Very soon I shall leave upon the dodgy wings of another more or less disorganized plan for tonight. Absolutely loving it!
Its going to be awesome, I know it. And I'm so sure about it for the simple reason that I have no clue how.
Yes. Thats how it'll work. Wait and see.
Monday, December 31, 2007
And The Reason Is....
But more than anything else, I say it was necessary. I say more than anything else because it is also quite fun. And its my blog, and thus has every right to be equally off its head. Not to mention brilliant, intelligent, sexy, smart, charming and many oh many more things I shall leave out for right now, the list of my well-deserved compliments being quite fascinating but I admit slightly unnecessary to the crux of our discussion. Pch pch. The second most important reason is that a post is a post if I call it say, and I needn't have anything to add, or to say, or to bedazzle with. There. You are now reduced to the ego of a little mouse.
May I now share the primary reason? Why did I do this? Why this strange, incredibly senseless hoopdidah? Why oh why, dear sir?
*drum roll. curtain shoved aside. confetti blasts all around, one taking out a slow to react old lady*
I have now reached 100 blog-posts for the year!! Yay! Yay yay!! Yay yay yay!!! Yes! *does the yes thing a la Brett Lee*
In my mind, I hear trumpets of glory. I hear marching bands playing tribute. I hear hordes of screaming fans. I hear Geoff Boycott jumping all over the commentary box, ecstatically singing praises at what has surely been a most remarkable innings by a quite remarkable young man, indeed. Oh the glory! Oh the fantastic-ness of it all. Move over Sashin, move over Gangooli, move over Doe-ny. C&B, take a bow!
*I take a bow*
Thank you for your wishes (in advance. obviously, dolt.) and thank you for all the love and the support and the envy and the jealous fits of rage. If you weren't my bitches, I wouldnt be here. Happy new year world!
Resolution: It will be an adventure this year round. Extraordinary and awesome. Fantastic and mind-boggling. Legendary.
May I now share the primary reason? Why did I do this? Why this strange, incredibly senseless hoopdidah? Why oh why, dear sir?
*drum roll. curtain shoved aside. confetti blasts all around, one taking out a slow to react old lady*
I have now reached 100 blog-posts for the year!! Yay! Yay yay!! Yay yay yay!!! Yes! *does the yes thing a la Brett Lee*
In my mind, I hear trumpets of glory. I hear marching bands playing tribute. I hear hordes of screaming fans. I hear Geoff Boycott jumping all over the commentary box, ecstatically singing praises at what has surely been a most remarkable innings by a quite remarkable young man, indeed. Oh the glory! Oh the fantastic-ness of it all. Move over Sashin, move over Gangooli, move over Doe-ny. C&B, take a bow!
*I take a bow*
Thank you for your wishes (in advance. obviously, dolt.) and thank you for all the love and the support and the envy and the jealous fits of rage. If you weren't my bitches, I wouldnt be here. Happy new year world!
Resolution: It will be an adventure this year round. Extraordinary and awesome. Fantastic and mind-boggling. Legendary.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Crushing You
Some people absolutely thrive under pressure. They love it. The rush, the adrenaline, the possibility of getting cornered in a dark alley with your back against the wall. That sort of stuff charges them up to perform better and better. Its how they, so to say, roll.
We are a different people though. Me and Team India. We don't do high pressure times very well. Put us in a terrible spot and ask of us feats of great daring, might and courage and all those things, and we start fantasizing about lunch. Not exactly the force you want to send in to rescue prisoners from guarded hilltops or save children from burning fires. Its not enthusiasm we lack, a burning building with children trapped inside being just as much excitement for me as the next fellow. We just dont look forward to turning in our own terrific acts of valour and displays of awesomeness in the middle of all the mess. As was elaborated conveniently by Sachin, choosing to get out just a few minutes before lunch time, because the Aussies were making faces at him. The greater the pressure, the tenser the situation, the larger the weight entrusted upon our shoulders, the greater is the urge to distract ourselves and let it all go. Not that we're incapable or anything. Or lacking in talent. Rest assured that I'm a perfectly super-awesome guy who regularly sweeps lines and lines of people off their respective feets. Such is my charisma and natural charm that...hmm...I'll skip it for now. Later, later.
My point is. You're putting me under a lot of pressure. Yes, you. With all your excited jumping around over the end of another year. With all this talk of parties and clubs and dances and new shoes. With the incessant questions about where I'm planning to go, burning midnight oil and living it up and letting my hair down and dancing in the sides and what not. With the pained expression of "But whats wrong?!?" when I say I haven't got a plan chalked out yet. With yor unnecessary and unwanted recommendations of all the hip and happening and check-out-you-must parties around town. I know you mean well. Most of you. But I don't enjoy the focus over my schedule of inactivity. And I don't do well under your pressure.
So here I am, still going online 25 times a day, in constant search of a kindred soul who suffers similarly every time a damn year ends, or its time for fat men to throw around gifts into outstretched greedy arms, or whatever else we are able to find and exploit as a reason to party hard. And I do not enjoy myself one bit. And I do not appreciate all the hooplah. Especially when you start telling me how I'm growing old surely, and should you fetch me my walking stick and that brown old-generation chowkidar style monkey-cap.
I party when I want to. More often that most of you do, living in metros and all. *fierce :P* I just don't see a reason pushing me to celebrate in your way the end of a year. It was a beautiful time, and I enjoyed myself most thoroughly this year. The last few moments I have with it are not going to be drowned in dancing in ridiculously crowded discs, with ridiculously dressed people, listening to ridiculously loud music. You. Are. Ridiculous. Go home now. Don't cry. I'm harsh sometimes, I know.
We are a different people though. Me and Team India. We don't do high pressure times very well. Put us in a terrible spot and ask of us feats of great daring, might and courage and all those things, and we start fantasizing about lunch. Not exactly the force you want to send in to rescue prisoners from guarded hilltops or save children from burning fires. Its not enthusiasm we lack, a burning building with children trapped inside being just as much excitement for me as the next fellow. We just dont look forward to turning in our own terrific acts of valour and displays of awesomeness in the middle of all the mess. As was elaborated conveniently by Sachin, choosing to get out just a few minutes before lunch time, because the Aussies were making faces at him. The greater the pressure, the tenser the situation, the larger the weight entrusted upon our shoulders, the greater is the urge to distract ourselves and let it all go. Not that we're incapable or anything. Or lacking in talent. Rest assured that I'm a perfectly super-awesome guy who regularly sweeps lines and lines of people off their respective feets. Such is my charisma and natural charm that...hmm...I'll skip it for now. Later, later.
My point is. You're putting me under a lot of pressure. Yes, you. With all your excited jumping around over the end of another year. With all this talk of parties and clubs and dances and new shoes. With the incessant questions about where I'm planning to go, burning midnight oil and living it up and letting my hair down and dancing in the sides and what not. With the pained expression of "But whats wrong?!?" when I say I haven't got a plan chalked out yet. With yor unnecessary and unwanted recommendations of all the hip and happening and check-out-you-must parties around town. I know you mean well. Most of you. But I don't enjoy the focus over my schedule of inactivity. And I don't do well under your pressure.
