music. He makes you feel like the teenage kid dry humping a cushion the day before his big prom night, practicing for what might be a lucky night if he could hold his trousers in place. His groovy, percussive music oozes lust every time he plays. Sumide is quite a performer. Watching him play on stage made the audience seem like peeping toms. He was stroking, sucking and blowing the strings on his guitar with such perverse joy that it was but natural that he had to run off stage immediately after his performance with such speed that would have put Usain Bolt to shame and made him seem like a toddler in the 100meters Olympic finals.
The evening continued and the audience reeling from their first orgasm of the evening, it was time for the ‘Seducer’ to take the stage. You’re shaking, your throat is dry (the many cold beverages that you downed through the evening doesn’t make any difference) and you’re breathing hard. Is that a drop of sweat that just trickled down your neck? You think you need to just sit down and calm those shaky legs. I suggest it’s a great idea.
Szabo is a magician and instead of a magic wand, he is armed with a guitar. Szabo holds his guitar like it was a woman, the last- beautiful woman on earth. He creates music by caressing her, feeling her soft skin, smelling her as she steps out of a nice bubble bath after a long day’s work. His music is sensual; it tickles all the right muscles in your body. His music loosens you up and makes the hair at the back of your neck stand up. It flows and overpowers you and catches you off-guard. And you thought it was that gorgeous woman in a mini skirt standing behind you, who just blew softly below your ear. You like it. You lean back and breathe slowly. You close your eyes and let yourself feel what he wants you to feel. You see his fingers glide over the guitar and make music like you never knew existed, that you never knew was possible by just barely touching the strings. And people wouldn’t disprove when you say that you just saw his guitar turn a shade red from his touch. They are too embarrassed when you look at them and see that their cheeks are flushed with a deep red like a prostitute’s lipstick. You look up to the heavens and pray that it doesn’t rain when he starts playing the Hungarian Folk song. You believe him when he says, he played this track at a concert in Korea and it started raining and the rain didn’t stop for five days. He is not just a musician but a shaman with unbelievable powers. Szabo leaves you high and hard, craving for more, aching for a touch and makes you spell-bound. His job is done and he smiles. You are left on your own with a long lonely night ahead of you, if you are single!
Guitarist, singer, song writer, composer, stand-up comedian and grizzly bear dressed in a shirt and pair of jeans, watching Don Ross on stage is like watching a Rock Star. The term ‘Gentle giant’ was coined only to explain a person like him. If you ever thought musicians don’t talk as beautifully as they play, then you couldn’t be more wrong! Don has the ability to make you tap your feet and sway with his music one instant and then make you roll on the floor laugh with his wit the other. I wouldn’t blame you if you laughed so hard that you even peed a little. Some people do have that effect on us lesser mortals. Don’t forget to listen to the story of his song, ‘Dracula and Friends’, a special dedication for his daughter Taara. There is a story behind each and every single one of his songs, each more interesting and entertaining than the other. At the end of it all, you are blown away by the sheer range of his style. Jazz, folk, rock and classical music, you name it and he plays it. He draws his inspiration from just about everything, from the kids on the streets with their baseball caps turned the other way to cartoons on television that his daughter loves, Don is an opportunist, an entertainer and a pure genius.
* * * * *
The crowd begins to disperse, the rain slowly picks up (your prayer worked), and the musicians stand around the swimming pool – cold beverage on hand talking to a meager bunch of people who are high as a kite, both from the concert and the many liquids they generously gulped through the evening. And no points for guessing what the conversations revolved around!
You ride back home, alone, humming some of the ballads and songs you heard earlier in the evening, and strumming an air guitar. Recreating the magic. You are spent by the time you reach home. You look at the box of Whey protein on the top shelf of your kitchen and smile to yourself. You need the strength. Or maybe you might want to save it for next year’s show.
Now, before you perverted-twisted souls start picturing cheap porn made from a bra-string budget, let me be quick to add, the fingering was reserved for the strings on an acoustic guitar.
* * * * *
What do you get when you have four mad guitarists from four different countries on stage in a palatial garden in Bangalore on a rainy weekend? You get music that is pure, potent and orgasmic. You get physically, emotionally and musically stoned!
As you enter the gate of Jayamahal Palace with its strange décor of serial lights that one associates with rich Indian weddings, all you wish is hopefully it’s only the lights that are shady and not your evening.
After giving your throat the wetness it required with a nice cold beverage, you proceed towards a bunch of empty plastic chairs that are carefully arranged all over the lawn. It was time for the cold elixir to act on your system and the music to flood the starved soul. That, by the way brings me to talk about four guitar masters who entertained, enlightened and intoxicated the audience with sheer talent. Masters who pushed boundaries with such force that was brutal and subtle, sexual and sensual, arrogant yet nonchalant.
Konarak Reddy started the evening with an ‘Aalap’ that was capable of giving goose bumps to a stone. He had the small crowd that trickled in, move right up to the stage to watch him in action. His rendition of ‘Taara’ with Don Ross, was poetry in motion, it had the power to make you float and soar in the sky, for that date with the stars that you’d been craving for. Watching his fingers perform ballet on the strings was a treat for sore eyes. The effortless ease with which he swayed his big frame, the smooth improvisation from Carnatic to Jazz and his ‘Konnakol’ mesmerized the audience and transported them to a beautiful place.
Imagine a Japanese dude with an acoustic guitar in his hands and a performance that was as explosive as an atom bomb. It was ‘Mass Suicide’ aka Masa Sumide. It looked like Masa swallowed a few springs before stepping onto stage. His bouncy movements like a ping-pong ball, in a match between Wang Hao and Wang Liqin and his contagious smile so radiant and illuminating, ensured Bangaloreans got a taste of what Aurora Borealis feels like. Sumide’s music is completely sexual. You don’t make love to his style of music. He makes you feel like the teenage kid dry humping a cushion the day before his big prom night, practicing for what might be a lucky night if he could hold his trousers in place. His groovy, percussive music oozes lust every time he plays. Sumide is quite a performer. Watching him play on stage made the audience seem like peeping toms. He was stroking, sucking and blowing the strings on his guitar with such perverse joy that it was but natural that he had to run off stage immediately after his performance with such speed that would have put Usain Bolt to shame and made him seem like a toddler in the 100meters Olympic finals.
The evening continued and the audience reeling from their first orgasm of the evening, it was time for the ‘Seducer’ to take the stage. You’re shaking, your throat is dry (the many cold beverages that you downed through the evening doesn’t make any difference) and you’re breathing hard. Is that a drop of sweat that just trickled down your neck? You think you need to just sit down and calm those shaky legs. I suggest it’s a great idea.
Szabo is a magician and instead of a magic wand, he is armed with a guitar. Szabo holds his guitar like it was a woman, the last- beautiful woman on earth. He creates music by caressing her, feeling her soft skin, smelling her as she steps out of a nice bubble bath after a long day’s work. His music is sensual; it tickles all the right muscles in your body. His music loosens you up and makes the hair at the back of your neck stand up. It flows and overpowers you and catches you off-guard. And you thought it was that gorgeous woman in a mini skirt standing behind you, who just blew softly below your ear. You like it. You lean back and breathe slowly. You close your eyes and let yourself feel what he wants you to feel. You see his fingers glide over the guitar and make music like you never knew existed, that you never knew was possible by just barely touching the strings. And people wouldn’t disprove when you say that you just saw his guitar turn a shade red from his touch. They are too embarrassed when you look at them and see that their cheeks are flushed with a deep red like a prostitute’s lipstick. You look up to the heavens and pray that it doesn’t rain when he starts playing the Hungarian Folk song. You believe him when he says, he played this track at a concert in Korea and it started raining and the rain didn’t stop for five days. He is not just a musician but a shaman with unbelievable powers. Szabo leaves you high and hard, craving for more, aching for a touch and makes you spell-bound. His job is done and he smiles. You are left on your own with a long lonely night ahead of you, if you are single!
Guitarist, singer, song writer, composer, stand-up comedian and grizzly bear dressed in a shirt and pair of jeans, watching Don Ross on stage is like watching a Rock Star. The term ‘Gentle giant’ was coined only to explain a person like him. If you ever thought musicians don’t talk as beautifully as they play, then you couldn’t be more wrong! Don has the ability to make you tap your feet and sway with his music one instant and then make you roll on the floor laugh with his wit the other. I wouldn’t blame you if you laughed so hard that you even peed a little. Some people do have that effect on us lesser mortals. Don’t forget to listen to the story of his song, ‘Dracula and Friends’, a special dedication for his daughter Taara. There is a story behind each and every single one of his songs, each more interesting and entertaining than the other. At the end of it all, you are blown away by the sheer range of his style. Jazz, folk, rock and classical music, you name it and he plays it. He draws his inspiration from just about everything, from the kids on the streets with their baseball caps turned the other way to cartoons on television that his daughter loves, Don is an opportunist, an entertainer and a pure genius.
* * * * *
The crowd begins to disperse, the rain slowly picks up (your prayer worked), and the musicians stand around the swimming pool – cold beverage on hand talking to a meager bunch of people who are high as a kite, both from the concert and the many liquids they generously gulped through the evening. And no points for guessing what the conversations revolved around!
You ride back home, alone, humming some of the ballads and songs you heard earlier in the evening, and strumming an air guitar. Recreating the magic. You are spent by the time you reach home. You look at the box of Whey protein on the top shelf of your kitchen and smile to yourself. You need the strength. Or maybe you might want to save it for next year’s show.
November 07, 2009
Bombay- My love
It has always been on my mind. I just can't stop thinking about it. I belong there. I just know it. What have I done about it? Well, as of now, absolutely nothing. And I just want to kick my butt for that. I have told a bunch of people, that they are all talk and absolutely no shit. I could say the same thing about me now, with regards to this one particular topic.
Bombay.
Where do I even begin? The city of dreams. The city of love. The city of challenges. The city that has taught me the way of life. The city where I want to live. The city that has been home away from home. Everytime I think about this city, my heart skips a beat. A smile escapes my lip and am overcome with emotion. I love this city. I love the smell of this city. I love the people. I love the rains. I love the traffic. I love the old, pale buildings. I love vada paav. I love the late night drunken taxi rides. I love the buzz. I love the suburban train rides. I love getting stuck in traffic at 2 in the morning. I love the concept of being in love with this city. I am in love with this city.
Bombay.
The city that never sleeps. The city that doesn't want to sleep. The city that hates sleeping. The madness. A walk from Mehboob studio to my hotel in Pali hills, made me realize the meaning of my life. I don't think I would want to be anywhere else on this planet other than this city. I have done some crazy things in life. Nothing more crazy than my trip to Bombay with just a helmet. It was just another evening. An evening with cousins at a pub which eventually resulted in taking my bike and parking it at the airport parking lot and taking the next flight to Bombay. A sudden trip that eventually turned out to be the best three days of my life. A trip that resulted in meeting a strange but amazing couple who let us stay at their place for the night- the night that we landed in Bombay. A friend who was more than happy to drive us around town and spend time with us. And another friend, who gave me the keys to her sea-side apartment for a day without having a single thought.
Bombay.
Jo barse sapne boond boond
Nainon ko moond moond
Jo barse sapne boond boond
Nainon ko moond moond
Kaise main chaloon, dekh na sakoon
Anjaane raastein.
I can't stop listening to this song. I can't stop being in complete awe with the lyrics. Shayad yahi hai pyaar. I am in love. Again. With this city. With this amazing city.
Gunjasa hai koi iktara iktara, gunjasa hai koi iktara
Gunjasa hai koi iktara iktara, gunjasa hai koi iktara
Dheeme bole koi iktara iktara, dheeme bole koi iktara
Gunjasa hai koi iktara iktara, gunjasa hai koi iktara
Bombay.
Where do I even begin? The city of dreams. The city of love. The city of challenges. The city that has taught me the way of life. The city where I want to live. The city that has been home away from home. Everytime I think about this city, my heart skips a beat. A smile escapes my lip and am overcome with emotion. I love this city. I love the smell of this city. I love the people. I love the rains. I love the traffic. I love the old, pale buildings. I love vada paav. I love the late night drunken taxi rides. I love the buzz. I love the suburban train rides. I love getting stuck in traffic at 2 in the morning. I love the concept of being in love with this city. I am in love with this city.
Bombay.
The city that never sleeps. The city that doesn't want to sleep. The city that hates sleeping. The madness. A walk from Mehboob studio to my hotel in Pali hills, made me realize the meaning of my life. I don't think I would want to be anywhere else on this planet other than this city. I have done some crazy things in life. Nothing more crazy than my trip to Bombay with just a helmet. It was just another evening. An evening with cousins at a pub which eventually resulted in taking my bike and parking it at the airport parking lot and taking the next flight to Bombay. A sudden trip that eventually turned out to be the best three days of my life. A trip that resulted in meeting a strange but amazing couple who let us stay at their place for the night- the night that we landed in Bombay. A friend who was more than happy to drive us around town and spend time with us. And another friend, who gave me the keys to her sea-side apartment for a day without having a single thought.
