Chewing the Cud

Here comes the Son!

2009-12-21T22:31:00.000-08:00

Another night another fight
Another child is torn
Another pillow hugged tight
Waiting for the morn

Another night another fight
Another child takes a vow
To set right all the wrong
And make his father bow

Another night another fight
Another fist in the fray
Another boy wheeled into a van
As the sun declares the day

Another night another fight
Another man is born
This time the boy no more could wait
Until his dad was done

Another night another fight
Another child is torn
The boy has become his Dad
Another monster born

Puzzled!

2008-12-17T21:26:00.000-08:00

If you dabble In jigsaw puzzles, like I do, you'll realize that there's a method to the madness. There's a logical way in which illogical pieces come together to form the larger picture.

The reason I mention it is because I realized midway between one that this logic applied to life itself. It seems to me that all of us are pieces of a colossal puzzle waiting to come together. Or maybe there are multiple puzzles and finding one's own puzzle adds to the, challenge.

This would explain why some people find their groove before most. Let me explain.

The easiest pieces to discern in a puzzle are the corners. Once you find these, it's just a matter of finding out which end fits where. Top left, top right, bottom left and bottom right. These pieces are plain on two axis, like the people they represent who are mostly plain or 'sorted' on two plains. Their variable lies on only two sides. These are the guys you went to college with who pretty much knew where they were headed. It was just a matter of time before they found themselves.

Then come the sides. Once again these are easy to find. They happen to be sorted completely on one plain and variable in three. Still, they are easy to put together. It takes these sorts a little time to find their place in the larger scheme, but it happens with a minimum of experimentation.

Then come the tougher ones, the ones in the middle. These are the slightly more complicated ones. You can find their places with reference to the ones on the sides, but they are tougher to put together. They struggle through life for a while before they eventually find their place.

Among these too you can find different sorts.

The ones with protrusions on all four sides. These are the type 'A' personalities. They don't make allowances for anyone and want others to accommodate them. They seem easier to put together and you reach out for them in the box, because they scream for attention due to their dominant shape.

Next are the ones with protrusions on three sides and a void in one. They are sure about what they want, but often need the dominant side of one to complete them and make them whole.

The two-protrusion ones are often the more balanced of the lot. They give as much as they get. Filling others, while also taking an equal portion of another. These are the couples you see who in life seem to be poles apart, but somehow seem to get along perfectly.

The one-protrusion ones are the more complex ones. The ones with a mad streak, often brought about by the voids in them. Their insecurity drives them to be wild on one side of their personality. These are the women who want their navel pierced in their 30s or guys who buy a motorcycle in middle-age.

And then come the all-voids. These are the ones who have no dominant sides and can be led, mostly by more dominant parts. You'll often find them clinging to the handles of four different parts of other people's personalty. They are the ones who no-one has anything bad to say about. The people's person.

And then come the stragglers. These could be any of the five sorts mentioned before, but even so, make no sense till the puzzle is almost done.

My problem is that my part in this puzzle, is a puzzle to me.

Better man!

2008-09-30T08:22:00.000-07:00

A friend and I were watching 'Lord of War'. I told her to watch the title sequence for I think it's one of the best ever. She saw the whole thing and said it was 'nice'. 'Nice'? Why was it just 'nice'. Why wasn't it 'awesome'. Or 'out-of-this-world'. I thought it was fucking fantastic. I wonder.

You see this friend isn't from my background. She doesn't work in advertising. She is a doctor and spent her life reading doctory things, and doing doctory stuff. While I come from advertising and do advertising things- which effectively means drinking all night, reading stuff you won't wipe your arse with, fucking around all day and being mean and horrid to people who don't belong in advertising. I'm full of myself, and liquor all the time. While she drips with the milk of human kindness.

The reason I think I liked the title sequence is sort of complex. Allow me to explain. First of all, the camera angles. Film opens on Nicholas Cage's head. Actually the back of his head, and continues with a first person view of the life of a bullet being manufactured and its journey across the world, to Africa. Now I know my friend is not schooled in the business of film shoots and doesn't know much of camera angles, and how hard it would have been to shoot it thus. So I concede the point.

The next shot sees the bullet loaded into a crate and shut, only to open and show a Russian officer inspecting the cargo. This I am sure, barely registers as a blip in my friends's radar. As its some news she read in passing. Like "The east block funds terror in Africa" or some such headline.

While I have read of it before my time, but with much enthusiasm, (I was 13 when the Berlin wall went down) I've followed ever step of the communist era, complete with Soviet vetted Russian Folk tales in every Russian book fair in India. And of 'Afghanistan' and of the 'Red Army Faction' in Germany and 'Ilich Ramírez Sánchez' and the 'Baader-Meinhoff' group, and how the CIA and Interpol stopped it. I'm not a Communist by any stretch of the imagination. I merely find the era fascinating. Where would Fredric Forsythe and Robert Ludlum be without them. In the gutters, I imagine.

The next shot arrives in an African state, for the person, once more prising the lid off is a black man. (I'm brown, so I'm allowed to say black. (You whites can wait till you qualify.) She also looks at with no response. Since it's again been a headline on a newspaper, years back. For me, I followed the african conflict and still do. I read about Che' in the Congo, the massacre at Rhwanda, the problem in Uganda and everything. I have read, watched and heard every news from these lands and feel the pain.

The third sequence is of someone who picks up the round and fills it into a magazine. And since I've been a state level shooter, I know how good the camera angle is. This we can leave out of discussion, since not many among you are sportsmen of this kind.

The final shot had the round chambered in the barrel and the barrel pointed to many people before firing the bullet from the chamber, that speeds towards an innocent civilian.

This is where it all breaks down. For when the shot hit the man between his eyes, I didn't. But she did.

And so my friends, the judgement is yours to make. Though I am not religious, merely spiritual, as most people who know me knows.

I shall leave you with something from the bible.

"If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but do not have love,
I have become a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.
If I have the gift of prophecy, and know all mysteries and all knowledge; and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing.
And if I give all my possessions to feed the poor, and if I surrender my body to be burned, but do not have love, it profits me nothing."

She had love on her side. While I had knowledge. Who's the better for it.

Directionless!

2008-08-26T06:49:00.000-07:00

A compass needle one fine day
Decided he did not like the Northern Side
And so he swung the other way
And the man in disgust threw it aside

The Flight

2008-08-26T06:43:00.000-07:00

The old coop was flown
The Rooster still paced the ground
Though he searched high and low
Not a trace of the hen could be found

3 years could wipe out every trace
yet every sight was in his seeing
What was the point of revisiting the geography
When every second of their history lived in his being

The Rooster crowed his last call
In the place where he had taken his first breath
As a man, and though it befitting
That the very ground that gave him life
Should witness his death

The Spell Checker

2008-05-29T05:58:00.000-07:00

Found this poem on the net. Loved it. Putting it up here for everyone to enjoy.

'Spell Checker Blues'

Eye halve a spelling chequer
It came with my pea sea
It plainly marques four my revue
Miss steaks eye kin knot sea.

Eye strike a key and type a word
And weight four it two say
Weather eye am wrong oar write
It shows me strait a weigh.

As soon as a mist ache is maid
It nose bee fore two long
And eye can put the error rite
Its rarely ever wrong.

Eye have run this poem threw it
I am shore your pleased two no
Its letter perfect in it's weigh
My chequer tolled me sew.

Anon

Leonard Cohen - A Thousand kisses deep

2008-05-15T07:54:00.001-07:00

Thanks to a bundle of joy and energy called Vani, I discovered this song. Consider this my little tribute to you.

Inane observations

2008-04-16T06:29:00.000-07:00

1. No matter how carefully you clip your nails, one always gets away.
2. Most good songs on an album fall on 3, 5 or 7

Ian

2008-04-08T23:55:00.000-07:00

"I'm a bad dream I just had today"

The story of my life

2008-03-10T05:06:00.000-07:00

This is an attempt at listing chronologically, books that have left an indelible mark on my life. I trust you won’t judge them by their authors or content but appreciate the fact that they, in their own way, completed the void I felt in my life, or steered me onto another path.

King Lear – Age 2
Now I never read this book at that age, but my grandfather used to tell me the story, as a kid. I can’t remember much of him now and almost nothing of what he told me remains in my memory. But yet, I can’t help being moved every time I read the play, or watch it staged. And though there are others of the bard’s plays I love more, there still remains a special place for this one.

Russian Folk Tales ages 3-6
Bought at an Indo-Russian Cultural fair, this book wrapped me up in its covers every night with stories of Vasilisa the Wise, the witch Baba Yaga and the hut that stood on chicken legs. I always wondered why all the heroes in the stories were called by the same name – Ivan.

The Magic Carpet ( or something to that effect. I really can’t remember the name) age 6-8
This was a Russian story book about two boys who find a carpet in their grandmother’s house and take it to use in their tree-house. They realize soon that it flies and have a series of adventures involving a machine gunner’s nest in a clock tower or something. I can’t seem to remember the plot but the feeling of awe is still there. Led to years of staring out of class windows playing out my own fantasies with magic carpets and machine guns.

The Three Investigators - age 7 onwards
I’m so happy I never met the Hardy boys first. After all, Jupiter Jones kicked ass, together with Pete Crenshaw and Bob Andrews. Much to the dismay of my mother, I ran around drawing question marks on walls with chalks and walking about with my dad’s magnifying glass looking for clues.

Tales of mystery and Imagination –Edgar Allen Poe age 8
It was not the original I read, but the abridged version. The book actually had some of Poe’s best short stories. The chief among them being “The fall of the house of Usher”, “The cask of Amontillado”, “The tell-tale Heart” and the “Gold Bug”. I was in love with Poe and his love for the morbid. I remember making my own crest with the words “Nemo me impune. Lacessit” Let him who provokes me die. Or something to that effect.

The Illustrated Weekly: age 10
Sinmply because of its last page with it’s famous semi-nude actresses. I vividly remember Sonam in a wrap-around that really didn’t wrap much of her anatomy (and what an anatomy it was), and Lisa Ray. I think I really fell in love with her. I was in love with the Bombay Dyeing towel ads. By now I had become aware of the other sex and what to do with mine. ☺

The complete Sherlock Holmes Age 11
Man did I become a fan. I nearly cried when Sherlock disappeared, and then suddenly realized there was still half of the book more to go. Obviously, you can’t fill the rest of the book with Watson’s memoirs, so I took heart and plunged ahead. Needless to say “Moriarty would remain a bad word in my dictionary for years to come.

Men In Love – Nancy Friday age 12
Was this a godsend or what. I had by now been linking my low grades and any misfortune that befell me, to my activities in the bathroom. And though I couldn’t desist, I felt guilty about what I was doing. And then during a transfer between towns, this book turns up in a crate of my father’s books. I tasted sexual freedom for the first time. I mean if so many people were doing it, and a book had been published about it, and my dad owned one, it can’t be wrong can it?

Roots – Age 13
This was a recommendation by a teacher who read my essay about slavery and gave me an A+. Thank you Mrs. Dhawan. I owe you lots.

Papillon – Age 13
A chance read in someone else’s house, it made me want to see the world. I loved the part where he spends time with the pearl divers. Refused to read the sequel cos I believed nothing could top the original.

East of Aden – Age 14
My first taste of American literature, kind courtesy an aunt. I loved it though was constantly chided by my father for reading ‘American Crap’. His foray into American Literature ended at Art Buchwald. (If you can call that literature)

Jude the Obscure – Age 15
In response to my reading American authors, my father gave me a course of the classics. And since he is a Tomas Hardy fan, I was flooded with his works. The mayor of Casterbridge, Return of the Native, Tess and many more. I loved Jude more though. Made perfect reading on cold foggy night in the remote towns of Haryana.

Zen and the art of Motorcycle maintenance – Age 18
Man did this book give me a dose of wanderlust. I’d take any opportunity to travel anywhere. Though I would get a motorcycle only a year later, this book made me look at the journey more than the destination.

On the road – Jack Kerouac age 21
I was primed and ready for this book to come along. In it I found a soul as restless as me. I longed for the road and a bunch of mad friends to take me away from my soulless existence. This was also when I began to experiment with substances and realized dope just wasn’t my sort of thing and travel really was the high I seeked.

I could add a couple of more books that I consider monumental in my literary pursuit but the 20s are an age when you stop letting books steer the course of your life the way they did before. You become suspicious and judge the books you read. Often with the benchmark of your peers. You no longer let the written word carry you away on a magic carpet ride, or seek clues in rosebushes and flowerbeds. And so I desist to list out any more.

The Farmer song

2008-01-18T06:55:00.000-08:00

I owe this song to Stephen Sen, an old friend from college. I never tired of hearing him sing it so seriously while we around him will be cracking up. He has been kind enough to send me the lyrics as best as he can remember and I managed to track down another version of the same sung by the Ozarks, and completed it. The song is sung in a waltzish kind of meter and the ... signifies a significant pause to let the person imagine the next word. Stephen Sen take a bow.

There was a young farmer who lived by the pool.
A handsome young farmer who played with his....
marbles in springtime with the lady next door.
You could tell by her movements that she was a ....
charming young lady who walked like a duck.
She said she had found out a new way to ....
educate her children to sew and to knit,
the handsome young farmer, he pulled at her...
horses and carriages to go for a hunt
While the charming young lady was washing her...
linen in buckets and laying them on the grass
And if you don’t like this story you can kiss my…
Daughter in the parlor she’s winding the clock
And tying gay ribbons all around her…
Pussy cat, pusst cat and same as before
If you don’t like my story I’ll tell it no more.

Tragic Comic

2008-01-07T03:58:00.000-08:00

My first attempt at using the Comic Live application on my Mac.

Normal is boring

2008-01-03T08:45:00.000-08:00

Everyone has a muse. It could be as simple as a movie that changed your life, or a song that sang your life with its words.

For me it was a wristband. And one that I consumed large amounts of aerated drinks to get. 7up to be precise.

Circa 1989, Venue: Ambala.

The object of my desire was a 'Fido Didi' wristband. Newly launched because 7up was newly launched too. It took me 7 sittings in 7 weeks (my pocketmoney was meager, I was in 9th standard after all) to save up the money to get myself a 'Fido Dido', self strapping wristband. And I had to wait 2 weeks to get it.

It was an unassuming little band of metal covered with plastic, that wrapped itself around your wrist (magical in the Rajiv Gandhi era of India), when you hit your wrist with it. And the thing that influenced me the most was the slogan that said (headline - for the rest of you who've been corrupted by advertising) "Normal is boring".

I took it as a mission statement. The rest of my life has been a quest to support that line on a wristband. And I thank it for what I become. (Or blame it, depending on which part of the fence you sit on).

After all, what chance has a Mallu boy, born in Rohtak to a Cop, brought up by Jats, who studied for most of his life in Haryana, (Excluding a few years in Lawrence, Sanawar) to make it to "St. Stephen's " in Delhi and finally in a dog-eat-dog world like advertising, to make it to where I am today.

Am I showing off?

Maybe I have a right to. Raise your hands, you who changed 12 schools, had no friends, was lonely enough to climb trees for entertainment, didn't have a 'He-Man' toy until college where he bought it so he could set his mind at rest, had too look up 'vela' and 'arbit' in dictionaries that didn't have it, just to speak the lingo, and had to pretend that his torn jeans were 'fashionable'. (Luckily they were)

I love Fido Dido. I still believe 'Normal is boring'. And I have 7up to thank for it.

Thought I hate the shitty thing.

Oh Shit!

2007-12-11T01:23:00.000-08:00

Written below is a scrawled message on the door of one of the bogs at St. Stephen's. I just remembered it and thought I'd share it with you.

It depicts the constant struggle that a man faces everyday in his head. Very profound.

"Here I sit and contemplate,
whether to shit or masturbate"

Pussy!

2007-11-30T06:50:00.000-08:00

I constantly surprise myself. And it's scary how much.

After a lifetime of professing that I hate cats, I've gone and got myself one. Walked into a pet shop yesterday and saw this adorable brown one up for adoption. And so I took it.

She's called 'Cinnamon'. Other names considered were 'Auburn', Hazel. But I felt Cinnamon had more, how shall I say it, spice. (Yes it was deliberate)

She was very quiet in the office and very worried in the car. But once I got her home, she transformed completely. She scooted around the house climbing up this chair, scaling that curtain, and when I settled down to watch some tv, she jumped right into my lap and started licking me. I got the distinct feeling that I had passed her test and had finally been adopted by her, instead of the other way around.