So here I am, still going online 25 times a day, in constant search of a kindred soul who suffers similarly every time a damn year ends, or its time for fat men to throw around gifts into outstretched greedy arms, or whatever else we are able to find and exploit as a reason to party hard. And I do not enjoy myself one bit. And I do not appreciate all the hooplah. Especially when you start telling me how I'm growing old surely, and should you fetch me my walking stick and that brown old-generation chowkidar style monkey-cap.
I party when I want to. More often that most of you do, living in metros and all. *fierce :P* I just don't see a reason pushing me to celebrate in your way the end of a year. It was a beautiful time, and I enjoyed myself most thoroughly this year. The last few moments I have with it are not going to be drowned in dancing in ridiculously crowded discs, with ridiculously dressed people, listening to ridiculously loud music. You. Are. Ridiculous. Go home now. Don't cry. I'm harsh sometimes, I know.
Friday, December 28, 2007
A New Dawn. From A Mushroom Cloud.
There isn't much time anymore. Its been a constantly changing world, from the early days of calm, laid-back, easy-going, cave-dwelling, stone-carving neanderthals. Now, we rush from one event to another, briskly changing partners, fashions, diets, noses, cell-phones, cars, furniture, religions, nationality, and even gender. Sometime, somewhere, some idiot started a rat race, and enrolled us all. And we've had to keep on running ever since. One revolution follows another. We find our surroundings in constant change, upheaval, and renovation to keep up with that what we do not yet know. It shall be finished by the time we understand it. So, we close our eyes to all sense. And we run as fast as we can.
The leaders of the race shall always be those who are practical, precise and to the point. Its true.
And I have one winning example/exhibit to prove my point.
This woman.
I'll be right here now. Let me know once you're done looking.
.
.
.
.
Right. So. How. Why. What. Huh. Hold on, I'm still memorizing it. I can anticipate your obvious reactions. But bear with me awhile longer.
Music, dear readers, is a marker of our times, our cultures, our creative spark, our mental hogwash.
It takes a great amount of nerve to be straight and open and honest with millions of brainwashed fans and several million more right-thinking, mentally-developed people around the world. It takes a huge amount of courage to stand up for what you believe. It takes extraordinary self-confidence to hold to your convictions.
They are the leaders of the world. The ones who usher us into new ages of thought, and show us the next step to our progress as an entire species.
How long have we been decaying, as a species, because of what we have defining by that loose term so easily bestowed, 'music'? How long have we been worshipping those same gods who spoke those same hymns and those same anthems and performed those same rituals in front of us since the dawn of the electric guitar age? Enough playing she says, canoodle it already! The fact is our cultural, spiritual and musical progress is at a standstill. We are not exploring. We are not examining. We are not re-evaluating. We, although we didnt realize it till now, have been suffering a deep, melancholic discontent with the state of our world.
It takes, as I said, an extraordinary amount of courage, and self-belief to show the way forward. With her mighty pole, She sweeps off the dust and grime of the ages. Dropping off her top, She wipes off the slime that has stagnated the music industry. With repeated, endless thrusts of Her hips She knocks me to my senses, so that I may once again see, through Her radiant vision (in black and white and also slightly shaky), the beauty that is true music. Its a revolution, be you ready for it or not. It comes now. No more singing about stars, and emotions, and funny feelings in your hearts for 4 whole minutes. No more screaming at the top of your voice so that your love may take you to her heart, about your not wanting to miss a thing, about how she looks wonderful tonight, or even how she already knows you wanna radio-edit "love" her. None of that. End of story. Go home. We just don't have the time.
Like I said right at the start, the secret behind the revolution is:
Cut the crap. Get on with it already. We don't have time to waste. Or words to shower. Or non-sexual dances to entice you with. I'll lay it in front of you, in Her own simple words, so you can maybe finally understand what I'm trying to say.
Gimme.
'Tis a simple word. Gimme. It is a marriage of two even simpler, fairly common words which, put together, express the desires and hopes of hundreds and thousands of men and women around the planet, such being the universal appeal of this song nay anthem - Give me.
Don't ask me questions. Don't ask me why. I do not know. I am merely in the throes of an ecstacy, which comes of infinite joy and devoted worship. Just give me.
And its effect can only be called gigantic. Why only gigantic and not anything else? Because gigantic also begins with a g and contains another one inside. Also, I don't feel like pondering on adjectives too much right now. I am in the midst of a heartfelt tribute, if you didnt notice.
With the grave yet fun, serious yet light, straight but dicey lyrics of her new song, Britney Mata brings us into the new world. Why listen to Elvis cry to himself? Why listen to Clapton's musical rollercoasters of love, and pain and exquisite guitar strains? What are they after really? She's already there.
Bow your heads. And read from the intensely profound lyrics of the snatches I have managed to catch of The Song of The New Revolution. [Please do not be a stupid imbecile and bow your heads so that you cannot read. Just enough so they're bowed technically, but read you can still. Its quite obvious and quite simple. Don't be daft with your cheek. Do it.]
Repeat after me, please.
Gimme gimme. Gimme.
*shake. shake. thrust. thrust*
Gimme gimme. Gimme.
*swing around pole. smile innocently at camera. shake away*
Gimme gimme. Gimme gimme.
*swing again. play with clothes of other similarly beseeching females*
Gimme gimme. Gimme.
*shake shake. thrust thrust straight into the camera*
Gimme. Gimme gimme.
*the top is dropped. a towel wrapped seductively to replace. shake shake*
Gimme more! Gimme more!
*shake. thrust. shake shake thrust shake thrust*
Gimme. Gimme. Gimme gimme.
Amen. A new day has come. I am going to kill myself.
The leaders of the race shall always be those who are practical, precise and to the point. Its true.
And I have one winning example/exhibit to prove my point.
This woman.
I'll be right here now. Let me know once you're done looking.
.
.
.
.
Right. So. How. Why. What. Huh. Hold on, I'm still memorizing it. I can anticipate your obvious reactions. But bear with me awhile longer.
Music, dear readers, is a marker of our times, our cultures, our creative spark, our mental hogwash.
It takes a great amount of nerve to be straight and open and honest with millions of brainwashed fans and several million more right-thinking, mentally-developed people around the world. It takes a huge amount of courage to stand up for what you believe. It takes extraordinary self-confidence to hold to your convictions.
They are the leaders of the world. The ones who usher us into new ages of thought, and show us the next step to our progress as an entire species.
How long have we been decaying, as a species, because of what we have defining by that loose term so easily bestowed, 'music'? How long have we been worshipping those same gods who spoke those same hymns and those same anthems and performed those same rituals in front of us since the dawn of the electric guitar age? Enough playing she says, canoodle it already! The fact is our cultural, spiritual and musical progress is at a standstill. We are not exploring. We are not examining. We are not re-evaluating. We, although we didnt realize it till now, have been suffering a deep, melancholic discontent with the state of our world.