Bombay.
Jo barse sapne boond boond
Nainon ko moond moond
Jo barse sapne boond boond
Nainon ko moond moond
Kaise main chaloon, dekh na sakoon
Anjaane raastein.
I can't stop listening to this song. I can't stop being in complete awe with the lyrics. Shayad yahi hai pyaar. I am in love. Again. With this city. With this amazing city.
Gunjasa hai koi iktara iktara, gunjasa hai koi iktara
Gunjasa hai koi iktara iktara, gunjasa hai koi iktara
Dheeme bole koi iktara iktara, dheeme bole koi iktara
Gunjasa hai koi iktara iktara, gunjasa hai koi iktara
August 17, 2009
Paati~
I woke up to the vibrating buzz from my phone. I was having a very interesting dream. The anchor had just announced my name and amidst thundering applause and a standing ovation, I was walking towards the stage to collect the National award for the best director (also my fifth award for the night).
“Paati Mob”, the screen screamed and I knew this was the real thing and smiled. The call got disconnected in three rings, the time it takes for my Paati (Grand mom) to realize her mistake and cut the call.
The scene began to change. I was smiling with pride and had reached the stage by then. Mani Ratnam was standing there with the award in his hand, he smiled as I approached. As I was about to put my hands out to collect the award, the phone in my jeans began to vibrate. Then it starts ringing again and the sound was resonating everywhere. The anchor was staring at me with her mouth wide open. I could hear Big B and Junior B sitting in the front row twitch and squirm in their seats and curse me for not keeping my phone on silent. And then it rang again. And again. Three rings and it got disconnected.
“Paati Mob”, the screen screamed and I knew this was the real thing and smiled. The call got disconnected in three rings, the time it takes for my Paati to realize her mistake and cut the call.
My Paati has a new mobile phone for the last four months. But she’s still trying to understand how it works. She had always been great with numbers. Be it the ones on her sudoku board or remembering phone numbers. She was good with statistics and scores of cricket matches too. In fact she learnt Hindi listening to the commentary on DD. Her understanding of Hindi numbers is better than most North Indians I know. I remember the time when she used to wake up at 4 in the morning to watch India play Australia in Australia. The match always started at an ungodly hour. She would be up and ready with her kaai- kari (vegetables) spread across in front of her while she settled down to watch the match right from the pitch report and toss. She knew for a fact that I would also be up to watch the game and immediately after the toss; she would call me (I lived in the next house). And would then discuss the strategy of the game and tell me her views on what the wicket looked like and what it might do for the team batting first. I would always tell her that she should have been the coach of the Indian team. Imagine a madisaar clad old lady sitting in the dressing room in front of a laptop making notes during a match. Now that would be a sight.
She loves her 7 children, 8 grand children and 3 great grand children. She is a Rock star. She sings like a dream. She distributes Gokulashtami Bhakshanams in a way that would put mathematicians and statisticians to shame. She loves her TV serials. She loves her cricket even if the match is between Zimbabwe and Bangladesh. For the last four months, I wake up everyday to find a couple of missed calls and a few blank messages from her phone. My name is the first on her address book and she is yet to figure out how to use her phone. It’s a wonderful feeling to wake up to those. Brings a smile on my face.
Paati has a flair for languages. She speaks Tamil, Telugu, Hindi & English with absolute ease. She picked up Telugu from her neighbor in Karakpur. This little girl who stayed next to her house would drop by her house everyday after Thaatha left for work. I still remember the day when I brought my friend home and my paati’s eyes lit up when she knew she spoke Telugu. For the next half an hour the two of them were at it and paati was in full form. Even now she keeps asking me when I would get that friend home again.
There is so much more to my Paati. I could talk about how she religiously gets up in the morning and finishes up the Sudoku from every News Paper. The way she meticulously draws the boxes onto a sheet of paper before she begins to solve the puzzle, the way she makes her thakkali (tomato) rasam, the way she walks around her garden every evening and plucks the jasmine flowers, the way she counts them and walks over to my house to talk to her daughter (my mom) and proudly tell her the count, or the way she calls my mom if she is not in town to tell her about the flowers, the way she sits right in front of the TV so that she could listen to the dialogues better, the way her skin feels all wrinkled and soft, the way she spends time with her grand kids, the way she talks proudly about her grand kids to others.
To my Paati- the most amazing woman I have ever met.
“Paati Mob”, the screen screamed and I knew this was the real thing and smiled. The call got disconnected in three rings, the time it takes for my Paati to realize her mistake and cut the call.
“Paati Mob”, the screen screamed and I knew this was the real thing and smiled. The call got disconnected in three rings, the time it takes for my Paati (Grand mom) to realize her mistake and cut the call.
The scene began to change. I was smiling with pride and had reached the stage by then. Mani Ratnam was standing there with the award in his hand, he smiled as I approached. As I was about to put my hands out to collect the award, the phone in my jeans began to vibrate. Then it starts ringing again and the sound was resonating everywhere. The anchor was staring at me with her mouth wide open. I could hear Big B and Junior B sitting in the front row twitch and squirm in their seats and curse me for not keeping my phone on silent. And then it rang again. And again. Three rings and it got disconnected.
“Paati Mob”, the screen screamed and I knew this was the real thing and smiled. The call got disconnected in three rings, the time it takes for my Paati to realize her mistake and cut the call.
My Paati has a new mobile phone for the last four months. But she’s still trying to understand how it works. She had always been great with numbers. Be it the ones on her sudoku board or remembering phone numbers. She was good with statistics and scores of cricket matches too. In fact she learnt Hindi listening to the commentary on DD. Her understanding of Hindi numbers is better than most North Indians I know. I remember the time when she used to wake up at 4 in the morning to watch India play Australia in Australia. The match always started at an ungodly hour. She would be up and ready with her kaai- kari (vegetables) spread across in front of her while she settled down to watch the match right from the pitch report and toss. She knew for a fact that I would also be up to watch the game and immediately after the toss; she would call me (I lived in the next house). And would then discuss the strategy of the game and tell me her views on what the wicket looked like and what it might do for the team batting first. I would always tell her that she should have been the coach of the Indian team. Imagine a madisaar clad old lady sitting in the dressing room in front of a laptop making notes during a match. Now that would be a sight.
She loves her 7 children, 8 grand children and 3 great grand children. She is a Rock star. She sings like a dream. She distributes Gokulashtami Bhakshanams in a way that would put mathematicians and statisticians to shame. She loves her TV serials. She loves her cricket even if the match is between Zimbabwe and Bangladesh. For the last four months, I wake up everyday to find a couple of missed calls and a few blank messages from her phone. My name is the first on her address book and she is yet to figure out how to use her phone. It’s a wonderful feeling to wake up to those. Brings a smile on my face.
Paati has a flair for languages. She speaks Tamil, Telugu, Hindi & English with absolute ease. She picked up Telugu from her neighbor in Karakpur. This little girl who stayed next to her house would drop by her house everyday after Thaatha left for work. I still remember the day when I brought my friend home and my paati’s eyes lit up when she knew she spoke Telugu. For the next half an hour the two of them were at it and paati was in full form. Even now she keeps asking me when I would get that friend home again.
There is so much more to my Paati. I could talk about how she religiously gets up in the morning and finishes up the Sudoku from every News Paper. The way she meticulously draws the boxes onto a sheet of paper before she begins to solve the puzzle, the way she makes her thakkali (tomato) rasam, the way she walks around her garden every evening and plucks the jasmine flowers, the way she counts them and walks over to my house to talk to her daughter (my mom) and proudly tell her the count, or the way she calls my mom if she is not in town to tell her about the flowers, the way she sits right in front of the TV so that she could listen to the dialogues better, the way her skin feels all wrinkled and soft, the way she spends time with her grand kids, the way she talks proudly about her grand kids to others.
To my Paati- the most amazing woman I have ever met.
“Paati Mob”, the screen screamed and I knew this was the real thing and smiled. The call got disconnected in three rings, the time it takes for my Paati to realize her mistake and cut the call.
August 05, 2009
Exploring possibilities
the music was blaring
it made him deaf
thisthingthatthingthisthingthatthing
over and over
and over
movement, motion, kinetic
potential, position, promise
sacrifice, sanctity, salvation
over and over
and over
thisthingthatthingthisthingthatthing
the hurdles in the prose
were making it difficult
but he was not going to
stop this rush that was
more than a suburban train
thisthingthatthingthisthingthatthing
move
relax hold
scream
thisthingthatthingthisthingthatthing
understanding this ain’t
going to be easy as i
thought it would be
considering the fact that
i don’t know this at all
thisthisthisthisthisthingthisthing
P:S Thanks so much for the inspiration Ranj. And I give full credit to you and you only for the italics idea.
it made him deaf
thisthingthatthingthisthingthatthing
over and over
and over
movement, motion, kinetic
potential, position, promise
sacrifice, sanctity, salvation
over and over
and over
thisthingthatthingthisthingthatthing
the hurdles in the prose
were making it difficult
but he was not going to
stop this rush that was
more than a suburban train
thisthingthatthingthisthingthatthing
move
relax hold
scream
thisthingthatthingthisthingthatthing
understanding this ain’t
going to be easy as i
thought it would be
considering the fact that
i don’t know this at all
thisthisthisthisthisthingthisthing
P:S Thanks so much for the inspiration Ranj. And I give full credit to you and you only for the italics idea.
July 29, 2009
Have you ever seen the rain?
Have you ever seen the rain?
Have you ever seen the rain like I have? The way the clouds turn a deep shade of Grey before completely turning black, like the thick smoke coming from the mouth of a chain smoker. The way the clouds loom over your head. And the gentle breeze that it brings with it that blows away all the sorrow?
Have you ever seen the innocent school kids running hastily towards a shelter, clinging on to the hands of their parents with their tiny fingers? The people on the side of the road on their stalls, hurriedly taking the plastic sheets to cover the fruits and flowers that they have been trying to sell all day?
Have you ever seen the retired military officer walking his dog in the evening? The look in his eyes when he sees the younger lot sitting on parapet walls by the side of the road and sharing a cigarette. Have you ever seen the way the kids quickly throw the cigarette away and shamefully look down so as to not see the old man?
Have you ever seen the rickety old rickshaw filled with tiny-tots singing nursery rhymes that they learnt at school or the singing beggar who has a sparkle in his eyes and magic in his voice? Have you ever seen the chai-wallah and the old crumpled newspaper lying on the brown bench or heard his philosophy?
Have you ever seen the tiny rain droplets falling on the sand and making patterns? Have you ever smelt the intoxicating joy that tends to flood the air and along with it your nostrils when the first drops touch the soil? Have you seen the birds sitting on thin branches shaking their feathers enjoying the sudden downpour?
Have you ever seen the puddles on the road or the people jumping over them? Have you seen the speeding cars splashing water on passersby? Have you seen the pushcarts serving snacks, with sweet tea and horrible coffee?
Have you ever seen the stray dogs sprawled on the water or felt the wetness in your shoes? Have you ever smelt the wetness in the air and your clothes? Have you seen the soaked match boxes that fail to light or the sodium vapor lamps that seem to switch on?
Have you ever seen the tip of your fingers that seem to have taken a new shape from all the soaking? Have you ever felt the chill that runs down your spine? Have you ever felt the drizzle prick you like a thousand needles while riding a bike or felt the cold wind that caresses your face?
Have you ever held someone close in the rain, under a tree or looked deep into their eyes? Have you ever kissed the one that you love under the stars, in the moonlight listening to the music of the rain falling on tin roofs?
Have you ever seen the rain?
Have you ever seen the rain like I have?
Have you ever seen the rain like I have? The way the clouds turn a deep shade of Grey before completely turning black, like the thick smoke coming from the mouth of a chain smoker. The way the clouds loom over your head. And the gentle breeze that it brings with it that blows away all the sorrow?
Have you ever seen the innocent school kids running hastily towards a shelter, clinging on to the hands of their parents with their tiny fingers? The people on the side of the road on their stalls, hurriedly taking the plastic sheets to cover the fruits and flowers that they have been trying to sell all day?
Have you ever seen the retired military officer walking his dog in the evening? The look in his eyes when he sees the younger lot sitting on parapet walls by the side of the road and sharing a cigarette. Have you ever seen the way the kids quickly throw the cigarette away and shamefully look down so as to not see the old man?
Have you ever seen the rickety old rickshaw filled with tiny-tots singing nursery rhymes that they learnt at school or the singing beggar who has a sparkle in his eyes and magic in his voice? Have you ever seen the chai-wallah and the old crumpled newspaper lying on the brown bench or heard his philosophy?
Have you ever seen the tiny rain droplets falling on the sand and making patterns? Have you ever smelt the intoxicating joy that tends to flood the air and along with it your nostrils when the first drops touch the soil? Have you seen the birds sitting on thin branches shaking their feathers enjoying the sudden downpour?