But I'm worried. I've been cheating on my species. How shall I face my Sophie? Will she accept her? Shall I have to give one up? Should I tell Sophie about her? After all, she's back home with Mom and Dad, while I whore around the countryside with this hussy. :)

Oh! the pains of pet polygamy.

Chanel Allure

2007-11-22T09:47:00.000-08:00

One moment the sky is clear. The next, they descend on me. In hoards. Like Stukas from the sky.

They come out of the sun. Like any self-respecting fighter pilot would.

I lower my visor and prepare for the onslaught.

They come at me in a straight line. As if playing 'chicken'. And swerve at the last millisecond.

All except one.

Splat! And what was once a healthy dragonfly, becomes a late dragonfly. He's ceased to be. He's passed on. He's demised. He's no more. He's gone up to meet his maker. He's pushing up the daisies. He's deceased. He's a late dragonfly. He rests in peace. He's expired.

Like the milk in my fridge. Like the 'life' in my life.

Which explains why I'm on this 7 hour motorcycle journey to Chennai on this Diwali weekend.

I need to be. I need to know that I still am.

And so I took off on a Friday on Liz, my trusty 350cc, Enfield Thunderbird.

As usual I've taken hours to depart. I love traveling but keep feeling I might leave something behind. So I spend hours preparing for it.

Backpack, riding gloves, helmet, hip-pouch, riding jacket, CAT boots, cellphone, handsfree, medical kit etcetera etcetera. In a moment of lunacy, I decide to leave spares and puncture kit behind. Living on the edge. It'll only add to the experience.

I'm ready to go. Lock my house and climb on to Liz. Who is angry with me for neglecting her for over 6 weeks. And shows it by kicking back. Nearly missed my knee banging on the handlebar.

I caress her sweet-spot. The fuel tank. Just below the logo. And whisper sweet nothings into her rear-view mirrors.

Kick again. This time she catches. First gear, and Elvis has finally left the fucking building. About fucking time too.

Hosur traffic. But I don't care. I've a cigarette on my lips and a song in my head.

Chris Rea. Driving home for Christmas.

Outside Hosur I stop for a bite. French loaf from 'BreadZ' (Hate the Z but love the taste) and cheese spread. Heaven. Food always tastes good when it's more than just nourishment.

Crossing a town. Can smell Ittar and cordite from the crackers in spurts. Love it.

Start wondering why people like smells associated with their own religion, and despise those of other religions.

How can belief reign on your senses?

Dislike or like by association. Always a problem.

Something like the 'appam' i get in church, during the lent season. It's a pot luck thingy. Every woman in the congregation makes it and brings it to church so people can have it, along with black coffee, after mass.

Now don't get me wrong. I love appams. Just not ones made by bad cooks. Every housewife in a 20km radius, regardless of taste buds, makes them and adds them to the kitty. I'd love to have my mother's appams. But I get Mrs. Thomas's instead. It hasn't risen. It gums up in my mouth and has as much taste as a sponge. Besides, it doesn't contain cashews and dates. Like my mom's. I see Philip over there with the date studded one. I make like I don't like it.

"Don't waste it." my mom says "neercha aa" (It's holy).

Ok! I'll eat it. Just don't expect me to like it. I'll eat it cos it's blessed and because it's tradition. But do I have to like it because it is?

I mean, I believe in the lord. Do taste buds too? Is there a church for tastebuds? Imagine having to baptize every part of your body to align with your faith.

"I christen thee George Koshy's tongue. And you George Koshy's lips." And so and so forth.

It's a mystery.

My ex is my first clue. She loved 'Chanel Allure' until we had a fight one night. Ever since then, she hates it. Because it reminds her of 'that day'.

Can't you simply love a smell, a shade, a feel without your memory or conditioning influencing your choice?

Is it a sex thing or a religion thing? I believe it's a personal thing.

We're taught to not question things that are remotely connected to faith and beliefs. No matter how riduculous.

Like touching your books with your feet.

I used to get whacked for keeping my books on the floor and reading with my feet on it. "It's Vidya" (knowledge). I was told. "She'll curse you."

I'd desist from doing it if the books came free and the lessons just eased themselves into my brain without studying. Here I have to buy the confounded things with money, spend hours reading it and memorizing it. And am expected to worship it too? Fat chance.

I take care of my books now. Not because it's religion, but because i read them religiously. Because I want them to last.

Like the Conan Doyle, limited edition complete collection, with original illustrations. Like my RAF Navigation handbook from the 1940s. I love them cos they deserve it. Not cos I'm stuck with them for a year and will help me get into college.

Reaching the outskirts of Chennai. Cross the Kuwam river. It stinks to kingdom come. And my sister says Chennai is happening. With just 3 pubs and hot weather, I fail to see how.

But I'm happy. I've left the stench of advertising behind. Everything else is just Chanel Allure.

Zero balance

2007-10-28T12:08:00.000-07:00

I'm teetering on the verge of bankruptcy. Not the fiscal kind but the mental one. For I have no more memories to fall back on. The kind that gets you through a hard day in the office. The kind that Wordsworth talks about in 'Tintern Abbey'.

I quote him here.

"These beauteous forms,
Through a long absence, have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet."

I'm talking of memories of the crisp sound of pine needles under your feet as you tread over them on a path in Naukuchiatal. Of a hot cup of tea and 'Phan' to warm your soul on a wet and cold ride to Manali. Of watching the sun set from a hill, just off Gokarna, with dragonflies to keep you company. Of taking a turn in Wayanad and stopping to silently watch a herd of elephants cross, not 50 meters away from you.

I'm tethered to an office now. And running dangerously low on memories.

Collected one today. A far cry from the ones harvested earlier.

It was one of standing under an awning on Infantry road at 7 in the evening, in the rains, smoking a fresh bowl of Borkum Riff, White.

Maybe it can't compare to my earlier ones. And maybe I'm clutching at straws here. But they are, after all, a drowning man's only hope.

Killer toys

2007-10-17T01:20:00.000-07:00

Came across this article that celebrates the 10 most dangerous toys ever marketed. Those treasured playthings that drew blood, chewed digits, took out eyes and caused a spurt in child cosmetic surgery.

I'd love to have got my hands on the 'Jart'. Wait! I had something way more cool than that. A bayonet that was taken from a dead Chinese by my uncle during the Indo-China war. I used to play with it in the backyard. (Without my parents' knowledge, of course)

And then there was the tribal bow and arrow that Someone had brought back from Manipur. Managed to kill a squirrel with it. And the misfired .303 rounds I found at the shooting range. Or the used syringes from a neighbour's insulin shots. Come to think of it, most of my playthings promised death, or in the least, permanent disability or dismemberment.

Maybe that's why I grew up tough. Click on the link to read.

http://www.radarmagazine.com/features/2006/12/toys.php

Gas

2007-10-03T10:13:00.000-07:00

I have Gas. Not what the Americans mean by the word, but what the other 90% of the world means by it. And yes, it's strong enough to clear the room with one whiff. No! it's not the intestinal kind.

I'm talking about the industrial kind. The kind that comes in a red coloured cylinder with the words INDANE stenciled across it. The kind that, thanks to the Indian government, you have to pay double the price to get one. Because I got it illegally.

Why? Because a legal cylinder has to be applied for. And it costs 1700 to apply for it. And you get a stove and regulator free along with it. Regardless of the fact that you already own one. So you have to pay 1700 no matter what. Whether you already bought a cooking range that cost you 20k. Whether you already have an empty cylinder and just want a filled one.

And the worst thing is, you're paying double the price for the 'black' cylinder and you even have to stand in line and wait your turn. Then get turned away and stand in line again and plead with the man. Get rejected again and then stand in line and offer more money. Then stand in line and... you get the picture. Basically do it over and over until the guy dismisses you with a wave and tells you to wait till he's free.

Which takes a couple of hours anyway. Finally he saunters over to you and demands double the price. 600 bucks. And you eagerly shovel it out to him.

He tells you to go home and wait for him at 1 in the afternoon and ask you to watch out for 4 long knocks and three short ones on your front door, or some other secret sign like that.

So you wait till 4. At which point your boss is livid, until you tell him you were waiting for the gas to be delivered. There is a pregnant pause over the telephone line. And then you hear him sigh too. "Ok! I understand." Do come in early tomorrow. The campaign is due by afternoon. And I'm sorry I'll have to deduct this day's salary."

But I don't care. I got gas, you see!

What's cooking?

2007-09-30T01:31:00.000-07:00

If you're single, try like hell not to live an an apartment with married people around you.

Look at the state I'm in.

The lady next door has been cooking Mallu food since 12 o clock and I'm going nuts over here. The smells of the dishes keeps wafting over into my drawing room, through my kitchen window. I actually spent 10 minutes in my kitchen, savouring the many different smells drifting into my house.

A Half hour back, I smelt Kappa being cooked. Then there was the mashed onion and green chilly chutney. Now there's a distinct smell of 'Pappadum' being fried, overridden by the overpowering smell of my favourite 'Thiyal'.

And all this while I'm watching 'Red Beard' by Kurosawa. Sorry Akira, It's not that you aren't good. It's just that the neighbour's wife's cooking is better.

Suddenly, arranged marriage doesn't seem that bad an idea after all.

Crash into me - Dave Matthews Band

2007-09-27T01:54:00.000-07:00

You've got your ball
You've got your chain
Tied to me tight
tie me up again
Who's got their claws
In you my friend
Into your heart I'll beat again

Sweet like candy to my soul
Sweet you rock
And sweet you roll
Lost for you I'm so lost for you
You come crash into me
And I come into you
I come into you
In a boys dream
In a boys dream

Touch your lips just so I know
In your eyes, love, it glows so
I'm bare boned and crazy for you
When you come crash
Into me, baby
And I come into you
In a boys dream
In a boys dream

If Ive gone overboard
Then I'm begging you
To forgive me
In my haste
When I'm holding you so girl
Close to me
Oh and you come crash
Into me, baby
And I come into you

Hike up your skirt a little more
And show the world to me
Hike up your skirt a little more
And show your world to me
In a boys dream.. in a boys dream

Oh I watch you there
Through the window
And I stare at you
You wear nothing but you
Wear it so well

Tied up and twisted
The way Id like to be
For you, for me,
come crash into me

Hit the road George

2007-09-23T01:45:00.000-07:00

My lungs are screaming in delight. I've partly stubbed out my tobacco addiction and opted for a new and better one. One I used to indulge in when I was in school. Running.

After 2 years of complaining that Bangalore doesn't have a nice place to run, (Cubbon Park is too far away and dangerous cos I like to run in the evenings. The last time I tried, I was approached by 3 faggots and a eunuch) I slipped on my running shoes and hit the road.

I'm a dirt path kind of jogger so it takes me a little time to get used to the rather unyielding macadamized roads. So different from the Lodhi Garden track I used to run on in Delhi.

And since I don't have friends to run with here, I bought myself one. A Sony Ericsson 710i. The perfect companion I must say. Not only is it a phone, a walkman and an FM receiver, but once you fill in your details, like size and weight, the pedometer inside tells you how far you've run and how fast. It even tells you how many calories you've burnt.

A program inside also shows you a graph that plots your last 10 runs telling you how much better you're getting at it. The day before was 2.4km at Max speed 20kmph, average 7 kmph. Yesterday was 4.4km at max 27.9kmph and average 10kmph. (There's a part where there is a pack of dogs just waiting for me to make some sudden moves. So I have to walk that bit. Brings down my average. :)

My muscles were aching after the first run but now I'm aching to get on the road again. Seem to schedule my whole day around the run. My craving for that moment of clarity at the end of a run has replaced my craving for a cigarette. My 'runner's high' is definitely better than the first cigarette high.

I'm feeling more alive now than I ever did. :)

Quote

2007-09-15T22:15:00.000-07:00

To me, there is nothing more revolting than the stench of mediocrity.

Huzoor is Kadar Bhi Na

2007-09-15T06:41:00.000-07:00

I chanced upon a friend's profile on orkut after he had added a video on his page. It was from Shekhar Kapoor's 'Masoom', featuring the song 'Huzoor is Kadar Bhi Na'. The video triggered off memories in my head. Of a time when I can remember coming back from play and smelling pakoras and kababs in the kitchen, telling me that there was a party about to happen.

They usually were grown up parties with aunties wearing sarees, perched in a single line on a sofa. And uncles in suits nursing their drinks (almost always whisky) with napkins in their hands. With conversations which didn't contain obscenities. With plates of cold pakoras brought to my room, after it had done a half hour stint with the guests. With the customary parade in front of the guests to the tune of "Arrey. Kitna bada ho gaya hai! Main to pehchaan hi nahi pai" (He's grown so big. I can't even recognize him.

My father is an IPS officer, so all parties were sedate, somber occasions, unless batchmates were involved. In which case, the party would get livelier as the night progressed. There'll be leg pulling, back slapping and to the mock horror of the ladies present, revealing of secrets from their days in training.

I'd sit in my room, hearing the conversations and laughing at the jokes. There wasn't much to do in those days, besides watch Doordarshan. And I hated Chitraaar. By the end of the evening, the uncles would gather and sing songs. often number from when they were in college.

I used to love every minute of it.

The parties nowadays seem soul-less in comparison.

Trek that!

2007-09-06T09:32:00.000-07:00

"Never has so much been owed to so many by one person for so long". My take on Churchill’s take on WW2.

Let me explain. I owe K, N and P a story. One I’ve been carrying in my head for a long time. I owe them this one tale. For I have nothing more substantial to offer.

I hate reducing people to mere letters. In just one post, a capital person becomes a capital letter.

And so I shall reduce them further to the names they were thrust upon by a circle of sleepy people waiting for the trek to start.

What trek? You ask. Let me begin from the beginning.

Do you know what sobriety can do to you?

Drunkenness can make you take off for distant lands with strange people you just met, making for great stories to tell over your next drink. But sobriety is a shade more unforgiving.

And so it was that four OH-less days found me testing the peripheries of my patience. Out of sheer boredom, I watched ‘Friends’, cleaned plates, folded counterpanes, rearranged books and fluffed pillows. And finally, after running out of things to do to keep the devil from setting up shop in my head, I opted for a “night-trek” out of the city.

What’s ironic is that an organized, one-day trek is something I wouldn’t even dream of going for, even if I was under the influence. And here I was, as sober as sober can get, looking forward to the damn thing.

A trek normally means that you carry the usual suspects. Water container, Petzl head lamp, cooking gear, tent (which one I take depends on the altitude), sleeping bag, change of underwear, toiletries etc. etc.

But this was a night trek. What do you carry on one of these? The mail from N asked me to carry a torch and warm clothes. My day-pack felt light with just these in it. You don’t feel like you’re off on a trek unless the straps on your backpack, bite into your shoulders. For once, the heavier the burden, the lighter you feel. And so I stuff it with dozens of mars bars, Bar-ones, two bottles of water and a windcheater. Slightly better.

RV is at Mallya Hospital. That is the first time that the extent of my folly first began to dawn on me. If it wasn’t for the fact that I was in the company of three extremely charming, intelligent women, I’d have bolted at the sight of the motley crew that was to be my group.

Now came the most difficult part of the trek. The ride to Kalwarbetta, in a bus full of geeks of the unbearable kind.

Who cares where they come from. Call centers, software companys, BPOs, they all breed the same sort. I’ve nothing personally against techies. I respect the fact that they can do something I realized I could never do. But they try so hard to be cool. Like, for instance, the conversation about the Grand Canyon that was ensuing between two such specimens on my right. It wasn’t even an earnest conversation. They were speaking too loud.

Here’s what they said, followed by what they meant to say.

What they said:

“Have you been to the Grand Canyon?”

“Yes! It’s so amazing no?”

“I know. The view took my breath away”

What they meant:

“Let’s tell them we’ve been to amreeka”

“Ok! Let’s talk about the Grand Canyon! That should impress them”

“Yeah Let’s”

That’s why I dislike techies. They try too hard.

I look out of the window and zone out. P next to me is silent. Reaching Yellahanka. I point out the aircrafts on the runway to P. I love watching aircrafts. Wanted to be a pilot for as long back as I can remember. I wanted to be the co-pilot of the ‘bhaiya’ who lived next door. Very close family friends. He’s just joined the Air Force and I’d promptly joined his fanclub. My sister, not wanting to be left out, wanted to be the air hostess. I’d tease her and tell her the airforce doesn’t have air hostesses. And she’d run around crying till someone’ll tell her they have. Spoilsports. Couldn’t I just share one passion with my hero. Instead of sharing it with my sister.