It takes, as I said, an extraordinary amount of courage, and self-belief to show the way forward. With her mighty pole, She sweeps off the dust and grime of the ages. Dropping off her top, She wipes off the slime that has stagnated the music industry. With repeated, endless thrusts of Her hips She knocks me to my senses, so that I may once again see, through Her radiant vision (in black and white and also slightly shaky), the beauty that is true music. Its a revolution, be you ready for it or not. It comes now. No more singing about stars, and emotions, and funny feelings in your hearts for 4 whole minutes. No more screaming at the top of your voice so that your love may take you to her heart, about your not wanting to miss a thing, about how she looks wonderful tonight, or even how she already knows you wanna radio-edit "love" her. None of that. End of story. Go home. We just don't have the time.
Like I said right at the start, the secret behind the revolution is:
Cut the crap. Get on with it already. We don't have time to waste. Or words to shower. Or non-sexual dances to entice you with. I'll lay it in front of you, in Her own simple words, so you can maybe finally understand what I'm trying to say.
Gimme.
'Tis a simple word. Gimme. It is a marriage of two even simpler, fairly common words which, put together, express the desires and hopes of hundreds and thousands of men and women around the planet, such being the universal appeal of this song nay anthem - Give me.
Don't ask me questions. Don't ask me why. I do not know. I am merely in the throes of an ecstacy, which comes of infinite joy and devoted worship. Just give me.
And its effect can only be called gigantic. Why only gigantic and not anything else? Because gigantic also begins with a g and contains another one inside. Also, I don't feel like pondering on adjectives too much right now. I am in the midst of a heartfelt tribute, if you didnt notice.
With the grave yet fun, serious yet light, straight but dicey lyrics of her new song, Britney Mata brings us into the new world. Why listen to Elvis cry to himself? Why listen to Clapton's musical rollercoasters of love, and pain and exquisite guitar strains? What are they after really? She's already there.
Bow your heads. And read from the intensely profound lyrics of the snatches I have managed to catch of The Song of The New Revolution. [Please do not be a stupid imbecile and bow your heads so that you cannot read. Just enough so they're bowed technically, but read you can still. Its quite obvious and quite simple. Don't be daft with your cheek. Do it.]
Repeat after me, please.
Gimme gimme. Gimme.
*shake. shake. thrust. thrust*
Gimme gimme. Gimme.
*swing around pole. smile innocently at camera. shake away*
Gimme gimme. Gimme gimme.
*swing again. play with clothes of other similarly beseeching females*
Gimme gimme. Gimme.
*shake shake. thrust thrust straight into the camera*
Gimme. Gimme gimme.
*the top is dropped. a towel wrapped seductively to replace. shake shake*
Gimme more! Gimme more!
*shake. thrust. shake shake thrust shake thrust*
Gimme. Gimme. Gimme gimme.
Amen. A new day has come. I am going to kill myself.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Random Smacks
I think of college as a form of hermitage. A hermitage surrounded by bars and pubs? Yes. A hermitage whose visible form of worship is ogling at heavenly bodies (of course you get the lame pun)? Yes. But a hermitage nonetheless. For it fulfils that primary criterion that all self-respecting hermits look for in standard hermitage real estate.
What is that hermits want? What is it that they look for in a prospective hermitage location, even a kaam-chalao one, considering they are unable to book prime spots atop a craggy mountain-peak in snowy Himalayas (my image of a perfect hermitage being affixed in my mind from Tintin In Tibet)? The foremost requisite for a hermitage is that it should allow you to indulge in whatever it is you choose, without outside interference.
Hence, proved. Aah! The science student's most satisfying comeback line at the end of any maths question. I sign mine with a flourish I can't help.
Anyway, I was saying, hence I conclude that college has assumed the form of a hermitage.
What has that got to do with anything, you ask? I mean, whats your friggin' point, you say? I shall tell you, oh impatient loud-mouthed reader. You see, I like it that way. I love the fact that my college is hermitagish (new word alert!).
Some would say its a bad thing, not being in touch with the world's affairs. Vital moments in our planet's history pass me by without causing a ripple in the calm, serene pond that I'm using here as a metaphor for life. Appreciate my refreshing use of profound imagery na? But the thing is, I realize I'm not missing out on much.
Because when I come back home, waiting to be dazzled by the wonders of Indian civilization, whose company I have been bereft of for the past few months, what I see is shocking. Is it a trick of mine eyes? Is it a hallucination of some extraordinarily strange kind? Can this be really real? Not just shocking, its positively revolting. In thesaurus mode, I shall go to the extent of calling it absolutely disgusting too. And bile-inducingly vomitous. Another new word I believe. Thank you.
Let me attempt to list what I've noticed dashed up about the world since I got back in touch:
1. Bollywood
India is a retarded society, with all the attention-span and creative appreciation of a 3 year old slightly special child who can be entertained even by your lacklustre-at-best-but-usually-painful-to-the-senses imitation of Santa Claus and Habu Baba and whatever else you think you're a hit with. Give us no sense. Give us no plan. Tell us we have no self-respect and you're just going to take our money and laugh at us and then come scrunch us beneath your titanic heels. Use us as pawns on a chessboard you haven't dusted in years because you dont even bloody care about the game. We do not mind. Just as long as one scene in fifty is vaguely comical, and Shahrukh Khan is in the rest.
So, Om Shanti Om becomes a super-duper mega blockbuster hit. Never mind that the hero has a body that could have been ousted by any rickshaw-puller on the streets of Kolkata. We shall call it a farce. Leave your thinking caps home! Dont be so highbrow, so condescending, so arty-shmarty! We're Indians! We suck!
You see, when it's farce and you already proclaim it so, anything goes. Even trash.
2. TV News
I dont even know how to really approach this issue. So I'll just say it and you can then justifiably recoil in horror. Sit back and breathe calmly. This could be a serious shock. I saw two news channels covering (as their Breaking News no less) the goings and comings on WWE. Yes. Let me break it to you in stages. News like this dealt in one blow can be fatal. So, it was WWE. The headline read something like the Great Khali being irritated and angered by diminutive Irishman Finlay. The video inset was of the giant monster guy taking apart a little Irish chap. And the news presenter spoke not in jest. She spoke with brevity, and calm, and stoic seriousness. She could have been talking about elections or more boys falling down more holes in the ground, you would think.
This is what Indian News has come to. I look forward to catching them discuss recent slaps (and what affect they could have on the maan-maryada of the parivaar) on Kyunki Saas Bhi blah blah blah... one of these days. Interestingly, I dont know so please tell me, is the Ba creature still alive?? My last rib-tickling memory is of when she went to attend fashion school along with her great-grandchildren.
3. The Big Huge Explosion
Ok, it might not have been big and huge, but it was an explosion all right. McDonald's, the only one in Kolkata, exploded due to some gas-cylinder disagreeing with it's working conditions. Something like that. Glass shattered, cars outside were damaged, the door flew apart, and one person died. Since then, shutters have remained drawn on the location plus one big brown ugly over its frontage, right in the middle of Park Street.