Have you ever seen the puddles on the road or the people jumping over them? Have you seen the speeding cars splashing water on passersby? Have you seen the pushcarts serving snacks, with sweet tea and horrible coffee?
Have you ever seen the stray dogs sprawled on the water or felt the wetness in your shoes? Have you ever smelt the wetness in the air and your clothes? Have you seen the soaked match boxes that fail to light or the sodium vapor lamps that seem to switch on?
Have you ever seen the tip of your fingers that seem to have taken a new shape from all the soaking? Have you ever felt the chill that runs down your spine? Have you ever felt the drizzle prick you like a thousand needles while riding a bike or felt the cold wind that caresses your face?
Have you ever held someone close in the rain, under a tree or looked deep into their eyes? Have you ever kissed the one that you love under the stars, in the moonlight listening to the music of the rain falling on tin roofs?
Have you ever seen the rain?
Have you ever seen the rain like I have?
July 24, 2009
The Formula to Success- Part 1
I remember a time when my social life revolved around the F1 Calendar. Weekends were blocked for Qualifying sessions and Race day.
I very clearly remember how we used to reach a watering hole early. ‘Happy hours’ were not just the two hours of the race, but started much before the cars lined up for the
Warm-up lap. Hardcore cricket followers, boring corporate executives, journalists, advertising crowd, real estate agents, models, businessmen, college kids and the young and old alike, would all be there religiously at the same watering hole. Some even superstitious enough to sit in the same chair and table as the previous race. I wouldn't blame them really. It was just way too entertaining that way.
In a country where cricket is religion and Sachin Tendulkar is God (yes, I know am using a cliché here) F1 was quite a welcome break. It was a rebel sport. I couldn’t stand the Indi 500 races and the Moto GP races that used to come on television. There could have been nothing more boring that watch a bunch of cars and bikes going round and round in circles for three hours. Something was missing.
Then it happened, F1 came into the picture. The slick promos with fast cars taking turns at over 200 mph. The adrenaline rush that one got while listening to the commentary of Steve Slater and Chris Goodwin during every race. F1 was a sport that became very much a part of almost everybody’s life. Including my mother!
From a time when one knew about Ferrari by watching Sharukh Khan and Kajol standing next to a Ferrari convertible with the Swiss Alps in the background in a song from DDLJ to now seeing school kids sitting in coffee shops smoking sheesha, coughing and talking about the race that they just didn't see completely because MTV had the re-run of Teen Diva & Roadies, F1 has come a long way.
Friends and colleagues became opponents during weekends, each supporting a team or a driver. Michael Schumacher was the new God (not surprising really with Gods popping out by the dozen each day even otherwise). Ferrari fans/ supporters would wear red,
Mc Laren supporters would crack subtle (Not) digs when Hamilton overtook Kimi. Nicknames of individual drivers became present in everyday conversations. Life had entered into the race tracks and there is no way it would stay away now!
The screaming, the howling, the shouting and the emotions that I witnessed during each race are something that I can’t quite express in words. No matter how hard I try. It has to be experienced. Being amidst hardcore F1 lovers, watching them squeal when their favorite racer makes a mistake and crashes out or when another racer takes a dangerous turn or clips the wheels during an overtaking maneuver, the one-hundredth-of-a-second delay in the pit lane when someone comes to refuel the car followed by a quick tyre change, it was all way too intense. Every second was important. Not just for the people at the pit, or the drivers, or the race engineers, but also for the ones who watch the race. Visits to the loo were few and selective. Only during the commercial breaks, when the dreaded music was heard (a true F1 supporter knows that music that gives him his cue to run to the loo and get back).
March to November. That was the time. The F1 calendar would be at its very best. 17 races, driver’s championship, constructor’s championship, points, tables, who tops the chart, which team is out of the race, which driver has created history. The statistics were keenly followed by everyone. Wake up someone in the middle of their sleep and ask them a question and they would be able to answer. That’s the magic of the sport.
Has the magic reduced? Are people losing interest in the sport? Is the FIA coming out with rules and regulations that are ruining the sport? Or are they making it interesting? Are people worried about front runners not making a mark? Is there going to be a new trend in this sport? What is the Formula to the sports Success?
I very clearly remember how we used to reach a watering hole early. ‘Happy hours’ were not just the two hours of the race, but started much before the cars lined up for the
Warm-up lap. Hardcore cricket followers, boring corporate executives, journalists, advertising crowd, real estate agents, models, businessmen, college kids and the young and old alike, would all be there religiously at the same watering hole. Some even superstitious enough to sit in the same chair and table as the previous race. I wouldn't blame them really. It was just way too entertaining that way.
In a country where cricket is religion and Sachin Tendulkar is God (yes, I know am using a cliché here) F1 was quite a welcome break. It was a rebel sport. I couldn’t stand the Indi 500 races and the Moto GP races that used to come on television. There could have been nothing more boring that watch a bunch of cars and bikes going round and round in circles for three hours. Something was missing.
Then it happened, F1 came into the picture. The slick promos with fast cars taking turns at over 200 mph. The adrenaline rush that one got while listening to the commentary of Steve Slater and Chris Goodwin during every race. F1 was a sport that became very much a part of almost everybody’s life. Including my mother!
From a time when one knew about Ferrari by watching Sharukh Khan and Kajol standing next to a Ferrari convertible with the Swiss Alps in the background in a song from DDLJ to now seeing school kids sitting in coffee shops smoking sheesha, coughing and talking about the race that they just didn't see completely because MTV had the re-run of Teen Diva & Roadies, F1 has come a long way.
Friends and colleagues became opponents during weekends, each supporting a team or a driver. Michael Schumacher was the new God (not surprising really with Gods popping out by the dozen each day even otherwise). Ferrari fans/ supporters would wear red,
Mc Laren supporters would crack subtle (Not) digs when Hamilton overtook Kimi. Nicknames of individual drivers became present in everyday conversations. Life had entered into the race tracks and there is no way it would stay away now!
The screaming, the howling, the shouting and the emotions that I witnessed during each race are something that I can’t quite express in words. No matter how hard I try. It has to be experienced. Being amidst hardcore F1 lovers, watching them squeal when their favorite racer makes a mistake and crashes out or when another racer takes a dangerous turn or clips the wheels during an overtaking maneuver, the one-hundredth-of-a-second delay in the pit lane when someone comes to refuel the car followed by a quick tyre change, it was all way too intense. Every second was important. Not just for the people at the pit, or the drivers, or the race engineers, but also for the ones who watch the race. Visits to the loo were few and selective. Only during the commercial breaks, when the dreaded music was heard (a true F1 supporter knows that music that gives him his cue to run to the loo and get back).
March to November. That was the time. The F1 calendar would be at its very best. 17 races, driver’s championship, constructor’s championship, points, tables, who tops the chart, which team is out of the race, which driver has created history. The statistics were keenly followed by everyone. Wake up someone in the middle of their sleep and ask them a question and they would be able to answer. That’s the magic of the sport.
Has the magic reduced? Are people losing interest in the sport? Is the FIA coming out with rules and regulations that are ruining the sport? Or are they making it interesting? Are people worried about front runners not making a mark? Is there going to be a new trend in this sport? What is the Formula to the sports Success?
July 17, 2009
July 02, 2009
The Long Road
I sat alone in the coffee shop, like I've done a million times before.
I wanted to write. Poetry, Fiction, A funny story maybe, or a trying to be funny article. Just something. My thoughts were all over the place.
Writing, scrapping it off. Dreaming and Wondering.
Words failed me. I reached a blank. It continued for a long time. Really long time. This is it. I can't write anymore. Not at least now.
Saturation Point?
Out of stuff to write about?
Lack of inspiration?
Way too content with life?
Laziness personified?
End of the road?
Questions. Questions. Questions.
Then I heard a song....
"The answer my friend, is blowin' in the wind. The answer is blowin' in the wind".
Thank you Mr.Dylan.
Would you like another coffee?
I wanted to write. Poetry, Fiction, A funny story maybe, or a trying to be funny article. Just something. My thoughts were all over the place.
Writing, scrapping it off. Dreaming and Wondering.
Words failed me. I reached a blank. It continued for a long time. Really long time. This is it. I can't write anymore. Not at least now.
Saturation Point?
Out of stuff to write about?
Lack of inspiration?
Way too content with life?
Laziness personified?
End of the road?
Questions. Questions. Questions.
Then I heard a song....
"The answer my friend, is blowin' in the wind. The answer is blowin' in the wind".
Thank you Mr.Dylan.
Would you like another coffee?
June 16, 2009
Top stories at this hour
Here’s my take on all things/ people making the news in the last 48 hours.
1.India crashes out of the T20 World Cup
Aaney dhey (bring it on/ let them come) yeh cup kahin nahin jaayega, was the chant till about two days back in all the channels. The promo (a very badly shot one I must add) was sticking out like a sore thumb and in addition to that, Saif Ali Khan and Deepika Padukone’s ‘Love Aaj Kal’ publicity promo talking about the same was just too much to handle. I think people never expected India to win the last T20 World Cup in South Africa (though people might not agree to that fact). India was a team that had no idea about the concept of T20 before the World Cup and the Big Guns were not in the team. It is not to be questioned that India did play extremely well and I guess the expectation factor and the pressure factor or the lack of it during the last World Cup helped.
This time it was way too much. People started discussing this year’s World Cup even during IPL, oops, my bad, this year’s DLF IPL. Every other team (at least the coaching staff) paid attention to the weaknesses and strong points of the Indian players and they were ready to come at us hard (and Short). The likes of Raina & Rohit, Dhoni & Ishant they were exposed and made to look clumsy. This tournament should be a wake up call for the team and its members and they should not take their place in the team for granted and leave their advertising commitments aside and practice hard (no more optional practice sessions please).
One thing disappointing from the whole saga is how the Indian media is at it with its post-mortem of the Indian team’s dismal performance. The same media who were praising the magic of Dhoni was seen ridiculing his captaincy, his batting, his way of handling the media and well his hair style. Had the Ravindra Jadeja move at number 4 worked, everyone would have praised his captaincy and would have gone gaga over how he sent someone to stabilize the innings, but now he is being blamed for what he did. Except for three new players, the Indian team that played in this year’s World Cup was the same as the previous one. I rest my case.
2.“Shiney Ahuja raped me” says a maid:
An 18, actually make that 19, or wait a minute is it 17 year old maid (read domestic help) accuses Shiney Ahuja of raping her. The news channels were bored having Arun Lal, Madan Lal, Jadeja, Saba Karim, Anil Kumble, Akash Chopra and every other Indian cricketer who has retired from International cricket with their broken English dissect the Indian Team’s performance needed something more spicy. So now they have this allegation (or truth) to dig deep and splash all over their ugly news channels.
With each passing minute the age of the victim seems to be changing. Shiney Ahuja’s statements that were recorded apparently in the police station also seem to be contradictory. News about how he was earlier warned by the police after he misbehaved with a junior artist on the sets of a film in a drunken state seems to be doing the rounds now. I was talking to a friend this morning and he said Shiney Ahuja was ‘Bai-Sexual’, didn’t know whether to laugh or just be diplomatic and not comment. Another friend had a tweet saying “I really hope Shiney Ahuja's "Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi" is only a movie title”, now that was bang on.
The Indian media seems to seriously ape its western counterparts when it comes to Bollywood. They want to show everything that’s happening in the industry, they want to gossip, they want the latest scoops and inside stories (when there is none, they don’t care and they make up their own). And with news like this I can see Barkha Dutt rubbing her hands in glee and waiting to swallow the mic and scream her lungs out. Not to forget all the other jokers who forget they have a mic and they really don’t need to scream and shout to make a point (if only they had one). I hope the truth comes out soon and we are spared from these reporters saying the same thing over and over and over again (till even they get bored of it) and showing the same footage (which looks like it has been shot by a 6 year old on a Handy cam gifted by his grand mother).
3.Racist attacks in Australia:
Australia seems to be in the news all the time. There has to be something about that place. Really. First it was Symonds who got kicked out of the Australian squad two days before the World Cup, followed by the first attack that had an Indian student hospitalized after he was bashed up by a bunch of Australians sending him into a coma and battling for life and then back again after they crashed out of the T20 World Cup (just realized every single thing revolves around cricket these days)
It has been three weeks since the first news broke out of an Indian student being abused and attacked and now the count is at 14. Fourteen attacks in three weeks, cars being burnt, glasses being broken, taxi drivers being racially abused and stabbed to death, college kids fearing for dear life (after paying a bomb to come and study and add to that all the hospital bills). It’s a sad state of affairs at the moment. Indians are a fantastic lot. I mean they seem to be all over the world (and that too in HUGE GIGANTIC numbers). I have to get back to another cricket related incident here (to just make my point). The England team when it walked in at Lords near the Nursery end was booed by the Indian supporters. I mean we are talking the home team taking to the ground, in the home of cricket and something like this happens. (Wow. Wish I was there in the ground too). The world (Australia in particular) needs to understand that, there is nothing they can do to stop us Indians from moving in. We will come, alone, in groups, as a pack, and we shall fill your land. We are happy doing it. We have the best pasture here and we still like to look for more. The problem lies with the concept of Immigration, Visas, Passport, different rules, and different laws. If there comes a day when all you need to do is pack your bags, book your tickets and just go wherever you want, for however long you want, I don’t think any such attacks would happen. Home is everywhere. You just need to be a free bird, a free spirit. But I know it is far-fetched but might just be a reality sometime.