But we did. We used to model aircrafts out of balsa wood kits. I still do now. Makes me feel less of a jerk for letting myself be talked out of pursuing my passion. Gullible George. Think I’ll opt for that name. They’re asking me to add an adjective to my name beginning with my initial.

Wait! When did this happen? We’ve reached? Apparently. Cos I’m standing in a circle with the lot of them. I remember the names of my group. The rest I sieve out. Nitwit N, Klumsy K, Perfect P registers. I decide to play along. Gullible George it is.

I light up a cigarette. Have to rebel don’t I? Just have to be dickhead who lights up before a trek. But I needed it. I’ll need a bottle too if they want me to join them in the funny exercises they are doing. Over my dead body.

The trek begins. The night air feels good. I look up at the cloud crowned mountain I’ll be climbing. More likely, the mountain that’ll allow me to climb it. Heard that from Edmund Hillary. People asked him how he felt about conquering Mount Everest. He simply said that he didn’t conquer it. She let him climb her. So true.

The first stretch is good. It’s drizzling in spurts. I feel the familiar pull in my calves and rise in pulse. Looks like this is going to be an interesting climb after all. I begin to regulate my breathing. In through my nose, one step, out. Never breathe through your mouth while climbing. You lose heat and energy that way. Could be potentially dangerous if you’re trekking high-altitude.

P’s wheezing in front of me. I start to tell her that she should take smaller steps and not breathe through her mouth. But I’ll sound preachy. I hated it when people told me how to do stuff. She would resent it too. I’ll tell her when she’s tired. People are more receptive to advice then.

The gradient increases. I’m taking a lung full of air in every breath. Adrenalin’s pumping. I feel the need to charge up the slope, but opt to stick with P and N. My schooling in the hills have made climbing second nature. But now the smoking and abuse is beginning to tell.

At one point P tells me she can’t climb. I’m telling her to get to that knoll, then the rock up ahead, then the bush just 5 paces away. A climb is easier if you break it into small sections. She yells at me saying she can’t climb and she won’t. But she does anyway. I remember my first trek. Hated it till I got to the top. N’s being helped up by one of her classmates in college who happens to be one of the guides on the trek. What a place to meet. Should write a hindi movie on these lines.

And suddenly we’re there. ‘There’ is a small clearing near the summit, enveloped in a cloud. It’s cold. Colder than I thought Bangalore could ever get. Probably because of the wind that’s blowing and howling like a banshee. I walk around in a dream. There’s a small ruin of a part of an old fort, made of granite slabs. I’d get a slightly uneasy feeling as I walk towards it. Can’t put my finger on the feeling. I decide not to tell anyone about it. The rocks are the only surface they can sit on that’s not really wet and muddy. Wouldn’t want to freak them out.

N says she sees a ghost. I’m laughing at it. But the uneasiness is still there. K’s shivering with cold. I’m feeling sorry for her. I give her my windcheater. My sleeveless fleece jacket ‘s warm but my arms are cold. K’s still cold. Now she’s wrapped up in an assortment of clothes donated by the group. She’s bent over. She must really be suffering. Doesn’t seem the kind who’ll sham.

P and I smoke. Watching a bunch of nitwits trying to start a fire with 30kmph winds and a bunch of wet sticks. Fat chance. The rest of them decide to play a series of ridiculous games. It’s a picnic for them. I’m waiting for dawn. And there seems to be no sign of it. Watch says 6:00 but still no sign.

The geeks want to go. I’d rather stay and watch the sunrise. What’s the point of toiling all the way to the top if you don’t. But it wasn’t to be. 6:15 and the sun’s missed his appointment. We decide to descend.

Halfway down and the cloud clears. The sight nearly took my breath away. A congregation of bare hills being caressed by scattered sunbeams fighting their way through an army of clouds. Like spotlights on a stage, they move over the north face and then the south. Now this boulder has his 10 seconds of fame, now that tree. I can see the beams, like light from a giant disco-ball in the sky. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.

Somehow the entire trip has managed to redeem itself at the end. The ledger book in my head has balanced itself.

I come back a better man.

North to South

2007-08-18T02:37:00.000-07:00

An observation:

"The Ladies down South have more down South than up North. Whereas the ladies up North have more up North than down South"

Kallu shoppu!

2007-07-09T01:28:00.000-07:00

Mallus have a predisposition towards alcohol. I can't tell what it is about the race that makes them make a beeline for the 'kallu shop', come 6 o clock. Combine that with the genetic predisposition towards humour and tragedy, and you have a heady cocktail that makes you want to laugh and cry.

Take for example, local arrack. Made with dates, battery acid, watered down poison and probably even a biological waste, this deadly dram packs a punch. Often enough to send you straight to your maker or at best, leave you blind.

But in the spirit of Mallu humour, the locals have given them names. Not lukewarm stuff like 'Narangi' (Orange), or Godfather like the country liquor you find up north. These are named with tongues firmly planted in the cheek. Here are a few examples, with the translation. Judge for yourself:

Madal Chari (Lean against the wall): You'll need a wall to prop you up after one drink
Manavati (Bride): You'll be shy and quiet after one drink
Poste Keri (Climb up the post): You'll feel like you've climbed up a lamp post after one drink
Pulla Nakki (Lick Grass) You'll be on the ground licking the grass after one drink
Jet Airways: It's difficult to get down after one drink

and the one that takes the cake

Yesh Christu (Jesus Christ): You'll only wake up after three days

The Itchy and Scratchy Show

2007-06-27T04:53:00.000-07:00

My baby

2007-06-26T00:56:00.000-07:00

That's my darling Sophie. Sophie with white socks on all four feet. Sophie with the perfect diamond on her back. Sophie of the 'wow wow wow' song. Sophie of the kidneybean dance(You have to own a Boxer to get that one). Sigh! I miss her so.

Presenting the Panipuri Principle

2007-06-12T05:00:00.000-07:00

The Panipuri principle states that "The second plate of Panipuri is never as tasty as the first".

This principle actually extends to everything in life but I call it that because the realization came to me when I was on my second plate of Panipuri.

Hum Log

2007-06-10T12:00:00.000-07:00

I wish love was like Doordarshan. The old Doordarshan.

Back when you had to wake up early to see the colour bars beeping at you on the cathode tube which took a minute to come on. And then sit through a lifetime of silence, only to see the the 'Vertigo'-inspired opening sequence logo, morph into the Doordarshan logo, come to whet your appetite for the drama that was scheduled, loosely, to unfold on the colour TV.

You had to sit through 'Guru Sachi Bani' to get to the good stuff. Like 'Jamie and the magic torch' and 'He-man' (Admit it, you drooled over Teela's tits, didn't you?). Just to get to the 'Mickey and Donald Show' and the crowning glory "Spiderman". And then, in the evening, you came home from play early enough to see the credits of 'Krishi Drashan' and watch the 'Nirma' commercials before the 'Feature Film' began.

Back when you made do with the only one channel you had. Back when you climbed terraces and braved vertigo to turn the Ariel a quarter inch so the reception was less snowy. Back when the whole family was nothing but a relay for 'Not yet' turn it clockwise' or 'STOP STOP! Awww! Go back it was better a second ago'.

Back when, like your folks, you made do with one. Partner or channel. For better or for worse.

Now you've got a remote-full of channels. One to satisfy every whim. There's one for every religion and sexual inclination. Two for every musical choice. Three for every language and four movie channels shovelling every sort of international drivel into your home.

Love's like than now too. With a number of women you can flick through without feeling that commitment towards. Just press the 'Next' button to let the new one through.

But think about it.

With all this choice, do you really have a choice?

Dead Beat

2007-06-05T08:34:00.000-07:00

I think we spend the first 28 years of our lives collecting ghosts, only to lay them to rest in the latter half. You collect experiences that when re-lived turn out to be duds. And that thing you once held sacred, dies a mortal death, coughing its last breath in your head.

Take for instance Kovalam. I first came to kovalam when I was 24, out of work and directionless. I had just chucked two lucrative careers, one as a Manangement guy and another as a Software Engineer because it didn't do anything to me. I was broke and knew only this that I didn't want to see the new century dawn in Delhi, where I lived. So me and another equally directionless friend decided to watch the year 2000 dawn in Kovalam. I don't recall why we chose the place but we did. So I freelanced and wrote a script for a Management Institute, shot it, pocketed the 10k and pushed for Kovalam in the December of 1999.

It was a scene right out of a dream. A lighthouse completed the picture with its presence at the end of a pristine, crescent shaped beach. The shacks were lean-tos put together by tying logs of wood together with a thatched roof of plaited palm leaves. There was always fresh seafood and Rum with fresh coconut water.

I had the time of my life. Went snorkeling, boogie boarding, lay about in the sun doing nothing. I found love and lust in the arms of an older woman. In just 4 weeks, I became a beach bum, surfer, gigolo, artist, photographer and writer. I found my calling in this land with no calling.

I went back last year. After I quit my post at Grey. It had a concrete walkway. The shacks sported brick walls. The water was dirty. You could get a Fillet Mignon in one of the shacks. It was a disaster. I buried Kovalam in my head that night.

And now Aerosmith.

I first heard Aerosmith when a friend bought the album 'Pump'. Back when I was in school. 'Love in an elevator' and 'Janie's got a gun' made it to the top of my charts the moment I heard them. Then came 'Get a Grip'. I loved it so much, I begged my uncle in the US to send me an original Geffen tape, along with the Peart Jam '10'. I knew every song by heart. The foreign tapes even had lyrics in the covers. I covered them with scotch tape and pasted them up on my wall. The intro to 'Eat the rich', I even now consider unparalleled. This album cover the gamut of emotions i traversed in my college years. 'Crying', 'Crazy' and 'Amazing' were my best friends.

So with much expectations I went to see them perform, just last week in Bangalore.

I was left cold. This was the first time I left a concert with my voice intact.

I buried Aerosmith in my head that night.

The SWAT team

2007-06-05T04:31:00.001-07:00

They’re in all the shops. Even the corner provision store has it. The malls are stocking it like it’s the hottest thing since sliced bread. You can’t cross a traffic light without setting eyes on someone selling it to people in cars. I walked into a friend’s house and was accosted by one lying on the table. Why do people want to buy it? I don’t understand.

You can buy an ‘All-Out’ or a ‘Good-Night’ mosquito repelling machine for 120 Rs. And these things can work all night, night after night for over 60 days, keeping the swarms at bay.

Then why should someone spend 75 Rs. and buy an electric mosquito swatter? These Chinese made, electric swatters look like badminton racquets and carry enough electricity in the mesh to instantly fry any insect to a crisp. Swipe it at a healthy mosquito, and with a loud snap, it’s a late mosquito. Just like that.

If it was efficient mosquito extermination you wanted, this surely isn’t what you would buy. Imagine the time and energy you’ll have to spend chasing down every mosquito in the house.

I believe people buy it only for the perverse pleasure of watching the mosquitoes fry. Like playing god to a world of smaller creatures, you decide which one shall escape and which shall perish. One friend I asked claimed it was “therapeutic, like bursting bubble-wrap”.

Really? Then why stop at mosquitoes? Move on to squirrels. And with a larger surface area to inflict pain upon, you should feel even more relaxed when you’re done torturing it.

Friend flinches. But I plod on. “Why not rabbits? And after you’re done torturing it, it’ll even make a good dish.”

I went home perplexed. It’s ok to zap insects and ants and mosquitoes but things higher up in the order are taboo? So guilt about killing a being is directly proportionate to the size of the creature? You’ll stomp an ant and swat a fly in a heartbeat, whack a rat with a hint of hesitation, think a little before kicking a dog, avoid having to bludgeon a monkey and say no to shooting a tiger?

Seems rather cockeyed to me.

Hmm! How much did you say they cost?

Counter-feat

2007-06-01T00:51:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, I had installed a stat counter on my blog. This nifty little piece of code helps me keep a track of the number of people reading my blog.

The maximum number of comments I’ve ever had to a post is 6. And that too since a friend linked her blog to mine. So imagine my surprise when the counter tells me that since last week, 197 people have visited my blog. Damn! And I thought I was as alone out here as Jonah in the Whale’s stomach.

And though I’m elated, something doesn’t quite add up. 197 visitors and just 1 comment? That is really appalling.

Why do these voyeurs not leave even a vowel behind as a sign of their visit?

Most movies have the often hackneyed scene where a parent walks into a child’s room at night and upon seeing the child asleep, gazes at him/her with adoration and then tiptoes out after either planting a kiss on the sleeping body, or covering it with a sheet that’s been flung aside.

My ego will love to believe that this is the case here too.

But I’m not an angel by any stretch of the imagination. And considering the nature of my posts, it’ll be more like walking into my room and silently watching me play with myself. A very unsettling experience, to say the least.

No wonder I don’t get any comments.

Culture Vulture

2007-05-31T08:07:00.000-07:00

This is a short story I began writing but I didn't know how to finish it until a very dear friend told me I'd already finished. Thank you Karan Manveer Singh. You're the coolest. Bro! Rock on.

Carry on Carrion!

A Vulture sat with a bad taste in his mouth. He’d picked it up from a dead buffalo down at the slaughterhouse. The thought must have troubled the buffalo for quite a while for it to have permeated through to its liver. For it was the liver that the Vulture had feasted on for Brunch.

Buffalos are anyway given to long periods of contemplation. They’ll chance upon a newly grown thought and then chew on it for an eternity. That’s why they are considered the thinkers of the four-legged kingdom.

And since the languages of flyers differ from that of non-fliers, the Vulture was only able to make out that the thought was a bad one. And it was beginning to give him a stomach ache. He sauntered over to his best friend who was sitting on the top branch, eyeing the discarded eyes of a calf.

“What do you do about a bad taste in your mouth?” asked the first Vulture to his friend. “You neutralize it with a good one. Everybody knows that” replied his friend. “Serves you right for eating liver anyway.” You should leave it for the thick-skinned Pariah Kites. Us sensitive kinds must lay off the violent victuals. Didn’t your parents teach you that?”

“The guts of the cat
The udders of the cow
The spleen of the thing
That goes ‘Bow Bow’

The gizzard of the lizard
The camel’s hump
The nuts of the squirrel
These all shall you dump

The buffalo’s liver
Is a strict no no
As are the heart of a man
And a monkey’s toe.”

Don’t you remember?” said his friend launching into the famous violent-victuals lecture.

“We have been eaters of dead animals for millions of years, unlike the Kites who began just a few thousand years ago. We’ve developed very sensitive taste-buds. That is why the elders have listed down the things we should eat and those we shouldn’t. Junk thoughts can kill you. You must be more careful in future.”

“But we used to eat every part of the animals earlier” said the Vulture “We never cared about the carrion’s delicate parts.”

“Those were better times” said his friend. “The animals mostly died of natural causes. Not the violent deaths common today. It’s difficult to know how a body died nowadays. And by the time you find out, it’s often too late. Look at ‘Suicide Sam’. He flies at those iron birds every time they come screeching down. Just because he ate the heart of a human who jumped off a cliff. These are dangerous times. And if we want carry on eating carrion, we’ll have to learn to adapt.”

“But I’ve been nibbling the so-called violent victuals every once in a while” Said the Vulture. “It gives an interesting layer to lunch. I’d grown used to it. A dash of despair and a glob of greed goes down very well with a meal sometimes. It’s just this particular buffalo that seems to be troubling me. I can’t seem to put my beak on the emotion.”

“I’d stay away from them if I were you” said his friend before he launched his large ungainly frame down towards the eyes he had been eyeing.

But the Vulture could now feel the effects of the buffalo’s thoughts wearing off. And there came upon his person, the urge to feel that exotic thought again. It had begun with a tingling in his tongue and had run down his rather long neck until it had covered his entire body. The texture of the thought had been close to that of greed, without the taste of adipose. It also had the lingering flavour of longing without the bitter-sweet undercurrent of love.

Without a pause, he flew back to the slaughterhouse.

Beat this

2007-05-27T22:32:00.000-07:00

A poem by Gregory Corso, one of the writers of the Beat Generation. I list this poem among the foremost in my list of 100 best poems. Also, you just have to love a generation that made blue jeans cool and spawned the likes of Kerouac and Ginsberg. Or did they spawn the generation?