Nice how we're supposed to be developing and letting (those blood-sucking) capitalists finally into our communist city of harmony and brotherhood (nice riot by the way. ah! a mere brotherly fight! children will be children!). But also very strange how no renovation or demolition or any sort of work is done upon the site, to atleast clean up the ugly stain on wonderful Park Street by Christmas time. 'Tis a shame.
4. That man
I refer to Himesh. Since my college began, and I delved deeper and deeper into the roots of hard rock and metal mayhem, one man has been steadily hacking away at the roots of good Hindi music, and all the signs of music and singing ability from the face of Bollywood. Himesh Reshammiya.
It was you who fed him, when the snake was merely a snake-ling. Then he does a movie. And you go and watch it. And then you go and watch it too. And so on and so forth, until the creep has enough money to think he's actually above the karaoke now. And disaster falls. He's prepared a sequel. You fools! Look what you've done!
Are you excited that this time he's going to be without a cap? That you shall be allowed to gaze upon the tufts and tangles of beautiful long hair upon that big head I dearly want to introduce my hammer to? Are you, really?
Why? Why you did that?
To focus on things cleaner and safer, it's not entirely true that everything has only gone down and soiled itself since I stopped calling back and finding out how it was. There remain some positives, and we can be quite proud of them.
1. India is getting richer and richer. The Ambanis are skipping higher and higher on a trampoline that is getting stronger and stronger. Tata shall buy over Jaguar, despite the ridiculous, almost childlike outrage expressed by the foreign companies involved in this.
2. We haven't really forgotten how to play cricket. We actually won! We didnt look back to see if anyone was closing in, and won the damn race already. And we're winning since. Plus, something I honestly did not expect. The Dada is back. With superpowers this time. Yay! Time for a kangaroo steak now.
I feel, the world could yet be a happy place. Lets just bang some people on the head a few times first. And we'll see from there.
What is that hermits want? What is it that they look for in a prospective hermitage location, even a kaam-chalao one, considering they are unable to book prime spots atop a craggy mountain-peak in snowy Himalayas (my image of a perfect hermitage being affixed in my mind from Tintin In Tibet)? The foremost requisite for a hermitage is that it should allow you to indulge in whatever it is you choose, without outside interference.
Hence, proved. Aah! The science student's most satisfying comeback line at the end of any maths question. I sign mine with a flourish I can't help.
Anyway, I was saying, hence I conclude that college has assumed the form of a hermitage.
What has that got to do with anything, you ask? I mean, whats your friggin' point, you say? I shall tell you, oh impatient loud-mouthed reader. You see, I like it that way. I love the fact that my college is hermitagish (new word alert!).
Some would say its a bad thing, not being in touch with the world's affairs. Vital moments in our planet's history pass me by without causing a ripple in the calm, serene pond that I'm using here as a metaphor for life. Appreciate my refreshing use of profound imagery na? But the thing is, I realize I'm not missing out on much.
Because when I come back home, waiting to be dazzled by the wonders of Indian civilization, whose company I have been bereft of for the past few months, what I see is shocking. Is it a trick of mine eyes? Is it a hallucination of some extraordinarily strange kind? Can this be really real? Not just shocking, its positively revolting. In thesaurus mode, I shall go to the extent of calling it absolutely disgusting too. And bile-inducingly vomitous. Another new word I believe. Thank you.
Let me attempt to list what I've noticed dashed up about the world since I got back in touch:
1. Bollywood
India is a retarded society, with all the attention-span and creative appreciation of a 3 year old slightly special child who can be entertained even by your lacklustre-at-best-but-usually-painful-to-the-senses imitation of Santa Claus and Habu Baba and whatever else you think you're a hit with. Give us no sense. Give us no plan. Tell us we have no self-respect and you're just going to take our money and laugh at us and then come scrunch us beneath your titanic heels. Use us as pawns on a chessboard you haven't dusted in years because you dont even bloody care about the game. We do not mind. Just as long as one scene in fifty is vaguely comical, and Shahrukh Khan is in the rest.
So, Om Shanti Om becomes a super-duper mega blockbuster hit. Never mind that the hero has a body that could have been ousted by any rickshaw-puller on the streets of Kolkata. We shall call it a farce. Leave your thinking caps home! Dont be so highbrow, so condescending, so arty-shmarty! We're Indians! We suck!
You see, when it's farce and you already proclaim it so, anything goes. Even trash.
2. TV News
I dont even know how to really approach this issue. So I'll just say it and you can then justifiably recoil in horror. Sit back and breathe calmly. This could be a serious shock. I saw two news channels covering (as their Breaking News no less) the goings and comings on WWE. Yes. Let me break it to you in stages. News like this dealt in one blow can be fatal. So, it was WWE. The headline read something like the Great Khali being irritated and angered by diminutive Irishman Finlay. The video inset was of the giant monster guy taking apart a little Irish chap. And the news presenter spoke not in jest. She spoke with brevity, and calm, and stoic seriousness. She could have been talking about elections or more boys falling down more holes in the ground, you would think.
This is what Indian News has come to. I look forward to catching them discuss recent slaps (and what affect they could have on the maan-maryada of the parivaar) on Kyunki Saas Bhi blah blah blah... one of these days. Interestingly, I dont know so please tell me, is the Ba creature still alive?? My last rib-tickling memory is of when she went to attend fashion school along with her great-grandchildren.
3. The Big Huge Explosion
Ok, it might not have been big and huge, but it was an explosion all right. McDonald's, the only one in Kolkata, exploded due to some gas-cylinder disagreeing with it's working conditions. Something like that. Glass shattered, cars outside were damaged, the door flew apart, and one person died. Since then, shutters have remained drawn on the location plus one big brown ugly over its frontage, right in the middle of Park Street.
Nice how we're supposed to be developing and letting (those blood-sucking) capitalists finally into our communist city of harmony and brotherhood (nice riot by the way. ah! a mere brotherly fight! children will be children!). But also very strange how no renovation or demolition or any sort of work is done upon the site, to atleast clean up the ugly stain on wonderful Park Street by Christmas time. 'Tis a shame.
4. That man
I refer to Himesh. Since my college began, and I delved deeper and deeper into the roots of hard rock and metal mayhem, one man has been steadily hacking away at the roots of good Hindi music, and all the signs of music and singing ability from the face of Bollywood. Himesh Reshammiya.
It was you who fed him, when the snake was merely a snake-ling. Then he does a movie. And you go and watch it. And then you go and watch it too. And so on and so forth, until the creep has enough money to think he's actually above the karaoke now. And disaster falls. He's prepared a sequel. You fools! Look what you've done!
Are you excited that this time he's going to be without a cap? That you shall be allowed to gaze upon the tufts and tangles of beautiful long hair upon that big head I dearly want to introduce my hammer to? Are you, really?