If it’s any source of comfort, I have a bunch of Indian friends in Australia at the moment and they are all alive, safe, and having a blast. In fact they were out partying last evening with a bunch of Australians and returned home to their rooms only at 5 this morning (with a couple of them also making faces at a Chinese waiter).
Oh. I have another cricket related statement here. A friend sent this SMS to me the day India lost against England. “11 Indians beaten in England" would have a dual meaning these days, I guess”.
1.India crashes out of the T20 World Cup
Aaney dhey (bring it on/ let them come) yeh cup kahin nahin jaayega, was the chant till about two days back in all the channels. The promo (a very badly shot one I must add) was sticking out like a sore thumb and in addition to that, Saif Ali Khan and Deepika Padukone’s ‘Love Aaj Kal’ publicity promo talking about the same was just too much to handle. I think people never expected India to win the last T20 World Cup in South Africa (though people might not agree to that fact). India was a team that had no idea about the concept of T20 before the World Cup and the Big Guns were not in the team. It is not to be questioned that India did play extremely well and I guess the expectation factor and the pressure factor or the lack of it during the last World Cup helped.
This time it was way too much. People started discussing this year’s World Cup even during IPL, oops, my bad, this year’s DLF IPL. Every other team (at least the coaching staff) paid attention to the weaknesses and strong points of the Indian players and they were ready to come at us hard (and Short). The likes of Raina & Rohit, Dhoni & Ishant they were exposed and made to look clumsy. This tournament should be a wake up call for the team and its members and they should not take their place in the team for granted and leave their advertising commitments aside and practice hard (no more optional practice sessions please).
One thing disappointing from the whole saga is how the Indian media is at it with its post-mortem of the Indian team’s dismal performance. The same media who were praising the magic of Dhoni was seen ridiculing his captaincy, his batting, his way of handling the media and well his hair style. Had the Ravindra Jadeja move at number 4 worked, everyone would have praised his captaincy and would have gone gaga over how he sent someone to stabilize the innings, but now he is being blamed for what he did. Except for three new players, the Indian team that played in this year’s World Cup was the same as the previous one. I rest my case.
2.“Shiney Ahuja raped me” says a maid:
An 18, actually make that 19, or wait a minute is it 17 year old maid (read domestic help) accuses Shiney Ahuja of raping her. The news channels were bored having Arun Lal, Madan Lal, Jadeja, Saba Karim, Anil Kumble, Akash Chopra and every other Indian cricketer who has retired from International cricket with their broken English dissect the Indian Team’s performance needed something more spicy. So now they have this allegation (or truth) to dig deep and splash all over their ugly news channels.
With each passing minute the age of the victim seems to be changing. Shiney Ahuja’s statements that were recorded apparently in the police station also seem to be contradictory. News about how he was earlier warned by the police after he misbehaved with a junior artist on the sets of a film in a drunken state seems to be doing the rounds now. I was talking to a friend this morning and he said Shiney Ahuja was ‘Bai-Sexual’, didn’t know whether to laugh or just be diplomatic and not comment. Another friend had a tweet saying “I really hope Shiney Ahuja's "Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi" is only a movie title”, now that was bang on.
The Indian media seems to seriously ape its western counterparts when it comes to Bollywood. They want to show everything that’s happening in the industry, they want to gossip, they want the latest scoops and inside stories (when there is none, they don’t care and they make up their own). And with news like this I can see Barkha Dutt rubbing her hands in glee and waiting to swallow the mic and scream her lungs out. Not to forget all the other jokers who forget they have a mic and they really don’t need to scream and shout to make a point (if only they had one). I hope the truth comes out soon and we are spared from these reporters saying the same thing over and over and over again (till even they get bored of it) and showing the same footage (which looks like it has been shot by a 6 year old on a Handy cam gifted by his grand mother).
3.Racist attacks in Australia:
Australia seems to be in the news all the time. There has to be something about that place. Really. First it was Symonds who got kicked out of the Australian squad two days before the World Cup, followed by the first attack that had an Indian student hospitalized after he was bashed up by a bunch of Australians sending him into a coma and battling for life and then back again after they crashed out of the T20 World Cup (just realized every single thing revolves around cricket these days)
It has been three weeks since the first news broke out of an Indian student being abused and attacked and now the count is at 14. Fourteen attacks in three weeks, cars being burnt, glasses being broken, taxi drivers being racially abused and stabbed to death, college kids fearing for dear life (after paying a bomb to come and study and add to that all the hospital bills). It’s a sad state of affairs at the moment. Indians are a fantastic lot. I mean they seem to be all over the world (and that too in HUGE GIGANTIC numbers). I have to get back to another cricket related incident here (to just make my point). The England team when it walked in at Lords near the Nursery end was booed by the Indian supporters. I mean we are talking the home team taking to the ground, in the home of cricket and something like this happens. (Wow. Wish I was there in the ground too). The world (Australia in particular) needs to understand that, there is nothing they can do to stop us Indians from moving in. We will come, alone, in groups, as a pack, and we shall fill your land. We are happy doing it. We have the best pasture here and we still like to look for more. The problem lies with the concept of Immigration, Visas, Passport, different rules, and different laws. If there comes a day when all you need to do is pack your bags, book your tickets and just go wherever you want, for however long you want, I don’t think any such attacks would happen. Home is everywhere. You just need to be a free bird, a free spirit. But I know it is far-fetched but might just be a reality sometime.
If it’s any source of comfort, I have a bunch of Indian friends in Australia at the moment and they are all alive, safe, and having a blast. In fact they were out partying last evening with a bunch of Australians and returned home to their rooms only at 5 this morning (with a couple of them also making faces at a Chinese waiter).
Oh. I have another cricket related statement here. A friend sent this SMS to me the day India lost against England. “11 Indians beaten in England" would have a dual meaning these days, I guess”.
June 03, 2009
The Larry Story
There once lived a man named Larry
People thought he was very Hairy
He wobbled around with a jacket in May
That was because he was happy and Gay.
The more he talked people would Stare
And everyone called him a grizzly Bear
Over and over, More and More
When he sleeps, he sure does Snore.
You could see him wear a Cap
He always drank beer from a Tap
They say he had a heart of Gold
But poor guy was just getting Old.
His house was next to the Clock Tower
The old fox sure had a lot of Power
This is the story of a man named Larry
What do you know, he nailed a Fairy.
People thought he was very Hairy
He wobbled around with a jacket in May
That was because he was happy and Gay.
The more he talked people would Stare
And everyone called him a grizzly Bear
Over and over, More and More
When he sleeps, he sure does Snore.
You could see him wear a Cap
He always drank beer from a Tap
They say he had a heart of Gold
But poor guy was just getting Old.
His house was next to the Clock Tower
The old fox sure had a lot of Power
This is the story of a man named Larry
What do you know, he nailed a Fairy.
May 27, 2009
Short Series: Reunion
It was a Friday evening. Shreya sat at the usual spot. The small coffee shop overlooking the beach in Bandra. She used to love coming here. Hers was a fun group, filled with the ones who she went to college with. Two boys and three girls. A five musketeers of sorts, she remembered.
It had been three years since she came to that place. She finished her graduation in Bombay and decided to move to the UK to pursue her masters. The others in the group branched out as well, all in their separate ways. Though there were a million social networking sites in the offing, none of them were in touch and had absolutely no clue what the others were up to. It was Abhay who had sent everyone a mail a couple of months back asking for a reunion of sorts. The mails had started pouring in after that, but Abhay didn't respond to a single one after the time and place was fixed. It was to be Friday the 27th of June, in Cafe Brew- Bandra.
Shreya had finished her final paper presentation and she had three months before she had her graduation ceremony. So she decided to come home and spend time with her parents and also to meet up with the musketeers. As she sat at Cafe Brew, she noticed people running for cover. The monsoon had just hit Bombay and it was beautiful. The waves making breathtaking patterns and the force with which it came onto the shore. She saw school girls in tiny skirts crossing the road with such care, so as to not get their shiny black shoes wet. The crazy motorists who didn't bother slowing down and splashing puddles of water overflowing the roads onto stunned passersby.
The sky was dark and gloomy. The weather had a chillness to it. She loved Bombay, especially during the monsoon. There was such romance in the air. There was such joy. The city always came alive during this kind of a weather, she said to herself. She ordered her lemon tea. She was not a coffee person and she remembered how Abhay, a hardcore coffee drinker and lover, used to always tease her about that and how he had offered to make her some lovely coffee that would leave her mesmerized and begging for more when they meet again sometime in the future. Thinking about that made her smile even more. She noticed a young couple sitting under the giant umbrella whispering sweet nothings into each others ears and laughing. She noticed how the guy had his hands gently wrapped around her shoulders to keep her warm.
The coffee shop was packed, since people came in to take shelter from the rain. A slightly old gentleman walked upto her and asked if he could take the chair that was vacant in her table. She smiled and gestured to him to come take a seat. The man, she thought should he in his early 60's. Dressed in a crisp white shirt and grey trousers. She saw his silver hair and pepper grey beard. He introduced himself and began talking. From the conversation, she inferred that he was a writer working on the story for a film and he was to meet someone here a little later in the evening. But since his work had gotten over early, he decided to get to this place before it started raining heavily. She nodded and listened to his words. She also told him about her reason of being at the coffee shop. As they were talking two more girls and a guy from the musketeer group landed there and the old gentleman, just smiled at the group and told them to have fun and moved on to another empty table on the other side of the coffee shop.
The group then exchanged pleasantries and laughed and sighed in unison like excited school kids on their very first picnic to a zoo. They had so much to talk about and everyone wouldn't let the other person finish. They sat around indulging in more coffee, more gossip and the chocolate fudge when they saw a familiar face walking slowly towards the coffee shop drenched in the rain. The person didn't bother running for cover but with such elegance slowly evading the puddles on the road and walking towards their table. The group let out a collective sigh. It was Abhay. They couldn't believe their eyes. He looked thin, pale and weak, but he still had the best smile in town. Everyone ran towards him and hugged him. Abhay stood there with the rest of the musketeers hugging them close and smiling.
The group walked back towards the table and while the others went ahead, Abhay walked towards the old gentleman and whispered something in his ears. The old man smiled and patted him on the shoulders. Abhay ran his fingers in his hair to brush off the rain and smiled once again. Abhay was the most talkative person in the group. Everytime he started talking there was no stopping him. Everyone knew that and hence as soon as he came and sat in his chair they looked at him and Karan the other guy in the group, took out his wristwatch and placed it on the table and said, "GO. Your time starts now", the others as soon as they heard it began laughing. Abhay smiled gently and mumbled something that the others couldn't pick up. They leaned forward and asked him to repeat it again. Abhay then said, "My time's almost up guys" and he smiled. No one knew what he was talking about and they thought he was just kidding. Karan, then taking the cue from the other women decided to talk. "Do you have a meeting or something"?, he asked. Abhay then looked into the sea, the road and sighed. "Yes, I need to meet Mr.Mathur, the gentleman sitting in that table", as he pointed his finger towards the table. Mr.Mathur saw this and waved a friendly hi towards the group. Shreya, waved back and said that she had met him while she was waiting for everyone.
"Oh, so you're into movies now eh? Awesome. Never knew an engineer from our batch would end up in movies. So are you acting or...", shreya shrieked with excitement.
"Am not acting. Don't think I can pull off the running around trees really", Abhay joked and the others laughed.
"I have written a story that I need to discuss with him", he said.
The group sat up on their table and paid attention. "WoW, dude. That's amazing, so what kind of story is this"?, asked Karan.
"It's my story guys", Abhay said and took a sip of water.
Shreya called the waiter and ordered a hot cup of coffee for Abhay, for which Abhay just shook his head and cancelled the order.
"WHAT. The biggest coffee lover saying NO to coffee", everyone in the group said in unison.
"I'm not allowed to drink coffee. The doctors have told me that", he said.
The moment the group heard this, everyone went quiet. What was he talking about? Not allowed to drink coffee? Doctor's advice? This was getting extremely serious.
"Dude. What the hell is wrong with you?", Karan barked.
"Well", Abhay took a long breath and started talking. "I have a very rare kind of cancer that has affected my brain. The doctors have tried everything and looks like they don't have a clue. Am dying guys. Am dying. Just wanted to see the four people who mean the world to me before I die", Abhay said and a tear drop gently trickled down on his chin.
No one knew how to react. It was all just sudden. It was shocking. I mean, it was Abhay. How could Abhay have such a disease?
"It's my story that Mr. Mathur is working on and he wants to make a movie out of it. I wanted him to", Abhay said softly.
"I love you all. Forgive me guys", Abhay said.