The Whole Mess... Almost

I ran up six flights of stairs
to my small furnished room
opened the window
and began throwing out
those things most important in life

First to go, Truth, squealing like a fink;
"Don't! I'll tell awful things about you!"
"Oh yeah? Well, I've nothing to hide... OUT!"
Then went God, glowering and whimpering in amazement:
"It's not my fault! I'm not the cause of it all!" "OUT!"
Then Love, cooing bribes: "You'll never know impotency!
All the girls of Vogue covers, all yours!"
I pushed her fat ass out and screamed:
"You always end up a bummer!"
I picked up Faith Hope Charity
all three clinging together:
"Without us you'll surely die!"
"With you I'm going nuts! Goodbye!"

Then Beauty...ah, Beauty-
As I led her to the window
I told her: "You I loved best in life
...but you're a killer; Beauty kills!"
Not really meaning to drop her
I immediately ran downstairs
getting there just in time to catch her
"You saved me!" she cried
I put her down and told her: "Move on."

Went back up those six flights
went to the money
there was no money to throw out
The only thing left in the room was Death
hiding behind the kitchen sink:
"I'm not real!" It cried
"I'm just a rumour spread by life..."
Laughing I threw it out, kitchen sink and all
and suddenly realized Humour
was all that was left-
All I could do with Humour was to say:
"Out the window with the window!"

Heaven and Hell

2007-05-25T01:00:00.000-07:00

A quote I came up with last night. Forgive me if it sounds corny but I love playing with words.

"Heaven is where the right are left alone. And Hell where the ones left are set right"

Hmmm! I don't know what I think of this one. Slept over it and in the morning didn't feel too bad about it. Comments and suggestions are welcome.

I R connoisseur

2007-05-19T07:20:00.001-07:00

If I’m given a book, any book, written by one of my favorite writers without a cover, I should, in eight out of ten tries, guess the author. The knack to doing this lies in knowing the writer and his style. If you depend on the story line or the plot, you might be led astray. For all writers take a break from their genre every once in a while.

You have to delve into the sentences. For it is here that the fabric of the writer’s style is woven. First you spot one use of a term or phrase that seems to ring a bell, albeit faint. Then as you move along, the sentences unravel to give you clues to his unique writing style. And soon, a paragraph or a page later, it strikes you.

I love architecture, though I know nothing about it. But like a good artist, and here I use the term liberally, I can tell a monstrosity from a work of art. No matter what the medium.

I passed one not 15 minutes ago. Driving down the Vidhan Saudha road, at the crossing I beheld what looked like a series of tall periscopes towering over the surrounding landscape. The traffic light let me dally enough to assess the building. Made with concrete slabs, this series of seemingly different periscopes, on closer inspection, turned out to be one building. I marvelled at the fragmented windows that covered the front façade of the building. I was taken in by the almost careless way the concrete slabs came together.

Corbusier came to mind. The series of windows, seamlessly guided the eye to the top of the building without giving away the point of union between two floors.

But this building had none of the socialistic trimmings that Corbusier reveals in his buildings. It had a more somber, almost evolved feel. Like a Corbusier who had realized the frivolity of frills, and left the soul intact.

Corbusier ruled out, I looked to see if it was a wannabe. There are buildings I have seen in Chandigarh that have been made post Corbusier, aping his style. And very badly, may I add. They seem to have skirted the little bursts of genius that Corbusier added to the otherwise somber ensemble that his buildings make.

Consequently, though you can’t find anything fundamentally wrong with the building, you refuse to find anything right with it either.

This building, on close scrutiny, divulged no ugly secrets. It was well thought of. And well executed. It seemed the making of another mind altogether. But in my head, I fancied they were bound by ideology.

And So I headed to the office on a Saturday to research this genius. I struck gold on the 5th Google. Charles Correa, one of India’s greatest architects. And someone who’s work I marveled at every week when I visited the British Council Library in Delhi.

And so while I write this post, my chest swells with pride. Knowing that I spotted a work of art hidden among other concrete monstrosities. Like a true connoisseur. And each time I pass it, I will wink at it and smile. Secure in the knowledge that I at least, know it’s true worth.

Write for your life

2007-05-10T08:05:00.000-07:00

The words have been swirling around in my head for some time now. But refuse to get flushed down into my bloodstream. Refuse to find their way to my fingertips and spill over onto this blog. They're probably clogging up somehwere.

I can feel an alliteration arrested near an artery. An idiom idling in my adam's apple. And if I hold my breath, I can hear my heart steadily thumping out an SOS. "WRITE" it says. "Write for your life".

What else is a writer's worth but a few well chosen words strung together with a string of logic to keep them from falling off? If that be the truth, and currency the measure, I would have to declare myself bankrupt.

And so, like a person who's just seen his cholesterol test report, I step out gingerly to jog my self back to a more acceptable shape. As a wordsmith.

I have been writing. But meaningless stuff like advertisements. For that is my trade. I am a pimp of attractive headlines. A seller of a voluptious bodies of sentences of high-falutin words made up to sound interesting. I'm the guy who writes gibberish like "We bring good things to life", and "Impossible is nothing". And I haven't even written anything that interesting.

I'm the 'Beena Mausi' who parades Lata, Neena, Ritu and the rest of the dirty dozen before podgy business men, not the slick Russian tout with a harem of 4 digit damsels.

Like junk food, junk writing can kill you. And I've been stuffing myself with it for 4 months. Now it's time to turn back to healthy writing. The sort that lets you sleep without reaching for the leftover Old Monk.

And so I find my feet again. Slowly but surely.

Bangalore pangs

2007-01-22T01:52:00.000-08:00

My beautiful city is under seige. Held at ransom by an invisible army. An army of committed communal conscripts. Of religious renegades looking for retribution.

The shadow of a man rides a charred excuse for a rickshaw in front of me. Tears streaming down his face. His hennaed beard blown from side to side by the wind coming through a windshieldless void in front of him. The seats at the back are still smoldering as is the anger and helplessness inside him. He brushes his emotions aside with a swipe of his dirty sleeve, leaving his face smudged.

I ride on past the remains of another 4 rickshaws that lie smoking. Belly-up in total subjugation, even in death. Like crushed cockroaches on the roadside.

A little futher I come upon a bus. Or what once used to be. Glass lies everywhere. Small fragments littering the road. Symbolising the shattered spirit of the city.

What is it that makes these maurading madmen pick on public transportation to vent their venom? Glance through photographs of any riot in India. The first casuality is often a Public transport bus. The Emergency, the Mandal Commission, the Indira Gandhi riots, the Mumbai riots. In each case, you can see a burning bus in every photograph.

I turn a corner and am face to face with the devil in camouflage. He wears the garb of the ordinary man. You'd have passed him on the way to work everyday with not a glance. But today you dare not ignore him or the very large crudgel in his hands. This is his time. He shall speak and you will listen.

"Ellie Hogtaidira?" a surprisingly nasal, almost squeaky voice asks me. I would have expected death to ask me where I'm going in a baritone instead of a shaky soprano. My kannada is sparse and unconvincing so I pretend to have a toothache. "Doctor ge hogbeko!" I answer.

Suddenly I'm kin. We're brothers, tied together with the umbellical cord of discomfort. I've touched a chord. Or a nerve more likely. He winces, and waves me onwards. Anger condensed into concern in the distilling pot of pain.

I ride on home thinking O Henry was right. Pain does make the world kin.

Keeping it real with B.I.G.

2007-01-17T02:21:00.000-08:00

Fuck the luck, shit, strictly aim,
no aspirations to quit the game.

Spit your game,
talk your shit,
grab your gat,
call your click,
squeeze your clip, hit the right one.
Pass thatweed, I gotstalight one.
All them niggas, I gotsta fight one.
All them hoes,Igotsta like one.
Our situation is a tight one.
What youwanna do: fight or run?

Seems to me that you'll takeB,
Bone and B.I.G., nigga, die slowly.
I'm a tellyoulike a nigga told me,
cash rules everything 'round me.

One more Matinee

2007-01-09T02:51:00.000-08:00

Here's why Mark Knopfler rules.

One more matinee!

Here's One Of The Two Of Us
In 1954
Don't LaughI Keep All Of The Pictures
Are You Going To Take A Photograph
Here's Something Nice For You
A Dear Old Thing Came To A Show
Last Time Here We Did
An Interview On Local Radio
Make Yourself At Home My Darling
Come On In
Hand Me Down That Jar Love
Can I Offer You A Gin

We're Proud To Be The Oldest
Ugly Sisters In Variety
There's Not The Glamour Now
You SeeWhat Happened To Society
There's Another Light Bulb Gone
They Don't All Answer To The Switch
I Don't Know How We Carry On
And Her She Couldn't Care The Bitch
But In A Whi E The Old BoysIn The Band
Begin To Play
And In A While The HouselightsAnd The Curtains Slide Away

And Something's Going To Happen
To Make Your Whole Life Better
Your Whole Life Better One Day
Something's Going To Happen
To Make Your Whole Life Better
Your Whole Life Better One Day

Now The Landlady's All Squared Away
It's Just A Temporary Deal
I'm Afraid Tonight It's Take-Away
You See There Is No Evening Meal
Don't Worry Dear You Shall Go
To The BallI Think The Fairy Said
These Suitcases Have Seen It All
From Under Someone Else's Bed

You Want To Smile Those Tears Away
Now Don't You Cry
You Want To Know What I Say
I Say Never Say Die'

Cos Something's Going To Happen
To Make Your Whole Life Better
Your Whole Life Better One Day
Something's Going To Happen
To Make Your Whole Life Better
Your Whole Life Better One Day

One Short

2006-12-18T03:04:00.000-08:00

I'm one star short of dusk
I'm one ray short of morn
I'm one stitch short of complete
I'm one rip short of torn

I'm one smile short of happy
I'm one tear short of sad
I'm one sense short of sane
I'm one quirk short of mad

I'm one straw short of breaking
but I'm just too tired to tell
If I'm one deed short of Heaven
or just one devil short of Hell

Shani's song

2006-11-29T06:01:00.000-08:00

I'm bored out of my wits, can't somebody find
someone wretched, so I can apply my mind
to ruining someone's pointless life
by adding to pain, troubles and strife.

Let me glance around, maybe I'll spy
a one eyed man, so I can take away his eye
or a man with just one leg, so I'll have fun
watching him lose to gangerene, the other one.

For I'm Shani, the god with the power to change
people's fortunes a little, and help them exchange
pain for more pain, trouble for more trouble
If it can be halved, it must be made double.

I'm the little god who can't do miracles, and so I must
justify my existence by making a poor man go bust
And so by making a sad man spill more tears,
get some respect for at least Seven years.

Seven years shall he appease me, fall at my feet
lest he should small misfortunes meet
like an unforseen expense, when the rent's to be paid
a broken leg, when a job appointment is made

Seven years shall he give alms, but not just to the poor
but to the blind and the lame, those that I hold dear
And after the seven, he shall be free,
while another poor wretch, falls prey to me.

Designated Dolt

2006-09-26T21:30:00.000-07:00

There's nothing a biker likes most than taking a good turn on the road, unhindered, at the perfect angle and the perfect speed. There is God to be found in every bend of the Macadamised. A perfect turn, perfectly executed is Zen itself.

And similarly, there is nothing more frustrating than a turn rendered wrong. Mostly because some slop in his sad excuse for a car decides not to apply his brains, and extends the application instead to his brakes.

You see crimson as you pull out of a turn, into a screeching halt, a swear on your lips and murder in your eye. You glance the glance of a thousand knives as you overtake the slob only to realize that he doesn't look like the sort who would ordinarily make a mistake like that.

Are all motorists on the road dolts? Can't be. Or are all motorists around you dolts? Cant be either. That's a generalization. I've sat in cabs and autorickshaws and the drivers, barring a few exceptions, have been competent, if not good. And this phenomena I have observed across many cities across India.

Where then, does one find the errant driver?

Let me propose a theory.

Consider the 'Designated Driver' at a party. He's the one to be found wistfully nursing his Virgin Mary, while his friends endeavour to test the limits of their Livers. On any other day, he's to be found partaking of the brewed and the distilled in quantities that would kill an elephant. But on this day, he is a timid teetotler who'll pass the -OH group for the H2O.

So on this day, he assumes the personality of someone who he's usually not, for a brief period of time. A personality that has been thrust upon him by his peer, for a designated time.

And so it is with the 'Dolts' on the road. Maybe they too are perfectly normal drivers but for the duration of some fleeting moments, they assume the mantle of the 'Designated Dolt' and can't help but act 'in character'. And then the moment passes to another who in turn causes his share of chaos.

I can almost bet that if you look closely enough at the people in the traffic, you can almost spot the 'Designated Dolt' of the moment, and watch the designation move across the length of the road.

Haven't you caught yourself doing something foolish on the road. Forgetting a turn, stalling your car, cutting someone off. Was it the real, rational, intelligent you that did that? No it was your 'Designated Dolt' self.

So on a bad day, you may just be unlucky enough to have many people around you, pass the mantle. On a good day, you may encounter only one.

I like the theory. Beats coming to terms with your bad driving. Or for that matter, your girlfriend's.

The Reason

2006-08-07T05:39:00.000-07:00

Sorry Mates, long time no write..

The reason? This ----------------------------------------------->

Yes I'm talking about the Flickr link on the right hand side...

Since I got my new camera, I've been letting my pictures do the talking. Give me a month more and I shall get back to writing again.

I'm leaving for Delhi on the 13. Dillllleeeeeeeeeee meri Jaan. And then to Leh on the 16th. I'm touring Leh with my Dad. (It's not as bad as it seems, in fact it's great)

He's the coolest. I promise lots of posts and lots of photos... Check out my Flicker to know where all I've been since the last month.

One weekend in Mysore and Gopalswamibetta, an obscure but beautiful temple atop a hill near Bandipur.
Another weekend in Coorg
2 weekends in Chennai
a few days in Bombay
a weekend in Hogennakal (That's the waterfall where Roja was shot. Pretty as hell but also crowded as hell.)

All this in the last 1 month. I'm beginning to feel proud about my travels...

And also, I've bought myself a motorcycle. She's called Elizabeth, Liz for short, and she's a babe. The best sounding, best looking girl on the road..

Look forward for more action adventures next week with your friendly neighbourhood copywriter, right here on bosedk.blogspot

Ciao

Forgive them father

2006-06-28T02:08:00.000-07:00

That's me after spending a night in the office, working on a presentation for 3M. It should have been a simple enough presentation untill the higher ups decided that this was to be a show of might. An example of our prowess and our willingness to prostate ourselves in front of anyone who flashes a wad of the goodies. And I'm led to the slaughter. Yet again.

Newbie

2006-06-27T01:52:00.000-07:00

Just bought myself a spanking new Nikon D70s. Actually my Da bought it for me. I'm going to pay him back in installments. I've finally gone digital. After years of resisting it and doggedly staying with my Nikon F75 film camera.

One of the things I'm going to do is upload a large number of photos to my blogger that's been empty since the last time I borrowed my Da's D70 (When I went on my last Europe trip)

This photo is the first in a series where I intend to display my mood during the day with my wodden dummy. How long I'll remain interested in doing this over and over remains to be seen.

This is me in an intensely reading mood. I rarely read fast paced action novels but I managed to get my hands on a Ken Follett double paperback with 'Triple' and 'On wings of Angels' and can't seem to put it down. I'm shirking work and other useless stuff just to be able to cover a few pages more. The 'Eye of the Needle' was the first Ken Follett I read way back in boarding school and I was hooked to the man. The love scenes were mind blowing. Especially for a 10 year old.

I have since been able to complete quite a few of his novels and love this one too. I'm halfway throught Triple and hopefully should be able to complete it if servicing doesn't come around troubling me.

Gaana

2006-06-23T01:31:00.000-07:00

One of my favourite Monty Python songs. They're the best.

And thanks Ravi, for the compliment. I'll try to keep up to your high standards. ;-)

Decomposing Composers

Beethoven's gone, but his music lives on,
And Mozart don't go shopping no more.
You'll never meet Liszt or Brahms again,
And Elgar doesn't answer the door.

Schubert and Chopin used to chuckle and laugh,
Whilst composing a long symphony,
But one hundred and fifty years later,
There's very little of them left to see.

They're decomposing composers.
There's nothing much anyone can do.
You can still hear Beethoven,
But Beethoven cannot hear you.

Handel and Haydn and Rachmaninov
Enjoyed a nice drink with their meal,
But nowadays, no one will serve them,
And their gravy is left to congeal.

Verdi and Wagner delighted the crowds
With their highly original sound.
The pianos they played are still working,
But they're both six feet underground.

They're decomposing composers.
There's less of them every year.
You can say what you like to Debussy,
But there's not much of him left to hear.