Why? Why you did that?
To focus on things cleaner and safer, it's not entirely true that everything has only gone down and soiled itself since I stopped calling back and finding out how it was. There remain some positives, and we can be quite proud of them.
1. India is getting richer and richer. The Ambanis are skipping higher and higher on a trampoline that is getting stronger and stronger. Tata shall buy over Jaguar, despite the ridiculous, almost childlike outrage expressed by the foreign companies involved in this.
2. We haven't really forgotten how to play cricket. We actually won! We didnt look back to see if anyone was closing in, and won the damn race already. And we're winning since. Plus, something I honestly did not expect. The Dada is back. With superpowers this time. Yay! Time for a kangaroo steak now.
I feel, the world could yet be a happy place. Lets just bang some people on the head a few times first. And we'll see from there.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Joy To The World
Its not like I'm preaching Christianity or anything.
But you have to agree, the dude really knows how to throw a great party.
Merry Christmas, indeed!!
But you have to agree, the dude really knows how to throw a great party.
Merry Christmas, indeed!!
Monday, December 24, 2007
Its His Big Day, And Everyone's Invited!
The biggest birthday bash of ever is upon us.
And out we must go.
On an aside, remember how we were talking about X-Mas and everything that other time? Yes, yes, you and I. We were discussing it, and you just so insisted upon buying me an unnecessarily expensive gift and all, with a really sweet card and really sweet sweets and pastries? Yeah! So sweet of you. I don't usually give in to these material bondages and needless ties with the physical world, but I shan't break your heart. It being the Christmas spirit and all. Aww...So rejoice, make merry and shop! For me!
Send in your gifts, cards, and good wishes* as soon as possible! One** lucky winner*** could just win a grand prize****! Yay!
I'm so nice! Again yay!!
*only accepted if accompanied by gifts and cards
**give or take a few
***which could be you
****real or imaginary
And out we must go.
On an aside, remember how we were talking about X-Mas and everything that other time? Yes, yes, you and I. We were discussing it, and you just so insisted upon buying me an unnecessarily expensive gift and all, with a really sweet card and really sweet sweets and pastries? Yeah! So sweet of you. I don't usually give in to these material bondages and needless ties with the physical world, but I shan't break your heart. It being the Christmas spirit and all. Aww...So rejoice, make merry and shop! For me!
Send in your gifts, cards, and good wishes* as soon as possible! One** lucky winner*** could just win a grand prize****! Yay!
I'm so nice! Again yay!!
*only accepted if accompanied by gifts and cards
**give or take a few
***which could be you
****real or imaginary
Friday, December 21, 2007
Winter Evening
Close your eyes. Not tightly. Just let them close, as if that were their natural state.
Sit very, very still. Now feel your toes. Try to sense your feet. You can feel blood flow through veins, in and out, in and out.
Breathe slowly and effortlessly. The rise and fall of your chest, the feel of cloth to skin. Lift your face upwards to the ceiling. Try and feel a breeze against your face, and you will.
Try and sense your fingers, with your hands lying limp. From the inside of your skin, try and feel your fingers. The crevices and ridges we call finger-prints, our individual identities in a world of similarity and same-ness.
There is a connect with everything external. The feel of slippers to the soles of your feet. The fall of light on the walls, and shadows cast randomly around. The stillness is that of a picture.
And you don't want to move. You don't want to change the expression on your face, or lift your fingers finally. Nothing to disturb a perfect equilibrium.
Equilibrium. A balance with all surroundings.
You don't even move your eyes. The same gaze on the same wall on the same spot.
Every single breath is a ripple. An irking disturbance.
Sshhh.
Sit very, very still. Now feel your toes. Try to sense your feet. You can feel blood flow through veins, in and out, in and out.
Breathe slowly and effortlessly. The rise and fall of your chest, the feel of cloth to skin. Lift your face upwards to the ceiling. Try and feel a breeze against your face, and you will.
Try and sense your fingers, with your hands lying limp. From the inside of your skin, try and feel your fingers. The crevices and ridges we call finger-prints, our individual identities in a world of similarity and same-ness.
There is a connect with everything external. The feel of slippers to the soles of your feet. The fall of light on the walls, and shadows cast randomly around. The stillness is that of a picture.
And you don't want to move. You don't want to change the expression on your face, or lift your fingers finally. Nothing to disturb a perfect equilibrium.
Equilibrium. A balance with all surroundings.
You don't even move your eyes. The same gaze on the same wall on the same spot.
Every single breath is a ripple. An irking disturbance.
Sshhh.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Brutal, Barbaric Brutes
There are 3 types of people in the world. That despite all our grandiose delusions about mankind's million different shades and colors of personality, skin, thought, mindset and blah. Truth it be, there are 3 types of people.
There are some people whom you can mess around with. There are some people who you mess with and pay the price later, but that doesn't stop you (or you can't resist because the temptation is too great) from going for it again later.
Then there are some people who you just do not mess with.
Keeping aside perambulations through an amusement park's worth of my personal experiences about messing and being messed with, we shall instead glide headlong straight into the third variety of people. The type of people you do not mess with.
(I use italics to emphasize the degree of superlativity of the name, person, animal or thing in question. Its nice. And now you know. I also waste post space on inane and pointless points of personal patheticity (awarding them their separate paragraph I tell you!) and hunt fervently for an opportunity to use lots of brackets. (I even like to invent words. Note above: 'patheticity' and 'superlativity'. I've said them aloud in conversations a few times. Its wonderful and insightful how I've gotten away without anyone noticing. (I wonder if my using those personalized words actually impresses the people who don't point out their non-existence. Hmm...)))
So. You do not mess with big, bulky people with menacing expressions on their faces. You do not mess with the guitar shop person, despite the fact that you're going to now go to his place for the 4th time in 3 days to have the same problem fixed. You do not mess with teachers who will commit your name to memory and then sit to correct examination papers. You do not mess with your waiter in a restaurant, because there is a period of about 15-20 seconds when he is alone, and out of external sight, with your food. All this you know. Its general knowledge, assimilated in our formative years, in rich experiences and bitter blahbluhblahblah. I don't feel like expostulating. Expounding even.
(I have a fondness for words that start with 'ex'. Express. Expound. Expostulate. Examine. Exhaust. Exile. Exhume. Excel. Surf excel. Exorbitant. Exalt. Extra extra read all about it. Experience. Exacerbate. Exterminate with extreme prejudice!)
But there is another breed, a sub-species almost, of people you do not want to ever cross. I'm not sure, but they live in shallows and in miseries, in deep, dank corners of humanity, emerging periodically with cutting tools and piercing weapons that can with a single snip or shave cut off our ties with society.
They are beasts they are. And we cannot avoid them. We must visit, we must sit under their knives and their malicious sorceries. And we must pay tribute.
Barber beasts.