The group just hugged him and stayed that way.
It was a Friday evening. Not just another Friday evening for everyone in that table.
It had been three years since she came to that place. She finished her graduation in Bombay and decided to move to the UK to pursue her masters. The others in the group branched out as well, all in their separate ways. Though there were a million social networking sites in the offing, none of them were in touch and had absolutely no clue what the others were up to. It was Abhay who had sent everyone a mail a couple of months back asking for a reunion of sorts. The mails had started pouring in after that, but Abhay didn't respond to a single one after the time and place was fixed. It was to be Friday the 27th of June, in Cafe Brew- Bandra.
Shreya had finished her final paper presentation and she had three months before she had her graduation ceremony. So she decided to come home and spend time with her parents and also to meet up with the musketeers. As she sat at Cafe Brew, she noticed people running for cover. The monsoon had just hit Bombay and it was beautiful. The waves making breathtaking patterns and the force with which it came onto the shore. She saw school girls in tiny skirts crossing the road with such care, so as to not get their shiny black shoes wet. The crazy motorists who didn't bother slowing down and splashing puddles of water overflowing the roads onto stunned passersby.
The sky was dark and gloomy. The weather had a chillness to it. She loved Bombay, especially during the monsoon. There was such romance in the air. There was such joy. The city always came alive during this kind of a weather, she said to herself. She ordered her lemon tea. She was not a coffee person and she remembered how Abhay, a hardcore coffee drinker and lover, used to always tease her about that and how he had offered to make her some lovely coffee that would leave her mesmerized and begging for more when they meet again sometime in the future. Thinking about that made her smile even more. She noticed a young couple sitting under the giant umbrella whispering sweet nothings into each others ears and laughing. She noticed how the guy had his hands gently wrapped around her shoulders to keep her warm.
The coffee shop was packed, since people came in to take shelter from the rain. A slightly old gentleman walked upto her and asked if he could take the chair that was vacant in her table. She smiled and gestured to him to come take a seat. The man, she thought should he in his early 60's. Dressed in a crisp white shirt and grey trousers. She saw his silver hair and pepper grey beard. He introduced himself and began talking. From the conversation, she inferred that he was a writer working on the story for a film and he was to meet someone here a little later in the evening. But since his work had gotten over early, he decided to get to this place before it started raining heavily. She nodded and listened to his words. She also told him about her reason of being at the coffee shop. As they were talking two more girls and a guy from the musketeer group landed there and the old gentleman, just smiled at the group and told them to have fun and moved on to another empty table on the other side of the coffee shop.
The group then exchanged pleasantries and laughed and sighed in unison like excited school kids on their very first picnic to a zoo. They had so much to talk about and everyone wouldn't let the other person finish. They sat around indulging in more coffee, more gossip and the chocolate fudge when they saw a familiar face walking slowly towards the coffee shop drenched in the rain. The person didn't bother running for cover but with such elegance slowly evading the puddles on the road and walking towards their table. The group let out a collective sigh. It was Abhay. They couldn't believe their eyes. He looked thin, pale and weak, but he still had the best smile in town. Everyone ran towards him and hugged him. Abhay stood there with the rest of the musketeers hugging them close and smiling.
The group walked back towards the table and while the others went ahead, Abhay walked towards the old gentleman and whispered something in his ears. The old man smiled and patted him on the shoulders. Abhay ran his fingers in his hair to brush off the rain and smiled once again. Abhay was the most talkative person in the group. Everytime he started talking there was no stopping him. Everyone knew that and hence as soon as he came and sat in his chair they looked at him and Karan the other guy in the group, took out his wristwatch and placed it on the table and said, "GO. Your time starts now", the others as soon as they heard it began laughing. Abhay smiled gently and mumbled something that the others couldn't pick up. They leaned forward and asked him to repeat it again. Abhay then said, "My time's almost up guys" and he smiled. No one knew what he was talking about and they thought he was just kidding. Karan, then taking the cue from the other women decided to talk. "Do you have a meeting or something"?, he asked. Abhay then looked into the sea, the road and sighed. "Yes, I need to meet Mr.Mathur, the gentleman sitting in that table", as he pointed his finger towards the table. Mr.Mathur saw this and waved a friendly hi towards the group. Shreya, waved back and said that she had met him while she was waiting for everyone.
"Oh, so you're into movies now eh? Awesome. Never knew an engineer from our batch would end up in movies. So are you acting or...", shreya shrieked with excitement.
"Am not acting. Don't think I can pull off the running around trees really", Abhay joked and the others laughed.
"I have written a story that I need to discuss with him", he said.
The group sat up on their table and paid attention. "WoW, dude. That's amazing, so what kind of story is this"?, asked Karan.
"It's my story guys", Abhay said and took a sip of water.
Shreya called the waiter and ordered a hot cup of coffee for Abhay, for which Abhay just shook his head and cancelled the order.
"WHAT. The biggest coffee lover saying NO to coffee", everyone in the group said in unison.
"I'm not allowed to drink coffee. The doctors have told me that", he said.
The moment the group heard this, everyone went quiet. What was he talking about? Not allowed to drink coffee? Doctor's advice? This was getting extremely serious.
"Dude. What the hell is wrong with you?", Karan barked.
"Well", Abhay took a long breath and started talking. "I have a very rare kind of cancer that has affected my brain. The doctors have tried everything and looks like they don't have a clue. Am dying guys. Am dying. Just wanted to see the four people who mean the world to me before I die", Abhay said and a tear drop gently trickled down on his chin.
No one knew how to react. It was all just sudden. It was shocking. I mean, it was Abhay. How could Abhay have such a disease?
"It's my story that Mr. Mathur is working on and he wants to make a movie out of it. I wanted him to", Abhay said softly.
"I love you all. Forgive me guys", Abhay said.
The group just hugged him and stayed that way.
It was a Friday evening. Not just another Friday evening for everyone in that table.
May 15, 2009
Pay Attention. I say!
Why did the chicken cross the road?
(a) To be murdered along with millions of goats and cows.
(b) To rid the world off masala dosa, sambhar idli and koththamalli chutney.
(c) To establish a non-vegetarian, totalitarian empire ruled by the evil incarnate.
(d) All of the above.
Who can stop this inhuman (obviously) hen-o-cide? Which charismatic cowboy can cull this cackling carnivore? Is there no salvation for the cows and goats from the salivating non-vegetarians?
Deep in the south of India, a hero is born.
Quick Gun Murugun is also born deep in the south of India.
Quick Gun Murugun – the outlaw without a mother-in-law; the lover romancing with a locket; the gun-slinger in white boots. Quick Gun Murugun – the Vegetarian Cowboy™
Watch him dodge bullets. Watch him cheat death.
Sambhar Western meets Tollywood , meets The Matrix, meets Austin Powers.
Ladies & Gentlemen. The One & Only.
QUICK GUN MURUGUN.
Quick Gun Murugun – riding soon to a cinema hall near you. Failing that, at least one just half hour away.
(a) To be murdered along with millions of goats and cows.
(b) To rid the world off masala dosa, sambhar idli and koththamalli chutney.
(c) To establish a non-vegetarian, totalitarian empire ruled by the evil incarnate.
(d) All of the above.
Who can stop this inhuman (obviously) hen-o-cide? Which charismatic cowboy can cull this cackling carnivore? Is there no salvation for the cows and goats from the salivating non-vegetarians?
Deep in the south of India, a hero is born.
Quick Gun Murugun is also born deep in the south of India.
Quick Gun Murugun – the outlaw without a mother-in-law; the lover romancing with a locket; the gun-slinger in white boots. Quick Gun Murugun – the Vegetarian Cowboy™
Watch him dodge bullets. Watch him cheat death.
Sambhar Western meets Tollywood , meets The Matrix, meets Austin Powers.
Ladies & Gentlemen. The One & Only.
QUICK GUN MURUGUN.
Quick Gun Murugun – riding soon to a cinema hall near you. Failing that, at least one just half hour away.
May 04, 2009
Short Series: Happyness
It was the tenth sheet of paper that he wasted trying to write something. The words seemed a tad too difficult to articulate. The thoughts were strong. The things he wanted to say were quite a bit. But he just couldn’t write.
“This part of my life is what I would call things falling into place”, he had written that and he kept staring at the crisp white sheet of paper in front of him. The coffee shop seemed too empty for a Sunday evening. Maybe the weather had something to do with it, he thought to himself. But coming to think of it, the weather was lovely, heavy winds, coolness in the air and dark clouds with a distant thunder and lightning. It was just perfect. Popular tracks were being played on the radio and it filled his ears. A gentle strumming of a guitar was jamming with the song on the radio. It had to be a beginner playing the guitar; he chuckled to himself and continued staring at the sheet of paper.
The traffic was peaceful and the motorists were going about their job in a nonchalant manner. The long weekend he sighed. The city needs more of these extra long weekends. It made it extremely easy for him to commute and if he was lucky, even take a nice peaceful walk.
He liked the song that was playing then. He smiled.
‘Free Door Delivry’, it read in big bold letters. Ah! How many times now, he thought. He had made it a point to tell the guys at the coffee shop to check their spellings before they put something up on the board. Things never change, people never change, he told himself.
Work had been wonderful the past few months and things were just wonderful. The kind of work he had been doing was really giving him a huge high. He loved it. He loved the endless hours, the mindless running around, the wonderful conversations, the amazing people he got to meet thanks to his work and the best of all, the travel that came along with the work. This was it. He smiled.
“This part of my life is what I would call things falling into place”, he read the line out loud, smiled and added a period at the end of the sentence. It started drizzling at that exact moment. A drop fell on the period and the ink blotted.
“This part of my life is what I would call things falling into place”.
“This part of my life is what I would call things falling into place”, he had written that and he kept staring at the crisp white sheet of paper in front of him. The coffee shop seemed too empty for a Sunday evening. Maybe the weather had something to do with it, he thought to himself. But coming to think of it, the weather was lovely, heavy winds, coolness in the air and dark clouds with a distant thunder and lightning. It was just perfect. Popular tracks were being played on the radio and it filled his ears. A gentle strumming of a guitar was jamming with the song on the radio. It had to be a beginner playing the guitar; he chuckled to himself and continued staring at the sheet of paper.
The traffic was peaceful and the motorists were going about their job in a nonchalant manner. The long weekend he sighed. The city needs more of these extra long weekends. It made it extremely easy for him to commute and if he was lucky, even take a nice peaceful walk.
He liked the song that was playing then. He smiled.
‘Free Door Delivry’, it read in big bold letters. Ah! How many times now, he thought. He had made it a point to tell the guys at the coffee shop to check their spellings before they put something up on the board. Things never change, people never change, he told himself.
Work had been wonderful the past few months and things were just wonderful. The kind of work he had been doing was really giving him a huge high. He loved it. He loved the endless hours, the mindless running around, the wonderful conversations, the amazing people he got to meet thanks to his work and the best of all, the travel that came along with the work. This was it. He smiled.
“This part of my life is what I would call things falling into place”, he read the line out loud, smiled and added a period at the end of the sentence. It started drizzling at that exact moment. A drop fell on the period and the ink blotted.
“This part of my life is what I would call things falling into place”.
March 16, 2009
Short Series: World War III
He sat alone, looking dreamily deep into the thin flame from the candle. The gentle breeze that seeped in through the window made the flame dance. He could hear the sounds that the rain created outside. Droplets falling on the asbestos sheet that covered the neighbor’s car. The electricity had gone off because of the rain and it had been a few hours now. The heavy sound of thunder and flashes of lightning added more drama to the dancing flame in front of him.
In the quiet of the night, he could hear cars and motorists screeching on the road that ran outside his house. They all seemed to be in a hurry. They always were, he thought to himself. A smile escaped his lips. He sat there quietly; everything in that room seemed to happen in slow motion. His movements, his thoughts, the dancing flame from the candle, the smoke from the mosquito coil. The mosquito hovering around his ear seemed to have other plans. Furiously fluttering around his ear, the little thing looked like a being possessed and with a mission. The silence from the room only amplified the buzz from the little fella.
"Target found. All units be advised. Proceed with caution", said a voice, although slightly garbled, it was clear. He turned back to check where the voice was coming from. He couldn’t see anyone. Maybe it was coming from the television next door or something, he thought to himself. But there isn’t electricity. “Target locked. Eagle 27. Attack”, said another voice and before he could react, he felt a sharp needle like prick on the soft spot on his neck. ‘Ouch’, he let out a scream and his immediate reaction was to swat the back of his neck with his hand. “Target hit. I repeat. Target has been hit. All units lock on to the target”, the moment he heard those lines, he had a whole army of mosquitoes breathing down his neck and buzzing around his ear. They were everywhere. Where did they come from? He wondered and quickly took evasive action. He lit up another of those mosquito coil’s murmuring profanities about the worthless qualities of these coils. As soon as he lit the second coil, everything became quiet again. Slightly relieved he sat down on the chair and made himself comfortable. In the corner of his eye, he saw a tiny little fella creeping close towards his ear, he acted as if he didn’t see him coming and when he was close enough, he turned around and with both his hands made a clapping motion. ‘Whack’, was the sound it made and it echoed in the tiny room. When he spread his hands, he could see one of those blood sucking thingy smothered on his hands. There was blood. He took the little one and brought it close to the flame. What he saw shocked him.