Claude Achille Debussy-- Died, 1918.

Christophe Willebald Gluck-- Died, 1787.

Carl Maria von Weber-- Not at all well, 1825. Died, 1826.

Giacomo Meyerbeer-- Still alive, 1863. Not still alive, 1864.

Modeste Mussorgsky-- 1880, going to parties. No fun anymore, 1881.

Johan Nepomuk Hummel-- Chatting away nineteen to the dozen with his mates down the pub every evening, 1836. 1837, nothing.

How Now Brown Cow

2006-06-13T00:35:00.000-07:00

I pass a curious spectacle most days on my way to office. One that makes me smile as well as feel warm around the general direction of the heart.

If you ask me about the milk of human kindness, I'd say that it's pretty much run dry at the teat. But I'm glad to report that the milk of animal kindness is still flowing like the Nile in spate. It gushes like the Ganges, flows like the Florence and pretty much brims over like the Brahmaputra.

What I refer to is the unlikely alliance of a cow and a dog. While most dogs chase cows, and most cows kick dogs, these two exhibit a friendship based on nothing short of mutual respect. They are to be found lying in the middle of the road at a busy junction on my way to work.

I'd like to this moment to explain to my readers from other countries that cows are to be found commonly running amock in towns and cities all over India. It is not therefore a surprise to see an 18 wheeler humbled to a complete halt, to make way for a bovine being. And though my friends from foreign climes often whip out a camera at the sight, I simply yawn to show my disregard towards this mundane manifestation. And so it is common to see a cow lying down to rest in the middle of the street, while VIP cavalcades, buses, rickshaws and other methods of transportation amble by without a glance.

What makes this different is that the aforementioned duo sleep in each other's lie. The cow lies in the shape of a spoon so that the dog can complete the formation and lie in the space left over. This way, the dog is assured of uninterrupted sleep which would otherwise be cut short with either unabated honking, or death.

And since most relationships are two sided, I can only assume that the dog does something for the cow in its time of need. What it is, I can only imagine. Maybe it challenges other dogs that might otherwise pester the cow. Maybe it pesters other cows that seek to displace the cow from its appointed bedroom.

No matter what the reason, I am amused and humbled. If two species that are so genetically apart can be so accomodating, maybe there is hope for mankind after all.

That said, I need to go now. Got to kick servicing's ass for giving me the wrong brief. Wait till I get my hands on that little runt. Why I'm going to.......

Paro and I

2006-06-07T05:22:00.000-07:00

Ours is an uncomplicated relationship. Mine and Paro's. When I've been with her, it's always been about just us. Our pasts and futures don't matter. The other people in our individual lives don't matter. We truly live in the moment. Shielded in an invisible cocoon, completely oblivious to the others around us.

I treat her to dinner and she in turn, grants me the privilege of her company. I don't mind. What's a few morsels of food compared to the immense pleasure of her company. And for the moment, she's mine. Completely mine. Brimming over with short-lived but unbridled love. And when the meter in her head clanks, she walks away from me.And I don't grudge her. She of the wayward ways. She of the full belly.

But today all that changed. She met me with her usual enthusiasm. But I had nothing to offer but my company. And that's not much to subsist on, even on a full belly. Not even enough for dessert.

And when the time had come for me to indicate an offer of nourishment. I had kept quiet.

At first she looked baffled. And though, I could see that she had realized that I was skint, her deameanour didn't divulge it. Maybe it was because I had never failed her in the past and she was willing to forgive one lapse in protocol. But soon the novelty had worn off. We sat there like two drinking companions meeting during Lent. She didn't want to leave me and go since I had been good to her. But her time was precious and there was nothing to be gained by sticking around.

And so, when she turned away to go, I still didn't grudge her. She of the scruffy neck. She of the wagging tail.

Apni dhun mein rehta hoon!

2006-06-04T10:52:00.000-07:00

Apni Dhun mein rehta hoon.
Main bhi tere jaisa hoon.

Oh pichle baras ke saathi
Ab ke baras mein tanha hoon

Teri gali mein sara din
dukh ke kankar chunta hoon.

Mera diya jalaye kaun.
Mein sirf tera kamra hoon.

Apni laher hai apna rog
Dariya hoon aur pyasa hoon.

OK Computer!

2006-06-02T02:43:00.000-07:00

My art director (the guy who designs the ads) told me about an interesting phenomena yesterday. Since he sits all day on the computer using software like Corel Draw and Photoshop, the effects of the software linger on long after he's left the office.

Like for example, whenever he does something wrong, he finds his fingers reaching out for Ctrl + Z cos his brain is saying 'Undo'. So if he's forgotten to carry his cellphone to office, his fingers reach for an imaginary Ctrl + Z. The same if he spills some coffee, or takes a wrong turn while driving his car.

He says that the effect is getting more pronounced every month. It is growing from a physcal act to a mental one. He finds himself wondering if he can 'Undo' words he has said, things he has done.

And I believe him. Something similar happens to me when I play NFS of FIFA 06 on the X-box for too long. It becomes difficult to drive normally on the road. You keep wanting to go to Nitro everytime you get a straight stretch of road. Similary, I keep wanting to press A or B to pass or score while watching a Football match on TV.

So of the effects of a 5 hour game is so pronounced, what about using the same software everday for over 7 hours at a stretch, 6 days a week, 4 odd weeks a month, 12 months an year.

So there might be something to the entire "Don't let kids play violent games" debate. After here we are two grown up, educated people feeling compulsion that don't make sense. The effects on an impressionable mind must be more pronounced.

Hmmmmmmm!!

...

2006-05-24T02:12:00.000-07:00

People think of death as a fullstop. The end of a sentence. The culmination of a state of being. The climax. But what if life endures. What if it spills over, and carries on. And instead of a fullstop, what if life's more like a comma. A momentary pause before you continue your mission in another plane. I'd like to believe in a comma more than a full stop. So afterlife is not a new sentence, merely a continuation of what has already been said.

Maybe that's what we are. Sentences that go on till some sense has been made, with commas to accentuate certain learnings along the way. In that case, we add new words as we go along and use a comma to slip into another thought without having to change the sentence.

A sentence can have many commas, as long as it can, for example, this sentence, make some sort of sense. The idea is to have said something, to have made a statement about your life. The idea is to have less commas and distill your sentence into a succinct phrase, sans punctuation.

So a truly enlightened lifetime could read something like "I think therefore I am." instead of "Since I can think, and evaluate different thoughts and processes, it is natural to infer that my being constitutes of my thoughts and my own mirror of my conscious self."

And that would make ghosts, sentences in brackets. Stuck without an end, (in a state of suspension).

I know there are flaws in my theory but maybe if I think it throught, i might end at some conslusion. But I'm scared.

What if my sentence is something negative like "I'm wrong." Or "Learn from my mistakes".

But I don't fret that much. The universe, like a book requires all sorts of sentences to make sense. And being wrong doesn't make you a bad sentence. As long as the language is right and the meaning clear. I'd hate to be a sentence with a flaw, like a splenning mistake. Or uncorrect language.

Then you stick out like the last two sentences. And the editor may have to remove you. So you would have spent a lifetime, meaning nothing. Just a sentence that has been struck off.

Heavy Fuel

2006-05-23T23:14:00.000-07:00

I saw first hand the indignities that time heaps on people when they grow old. It's not fair really. Watching someone who was once an alpha being turn into a helpless, zeta nobody. Some Red Indian tribes like the Irouquai would leave their old behind when they migrated. I wouldn't blame them. I'd rather be left behind and die in the cold, prepared to meet whatever comes my way, wolves or bears. At least I went down in a blaze of glory. Or as dinner. As nourishment for some being higher up in the foodchain than some worms underground.

It all hit home when I went to meet my uncle, my dad's elder brother. He's 14 years elder than my dad and was a stud in every sense of the word. He lost his right arm in the Indian-Pak war, and though it's been stitched back on, he hasn't been able to use it. In spite of this handicap, he's actively pursued his passions all his life. Tales abound of how he and my dad would drive across India in a Fiat Premier Padmini and later in a Maruti 800. He would light a cigarette with his left arm and lodge it between his fingers on the right arm, while driving non-stop for 9 hours at a stretch.

There's another instance where my dad, uncle and my grandfather had rushed into a cave in the jungles to escape from a sudden shower, when they heard a growl in the dark recesses of the cave. Everyone turned to see a leopard staring them down, ready to pounce, since it felt threatened and was caught with its back to the wall. My uncle calmly raised his rifle, kept it on my dad's shoulders and shot it throught the heart.

This man. This killer of leopards. This master of miles. This conquerer of fear is today afflicted with diabetese and finds it tough to climb a fleet of 5 steps.

And though my awe of him doesn't ever show signs of diminishing, no matter how old and fragile he gets, I can't help but feel that life should have been a little kinder to him. Him, of all people.

I don't want to grow old and worry about insulin shots and pensions coming to the bank and medical policies. I'd rather call it quits while I'm ahead. I am against suicide and wouldn't ever let life's problems push me into a cowardly act like that.

But is it cowardly when I'm 60 and think I have done all I can in my life? I won't be commiting suicide. I'd be retiring. From life. That's all.

Like Knopfler said

"With my ugly big car,
I'm going to climb this hill.
I'll write a suicide note,
on a hundred dollar bill.

Cos if you want to run cool,
you ve got to run on heavy fuel."

Black magic music

2006-05-22T22:39:00.000-07:00

Art Blakey and the Jazz Giants - what can I say. I was blown away by the sheer energy of the album. You could power the city of Bangalore if only we could learn how to tap it. And what's amazing is that he started out a pianist and was forcibly steered towards the skins virtually at gun point. And a damn good thing it was I must say. Or the world would have been bereft of a drummer par excellance.

He started playing on my stereo last night and I couldnt let him stop. I kept him in an eternal loop till I released him at 5 in the morning. And come 10 o clock, he's playing again on my laptop in the office. Sorry Art, you know what they say. There's no rest for the wicked.

Motorhead

2006-05-20T04:48:00.000-07:00

Hi-Torque, lo-torque, swing suspension, fixed suspension, 62's better than 67's. That's the lingo I dabble in nowadays. I'm considering buying a bike you see. I'm tired of waiting for good cruisers to come into India. I'll settle for a 350cc Royal Enfield instead. But I need an old model, 62 batch. And looking for it ain't easy.

It should come for around 12K. Another 20K spent on it to suit my preferences and I wouldn't need to beg others for a mount to ride off over the weekend. My parents would give me hell for it but it's ok. You see I've had two really bad crashes and they now fear for my life. The last one left me bed-ridden for 2 months with a cast the size of Antarctica. And I refused to get plates put into my leg, so I had to wear the cast for over 6 months. I moved around with crutches. But that was years back.

I will buy this bike. And so I shall have three means of transportation at my disposal. A car, a Motorbike and a bicycle. Four, if you count my Willys Jeep back in Delhi. Four means of transportation spanning four technologies and three types of fuel. What more can a man ask for.

World peace?

Scribbles

2006-05-18T01:45:00.000-07:00

I haven't been writing much, simply because I have been sketching a lot. I've been scribbling away furiously with any instrument I can find, on any medium I could find. Since Monday, I haven't ceased scribbling.

It's like I just discovered I could draw and now I can't seem to stop. Anything from lighters to mobile phones to even fruits. Yesterday I spent the 3 hours in a meeting, scribbling on a pad, furiously sketching everything in sight. Pens, staplers, people, blinds, Ac vents, chairs... everything. At the end I realized that the pad belonged to the client and so I had to tear the pages and take them away with me before he realized what I had been up to during the meeting.

I've hatched and cross hatched myself onto every piece of paper on my table. Even the walls bear the brunt of my new-found love. How long it lasts, remains to be seen. Think I'll scan some of them and put them up on my blog.

It began, like most things do, with a 8B Staedtler pencil I bought on Sunday. I had decided to go and check out the Queen Victoria and KKing Edward statues put up by the Brits to commemorate their reign.

Puzzles

2006-05-11T23:19:00.000-07:00

I have a funny feeling that one of these days I'm going to solve one of life's puzzles. It started with a rubic cube that someone got to office from one of their travels to bangkok. It's not a normal rubic's cube as in, it doesn't slide only on two axsis. It's one of those that come apart with interconnected parts. So when he unravelled it, he was left with a long string of interconnected cubes. It was lying around in the office and everyone tried their hands at it. But to no avail.

I walked in yesterday, and on my cigarette break, managed to solve it in 8 minutes flat. I just used the process of elimination, if it doesn't go here, it must go there. And soon I had it beaten. The guy refused to believe that I solved it and he unravelled it again. But try as I might, I'm not able to solve it again. I think, this time I'm trying too hard. I'm trying to look for a pattern consciously, whereas I should just play with it and let my sub-conscious take over.

And today, while giving it another shot, I managed to nearly put it together. Just that I missed out the pivotal segment in the middle. It got me thinking, if I find that pivotal part of my universe, I might be able to sort my life out too. And so i began to sift out the variables in my life and look for the constants.

It's not easy, I'll tell you that. Your heart wants to label something a constant, when you head tells you that it's just a variable. And sometimes, your head tells you that one component is a constant when your heart just glances at it and discards it as a variable. The challenge is to truly look at things with your soul and decide, without your heart or mind colouring your choice. That's the zen way to do it.

I have a feeling I shall be able to do just that in the near future.

Inspired perspiration

2006-05-11T00:38:00.000-07:00

Do you know that a stallion when left with just one mare, tires of mounting her over and over again? But if another mare is intoduced in an adjoining stable, in sight of the stallion, it renews its vigour.

Much like the stallion, just one sms from someone really close to me, saying that he loved my blog has spurred me on to write more. And so last night, I galloped throught three poems in just an hour.

But then I awoke today morning, I realized that the pace showed in the verses. It read like a last minute homework. Like someone speeding on a cruiser or cruising on a speedster. It didn't belong. Makes me wonder if it's better to consistently write mediocre, or show flashes of genius between writing you won't wipe your ass with.

I don't know.

Amazing grace

2006-05-07T23:52:00.000-07:00

This weekend ended up being a bit of a damper if it wasn't for a Hero Honda CD 100, that saved the day. Come Friday and I had planned a trek through the western ghats. The trek was to start from Kukke Subramanium (I think I've got the spelling right) to another place called Sakleshpur. The route is a 40 kilometer stretch of railroad that is currently being upgraded from a meter guage to a broad guage, through dense jungle teeming with wildlife.

The last bunch of people to go there promised me that it's as close to paradise as you can get without drugs. And so I was looking forward to this leasurely labour of love. But as usual my work required me to stay back on saturday and it would have been a folly to attempt the stretch with just one day to spare.

My regular motorably generous friend was a bit reluctant to lend me his steel steed. And so I awoke to a slightly cloudy Sunday morning sans an agenda. But I was determined to do something with the day, especially since the weather forecast said "Mostly cloudy with partial rainfall during the evening". ( For the benefit of our readers in cooler climes, this forecast is a good thing if you're living in Bangalore, especialy since it's getting on to Summer now.)

The phone rang in the middle of my preparations for breakfast and I lunged for it, leaving 'Suzanne's tasty sausages' on the pan with its chopped onions for company. The caller happened to be someone from work, calling to confirm the delivery of an artwork from the day before. Just as I was concluding the conversation, I remembered that he too owned a motorcycle. Not the 350 or 500 cc Enfields I was used to, but a very unassuming 100 cc Hero Honda, who's only claim to fame is that it gives you 60 kilometers per litre of petrol. On a hunch, I asked him if he would mind my borrowing his motorcycle. I was in luck as he was going out of town and wouldn't be needing it. Things were looking up already.

The problem with these 100 cc types is that firstly they are made for city riding. The idea being simply to get from point A to B. And so their heat up if driven for over 60 km at a stretch. Moreover they are really light, have thin tyres and shake everytime a truck passes you on the highway. But then again, beggars can't exactly be choosers.

Consequently, my choice of destination would have to be close to Bangalore. I vaguely remembered someone telling me about an off the track route into Bannerghata National Park. It seemed an attractive alternative to sitting around on my ass all day, so I set off.

An hour through Bangalore traffic saw me reach Bannerghata road, notoriously callled the third worst road in India. And rightly so since after a few kilometers, the semblance of a road is not be be found. There were piles of gravel that had thoughtfully been dumped in the middle of the road, so that try as you may, there is no chance that you'll miss it. Then there's the large patch of delightful potholes with a tattering of road in the middle. Ah! the joys of descending into the middle of a pothole on a light, narrow tyred, shocker shot, 100 cc, jap bike to finally hit the bottom with a thud and then go flying into the air only to land in another pothole. Ah! the sheer pleasure of feeling weightless only to descend and bang your balls painfully against the fuel tank that has so thoughtfully been designed for just such an eventuality.