The word barber is directly descended from savagery itself. It comes from the Greek word barbaros which directly means "foreign". A reference to "the savage monster who plays with blades and scissors and our social status for anything from 2 to 10 weeks depending on type of haircut given". The word was used to refer, in slang, to the invading hordes of Huns and Mongols, who aside from raping countless women and pillaging cities, were also known to give extremely embarrassing haircuts to the local authority-figures and celebrities straying into their path of fire, destruction and loose, flailing hair-follicles. With time, barberous became barbarian and barbarous. The Mongols, the Huns and their ilk were supposedly wiped out. And we lived on in that belief, feeling the world was safe once again. So, thats done. Now only eeny-weenies like Hitler to deal with. Lets lie back and relax for a while, guys.
It shall go down in history as one of the greatest follies of mankind. We crushed them, but we did not wipe them out. Like that last dinosaur de-egging itself right at the end of Godzilla, the monsters survived. They bred silently, and now the tentacles have spread all over the world.
Barber-beasts.
Scissors flying in hand, and countless more hidden in the folds of their dark tunics. Razors sharpened malevolently, and applied to skin in just that way to extract just that innocent amount of pain before they casually proceed with unhairing the scalp portion in question. The innocent questions, loaded with barber-jargon in different languages, asked over and over in unnecessary repetition to bamboozle us into saying a 'yes' where we meant a 'no' and thus declare our own doom. Barbers are beasts.
And you can not mess with them. Those scissors hold an infinite power. They can head this way and then that, wielding the potential to reduce us to tears with one abrupt change in direction. Those razors, those electric clippers, weapons of potential torture. One wrong move, and they can destroy your life. They can forbid you from stepping out and waving your head in front of the general populace. They can bring shame and ridicule to the life of a beautiful celebrity. Britney Spears, I give you. With one evil sweep of that clipper, the barber can end your plans of adventure and partying, grounding you to your house (or even your room) in perfectly solitary confinement for any period of time. One squeak of protest out of you, and your holidays are over.
I got a haircut yesterday. Its supposed to be one of the most reputed, which means less shady, establishments of hair-snipping art in the city. It is on Park Street.
It was an ordeal. It lasted an hour. An hour! I mean, its not like I have flowing long hair to my waist. My hair is quite short. And I asked him to clip a bit. An easy task, worthy of 20 minutes' dedicated work and no more. Clipping and snipping only upto 4-5 specimen of hair at a time, he stretched time to 1 hour.
I was under the blade for an hour. While he went about examining every damn inch of my scalp, for the third time, I prayed silently. I smiled, squirmed only a bit, and restrained myself from yelling at him to just bloody get on with it.
How could I say anything? This man held my life in his hands. He couldn't kill me, but he could make me wish for it.
So I just sat there. And did not glare at him. I watched him though. I had my knife held in my hands. If I had to go down, I would take him down with me. But he chose to not violate my grace and honour. At the end of it, I smiled and handed over money for his gracious torture to my pure soul. He handed me a receipt for his services so happily doled upon me, and we parted ways. He to his dark lair, and me to glorious freedom outside where the sun shone, and the wind blew.
Something must be done. This threat must be vanquished. One day, we will all meet our individual dooms. (Interestingly, have you already? If so, tell me about it. We can start a support group.)
There are some people whom you can mess around with. There are some people who you mess with and pay the price later, but that doesn't stop you (or you can't resist because the temptation is too great) from going for it again later.
Then there are some people who you just do not mess with.
Keeping aside perambulations through an amusement park's worth of my personal experiences about messing and being messed with, we shall instead glide headlong straight into the third variety of people. The type of people you do not mess with.
(I use italics to emphasize the degree of superlativity of the name, person, animal or thing in question. Its nice. And now you know. I also waste post space on inane and pointless points of personal patheticity (awarding them their separate paragraph I tell you!) and hunt fervently for an opportunity to use lots of brackets. (I even like to invent words. Note above: 'patheticity' and 'superlativity'. I've said them aloud in conversations a few times. Its wonderful and insightful how I've gotten away without anyone noticing. (I wonder if my using those personalized words actually impresses the people who don't point out their non-existence. Hmm...)))
So. You do not mess with big, bulky people with menacing expressions on their faces. You do not mess with the guitar shop person, despite the fact that you're going to now go to his place for the 4th time in 3 days to have the same problem fixed. You do not mess with teachers who will commit your name to memory and then sit to correct examination papers. You do not mess with your waiter in a restaurant, because there is a period of about 15-20 seconds when he is alone, and out of external sight, with your food. All this you know. Its general knowledge, assimilated in our formative years, in rich experiences and bitter blahbluhblahblah. I don't feel like expostulating. Expounding even.
(I have a fondness for words that start with 'ex'. Express. Expound. Expostulate. Examine. Exhaust. Exile. Exhume. Excel. Surf excel. Exorbitant. Exalt. Extra extra read all about it. Experience. Exacerbate. Exterminate with extreme prejudice!)
But there is another breed, a sub-species almost, of people you do not want to ever cross. I'm not sure, but they live in shallows and in miseries, in deep, dank corners of humanity, emerging periodically with cutting tools and piercing weapons that can with a single snip or shave cut off our ties with society.
They are beasts they are. And we cannot avoid them. We must visit, we must sit under their knives and their malicious sorceries. And we must pay tribute.
Barber beasts.
The word barber is directly descended from savagery itself. It comes from the Greek word barbaros which directly means "foreign". A reference to "the savage monster who plays with blades and scissors and our social status for anything from 2 to 10 weeks depending on type of haircut given". The word was used to refer, in slang, to the invading hordes of Huns and Mongols, who aside from raping countless women and pillaging cities, were also known to give extremely embarrassing haircuts to the local authority-figures and celebrities straying into their path of fire, destruction and loose, flailing hair-follicles. With time, barberous became barbarian and barbarous. The Mongols, the Huns and their ilk were supposedly wiped out. And we lived on in that belief, feeling the world was safe once again. So, thats done. Now only eeny-weenies like Hitler to deal with. Lets lie back and relax for a while, guys.
It shall go down in history as one of the greatest follies of mankind. We crushed them, but we did not wipe them out. Like that last dinosaur de-egging itself right at the end of Godzilla, the monsters survived. They bred silently, and now the tentacles have spread all over the world.
Barber-beasts.
Scissors flying in hand, and countless more hidden in the folds of their dark tunics. Razors sharpened malevolently, and applied to skin in just that way to extract just that innocent amount of pain before they casually proceed with unhairing the scalp portion in question. The innocent questions, loaded with barber-jargon in different languages, asked over and over in unnecessary repetition to bamboozle us into saying a 'yes' where we meant a 'no' and thus declare our own doom. Barbers are beasts.
And you can not mess with them. Those scissors hold an infinite power. They can head this way and then that, wielding the potential to reduce us to tears with one abrupt change in direction. Those razors, those electric clippers, weapons of potential torture. One wrong move, and they can destroy your life. They can forbid you from stepping out and waving your head in front of the general populace. They can bring shame and ridicule to the life of a beautiful celebrity. Britney Spears, I give you. With one evil sweep of that clipper, the barber can end your plans of adventure and partying, grounding you to your house (or even your room) in perfectly solitary confinement for any period of time. One squeak of protest out of you, and your holidays are over.