There he was the little fella with a smashed skull wearing army fatigue. The mosquito had his face painted. He couldn’t believe his own eyes. Was he dreaming? This just couldn’t be. It’s a mosquito- an army mosquito. As he was still reeling from the shock, he could hear more voices, “Officer down, officer down. Kamikaze units attack”. Before he could react he saw an army coming towards him. He could see they were angry. They attacked him. His ear, neck and forehead were easy targets. There was a separate group attacking his arms. The attack was pretty intense and he did everything possible to stay safe. He waved his hands, and smacked it together, tried slapping the space in front of him in an attempt to cause damage to his attackers. He did manage to hit a group that was launching another attack. They went tumbling down. He tried to catch them, but it slid right through his fingers and fell crashing to the ground. He managed to get a radio that the mosquitoes were using to communicate with the base. “Eagle 39. Eagle 39. Do you read me? What is the enemy status? Do you want us to send more troops?” the voice on the other end said on the radio. ‘More troops?’ he thought to himself. That’s not good news he said. He had to do something to stop them. He got up and tried to cover himself with a blanket. So that he doesn’t reveal any part of his body to the enemy.
“Target has gone hiding. Seek & destroy”, those were the dreaded words. He thought it was time to show those blood sucking monsters, who the bigger person was. He was ready. He let out a loud scream and he was on his legs to try and counterattack. He began racing across the room with his hands and legs swaying and striking the air furiously. This was a calculated attack from his enemies. They were not easily visible, while there he was a target out in the open. The train outside his house came to a grinding halt at the station. The sound of the wheels on the track could be heard very clearly. Other than that, there was silence. Then it happened. The mosquitoes began attacking him and he began fighting back. What was earlier a quiet room with a candle light was now a war zone. He managed to strike down a few groups that kept targeting his neck and ear. They went tumbling down and fell on the burning flame of the candle. He could see them burn. The slight hissing sound it made when they were burnt to ashes. He felt good to see that. ‘Serves them right’, he told himself, concentrating on the others. He quietly went up to the kitchen and took the mosquito spray. He hid it in his hands and waited patiently behind the couch. Then finally when the intensity of the buzzing sounds near him increased he got up and started spraying all over the room. He closed his eyes and began swirling around the room. Diving to take cover every now and then when he saw his enemy braving the spray and still trying to attack. In a few moments it was over. No more buzzing sounds and no more attacks. It was quiet. Extremely quiet.
The only sounds in that room were coming from that of walkie-talkies that were damaged. And the flame flickering with some of the attackers still burning in them. He felt relieved. He was injured a bit in the war. His arms were swollen from a few bites and his hands had blood stains. But he had won the war and that’s what mattered. He sat down on the chair and laid back. The electricity came back then. The first thing he saw was the war zone. His attackers were lying on the floor dead, crushed and smashed. It was a huge army. He just shook his head and decided to watch some television. As soon as he clicked the remote, he felt a shooting pain on his neck. He took evasive action and slapped his neck.
“Target has been hit and nuked. Virus has been infected. Sniper to base. Sniper to base. Over and out”.
In the quiet of the night, he could hear cars and motorists screeching on the road that ran outside his house. They all seemed to be in a hurry. They always were, he thought to himself. A smile escaped his lips. He sat there quietly; everything in that room seemed to happen in slow motion. His movements, his thoughts, the dancing flame from the candle, the smoke from the mosquito coil. The mosquito hovering around his ear seemed to have other plans. Furiously fluttering around his ear, the little thing looked like a being possessed and with a mission. The silence from the room only amplified the buzz from the little fella.
"Target found. All units be advised. Proceed with caution", said a voice, although slightly garbled, it was clear. He turned back to check where the voice was coming from. He couldn’t see anyone. Maybe it was coming from the television next door or something, he thought to himself. But there isn’t electricity. “Target locked. Eagle 27. Attack”, said another voice and before he could react, he felt a sharp needle like prick on the soft spot on his neck. ‘Ouch’, he let out a scream and his immediate reaction was to swat the back of his neck with his hand. “Target hit. I repeat. Target has been hit. All units lock on to the target”, the moment he heard those lines, he had a whole army of mosquitoes breathing down his neck and buzzing around his ear. They were everywhere. Where did they come from? He wondered and quickly took evasive action. He lit up another of those mosquito coil’s murmuring profanities about the worthless qualities of these coils. As soon as he lit the second coil, everything became quiet again. Slightly relieved he sat down on the chair and made himself comfortable. In the corner of his eye, he saw a tiny little fella creeping close towards his ear, he acted as if he didn’t see him coming and when he was close enough, he turned around and with both his hands made a clapping motion. ‘Whack’, was the sound it made and it echoed in the tiny room. When he spread his hands, he could see one of those blood sucking thingy smothered on his hands. There was blood. He took the little one and brought it close to the flame. What he saw shocked him.
There he was the little fella with a smashed skull wearing army fatigue. The mosquito had his face painted. He couldn’t believe his own eyes. Was he dreaming? This just couldn’t be. It’s a mosquito- an army mosquito. As he was still reeling from the shock, he could hear more voices, “Officer down, officer down. Kamikaze units attack”. Before he could react he saw an army coming towards him. He could see they were angry. They attacked him. His ear, neck and forehead were easy targets. There was a separate group attacking his arms. The attack was pretty intense and he did everything possible to stay safe. He waved his hands, and smacked it together, tried slapping the space in front of him in an attempt to cause damage to his attackers. He did manage to hit a group that was launching another attack. They went tumbling down. He tried to catch them, but it slid right through his fingers and fell crashing to the ground. He managed to get a radio that the mosquitoes were using to communicate with the base. “Eagle 39. Eagle 39. Do you read me? What is the enemy status? Do you want us to send more troops?” the voice on the other end said on the radio. ‘More troops?’ he thought to himself. That’s not good news he said. He had to do something to stop them. He got up and tried to cover himself with a blanket. So that he doesn’t reveal any part of his body to the enemy.
“Target has gone hiding. Seek & destroy”, those were the dreaded words. He thought it was time to show those blood sucking monsters, who the bigger person was. He was ready. He let out a loud scream and he was on his legs to try and counterattack. He began racing across the room with his hands and legs swaying and striking the air furiously. This was a calculated attack from his enemies. They were not easily visible, while there he was a target out in the open. The train outside his house came to a grinding halt at the station. The sound of the wheels on the track could be heard very clearly. Other than that, there was silence. Then it happened. The mosquitoes began attacking him and he began fighting back. What was earlier a quiet room with a candle light was now a war zone. He managed to strike down a few groups that kept targeting his neck and ear. They went tumbling down and fell on the burning flame of the candle. He could see them burn. The slight hissing sound it made when they were burnt to ashes. He felt good to see that. ‘Serves them right’, he told himself, concentrating on the others. He quietly went up to the kitchen and took the mosquito spray. He hid it in his hands and waited patiently behind the couch. Then finally when the intensity of the buzzing sounds near him increased he got up and started spraying all over the room. He closed his eyes and began swirling around the room. Diving to take cover every now and then when he saw his enemy braving the spray and still trying to attack. In a few moments it was over. No more buzzing sounds and no more attacks. It was quiet. Extremely quiet.
The only sounds in that room were coming from that of walkie-talkies that were damaged. And the flame flickering with some of the attackers still burning in them. He felt relieved. He was injured a bit in the war. His arms were swollen from a few bites and his hands had blood stains. But he had won the war and that’s what mattered. He sat down on the chair and laid back. The electricity came back then. The first thing he saw was the war zone. His attackers were lying on the floor dead, crushed and smashed. It was a huge army. He just shook his head and decided to watch some television. As soon as he clicked the remote, he felt a shooting pain on his neck. He took evasive action and slapped his neck.
“Target has been hit and nuked. Virus has been infected. Sniper to base. Sniper to base. Over and out”.
February 24, 2009
Arseploring beyond and beneath: a bootilicious research on human behavior.
Experts of all disciplines seem at a loss to understand the recent activities of married housewives at yoga classes, usually by individuals who were targets themselves oggling at other members in the class whom they did not know personally nor have any grievance against. The events at South Bangalore are presently of pressing concern to localites, psychologists, and psychiatrists who have been mystified by the apparent surge of blatant oggling attacks by young females who, often, are characterized by those who knew them as unlikely to commit such terrible acts.
At this time, this violent behavior is not sufficiently documented to ascertain whether there is a serious and sad global phenomenon at work. There are indications that similar acts are appearing in other cities besides Bangalore, including Mumbai and Chennai. Still, even if the intensity of these acts of extreme perversion differs with varied conditions, we have yet to clearly understand the individuals who are most driven to do harm to others.
The newspaper descriptions of a 27-year-old housewife from Indiranagar, just after she oggled at 8 people (men and women included), pinched 4 others, and then oggled at herself before breaking into a jig on the terrace of a two-storey building, included the following: “successful employee,” “revered,” “not an outcast,” “won the employee of the month award,” “personable,” “easy to talk to,” “and an exceptionally sweet and soft spoken lady – something must have happened to her.”
Early reports suggested strongly that the oggler/ assaulter was a timid person whose behavior on this occasion was totally out of character and entirely unpredictable. We then learned that she had been rejected from multiple yoga and fitness centers in the previous six months, some in the same area. We know now that she had been in the care of a psychiatrist, had been prescribed psychotropic drugs, may have stopped taking the medications, and removed herself from treatment. We learned that she had been noted as a person who isolated herself and whose vegetable vendor was able to recall incidents in which her behavior was of great concern.
When interviewed after the incident, Muthamma, the vegetable vendor recalls shakingly, "Well, she normally asks for one kilo potatoes and one kilo onions every alternate day. But when I told her that the prices of onions increased, she went started shouting at me and told me that from now on she would never buy onions from me. My husband is a drunkard and I have three kids. What would I do without the money?"
When asked later during one of her therapy sessions, the woman responded saying she had once read a small article on the internet, following which she had changed into this monster. We have managed to track the article: This is an exclusive report, and we can promise you that you won't find it in any other story. We have the best journalists reporting from different parts of the world. This was the dreaded article she read:
Question: How should you react if someone touched your butt?
Answer: It would all depend on the situation. If it was obviously accidental, it is probably best to just let it go.
If it is a situation that is inappropriate, makes you uncomfortable, or the same person keeps 'accidentally' doing it, then you would most likely want to tell the person they are making you uncomfortable and firmly tell them they need to stop. How polite you are about it would vary depending on the situation.
If you are old enough to be thinking about relationships, you enjoyed it, and it was all in good fun, then you may want to ask them if they found something they liked.
When the article was released in the newspaper,spokesperson from Sri Ram Krishna Shiva Samaj, commented that it was not in our culture to be oggling or assaulting at yoga classes. In his words, he believed that Yoga was a method to attain liberation and good health. It was shocking that there exists women or men out there who stoop to such low levels. It's highly immoral. (He continued talking for a really long time, but our staff reporter who was covering this story had to run for cover, since he couldn't keep his hands off her bottom)
Sarah (name changed) is now spending time in the US and is the personal yoga trainer and guru for top hollywood celebrities.
When we tried reaching her, these were her words to us over the telephone: "Stare at a fat (wo)man's ass for long and you would realise it's not bad after all"
At this time, this violent behavior is not sufficiently documented to ascertain whether there is a serious and sad global phenomenon at work. There are indications that similar acts are appearing in other cities besides Bangalore, including Mumbai and Chennai. Still, even if the intensity of these acts of extreme perversion differs with varied conditions, we have yet to clearly understand the individuals who are most driven to do harm to others.
The newspaper descriptions of a 27-year-old housewife from Indiranagar, just after she oggled at 8 people (men and women included), pinched 4 others, and then oggled at herself before breaking into a jig on the terrace of a two-storey building, included the following: “successful employee,” “revered,” “not an outcast,” “won the employee of the month award,” “personable,” “easy to talk to,” “and an exceptionally sweet and soft spoken lady – something must have happened to her.”
Early reports suggested strongly that the oggler/ assaulter was a timid person whose behavior on this occasion was totally out of character and entirely unpredictable. We then learned that she had been rejected from multiple yoga and fitness centers in the previous six months, some in the same area. We know now that she had been in the care of a psychiatrist, had been prescribed psychotropic drugs, may have stopped taking the medications, and removed herself from treatment. We learned that she had been noted as a person who isolated herself and whose vegetable vendor was able to recall incidents in which her behavior was of great concern.
When interviewed after the incident, Muthamma, the vegetable vendor recalls shakingly, "Well, she normally asks for one kilo potatoes and one kilo onions every alternate day. But when I told her that the prices of onions increased, she went started shouting at me and told me that from now on she would never buy onions from me. My husband is a drunkard and I have three kids. What would I do without the money?"