The good part is that the ride kept me so occupied that I didn't even notice the scenary, which may I add was nothing to write back home about. And so leaping, skidding, aching, I rode into a square where one road went on towards the left and the other led to a Temple at the base of a seemingly monolithic rock. It was to the temple that I was headed. I parked my bike and began the ascent to the shrine at the top.

I'd like to take this opportunity to tell you about something that I have been noticing for some time now. There are no old temples in north India. Wait! That's been phrased wrong. What I should say is "There are no old temples intact in North India." Kindly let me explain.

Walk into an old Church and that is pretty much what you would get, an old church. Walk into the Kalka Mandir in Delhi which is supposedly thousands of years old, and it looks new. See my point.

In south india, a temple once built, stays pretty much the same. There might be slight changes in its structure, especially when another room or two is to be added, but still, it still looks old. Temples in North India are continually changing, thanks to the fervour and devotion of its devotees. A Baba Gainda Mal will donate 20 lakh worth of marble flooring to the temple and consequently, the flooring will change. Not to be outdone, Baba Lajpat ram will donate a truck full of granite. And so the favours come tumbling in.

Consequently, most temples in North India look garish, new and opulent. Like a rags-to-riches punjabi's house in Lajpat Nagar, Delhi. It's a pity since nothing draws reverence like the stone walls and austere look of the temples of old. At Bannerghata, I was happy to notice, Baba Gainda Mal had had no say.

It was quite a steep climb to the top, but I was delighted at reaching the summit as it offered a good view of Bangalore. And so after a few seconds spent bowing to the powers that be, I sauntered on towards the back of the rock.

The instructions I had been given involved entering the Bannerghata National park illegally. My friend hadn't told me in so many words but I suspected something it. Especially when he had told me to walk past the "danger sign that has something strange written in Kannada". And so I ambled on, past the danger sign. I was obviously heading into the jungle as I spotted elephant droppings after walking a few hundred yards.

Elephant droppings can be unmistakeably identified. The first thing that strikes you is the sheer size of the payload. The second thing is the colour and consistency. The colour is usually light brown and is fibrous in consistency. (Now that I have managed to disgust you, we shall move on).

Further observation revealed that it was distressingly fresh. That meant, I'd have to keep my wits about me. Especially since I had been toold that most of the pachydermic inhabitants of the National park have been rescued from circuses. And consequently they abhor humans. So much so that they may make time out of their busy schedule to see to your demise, should you happen upon one.

Still, I continued. This time with my heart nestled between my tonsils. 500 meters down, I came across an interesting phenomena which I later learnt was common tradition in Karnataka.

Apparently, after being joined in holy matrimony, married couples come to this deserted place in the jungle and collect stones in piles and place them here. These piles are supposed to symbolize the home that they intend to build and in this way they seek the blessings of the gods.

And so I found myself standing upon a hill top, looking out over a thousand little piles of rock. Some piles even had pcket fences marked out with small pieces of stone. One guy had even ventured to make it into a double storied bungalow complete with driveway. It was almost surreal looking out over this miniature township. I felt like God for about 10 seconds. That was before I heard a rustling in the bush. Then I felt like shitting.

It turned out to be a mongrel. After staring each other down, we turned away and went on our way. I made my way down a small winding trail. It seemed too small to have been made by anothing bigger than man so I was assured. The path soon traversed through a clump of bushes through which I could see nothing. But suddenly, I was in a clearing. And a spectacular one at that. I had made my way to the top of the last hillock overlooking the forest below. Below me stretched the undulating forests of the ghats, with a smattering of hills on the horizon.

The sheer beauty of the place made me stop in my tracks. The clouds were scattered in the sky, and so the Sun was playing hide and seek. Sometimes coming out to warm me, sometimes penetrating the clouds with just one large ray, giving the place a bibilical look. I felt that any moment now, the bush in front of me would catch fire and half an hour later I might find in my hands the new and improved version of the 10 commendments.

And so I sat down and gazed out over this vista, smoking Classic Regulars and gasping, every once in a while at the beauty continually unfolding before me.

Homecoming Queen

2006-05-02T23:34:00.000-07:00

My body's back within the relative safety of my cubicle in Grey Worldwide with a cup of coffee and a cigarette. But my mind's still wandering. I walk around making conversation with people in the office, talking to clients, going to meetings. But I'm still not quite here.

If you saw me, you wouldn't know it, but I can feel it deep within. My analytical mind's here, taking on problems, dealing with common everyday issues, cracking campaigns and ideas. But another more important part of my mind's somewhere. Home doesn't feel like home anymore.

I was afraid something like this would happen, but I knew I had to do it. Before leaving I'd told a friend that this trip is bound to change me. For the better or for worse, remains to be seen. I remember shivering while packing, my pulse rate way higher than normal. A constriction in my chest. A part of me was telling me I shouldn't leave. This was no ordinary trip. It was almost like crossing a line that you know you can't come back from.

The closest comparison I can find is that guy in the movie the Matrix. The guy who betrayed Neo and the team, just to be able to go back and taste a juicy steak, even if he knew it was fake. I mean, no matter what he enjoys in that make believe world, sex, food, drink, success anything, deep down he'll know it's all fake. And sooner or later he would start to loath it.

I feel like that guy. I have come back because I have the security of a job, a salary, a car etc. etc. But I know now that I'm only pretending to like it. My soul's not in it anymore. I'm merely going through the motions. I'm playing the game just to be able to make some money to sponsor my next travel. But I feel like I betrayed someone. I was supposed to travel sans anything, but was too much of a coward to go on. Maybe someday I will have the strength to shake off all my worldly encumberments and leave.

For now, the coffee tastes good.

The beginning of the end

2006-04-18T02:58:00.000-07:00

I've set out on a journey. One that involves parts of India and also parts of my own mind. Sometimes, only a journey into the world can lead you to discover the world within your own head. And so I journey through this beautiful land while I trudge through the deepest regions of my mind.

And if a journey is to be really fruitful, you must carry only what you need. That means shedding excess baggage and unwanted things. Both without and within.

And so I quit my job. Have disposed of a lot of my belongings, called off a relationship, and set out. The only baggage I now carry lies on my back.

What I intend to achieve, I don't know. But something deep within me needed this purge. This trial by fire. This rite of passage.

And the thing is that other, more mysterious forces seem to be aligning to support my cause. The weather for one. This is when it starts getting really hot in Kerala. But still I reached Cochin to see storm clouds on the horizon. That night the weather outside reflected the tumult within. I have changed in just 4 days. I seem to have forgotten how to write.

Earlier it was easy. Just string some nive sounding words together and add a dsh of alliteration and you're almost there. Now when I turn back to the old posts I have put up, it just seems to be show offy. As if I was using passably good language, but saying nothing. It was pure advertising writing. Non commital and nonsensical.

I want now to write with meaning. With points of views that have been stewing inside me for a while. Processed, distilled, brought down to its lowest common denominator. Not just some passing thought that I considered writing about.

I need to find my philosophy. My zen. So that my writing can show maturity rather than meter. So that it can become less comercial and more personal.

I've moved on from Cochin and am in Kovalam at the moment. The weather seems to have followed me. I don't know if that's a good thing or bad. The waves now go up to about 6 feet. I got washed out and humbled thrice today. The mighty George with his board reduced to a spluttering idiot by a wall of water. I've gone under, got spun, battered and finally thrown onto the sandbank. And all I have to show for it is a big smile and a handful of bruises. But I'm loving it.

Dilli meri Jaan

2006-04-11T06:08:00.000-07:00

I MISS DELHI.

I miss it terribly and absolutely. I miss it so much, it hurts. I miss the streets, the people, the food, the weather. (That last one's not really true)

I miss my house in New Friends Colony, where I lived with my flatmate and my servant and my dog. I miss my beer at Ego and the 'Neapolitan'. I miss taking my dog for a run in the park. I miss the Old Monk sessions with my friends. I miss 'War of the DJs'. (Me and my mates would sit down over a couple of bottles of Rum and take turns playing music on the stereo. Each one got four songs. The trick was to finish your turn with either a very slow song or a very fast one, so that the other would have hell in the transition. For example, if you finish with a 'Sex Pistols' number, like "Frigging in the riggin" or 'Anarchy', the next person is right fucked.)

I miss stumbling down to Karims in Nizamuddin at 12 in the night and finding it closed, hurling abuses at the doorman. We would invariably settle with "Naseer Iqbal", the cheaper Mughlai joint. I miss Sheermals and Rogan Josh, washed down with a special Sulaimani Chai.

I miss waking up to "Freebird" blasting from my flatmate's room, early on a Saturday morning, while my dog attempts to lick the hide off my face. I miss the saturday morning shopping sprees at INA market. We'd buy everthing in mammoth proportions, as if we were catering to an army on the move. 6 kilos of chicken, 4 kilos of red snapper, 8 kilos of beef - 4 minced, 4 in cubes, 4 kilos of mutton. Shrimps, lobster almost anything in sight.

Early morning runs in Lodhi Garden. I miss the gaudy yet beautiful punjabi babies. I miss the pushy punjabis. I miss the malicious mallus. I miss the harami haryanavis.

But most of all, I miss the hills. I mean the real hills not the sad excuses we have to make do with in Bangalore. I mean the sort with pine trees and Deodars. The rivers and streams bristling with trout and Mahaseer.

Siiiiiiiiiiigggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!

Why

2006-04-08T06:27:00.000-07:00

How many times do I have to try to tell you
That I'm sorry for the things I've done
But when I start to try to tell you
That's when you have to tell me
Hey... this kind of trouble's only just begun
I tell myself too many times
Why don't you ever learn to keep your big mouth shut
That's why it hurts so bad to hear the words
That keep on falling from your mouth
Falling from your mouth
Falling from your mouth
Tell me...
Why
Why

I may be mad
I may be blind
I may be viciously unkind
But I can still read what you're thinking
And I've heard is said too many times
That you'd be better off
Besides...
Why can't you see this boat is sinking
(this boat is sinking this boat is sinking)
Let's go down to the water's edge
And we can cast away those doubts
Some things are better left unsaid
But they still turn me inside out
Turning inside out turning inside out
Tell me...
Why
Tell me...
Why

This is the book I never read
These are the words I never said
This is the path I'll never tread
These are the dreams I'll dream instead
This is the joy that's seldom spread
These are the tears...
The tears we shed
This is the fear
This is the dread
These are the contents of my head
And these are the years that we have spent
And this is what they represent
And this is how I feel
Do you know how I feel ?
'cause i don't think you know how I feel
I don't think you know what I feel
I don't think you know what I feel
You don't know what I feel

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

2006-04-05T05:49:00.000-07:00

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

"All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy."

"All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy"

"All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy."

All work and
no play makes
Jack a dull
boy.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

(P.S. Can't figure it out? Watch Stephen King's "The Shining". Just watched it last night and it psyched me out. Not in a bad way though cos I Looooooovvvvveeeee Horror and Mystery movies.)

The end of a relationship

2006-03-31T03:08:00.000-08:00

I've been so pissed off with my mobile service provider, Airtel that I decided to end their services. This is the venom-spewing letter I wrote to the motherfuckers at Airtel. May you fry in hell.

"To whoever it may concern,

I would like to bring to your notice that I have held an Airtel connection for the last 8 months. (Name: George Koshy, Phone no. 9880489606)

These 8 months have been the most excruciatingly painful months I have ever been with a mobile provider. I would rather be hung by my testicles from a thorn tree with spikes positioned under my ass, than ever set foot into an Airtel office again. I would rather recommend castration with a blunt butter knife, to my friends, than your connection. You
have reached new and painfully frustrating heights in your service. So much so that I have begun to dread the very thought that I might encounter one of your hoardings or your ads during the duration of my day.

A few of the many reasons:

1.
It started with the gentleman who came to take my details and give me the new connection. He wanted my credit card details but didn't mention to me that the bill will automatically debited to my card. I did not allow this standing instruction. It was carried forward by you without
my consent. This is a legal fraud and I can take you to court for this.

2.
I wanted my bills sent to my office and not my residence. This I put forward clearly to the same gentleman, who nodded his head vigorously but payed no heed. The next Month I get a phone call from customer care, asking if I have received my bill at my residence address. Imagine my surprise. I had clearly marked in the Application Form that I wanted my bills sent to my office, since my office pays it. Still, some incompetent minion in your mindless company decided to choose my residence address over my official address.

3.
It took 6 months for you to finally correct my address. During which I received no bills. Even of the requested duplicate bills, only 2 were received. Consequently, I have had to pay for the bills from my pocket.

4.
You have been giving out my number to every telecaller possible. Consequently I have been receiving phone calls from several unsavoury callers asking me if I wanted a new credit card, new case of condoms, a new pet dog and all sorts of other dubious offers. I'm not even beginning to talk about the new offer SMSs that I kept getting by the bushels every day.

For these and several more reasons, I wish to terminate my account with you IMMEDIATELY. With effect from today.

I have switched back to Hutch and am very very happy.

I hate you people so much that If I ever have a son, I will forgive him for any tresspasses - for being a cunt, for being a drug addict, for voting BJP, for being a serial killer, for being a rapist, for being a politician... anything but taking an Airtel Connection. There is no excuse for that.

Thank you and good riddance,

George Koshy

Books

2006-03-28T22:45:00.000-08:00

I went to Bombay last week and went berserk at Crosswords. Bought some insane amount of books. Haven't told anyone about them yet cos I'm worried about someone asking for them before I read them.

Reading a book for the first time is like popping a cherry. You want to do it cos you bought it after all. Why should someone else get first shot?

Also there's the new book smell.. Aaah! Iove the smell of the toner or the ink. Whatever makes it smell so heavenly.

There's no dangerof anyone I know in Bangalore reading this so I'll put up a list of my latest acquisition here. They are:

Paddy Clark Ha ha ha - Roddy Doyle
The Van - Roddy Doyle
Junky - William S Burroughs
The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy
L.A. Confidential - James Ellroy
The Big Sleep - Raymond Chandler
High Fidelity - Nick Hornsby
Stories for the sleepless (Or something too that effect) -Roald Dahl
Eyre affair - Jasper Fforde

Only the lonely

2006-03-28T04:59:00.000-08:00

I've been wondering why I make friends with the most unlikely of people. I mean, people who I hang out with aren't even normal. They're as mad as hatters.

Take for instance my best friend. We've been friends since grade 11. ( My father's a cop and he got shifted around a lot in the custom of the Indian Police Service. This was the only time I made a good friend who didn't live across the state.)

This guy sells everything he owns except his bike and buys himself a broadcast quality Video camera and then disappears. I meet him after 8 months, shaven from head to foot.

A little probing reveals that he had been to Tibet. Ordinarilly I wouldn't consider this extraordinary, except for the fact that he jumped the border. He travelled illegally into Tibet, trying to document a long forgotten occult religion called 'Bohn'.

If that wasn't mad enough, he couldn't use normal means of transportation for fear of being found by the Chinese, who, might I ad, would shoot him for a spy if he was caught. He therefore travels by horseback with a bunch of nomads. And since they only bathe once in a month, ( if you're lucky), he had to shave all the hair off his body so as to keep out the body lice.

Once, he travelled three days on horseback. When he finally got off, he realized he couldn't remove his pants. This was because the saddles are made of wood, you see. Constant rubbing against his skin had made his skin bleed and the blood clotted, bonding his skin to the trousers. He had to pour hot water over his butt before he could painfully remove it inch by inch.

Example No 2. My other good friend from college. He's studied with me in St. Stephens, went on to get an MBA from one of the most prestigious universities in the country. Went on to join an MNC at a salary that would make people's jaw drop.

Today, he's quit his job and he practices Reiki. He travels by buses, not even rickshaws, mind you, and lives in a one room set in the back of beyond.

Mad as hatters. All of them. Maybe I'm just the same and that's why I get along so well with them. I can't dig ordinary people. I can't discuss "Brokeback Mountain" and the Academy Awards.

Like Kerouac says,

" They danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!' "

I love my crazy insane bunch of friends. Mates! I'd choose you guys over the whole world, everytime.

On the road. Again.