I got a haircut yesterday. Its supposed to be one of the most reputed, which means less shady, establishments of hair-snipping art in the city. It is on Park Street.
It was an ordeal. It lasted an hour. An hour! I mean, its not like I have flowing long hair to my waist. My hair is quite short. And I asked him to clip a bit. An easy task, worthy of 20 minutes' dedicated work and no more. Clipping and snipping only upto 4-5 specimen of hair at a time, he stretched time to 1 hour.
I was under the blade for an hour. While he went about examining every damn inch of my scalp, for the third time, I prayed silently. I smiled, squirmed only a bit, and restrained myself from yelling at him to just bloody get on with it.
How could I say anything? This man held my life in his hands. He couldn't kill me, but he could make me wish for it.
So I just sat there. And did not glare at him. I watched him though. I had my knife held in my hands. If I had to go down, I would take him down with me. But he chose to not violate my grace and honour. At the end of it, I smiled and handed over money for his gracious torture to my pure soul. He handed me a receipt for his services so happily doled upon me, and we parted ways. He to his dark lair, and me to glorious freedom outside where the sun shone, and the wind blew.
Something must be done. This threat must be vanquished. One day, we will all meet our individual dooms. (Interestingly, have you already? If so, tell me about it. We can start a support group.)
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Despite Your Treacheries, I Am Home You Miserable Curs
Respected Weasels at SpiceJet Airlines,
I have a question. I submit it to you with the utmost incredulity, coupled with a genuine curiosity to know exactly what its surely justified answer is. I ask, why? Why do you do this? What insane joy does it bring you to play with the feelings of innocent, happy children who want nothing more than a well-flown flight back to their homeland?
There isn't much we demand from life. Or, since I musn't presume for my co-passengers (one of them grabbed three of those mottled toffees you enrich us with onflight, you vessels of sweet kindness you), at the very least I demand not much from life. I like to keep it simple. I study for one semester, keeping only some time aside for breaks of fun and frolic and peaceful walks in the park pondering over the fate of the universe lest I die an untimely, premature death or an asteroid snookers us straight into the sun. You know, cataclysmic events like that. But never mind. I study. When the time to stop studying finally nears, I do what any simple-minded, decent, humble, awesome individual would do. I book my tickets for home. Sweet home. And I arrange things nicely around that. As anyone would do. And I get bus tickets to the nearby city. And I get there. As anyone would do. And I drool a bit, thinking of the dinner at home that is surely being prepared now. As anyone would do.
But what do you do? You're not normal, simple people are you? You dont do things in a decent and organized way. There is one flight you have to take care of. It departs at 5:45 and it shall leave me home by 8:30. If you were simple and normal and decent and organized, you couldnt bungle it up. You would say to yourself, its my job to see that flight through, and I will do my job. I have a duty. I am a decent, organized, normal and simple person.
So what happens? Your being an evil, manipulative, hateful and incompetent douchebag gets in the way of all that. You text, saying that you're sorry but the flight has been postponed. It shall now depart at 7:30, you say in your most sincere electronic voice. I know you're bluffing the apology. You didnt even tell me if the inconvenience caused is regretted. I can imagine you laughing and gleefully rubbing your hands even as you spoke through that dead voice (which can't pronounce too well and says every number 3 seconds apart).
But my simple and normal soul (also organized, decent and awesome) did not seek to suspect at that moment. I tut-tutted and I forgave and I forgot.
Half an hour went by, before you felt in the need for another laugh. This time you move it up to 8:30. You hold your belly and you laugh till your sides hurt. My pain gave you joy and a reason to live. And I? I merely ran some minor abuses through my mind and carried on.
Again you struck. It was 10:30 this time. I looked up at the gods (not visible because Bangalore be a cloudy very place). I thought - This must be all. Surely in a world where everything that went around also came around, nothing more could happen. My flight's been delayed by over 4 hours and thats all.
You called again. You don't care. You just want to have your ridiculous fun. Its 11:30 now! Ha ha ha! Look at your face, you loser! Oh my pathetic life is enriched by the insignificant-in-the-larger-picture-of-life woe and misery that I've brought in yours! Woo! Hoo! He he he! *cackle cackle*
So I reach the airport. And my luggage is being weighed. And I cant even argue with the SpiceJet staff I see smiling all around, no doubt also in on the joke. For I have not the will to pursue your childish fancies and give you any further satisfaction.
You're a shameless dipshit. You make it 11:50. Right there, while I'm standing in line, you call again.
I cannot apologize for what followed. It was justified. You asked for it. The utter decimation of the SpiceJet kiosk at my hands. Bare hands. The ripping off limb from limb whatever screaming SpiceJet personnel that came within what I call my action radius. The raucous cheers from similarly frustrated but weak and chidden-crowd-types mass of passengers. The blood and flesh splattered across the glass walls of Bangalore Airport Domestic Departure. The bonfire of SpiceJet uniforms, reeking of blood and the smell of freshly squeezed human. The irreparable damage dealt to all but one SpiceJet airline at the airport by my mighty fist and mightier kick. My self-piloting the last plane all the way to Kolkata, after having dropped off the cabin crew a few miles into the Bay of Bengal.
No doubt you have heard of it by now. Assuming you've atleast still got a foot in reality, despite being incompetent and asinine and unreasonably dumbfuck-ish, you have heard.
Hear this too.
Commanding whatever power I possess, I exile you to the A&N Isles, dressed in nothing but one leaf out of your choice of tree, and rubbed with the flesh extracts of several poultry animals. I read once that the native cannibals track by smell too.
Yours sincerely, you insignificant worms,
C&B.
I have a question. I submit it to you with the utmost incredulity, coupled with a genuine curiosity to know exactly what its surely justified answer is. I ask, why? Why do you do this? What insane joy does it bring you to play with the feelings of innocent, happy children who want nothing more than a well-flown flight back to their homeland?
There isn't much we demand from life. Or, since I musn't presume for my co-passengers (one of them grabbed three of those mottled toffees you enrich us with onflight, you vessels of sweet kindness you), at the very least I demand not much from life. I like to keep it simple. I study for one semester, keeping only some time aside for breaks of fun and frolic and peaceful walks in the park pondering over the fate of the universe lest I die an untimely, premature death or an asteroid snookers us straight into the sun. You know, cataclysmic events like that. But never mind. I study. When the time to stop studying finally nears, I do what any simple-minded, decent, humble, awesome individual would do. I book my tickets for home. Sweet home. And I arrange things nicely around that. As anyone would do. And I get bus tickets to the nearby city. And I get there. As anyone would do. And I drool a bit, thinking of the dinner at home that is surely being prepared now. As anyone would do.