When asked later during one of her therapy sessions, the woman responded saying she had once read a small article on the internet, following which she had changed into this monster. We have managed to track the article: This is an exclusive report, and we can promise you that you won't find it in any other story. We have the best journalists reporting from different parts of the world. This was the dreaded article she read:
Question: How should you react if someone touched your butt?
Answer: It would all depend on the situation. If it was obviously accidental, it is probably best to just let it go.
If it is a situation that is inappropriate, makes you uncomfortable, or the same person keeps 'accidentally' doing it, then you would most likely want to tell the person they are making you uncomfortable and firmly tell them they need to stop. How polite you are about it would vary depending on the situation.
If you are old enough to be thinking about relationships, you enjoyed it, and it was all in good fun, then you may want to ask them if they found something they liked.
When the article was released in the newspaper,spokesperson from Sri Ram Krishna Shiva Samaj, commented that it was not in our culture to be oggling or assaulting at yoga classes. In his words, he believed that Yoga was a method to attain liberation and good health. It was shocking that there exists women or men out there who stoop to such low levels. It's highly immoral. (He continued talking for a really long time, but our staff reporter who was covering this story had to run for cover, since he couldn't keep his hands off her bottom)
Sarah (name changed) is now spending time in the US and is the personal yoga trainer and guru for top hollywood celebrities.
When we tried reaching her, these were her words to us over the telephone: "Stare at a fat (wo)man's ass for long and you would realise it's not bad after all"
February 13, 2009
Short Series: Milana
She stood there motionless staring into nothingness. She had been standing like that for a while now. The light from the window slowly filtered through and fell on her hair. That was the only source of light in the room. She didn't blink, she didn't move, she didn't talk.
"Welcome back to Tit-for-tat", said a voice shreaking out of the television screen from the adjacent room. Ricardo was watching some meaningless television. He did that to take his mind off things. He was in line to be sent off from work and he didn't like that feeling. He had been working in that company ever since he quit high school. He got married to Milana during that summer. She was pregnant at that time. It was a marriage that happened out of the blue, they didn't plan for it. He was wild, she was beautiful. He got drunk and she got pregnant. Ricardo got kicked out of his house when he told his parents about Milana. They didn't want to support a son who quit high school and his pregnant girlfriend. His parents were very orthodox. They had a good reputation in the neighbourhood.
The baby was crying. The shrill noise shook Ricardo out of the couch. He threw the ciggie down on the floor and got up cursing the baby. "A man can't watch some TV peacefully in this house", he barked while he took a big swig from the beer can he clutched in his hands. The baby was crying in the room next to the TV room. The noise from the TV was louder than the baby. He stormed into the room and lifted the baby from the cradle. "Shut up, you little piece of Shit. Shut up!", he screamed at the baby. "Why the hell do you cry all the time? And your mommy that witch never bothers about you". Milana had stopped talking to Ricardo. It had been 5 months since she uttered a single word to him. She never left the house. She was silent. Her world had crashed. She didn't want to exist... In that house... With that mad man.
"I'm pregnant", said Milana in a soft tone. "What?", Ricardo was shocked to hear those words. "But,how? I mean, I did use it!", he swallowed his words. He didn't know how to react. "I don't know, Ricardo. Maybe it had a hole or something. How am I supposed to know? And moreover condoms are not 100% safe all the time",clutching Ricardo's hands and shivering while she said those words. He was breathing hard. He was still in high school and he didn't know what else to do. He had to do something. He took a few deep breaths and got up and hugged Milana. "Don't worry baby, I shall work something out". He had no clue about what he could do.
"I think I should quit high school, then maybe I could check with Jack at the store to see if I could work there or something", Ricardo told her while repeating those words again louder in his mind, so as to reassure himself. She stood there next to him. Looking into those eyes that seemed like it had gotten pale. Lifeless. Afraid.
He carried the baby in his arms and walked around the house to find something for the little one to eat. He opened the fridge and saw an old packet of milk, lying cold. He brought the packet to his nose to check if it had gotten spoilt. He didn't really care much. He poured the stale milk onto a bottle and shoved it to the baby's mouth. "Eat this. Maybe that would shut you up for a while".
This happened everyday when he was at home. He had to babysit while Milana chose to stay locked up in her room. He wondered if she took care of the baby when he was not around. He knew certainly that she wouldn't bother whether the baby cried or not. That arrogant witch, he thought to himself. The phone rang then and he placed the baby on the couch and went to answer the phone. It was Jack from the store. There was some emergency and he wanted Ricardo to come to the store immediately. Something to leave this mad house, Ricardo thought as he stormed out of the house.
The baby began to cry again. This time with a lot more pain. He had thrown the bottle down and the bottle lay there with it's lid open and sour milk dripping from the opening. Milana had heard the door shut and snapped out of her trance like state. She slowly closed the blinds on her window blocking the little light that was seeping in. She took a deep breath and began to move. Slowly.
She lifted the baby into her arms and held her closely. She looked deep into the baby's eyes. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. She gently placed her fingers on the little one's face and wiped her tears. She kissed her soft on her forehead and whispered, "Don't worry my little angel. It's all going to be fine. Mommy's here now".
"Welcome back to Tit-for-tat", said a voice shreaking out of the television screen from the adjacent room. Ricardo was watching some meaningless television. He did that to take his mind off things. He was in line to be sent off from work and he didn't like that feeling. He had been working in that company ever since he quit high school. He got married to Milana during that summer. She was pregnant at that time. It was a marriage that happened out of the blue, they didn't plan for it. He was wild, she was beautiful. He got drunk and she got pregnant. Ricardo got kicked out of his house when he told his parents about Milana. They didn't want to support a son who quit high school and his pregnant girlfriend. His parents were very orthodox. They had a good reputation in the neighbourhood.
The baby was crying. The shrill noise shook Ricardo out of the couch. He threw the ciggie down on the floor and got up cursing the baby. "A man can't watch some TV peacefully in this house", he barked while he took a big swig from the beer can he clutched in his hands. The baby was crying in the room next to the TV room. The noise from the TV was louder than the baby. He stormed into the room and lifted the baby from the cradle. "Shut up, you little piece of Shit. Shut up!", he screamed at the baby. "Why the hell do you cry all the time? And your mommy that witch never bothers about you". Milana had stopped talking to Ricardo. It had been 5 months since she uttered a single word to him. She never left the house. She was silent. Her world had crashed. She didn't want to exist... In that house... With that mad man.
"I'm pregnant", said Milana in a soft tone. "What?", Ricardo was shocked to hear those words. "But,how? I mean, I did use it!", he swallowed his words. He didn't know how to react. "I don't know, Ricardo. Maybe it had a hole or something. How am I supposed to know? And moreover condoms are not 100% safe all the time",clutching Ricardo's hands and shivering while she said those words. He was breathing hard. He was still in high school and he didn't know what else to do. He had to do something. He took a few deep breaths and got up and hugged Milana. "Don't worry baby, I shall work something out". He had no clue about what he could do.
"I think I should quit high school, then maybe I could check with Jack at the store to see if I could work there or something", Ricardo told her while repeating those words again louder in his mind, so as to reassure himself. She stood there next to him. Looking into those eyes that seemed like it had gotten pale. Lifeless. Afraid.
He carried the baby in his arms and walked around the house to find something for the little one to eat. He opened the fridge and saw an old packet of milk, lying cold. He brought the packet to his nose to check if it had gotten spoilt. He didn't really care much. He poured the stale milk onto a bottle and shoved it to the baby's mouth. "Eat this. Maybe that would shut you up for a while".
This happened everyday when he was at home. He had to babysit while Milana chose to stay locked up in her room. He wondered if she took care of the baby when he was not around. He knew certainly that she wouldn't bother whether the baby cried or not. That arrogant witch, he thought to himself. The phone rang then and he placed the baby on the couch and went to answer the phone. It was Jack from the store. There was some emergency and he wanted Ricardo to come to the store immediately. Something to leave this mad house, Ricardo thought as he stormed out of the house.
The baby began to cry again. This time with a lot more pain. He had thrown the bottle down and the bottle lay there with it's lid open and sour milk dripping from the opening. Milana had heard the door shut and snapped out of her trance like state. She slowly closed the blinds on her window blocking the little light that was seeping in. She took a deep breath and began to move. Slowly.
She lifted the baby into her arms and held her closely. She looked deep into the baby's eyes. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. She gently placed her fingers on the little one's face and wiped her tears. She kissed her soft on her forehead and whispered, "Don't worry my little angel. It's all going to be fine. Mommy's here now".
January 28, 2009
Iyer Works
Ok. I don't have space on my computer and am too broke to buy Cd's or Dvd's. So from now on you could find some of my works (professional) here.
There won't be too much writing there. Just a site that will showcase my works.
Don't worry. This site will still be active:)
There won't be too much writing there. Just a site that will showcase my works.
Don't worry. This site will still be active:)
January 16, 2009
Short Series: Anniversary
Books, handwritten letters, photographs, records, memories and posters, his life were full of them. He woke up religiously at 6 every morning and went straight to his treasure chest, filled with things which others called old junk, but for him it was his life. It was everything he ever wanted and ever owned. He had lived a life the way he wanted. He was 75 and a widower. It had been 15 years since his wife had passed away and he missed her the most. His two sons had left him long ago and he lived in a small house that he built himself near the lake where he met his wife for the first time 45 years ago. It was the place he proposed marriage and she had said yes.
The treasure chest contained all that means the world to him. Photographs of his wife, his kids, some real close friends and memories from each and every one of his trips. He loved to travel and he ensured he took his wife with him everywhere he went. Old records that he used to listen to all his favorite music from everyday on the gramophone player that adorned his desk. He would start his day with some lovely music that would fill the three rooms that he had in his house. Cofi, his dog was the only other living thing that stayed with him.
Rafi’s voice echoed in the background, as he made his first cup of coffee for the day. He whistled to Cofi to fetch the newspaper that was thrown near the gate by the little boy down the lake who delivered his dose of world news. He settled down on the big easy chair overlooking the lake and began sipping his coffee. His face had a lot of wrinkles. His hair was silky but silver in color. He had aged gracefully. Looking at his face one couldn’t understand him completely. One had to look deeper and deeper, like excavating the real face that hid behind all the layers of wrinkles. It was poetry in motion if you had to analyze the man’s face. After completing the newspaper, he walked up to his treasure chest and took out an album. He had collated it himself. With photographs that spanned many decades. He had also written notes about the places where those pictures had been taken to remind him of all the things beautiful in his life. He saw a picture of his wife, this young gorgeous woman who was 26 at the time when the picture was taken. He gently ran his wrinkled, shaky fingers over the picture, caressed her face and smiled. A drop of tear trickled down from his eyes and changed its course many times before falling on the back of his hand. He scrolled through the many pictures that adorned his album and he did this everyday.
He would then take another paper bag which had all the letters that his wife had written to him when he was in the army. The letters were very brittle, almost had a shade of brownish yellow after all these years. He still loved the smell of his dead wife’s perfume on those letters. He had been in the army a year after he had gotten married and was away from his wife for four years. He still believed that it was those four years that made him realize that she was the one he wanted to spend all his life with. These letters were worth a fortune. Every time he read those letters, he could visualize his wife reading it out to him, speaking to him. He could feel her presence. That’s why he did that everyday. The many names she would address him by, the little fights they had, things that were bothering her in his absence. It was magic.
Today as he was reading those letters, he was overcome with emotion. It was their anniversary. After he was done with the last letter, he closed the box and walked up to the lake. He stood there gazing at the water. He could see his reflection on the water. His eyes were moist. As he kept looking at his reflection, he could see another person next to him. There she was, smiling at him. He whispered, “Happy Anniversary, My love. What would you like to have for lunch”?
The treasure chest contained all that means the world to him. Photographs of his wife, his kids, some real close friends and memories from each and every one of his trips. He loved to travel and he ensured he took his wife with him everywhere he went. Old records that he used to listen to all his favorite music from everyday on the gramophone player that adorned his desk. He would start his day with some lovely music that would fill the three rooms that he had in his house. Cofi, his dog was the only other living thing that stayed with him.
Rafi’s voice echoed in the background, as he made his first cup of coffee for the day. He whistled to Cofi to fetch the newspaper that was thrown near the gate by the little boy down the lake who delivered his dose of world news. He settled down on the big easy chair overlooking the lake and began sipping his coffee. His face had a lot of wrinkles. His hair was silky but silver in color. He had aged gracefully. Looking at his face one couldn’t understand him completely. One had to look deeper and deeper, like excavating the real face that hid behind all the layers of wrinkles. It was poetry in motion if you had to analyze the man’s face. After completing the newspaper, he walked up to his treasure chest and took out an album. He had collated it himself. With photographs that spanned many decades. He had also written notes about the places where those pictures had been taken to remind him of all the things beautiful in his life. He saw a picture of his wife, this young gorgeous woman who was 26 at the time when the picture was taken. He gently ran his wrinkled, shaky fingers over the picture, caressed her face and smiled. A drop of tear trickled down from his eyes and changed its course many times before falling on the back of his hand. He scrolled through the many pictures that adorned his album and he did this everyday.