2006-02-26T22:50:00.000-08:00

"I smiled. Long. Hard. With cheeks paining. With tears streaming. Shades gleaming. Wind screaming. I smiled.

I shouted. Gulped down an insect. Maybe he wanted to share my joy. He's a part of me now. Changed gears. Top gear. Top joy. Top dog."

A miserable attempt at writing in a style that's not really mine. Why I attempted it, I can't say. The thing is that I went on a long and tiresome but fulfilling motorcycle ride yesterday. Just thought I'd write about it differently. Didn't work I guess.

8 O' clock on a Sunday morning and I'm hungover as hell. The bottles of beer are still clinking in my head. Wait! There was a quart of Rum too. That explains the nausea. I know I shouldn't mix my drinks. But I end up doing just that. Always chasing that elusive high.

I need grease. To settle my stomach. Bacon sizzling on the pan. Shouldn't have bought it from Nilgiris. Too less fat for it to stew in by itself. And bird flu eggs. Hah! Wouldn't it be a laugh to die of an avian influenza after living a life of booze and dangerous living. Just the twist God needs to complete my sick fucked up story.

The bacon did some good and the beer did a lot more. Hair of the dog. Do you know what they call it that? Apparently in the olden days, it was believed that the very thing that causes the problem, could cure you. So if a dog bit you, you'd pluck a few hairs off the dog, burn it and rub it on your wound. Hah! Good luck with a Cobra bite.

I seem to spend more time preparing for a trip than on the trip itself. Flash light. Check! Tinned food. Check! Swiss knife. Check! Towel. Check! I think I'm stalling. I love travelling. But I hate starting.

I force myself on the bike. My backpack trussed up behind me with some bungee cord. Now wait a minute and look at the bungee. It's supposed to set someone free. It just tied my pack down. That's life for you. You invent things for some noble purpose and others come around and fuck it right up. Nuclear power. Dynamite. It's the same with everything.

Full tank and I'm off. Sunday morning traffic. Sparse and well dressed. People going to church to sin. Stare at the girl in the front row with a wedgie in her skirt. Visible panty line. "Give us today our daily peep. And deliver us our trespasses!"

Knopfler's in the air. "The Lord is my shepheard. He leadeth me through pastures green. He gave us this day. Our daily bread and Gasoline!." That's so rich, I hum it. Over and over. Untill I'm fucking it up with my own version. Sorry Mark.

I wear my new 900 Rs. sunglasses. I've lost count of the number of shades I've bought and lost. Police, Ray Bans, DKNY. They've all been procured, used and left behind at some obscure place within a week. This time I buy some cheaper brand called Miami Blues. In fucking Bannerghata road. That's rich.

I'm heading for Mysore. Making good time. The road's good in parts. Some places it's just fucked up. The bike feels good. I borrowed it off a friend who also owns a Santro. Imagine that. Poles fucking apart. That's life again for you.

Am I philosophising too much? Maybe it's the road. I get like that when I ride solo.

Reach for a cigarette. Couldn't find Classic Regulars. Had to settle for Milds. I don't like Milds. It'll kill you slowly. Not "El Macho" enough for me. I've perfected the art of lighting up while riding. A dangerous maneuver, but then so is crossing the street. Statistically more people around the world would have died crossing roads than lighting a cigarette on a motorcycle. I'm sure of it.

Reaching Mandya. Some fucked up town on the way to Mysore. The funny thing is that the road's pretty good all the way till a town limit. Then the road disintegrated to a mish-mash of gravel, slush and pebbles. If they could maintain the road for 30 kilometers between the towns, can't they just do a few more kilometers within them? Maybe some kind of bureaucratic fuck up. The road inside the town probably comes under the purvey of some town planning commission, while the road outside probably belongs to the National Highway Authority. Just the sort of idiotic thing that's bringing this country down. I swear. Give me the job of the Prime Minister for a month and see what I'll do.

Not fucking likely. Anyway I'd probably pish away the taxpayers money on some rave parties. But there's one good think I'd do. Legalize Marijuana. That alone should make me hugely famous. Almost as much as Gandhi I'd like to think.

Reached Srirangapatnam. Tipu Sultan's summer palace. Now it's just a few boulders and sections of walls by the side of a river. They say he was sold out by his own kin. A pretty fucked up way to die. No wonder the kings always kept their relatives at an arms length. My parents did that with me too. But that's whole new can of worms. Let's not even go there.

I find a nice spot by the river. Disembarked and disrobed I wade in. The water's perfect. Also perfect for the crocodiles that inhabit this area. This place's not really crocodile country but Tipu Sultan had them brought here to lend more sting to his moat. Now that their services have been dismissed with, they'r left free to prey on other animals and not humans. Only they don't know it. They still eye the visitors who come to eye them. "Do not eat the exhibits" they should be briefed.

I climb one of the large rocks in the river. I'm feeling vary. "My spider sense is tingling". Suddenly I don't want to be in the water anymore. But there's a 20 foot body of water between me and safety. This is not good. But what's the worst that can happen. I'll be dinner. My clients eat me for breakfast everyday anyway. Fuck it. I jump in and swim back to shore.

A can of baked beans and garlic bread later, I'm feeling good. I'm dry. Contented and feeling good about myself. I hear laughter in the distance. It's bunch of college kids. Perfet timing. They can't see me now but they will any moment now. I'm naked. I reach for my trousers and then let it go. Serves them fucking right for fucking up my day.

I lie back in my naked splendour and wait. The boy sees me first and stops. The girl next. Another girl and boy round the corner and see me and stop too. Faces flushed, they turn back. They can't see my eyes for my shades. Thank you Miami Blues. They leave. Talking in hushed tones.

I doze off again. When I wake it's 5 O' clock. Need to be getting back. I head back to the road again. I see a Qualis parked some distance away. The kids are there. They giggle as I ride by. I don't care. I'm on the road. Again.

He says she says

2006-02-20T23:25:00.000-08:00

"I read over your blog, and i found it inquisitive, you may find My Blog interesting. Please click here to read mine." Says the man as a comment to one of my posts.

Who are these parasites? I didn't know they went online?

Please don't insult my intelligence my man. I do have an IQ that runs into triple figures. Do you seriously believe that I would for a moment consider purveying your blog after you've left a non-commital, insensitive message like this? Maybe I should really click on his link and then flood his comment page with the same message. But then I'll be giving him fuel to keep doing it to others.

Trash me, trash my writing, trash my personality, trash my beliefs. Or be good to me, tell me I write passably well. Tell me I have a kind heart. Tell me, deep inside, I'm a beautiful person. But for God's sake, don't feed me that bullshit about finding my blog, what was that word? Ah! "Inquisitive!".

I'm an advertising writer. I feed people bullshit everyday. I sell people things they don't even need. But I don't invade their space and feed them some bullshit line. People opt to buy a Newspaper and people know that Ads are a part of it. You can choose to read them or choose to ignore them. You can flip the channel on the TV if you don't like an ad.

But this Trojanic style of getting people to come to your blog is really too much. It's downright disgusting.

Please stay away. Both for my sake and yours.

?

2006-02-13T02:37:00.000-08:00

So where did you go last night.
Was it some stranger's place?
Where did you go last night?
There's a strange look upon your face

You flick love off your sleeve
like a speck of dust
And I never thought you'd ever leave
Even though I knew you must.

Well that's what comes of holding on
to a love that's spent.
And though I said I'd be leaving,
I never really ever went.

So now I haunt the bars and pubs
for a glimpse of your face.
While you sip your rum and coke
in some stranger's place.

The Living Dead

2006-02-06T02:38:00.000-08:00

Ever wondered why 'Life', something that is supposed to represent energy, motion, change and all that living stands for, seems to stagnate ever so often. And ironically, Death seems to have more 'life' in it.

Someone once said that suicide happens when the fear of life overpowers the fear of death. Now, I'm not in a morbid mood and I'm not suicidal at all. But every once in a while, when it's afternoon and the office has settled down after lunch, there seems to be a lull in life's life force. That's when death suddenly seems a livelier option.

It doesn't shout at you and command you to slit your wrist or jump off the top of the building. It just whispers in your ears to entice you into it's domain. It's almost as sensual and subte as a light touch on your shoulder, or a caress of your face. And you begin contemplating the change over.

And then there's the thrill of shocking everyone when they least expect it. I mean, if you'd shut yourself into your room for 3 days and then someone found you dead, it wouldn't exactly be a surprise.

But if you had come in on a monday morning, full of beans, laughing, smiling. And an hour later, the office workers find your limp body oozing life on the pavement, wouldn't it come as a shock to everyone.

But what's the pont, when you won't even be around to see your handywork.

I am afraid of death. Not because it means an end to life as such or that it might be painful. I don't worry about that. I'm worried that if I die, it might have all my illusions shattered. My theories on God, afterlife, heaven, good and bad.

What if God's not really this benevolent force that I believe in and is rather this sadistic beast I kind of suspect he is? What if some unknown religious sect was right about the nature of the universe? What if shintoism is right and my own religion wrong? What if God is an 5 headed, 8 breasted 4 balled, dickless hermaphrodite? Or worse yet, what is God is a woman?

But jokes apart, that's why I'm scared of dying.

The DMS syndrome and its role in my downfall

2005-11-24T08:33:00.000-08:00

I suffer from drunken SMS syndrome. A seriously debilitating disease that affects me almost every night. In the past my cellphone didn't support saving outgoing sms and so the next morning i was content with just reading the reaction to the chaos I had caused. My new cellphone is rather unforgiving that way. Like a graphite shaft 1 wood for a 200 yard shot instead of a metal shaft. You can now realize your mistake the instant you make it. And consequently live with it for the duration of the week.

Ususally, with my old phone, I would send out some nonsensical love essemmesses to women I just recently met and therefore screw up any chances of conjugal bliss. For that matter conjugation at all.

Now I can take corrective measures in the morning, when after a close scrutiny of the sent messages i can conjure up an alibi for the madness of the night before. Gettng dumped, losing a close uncle, (And believe me I have a lot of uncles to lose), being witness to the sight of my friend's dog become a roadkill, (I also have many friends), and my trump card, domestic violence and sexual abuse. I've actually gotten over the last two but it's a good card to flash when it's convenient.

The one good thing that comes of this affliction is that I have realized that I'm deep down a very deep person. I'm not superficial at all. Once drunk, I care for neither race nor religion, age or state of physical well being, economic disparity or beauty. I sms regardless of the fact that the woman I'm smsing is as old as my grandmother's nanny or the fact that she has a Saigon eye, a Normandy leg and a retractable clit. My emotions are not swayed by any of these factors.

It's only when the roosters come home to crow in the morning that I realize my folly and the magnitude of the blunder I've made.

Last call for Alcohol

2005-11-07T01:15:00.000-08:00

So you’ve gone and done it again
The Tequila told me so
I’d just dropped by for a stupor
When I came to know

When the Tequila was done talking
The Beers picked up the strain
The Whiskey chipped in with his deep baritone
And the Vodkas hummed the refrain

The Bourbon alone kept his peace
Perhaps he knew my plight
It’s been the friend of many a broken heart
Till the wee hours of the night

And soon the bar resounded with
The dashed deed you’d done
And I had no choice but to comply with
“Free Drinks for everyone”

Thank God it's Friday

2005-09-26T06:57:00.000-07:00

Aaah! the joys of travel. This weekend ended up being one of the most fullfiling ever. Funny I only noticed it when I sat down to write this blog. Maybe that's cos I'm still a part of it, though I'm back in office on a Monday morning. Hope it lasts.

I don't believe in Monday morning blues. Mondays can whizz past reminiscing about all the fun you had the previous day. A similar feeling can get you through tuesdays too. But come Wednesday, and you're bang in the middle of the week. Two days since your last fun binge and two days away from a fresh one. Life seems at it lowest on a wednesday morning.

But coming back to the weekend, I was off to Chennai. A last minute decision on friday evening found me running from pillar to post, looking for any means of getting me from Bangalore to Chennai, a distance of 360 Kilometers, as the crow flies.

YessBee travels came to my aid in the last minute. "Ess Saar" said the voice over the phone in a pronounced Malayalee accent. "Ve hawe jest one ticket left in the bus. Please come to Madivala by 10:30"

Madivala? That's beyond the back of beyond. It's one of those places you hear of, but never venture to. Like those vague horrible diseases you read about in the papers, but have never met anyone suffering from. Angiofollicular Lymphoid Hyperplasia, Lymphohistiocytosis, Hemophagocytic, Ramsay Hunt Auricular Syndrome. There are thousands more where that came from. A list of unending disorders and condition ranging from the unpronounceable to the unmentionable. Madivala's like that. Everyone can tell you where it is. But few have ventured there.

Anyway, since there was no time to dilly dally, I pack my backpack and look for an autorickshaw that will take me to Madivala.

You haven't felt rejection until you’ve been rejected by a Bangalore rickshaw driver. Nothing prepares you for the absolute rejection that he’s about to mete out to you.

Women might give you a reason for rejecting you, people at interviews may hem and haw but come up with an excuse, friends may try and put it to you gently. And thought you’ve been through “But we can be friends”, “Sorry but we think you’re overqualified for the job”, “Sorry dude, I’ve got to take my girlfriend to the movie” and “No! you may not borrow my car.”, nothing prepares you for the Bangalore rickshaw wallah.

You stand on the road and motion for a rickshaw to stop. One veers out of the traffic at the last moment, nearly missing the cyclist who now swears at him. He pulls over, next to you and cocks his head in your direction, all the while never once looking you in the eye.

You step up and say “Madiwala?” Suddenly the gear is engaged and the throttle pulled and the rickshaw peels off and joins the traffic, while you are left standing there wondering if you said something wrong. You’ve just been rejected. And that’s just the beginning. You invariably have to go through half a dozen of them before you finally find one who’s willing to take you. By that time, you are humbled. You meekly climb into the rickshaw, licking your emotional wounds and scheme at how to get back at him. Should you not tip him at all. Naw! Too cheap. How about overtipping him. That may make him a little less harder on the next unsuspecting traveler. So for the sake of mankind, you dig deep into your pocket and generously tip him. As you walk away, you turn back to see the look of surprise on his face. You expect him to look at you the way the children of Israel looked to Moses as he parted the Red Sea.

But you’re rejected again. He just pockets the change and drives off. The rejection is now complete.

Now that I have reached Madivala, I think I can rest easy. 'Have no fear YessBee is here!' I settle down with my ticket and wait for my iron steed to arrive. 2 hours later, I’m still waiting.

When finally the bus arrives, I’m told that my ticket was a temporary ticket, and I was supposed to get it confirmed at the booking office. But now it’s 12 a.m. and the office is shut. 200 bucks later, I have in my hands a confirmed ticket.

Completely exhausted, I climb into my bus seat and settle down. I shall be in Chennai at 7 in the morning. I think I life’s shown me all his cards. There are no more surprises left. The game has ended.

Just then life plays his last card. It come in the form of an extremely plump man whose ticket entitles him to sit on the same seat that my ticket entitles me to sit on.

What follows is a melee of sorts. An extremely agitated fat man with a high pitched voice trying to drown out the voice of a thin squat conductor with a voice like he has a couple of frogs mating in his throat.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m on the bus. This time in the cramped seat right in the back. I lean my head on my bag and turn the AC vent towards myself.

It’s going to be a very, very, very long night.

The remains of the day

2005-09-23T02:26:00.000-07:00

I just cleaned out my backpack and was amused at what I found there. Here's a list of what all was there:

- Swiss Army knife
- Spare duracell batteries
- Durex Ultras thin condom
- Boarding pass of an Indian Airlines ticket to Chennai
- Receipt of 4 chocolates and a book bought at the airport
- Silica Gel pouch from my camera bag
- A AddGel pen cap
- Some spare change
- A packet of 'Chutki' mouth freshener
- Airline sweets
- A toothpick from the 'Golden Dragon'
- a piece of bark I picked up at 'Naukuchiatal'
- Pebbles from Manali

Wonder what that says about me and my travels?

Gone to Oktober....

2005-09-19T22:37:00.000-07:00

I'm going to Ammmmmmsssssssttttttteeeeeerrrrrrr DAMN. Damn that feels good. First it's Frankfurt, then the Hague and then AAAAmmmmsssttteeerrrr DAMMMMMMNN. Pity I couldn't leave earlier. I would have loved to be in Germany during the Oktoberfest. But guess you should count your blessing and not ask for too much.

Nordic and slavic blond chicks, lots of good beer, hash bars, great nightlife. Could a man ask for more. I'm in seventh heaven already. I hope my visa works out thought. The fact that I'm Indian and single doesn't help much. But there's no harm in trying anyway.