He would then take another paper bag which had all the letters that his wife had written to him when he was in the army. The letters were very brittle, almost had a shade of brownish yellow after all these years. He still loved the smell of his dead wife’s perfume on those letters. He had been in the army a year after he had gotten married and was away from his wife for four years. He still believed that it was those four years that made him realize that she was the one he wanted to spend all his life with. These letters were worth a fortune. Every time he read those letters, he could visualize his wife reading it out to him, speaking to him. He could feel her presence. That’s why he did that everyday. The many names she would address him by, the little fights they had, things that were bothering her in his absence. It was magic.
Today as he was reading those letters, he was overcome with emotion. It was their anniversary. After he was done with the last letter, he closed the box and walked up to the lake. He stood there gazing at the water. He could see his reflection on the water. His eyes were moist. As he kept looking at his reflection, he could see another person next to him. There she was, smiling at him. He whispered, “Happy Anniversary, My love. What would you like to have for lunch”?
January 12, 2009
Predictions for 2009
*Drum Roll*
Ladies & Worms,
With the New Year mood out (it’s been more than 12 days now) of the way and everyone getting back to the grind of lots of work and recession. It’s time once again for HORRORSCOPE. The reason for writing Horror Scope now you may ask, well I have a lot of time on hand, no money and absolutely no work. So if you give me another two minutes, I could come up with more reasons as to why am writing this post.
So let me get straight to the point here. Take a piece of paper, tissue, bills, tablecloth, anything. Just make a note coz this is the prediction for the year. Thank me later.
*Takes a deep breath*
Pisces:
2009 = 2+0+0+9 which totals to 11 that in turn becomes 1+1 and finally adds up to 2. Ok. It’s got nothing to do with the prediction. Am just brushing up my mathematics skills. This year is perfect for that loooong holiday that you have been planning for years now. That’s coz as soon as you finish reading this prediction your boss is going to call you and fire you from the job. So, I say just pack your bag and enjoy the holiday and come back when the economy of the country becomes better or when companies start hiring again. 6 is your lucky number (that’s the amount that would be left on your bank account two months from now) and black is your lucky color. (Don’t ask me everything).
Aries:
I see water, lots of it. Wait a minute, no sorry, that’s just coz someone turned the tap on and forgot to close it. (Concentrates harder) You guys know exactly what’s going on in your life. You don’t need any funny/ scary/ serious prediction or horoscope. You were broke earlier, you are broke now and you will be broke for a really long time. So try eating at home, drinking at home and staying at home.
Taurus:
You tend to be headstrong and deliberate in your actions. Basically you don't give a fuck about anyone. Most people hate you but you couldn't care less. You will not be invited to any weddings this year, including yours. Your friends (well, sorry wrong prediction) you don’t have any friends and that’s how it will be even this year. (I just can’t stand a whole bunch of taurians) So, EAT THIS!!! You neither have a lucky number nor a lucky color.
Gemini:
I know who you did last Halloween. The funny thing is he knows it too. You will have a lot of bisexual tendencies this year. A whole bulk of your savings this year will be spent on online chat rooms and weird toys. Let the net-nanny save you.
Cancer:
You will wake up on the wrong side of the bed everyday for the next 66 days. On the 67th day you will not wake up. You have a dreaded disease that no one knows and no one can cure. Rest in peace.
Leo:
Keep saying sorry as many times as possible. People will pull you up for everything, whether you have done it or not. Chances are most probably you wouldn’t have done it. That’s coz you just can’t to save your life. You are daft, obnoxious and a complete pain in the butt. How dare you read this horoscope? Go and do your work shithead.
Aquarius:
You would be called to audition for a toothpaste brand. Not because you are a good looking model, but you are the reason why they have created something called toothpaste. Use it. Please and don’t stink up the room.
Scorpio:
You’re the type who wouldn’t have moved straight down to Scorpio but stopped and read every other sign till you reached here. You have an identity crisis and you’re also a cross dresser. Take my word and quickly replace your sister’s dress back in her shelf before you get caught. And don’t be shocked when you find your clothes in her shelf.
Virgo:
Your cell phone will explode during a conference call. So avoid conference calls through the year. Today’s going to be the day when they’re going to throw it back to you. By now you should’ve somehow realized what you got to do. Don’t go too close to a cow; it will fart on your face.
Capricorn:
The threat mail that you wanted to send your boss, well what do you know, has finally been sent. Get a faster internet connection before you plan to send that PowerPoint presentation with nude pictures of your boss with his dog. Please mask your face from the remaining pictures.
Libra:
You will have a major reconstructive knee surgery on your stomach. This is what happens when you have George.W.Bush as your role model. Avoid wearing shoes. That crush of yours that you have been thinking about all these months, well she is pregnant and carrying your best friend’s baby. Watch your back and don’t bend in the presence of other men.
Sagittarius:
You have giant man boobs that sag. Your mouth stinks like a drain. Your nails are long and dirty. Your skin has puss oozing all over. But you’re a kind hearted soul. You’re the type who likes to help old ladies cross the road but they think you’re out there to rob them off their money and they beat you with their walking stick.
Ladies & Worms,
With the New Year mood out (it’s been more than 12 days now) of the way and everyone getting back to the grind of lots of work and recession. It’s time once again for HORRORSCOPE. The reason for writing Horror Scope now you may ask, well I have a lot of time on hand, no money and absolutely no work. So if you give me another two minutes, I could come up with more reasons as to why am writing this post.
So let me get straight to the point here. Take a piece of paper, tissue, bills, tablecloth, anything. Just make a note coz this is the prediction for the year. Thank me later.
*Takes a deep breath*
Pisces:
2009 = 2+0+0+9 which totals to 11 that in turn becomes 1+1 and finally adds up to 2. Ok. It’s got nothing to do with the prediction. Am just brushing up my mathematics skills. This year is perfect for that loooong holiday that you have been planning for years now. That’s coz as soon as you finish reading this prediction your boss is going to call you and fire you from the job. So, I say just pack your bag and enjoy the holiday and come back when the economy of the country becomes better or when companies start hiring again. 6 is your lucky number (that’s the amount that would be left on your bank account two months from now) and black is your lucky color. (Don’t ask me everything).
Aries:
I see water, lots of it. Wait a minute, no sorry, that’s just coz someone turned the tap on and forgot to close it. (Concentrates harder) You guys know exactly what’s going on in your life. You don’t need any funny/ scary/ serious prediction or horoscope. You were broke earlier, you are broke now and you will be broke for a really long time. So try eating at home, drinking at home and staying at home.
Taurus:
You tend to be headstrong and deliberate in your actions. Basically you don't give a fuck about anyone. Most people hate you but you couldn't care less. You will not be invited to any weddings this year, including yours. Your friends (well, sorry wrong prediction) you don’t have any friends and that’s how it will be even this year. (I just can’t stand a whole bunch of taurians) So, EAT THIS!!! You neither have a lucky number nor a lucky color.
Gemini:
I know who you did last Halloween. The funny thing is he knows it too. You will have a lot of bisexual tendencies this year. A whole bulk of your savings this year will be spent on online chat rooms and weird toys. Let the net-nanny save you.
Cancer:
You will wake up on the wrong side of the bed everyday for the next 66 days. On the 67th day you will not wake up. You have a dreaded disease that no one knows and no one can cure. Rest in peace.
Leo:
Keep saying sorry as many times as possible. People will pull you up for everything, whether you have done it or not. Chances are most probably you wouldn’t have done it. That’s coz you just can’t to save your life. You are daft, obnoxious and a complete pain in the butt. How dare you read this horoscope? Go and do your work shithead.
Aquarius:
You would be called to audition for a toothpaste brand. Not because you are a good looking model, but you are the reason why they have created something called toothpaste. Use it. Please and don’t stink up the room.
Scorpio:
You’re the type who wouldn’t have moved straight down to Scorpio but stopped and read every other sign till you reached here. You have an identity crisis and you’re also a cross dresser. Take my word and quickly replace your sister’s dress back in her shelf before you get caught. And don’t be shocked when you find your clothes in her shelf.
Virgo:
Your cell phone will explode during a conference call. So avoid conference calls through the year. Today’s going to be the day when they’re going to throw it back to you. By now you should’ve somehow realized what you got to do. Don’t go too close to a cow; it will fart on your face.
Capricorn:
The threat mail that you wanted to send your boss, well what do you know, has finally been sent. Get a faster internet connection before you plan to send that PowerPoint presentation with nude pictures of your boss with his dog. Please mask your face from the remaining pictures.
Libra:
You will have a major reconstructive knee surgery on your stomach. This is what happens when you have George.W.Bush as your role model. Avoid wearing shoes. That crush of yours that you have been thinking about all these months, well she is pregnant and carrying your best friend’s baby. Watch your back and don’t bend in the presence of other men.
Sagittarius:
You have giant man boobs that sag. Your mouth stinks like a drain. Your nails are long and dirty. Your skin has puss oozing all over. But you’re a kind hearted soul. You’re the type who likes to help old ladies cross the road but they think you’re out there to rob them off their money and they beat you with their walking stick.
January 08, 2009
The year that was
First up a very Happy New Year to everyone who happens to drop into this mad world every now and then or often. Have a fantastic year ahead and it feels nice to sit down and write something in this space not just coz I enjoy doing it, but also knowing that there are people like you out there who make it worthwhile. Give yourself a nice pat on the back from me.
It has been a little more than four years now since my first post. Four years, wow that sounds like a long time. But it has been one hell of a ride so far. The many blogs I have read over the years, the many people I have had the pleasure of meeting and the interesting conversations I have had with a whole bunch. Nostalgia time has set in again.
2008 has been a year that taught me a lot of things. It was a year where I worked in two agencies and by the end of it, had quit both. It was the year that made me realize that I really don’t want to write ads anymore. It was the year that made me put my foot down and say ‘I want to make films and that’s all I want to do’. It was the year I met her. It was the year of major spiritual journeys. It was the year where I lost him. It was the year when potato land refused my visa. It was the year when I knew I loved her. It was the year I told her I love her. It was the year I was misunderstood. It was the year when I was really happy. It was the year that made me cry. It was the year that made me realize that I hate farewells. It was the year that made me take a helmet and travel to Bombay. It was a beautiful year.
The year started off in a very drunken state. And maybe that’s why the first few months were confusing. I was thinking a lot and I was letting things get to me. Bother me. Upset me. But I guess the fag end of the year made up for all the madness. It was slow, it gave me a lot of time to think and understand my life. It made me strong and it gave me a lot of clarity. It has been a joy ride hence.
It’s 2009. It’s a brand New Year. The year seems like it has a lot in store for me. The year where I hope to prove a few people wrong. To correct my previous statement, I think I hope to prove myself wrong this year. A year where I hope to understand the complexities of Income Tax. A year to hopefully travel out of the country.
I closed my eyes to think about what to write next. These are the images that came into my mind.
Bike rides, music, laughter, family, friends, inspiration, travel, books, food, cooking, you, poetry, love, fun, you, kids, photos, posters, maya, prayer.
Happy 2009.
It has been a little more than four years now since my first post. Four years, wow that sounds like a long time. But it has been one hell of a ride so far. The many blogs I have read over the years, the many people I have had the pleasure of meeting and the interesting conversations I have had with a whole bunch. Nostalgia time has set in again.
2008 has been a year that taught me a lot of things. It was a year where I worked in two agencies and by the end of it, had quit both. It was the year that made me realize that I really don’t want to write ads anymore. It was the year that made me put my foot down and say ‘I want to make films and that’s all I want to do’. It was the year I met her. It was the year of major spiritual journeys. It was the year where I lost him. It was the year when potato land refused my visa. It was the year when I knew I loved her. It was the year I told her I love her. It was the year I was misunderstood. It was the year when I was really happy. It was the year that made me cry. It was the year that made me realize that I hate farewells. It was the year that made me take a helmet and travel to Bombay. It was a beautiful year.
The year started off in a very drunken state. And maybe that’s why the first few months were confusing. I was thinking a lot and I was letting things get to me. Bother me. Upset me. But I guess the fag end of the year made up for all the madness. It was slow, it gave me a lot of time to think and understand my life. It made me strong and it gave me a lot of clarity. It has been a joy ride hence.
It’s 2009. It’s a brand New Year. The year seems like it has a lot in store for me. The year where I hope to prove a few people wrong. To correct my previous statement, I think I hope to prove myself wrong this year. A year where I hope to understand the complexities of Income Tax. A year to hopefully travel out of the country.
I closed my eyes to think about what to write next. These are the images that came into my mind.
Bike rides, music, laughter, family, friends, inspiration, travel, books, food, cooking, you, poetry, love, fun, you, kids, photos, posters, maya, prayer.
Happy 2009.
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