Please wish me all the luck. God knows I need every bit.

A tale of three tales

2005-09-08T07:21:00.000-07:00

I just noticed that reading three short stories at one stretch tires me more than reading half a novel. I think it has something to do with the range of emotions you traverse across in three short stories. How else would you explain the feeling of fatigue after reading 3 stories consisting of 12-15 pages each, while I have sometimes read as many as a 100 pages of a novel without feeling a thing.

I was reading a book of short stories by Jack London.Three stories down, I was emotionally exhausted. I had gone from happiness to excitement, to dejection, to elation all within the 12 pages of one story. Three stories later, I lay spent. It was almost as if I lived the life of the characters I had read about.

What else could it be. I consider myself pretty emotionally strong. I have weathered storms that would make a lesser man shrivel up and die. Physical abuse, mental torment, battery and assault. Peer pressure, I've sailed through all of them and emerged unscathed. But three short stories have humbled me.

Is another's burden heavier than one's own. Or is the time factor to be blamed.

While reading a short story, in 15 minutes, you relive all the emotions that the character did in a month. So the effect on you is more profound.

Is that it? Are short stories a more powerful medium than 600 page epic novels?

The Agency song

2005-09-06T00:53:00.000-07:00

The deadline cometh, and I'm not yet done.
It's going to be curtains, for everyone.

I can feel butterflies, in my pit.
The shit'll hit the fan, and I'll be rolling in it.

The Art guy casts, a longing glance,
Hoping that there might, still be a chance.

That I shall, the campaign crack.
And get servicing, off his back.

But his prayers, have been in vain.
And I'm beginning, to feel the strain.

My nerves are shot, my brain's turned to jelly
And there's a funny feeling, in my belly.

My sphincter seems, to have lost control.
And my stomach's doing, a triple jump roll.

My doom it seems, is imminent.
My star is definitely in descent.

But just when you think, disaster is nigh.
There appears a light, in the sky.

Coeus, it seems, has heard my prayer.
And delivered me, from my despair.

The deadline now, has come to pass.
And I have just barely saved my arse.

But a new deadline shall come again,
And I shall write yet another refrain.

About the nature of the job I’ve come to love,
And the divine intervention from up above.

And the hundred deaths I die each day,
Just to sell come ‘Frito Lays.’

Gin soaked boy

2005-09-05T21:57:00.000-07:00

I'm the darkness in the light
I'm the leftness in the right
I'm the rightness in the wrong
I'm the shortness in the long
I'm the goodness in the bad
I'm the saneness in the mad
I'm the sadness in the joy
I'm the gin in the gin-soaked boy

I'm the ghost in the machine
I'm the genius in the gene
I'm the beauty in the beast
I'm the sunset in the east
I'm the ruby in the dust
I'm the trust in the mistrust
I'm the trojan horse in troy
I'm the gin in the gin-soaked boy

I'm the tiger's empty cage
I'm the mystery's final page
I'm the stranger's lonely glance
I'm the hero's only chance
I'm the undiscovered land
I'm the single grain of sand
I'm the christmas morning toy
I'm the gin in the gin-soaked boy

I'm the world you'll never see
I'm the slave you'll never free
I'm the truth you'll never know
I'm the place you'll never go
I'm the sound you'll never hear
I'm the course you'll never steer
I'm the will you'll not destroy
I'm the gin in the gin-soaked boy

I'm the half-truth in the lie
I'm the why not in the why
I'm the last roll of the die
I'm the old school in the tie
I'm the spirit in the sky
I'm the catcher in the rye
I'm the twinkle in her eye
I'm the jeff goldblum in "the fly"

Who am i?

The Lowe song

2005-09-04T21:56:00.000-07:00

Found an old poem I wrote, back when I was a trainee copywriter with Lowe Lintas, Delhi. Back when I was paid peanuts and worked like a donkey. I captured my helplessness in this poem one night while chasing a deadline at 5 in the morning after 4 days of constant work. I then went and made numerous copies and pasted it on everybody's tables as an act of retribution. It worked, and I finally got 2 days off. Finding it after 5 years, this feeling of nostalgia washes over me. I wanted to share it with whoever's interested.

The Lowe Lintas Song (The company name has now changed to Lowe)

Abide with me Lowe, comes the big deadline.
Client Servicing threatens, Lowe with me abide.

Media planning fucks up, and all the CDs flee.
Help of the helpless Oh! Abide with me

I need thy presence, every passing hour.
what but thy grace can foil the clients power.

Who like thyself my guide and stay can be,
through brief and deadline, Oh abide with me.

I fear no foe with thee at hands to bless,
BILT has no weight, eGurucool no bittterness,

Where Parker's sting where Nestle's Fruit-tips three.
Help of the hopeless, Oh! Abide with me.

'Men at work' rocks.

2005-09-04T21:48:00.000-07:00

Who can it be knocking at my door?
Go 'way, don't come 'round here no more.
Can't you see that it's late at night?
I'm very tired, and I'm not feeling right.

All I wish is to be alone;
Stay away, don't you invade my home.
Best off if you hang outside,
Don't come in - I'll only run and hide.

Who can it be knocking at my door?
Make no sound, tip-toe across the floor.
If he hears, he'll knock all day,
I'll be trapped, and here I'll have to stay.

I've done no harm, I keep to myself;
There's nothing wrong with my state of mental health.
I like it here with my childhood friend;
Here they come, those feelings again!

In love with love

2005-08-31T08:45:00.000-07:00

That's my problem. For that matter, that's the problem with my kind. You stay in love with love long after it's left the building. Long after the war is over, the battles lost and the colours burnt. You remain in love with the feeling of being in love.

And then you look for it in all the wrong places. Places where people like you don't usually hang out. And then you meet someone entirely alien. But you want to believe that you're like each other. And so you launch yourself into another love story, making believe that you love her. But it's not her. It's love.

You realize your folly too late. Many ugly scenes, jealousies and insecurities later. And once again you find yourself on the footpath on the road to hell.

Sad but true.

Jack Daniel song

2005-08-18T03:22:00.000-07:00

The bottle it’s empty
The whiskey it's gone
But my head is full
And my heart is torn

You see love and whiskey
they’re both the same
Too much of either
and you’ll feel the pain

A bellyful’s too much
A thimble too little
But the thirst’s still building
And the resolve is brittle

It’s time to call it quits
t’s time to throw in the towel
So roll over my darlin’
and pour me a double

Cos life is just
too hard to please
Leaves you beggin
on your knees

And love’s just
an unkempt whore
Do what you want
and settle the score

For at the end my friend
there’s aught you’ll get
Not a clap on the back,
not a pat on the head

Just Six feet of wood
a bunch of rusty nails
And a handful of dust
to cover your trail.

The art of Giving

2005-06-29T00:59:00.000-07:00

I have realized that it is infinitely easier to be kind to a stranger, than to one you already know. Charity in the case of the latter, has to start where you left off the last time. Whereas the former is unencumbered by your past history of kindnesses.

Random acts of charity earn you more blessings, happiness and satisfaction than a regular charitable habit.

Take for instance a beggar on the street. If you were to walk up to one and give him a 50 Re note, he would first look at the note in incredulity and then at you in reverence. You would be vaulted straight to the top of his charts, possibly next to the maker himself. A 100 Re note would hopefully swing the balance in your favour and ensure that you emerge 'Numero Uno'.

In scenario 2, let us assume that you've been in the habit of endowing a certain beggar with a certain amount of money everyday. An increase in his daily kindness will have to be of geometric proportions, to register as a blip on his Richter scale. He is, after all used to a certain degree of complacency as far as your generosity is concerned.

The same can be said about smaller, non fiscal acts like offering seats, opening doors, giving way on the road, sharing an umbrella etc. etc.

And so I shall begin today, to mete out heaps of kindnesses to unknown persons on the streets. I shall be the savour of the unknown man. The champion of the cause yet undiscovered.

And if the prayers of the last beggar is to be believed, I shall have a Buckingham Palace ready for me in the after life.

Though this be madness, there is method in it.

2005-06-28T00:53:00.000-07:00

It's amazing how absolutely opposite emotions are closer to each other than you think. Pain isn't that far away from ecstasy. And often light and dark dwell within the same plane.

I chanced upon this revelation under the least likely circumstances. A board room full of jargon spewing, frothing at the mouth MBAs, dissecting the cadaver that was my TV script. A common problem that occurs when the sharp surgical knife of reason is handed over to a bunch of trigger happy MBAs, each trying to prove a point.

The experienced surgeon cuts lightly, and only where required, and often not at all. These dingbats on the other hand, wield the knife with the finesse of a butcher. Slashing away at every exposed inch of skin in sight.

And it was in the midst of this bloodbath that I realized that I was absolutely alone. In a room with 20 men, I was more lonesome than I would have been in a room with 20 empty chairs. Physically, I was in the company of 20 warm blooded beings. But mentally, I might as well have been on the Moon.

It was then that it dawned on me. Opposites only seem opposites. They are in fact more closely related than we think.

For example when you're hungry, you feel the pangs in your stomach. And with the passing of time, it gets worse and worse untill suddenly you aren't hungry at all. At the pinnacle of hunger, rests satiety. And similarly with pain. People often go into a state of ecstasy as soon as the pain becomes unbearable.

And so it is with anger. I remember I would get scolded for doing something wrong, and with the severity of the deed, the extent of punishment would increase. Only to cease, if I did the unthinkable.

Maybe I'm wrong. But you can't fault me for observation. There is method in my madness.

Wild Things

2005-06-19T23:29:00.000-07:00

Parambikulam is a 285 sq kilometer wildlife reserve to the north of Kerala. And I had the privilege of spending my weekend there.

Tourists avoid this wildlife haven like a plague during the monsoons. What with leeches, mosquitoes, slush, unstable terrain, snakes, leaky roofs and perpetual rains. All the more reasons for me to go. I like taking vacations which you need vacations to recover from. And I got exactly what I bargained for.

Parambikulam is a village of exactly 6 thached houses. To explain how remote it really is, let me tell you about my conversation with a local. I asked him if there was a telephone booth nearby. He pointed to a little thached hut which doubles up as a house and a restaurant, and assured me that indeed an instrument of that nature was to be found there. However upon further questioning, it was revealed to me that it doesn't have STD facilities. Which means you can only dial locally, i.e. the only other phone in the next village, some 10 kilometers away.

Anyway, after rowing for an hour (No motorboats allowed as they disturb the wildlife) across a crocodile infested lake, we reached our place of residence. The 'Bungalow' as it turned out, was nothing but a single, large room with a row of indigenously made bamboo beds with a thatch base. The procurement of two local chickens for the price of Rs. 300 each (broiler is 100 a kg) was to be our dinner for the night. Since I had prior experience with hunting, the job of killing and skinning the chickens fell to me. A dangerous endeavour since wild sloth bears lurk around the premises, and the smell of blood is sure to attract one.

Dinner cooked, leeches pulled off and wounds tended to, we pulled out our sleeping bags and lay awake, taking in the sounds of the jungle. Each time we heard a snort or a call in the distance, we'd jump up and shine our toorches, to no avail, into the inky blackness of the jungle. Oh! did I mention that there was no electricity there? Well there wasn't.

The next morning, saw us setting off to spot animals and birds. Immediately, we spied on the far bank, a herd of Bisons. Rowing as quietly as we could, (Which is about as quietly as a bull in a china shop), we crept up to the other bank. Thankfully, we were downwind to the herd and were able to skirt over a small hill untill we were almost over them. Just as we stood there, cameras ready, focusing on the heard, someone stepped on a stick. The resulting crack sent the herd into the jungle at a trot. Thankfully, Bisons are demure creatures and don't often attack or we'd been toast.

That day we saw heards of Cheetals (Spotted deer), Sambars (Especially one male with an impressive set of antelers.), and some more Bisons. We also managed to spot a number of birds like the River Tern, The crested snake eagle, The great hornbill, Little owlet, the Greater Raquet-tailed Drongo. The most cherished spotting was that of the Malabar Whistling Thrush, also called the 'Whistling schoolboy' for it's lazy, whistling call.

But the most memorable encounter was with a herd of wild elephants. It was around 12 in the night and we'd set off to spot animals from our SUV. Along with us was a guide who it is necessary to take along as they know the animals and where they are to be found. Just as we aproached a bend in the road, we heard a trumpet call of a tusker. Screeching to a halt at the bend, we were in awe of what we saw. A parade of elephants, not more than 10 meters away. Silently the guide, grabbed the driver by the arm and motioned for us to slowly back off. As we did, we saw a tusker step forward as if to warn us about our proximity. Even the guide was a little rattled by the unexpected encounter. So, nervously from a distance, we watched with our searchlight, the herd move on. We watced in awe as one elephant wrapped its trunk around a bunch of tall thick bamboo plants and effortlessly pull them out of the ground. These bamboos must have been at least 10 - 13 meters tall and about a foot across and would take more than a bulldozer to raze.

And so we left Parambikulam the next day a little humbled, and a little wiser. Three days of solitude and hardships had enobled us like no three decades in a city could. We promised to come back next season. And we intend to.

An alcoholic in alcohol

2005-06-15T02:03:00.000-07:00

Ever walked into a biology lab and seen those specimens in their bottles of formaldehyde? They just sit there and vegetate. They don't decay, they don't regenarate. They're frozen in time.

Pretty much the situaton I find myself in. I don't move on. Neither do I go back to her. I''ve tried both, but all roads lead to those formaldehyde bottles. A state of suspension where you sit there and watch the world pass you by.

I'm an alcoholic in alcohol.

Road to nowhere

2005-06-14T22:00:00.000-07:00

'The thing I love about Bangalore is the names of streets and the towns. I mean I'd rather pick 'St. Marks' road and 'Wheeler road' over Delhi's 'Bheesham Pitamah marg' or 'Baba Khadag Singh marg'. I'd rather pick Frasier Town and Cox Town over 'Sreenivaspuri' or 'Mongolpuri'.

A conversation in Delhi would go something like:

"So Where do you live?"

"Sreenivaspuri"

"Where's that?"

"You know the Okhla Mandi? It's a little down that road."

"You mean Shaheed Captain Gaur Marg?"

"Yup."

"Cool"

And now we come to a conversation in Bnagalore.

"So where do you live?"

"Grace Town"

"Where's that?"

"You know Wheeler road? Take a right off it onto the Frasier town main road.

Ok cool.

Now you decide which one is cooler. Yes I admit that Bangalore too has its anomalies like 'Lingarajapuram' and 'Banaswadi' but what's important is that they have some cool names too.

I like the idea of living in Grace Town, rather than some 'Rabindra Nagar' somewhere.

The fat of the land

2005-06-13T23:28:00.000-07:00

Have you noticed that people don't call really fat people 'fat'. I guess it's a little like pointing out the obvious. They only call slightly overweight people fat. I mean would someone ever walk up to Adnan Sami or Yokozuna and tell him that he's overweight? They'll probably go over to him and tell him he has an excellent voice or a charming appeal. But someone like me, who's fit but has a little flab around the middle, is suddenly open to criticism.

So, mediocrity is to be despised while the blatantly extreme are to be spared. It's funny isn't it. And this seems to be a trend across cultures. And thought this phenomenon is not contained by geography, it is by age. Children don't give a fuck. They call fat people fat and thin people thin. They are not bound by the laws of decency that we grown ups are.

I've seen people walk up to an exceedingly obese man and compliment him on his figure. And later walk up to me and tell me that I seem to have put on a few pounds.

Don't we, the obviously boderline, have feelings too?

The flight

2005-06-11T01:07:00.000-07:00

I've left Delhi like a man leaving a whorehouse. Silently packing my bags and sneaking off unseen into the night. Not that I have anyone to run away from. Just my life in that sinful city. I have packed all my belongings into 2 large bags. It's funny how 8 years of your life can fit into someting as small as a Samsonite case. I'd have thought that it'll amount to something more substantial.

But the bagage I carry is in my heart and my head. Visions of an relationship gone bad. Of drunken night spent sprawled on the living room floor. Snatches of heated conversations at 4 in the morning.

So I have come to Bangalore. To a new city.

But I have a new life now. Or do I?

Genesis

2005-06-10T03:29:00.000-07:00

Long have I resisted the call of the Blog. For reasons unknown to myself, I just couldn't come to terms with doing a "Full Monty" with my views annd beliefs when I can't even see the spectators.

But then again, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
So here goes.