But what do you do? You're not normal, simple people are you? You dont do things in a decent and organized way. There is one flight you have to take care of. It departs at 5:45 and it shall leave me home by 8:30. If you were simple and normal and decent and organized, you couldnt bungle it up. You would say to yourself, its my job to see that flight through, and I will do my job. I have a duty. I am a decent, organized, normal and simple person.
So what happens? Your being an evil, manipulative, hateful and incompetent douchebag gets in the way of all that. You text, saying that you're sorry but the flight has been postponed. It shall now depart at 7:30, you say in your most sincere electronic voice. I know you're bluffing the apology. You didnt even tell me if the inconvenience caused is regretted. I can imagine you laughing and gleefully rubbing your hands even as you spoke through that dead voice (which can't pronounce too well and says every number 3 seconds apart).
But my simple and normal soul (also organized, decent and awesome) did not seek to suspect at that moment. I tut-tutted and I forgave and I forgot.
Half an hour went by, before you felt in the need for another laugh. This time you move it up to 8:30. You hold your belly and you laugh till your sides hurt. My pain gave you joy and a reason to live. And I? I merely ran some minor abuses through my mind and carried on.
Again you struck. It was 10:30 this time. I looked up at the gods (not visible because Bangalore be a cloudy very place). I thought - This must be all. Surely in a world where everything that went around also came around, nothing more could happen. My flight's been delayed by over 4 hours and thats all.
You called again. You don't care. You just want to have your ridiculous fun. Its 11:30 now! Ha ha ha! Look at your face, you loser! Oh my pathetic life is enriched by the insignificant-in-the-larger-picture-of-life woe and misery that I've brought in yours! Woo! Hoo! He he he! *cackle cackle*
So I reach the airport. And my luggage is being weighed. And I cant even argue with the SpiceJet staff I see smiling all around, no doubt also in on the joke. For I have not the will to pursue your childish fancies and give you any further satisfaction.
You're a shameless dipshit. You make it 11:50. Right there, while I'm standing in line, you call again.
I cannot apologize for what followed. It was justified. You asked for it. The utter decimation of the SpiceJet kiosk at my hands. Bare hands. The ripping off limb from limb whatever screaming SpiceJet personnel that came within what I call my action radius. The raucous cheers from similarly frustrated but weak and chidden-crowd-types mass of passengers. The blood and flesh splattered across the glass walls of Bangalore Airport Domestic Departure. The bonfire of SpiceJet uniforms, reeking of blood and the smell of freshly squeezed human. The irreparable damage dealt to all but one SpiceJet airline at the airport by my mighty fist and mightier kick. My self-piloting the last plane all the way to Kolkata, after having dropped off the cabin crew a few miles into the Bay of Bengal.
No doubt you have heard of it by now. Assuming you've atleast still got a foot in reality, despite being incompetent and asinine and unreasonably dumbfuck-ish, you have heard.
Hear this too.
Commanding whatever power I possess, I exile you to the A&N Isles, dressed in nothing but one leaf out of your choice of tree, and rubbed with the flesh extracts of several poultry animals. I read once that the native cannibals track by smell too.
Yours sincerely, you insignificant worms,
C&B.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
One More Time
A reason to be alive again. Yes, now I know it. There is a God. And He does listen to us. And He answers our prayers, be they sincere and the heart true. And its a beautiful world, and all is fundamentally right with it. If only we believe. And trust in Him. And Zeppelin.
In the light, you will find the road.
Led Zeppelin - The Reunion Show @ London's O2 Arena.
The Hammer Of The Gods strikes again.
I shall pray, fervently, for a World Tour. Oh god.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Let It Be Finished Then
Enough's enough. You have crossed me once too often with your sharp words and your acid-tipped tongue wrought in the fires of Mordor. It is time to pay Kyra.
You. Me. Comment box. Now.
Afterword: Bloody, dusty and interrupted by old knitting ladies. Its over now.
You. Me. Comment box. Now.
Afterword: Bloody, dusty and interrupted by old knitting ladies. Its over now.
Kaun Sa Shampooooo??
Opinions differ. From person to person, from state to state, from religion to religion, from demographic to demographic, from geographic to geographic, from national geographic to national geographic...
It's how the world works. If everyone believed in only one sense of right, and only one sense of wrong, nothing would be left for us to do. Where would religion be left, with nothing to preach? Where would Osama go, without a trusting, devoted band of idiots? Where would Oprah go, with nobody to hug and nobody to jump on her couches?
Everyone his own Buddha.
So we cant have that. And we dont. Which is why opinions differ, you see. And thats a good thing. Because.
You might think a good start to the day was about waking up on the right side of the bed. Or you might think that a good morning was the one you could sleep through. But I, dear ignorant beings, now know what it really is. Allow me to illustrate.
"Illustrate" is a word which always makes me think like someone's going to draw something. A detailed sketch, or an oil painting of sheer fantastic beauty (dont think I can't do it), or a couple of shapes in three dimensions with color splotched around a bit (it being called 'cubism' and people get paid for it). So art we must have.
It be graph. Running along with the fact that nothing impresses a general populace more than a solemn statistic, I give you above scientific proof of the theory/story/anecdotal fun-fun thing/slash. Now to proceed with narrative right about after this sentence.
Regardez (beautifully-spoken-French alert!). Carefully note the points marked with numbers. We shall discuss them. They come under the head of "Things". On Y-axis, we have the respective degrees of awesomeness, which can give us a relative picture of what rocks and what doesnt.
Thing #1: You have a good start to the morning, simply based on the premise that you woke up on the right side of the bed. Some people might believe thats how it works. But seriously, come now. My bed, being fixed to the wall, has one side to it. And I dont have all good or bad days. So there. Off you go. Idiot.
Thing #2: You've had a great morning because, as far as concerns your conscious self, there was no morning. Sleeping right through is most often considered a measure of a great morning. It deserves due points for giving a joyous feeling of that satisfying, satiating, almost feline laziness. But running away, or sleeping away since that was just a metaphor and you don't have to pick on it, is not a solution to a situation really. I feel obliged to take some points away. And that, unfortunately, robs this beautiful exercise of the top spot.
Thing #3: You've had a great morning because you woke up to greet it, in shorts and sweatshirt, while it was still getting ready, and you ran about the streets and the fields for God knows what joy. There are some things in the world that are low and cheap. Not even waiting for the new day to properly come in and being already up and about, is one of them. You disgust me. Go. Leave now. And dont return until you're truly sorry. No. No ifs and no buts. Go stand in the corner!
Thing #4: Assuming that my general readership has an average IQ slightly more than a genetically enhanced lab-rat, I shall presume that you have discovered that #4 is the clear winner. And here it is. The top reason why you've had a great morning and a great start to the day is simply that no less than four people complimented your hair today! You want the juice?? Sure sure. It was 2 males, and 2 females. The entire barrage of complimenting and flattering and shameless flirting fell upon me within the space of two beautiful hours this beautiful, beautiful morning. Yes, I've grinned from ear to ear all day. Yes, I am that vain. Yes, I must be so pathetic to fall for all that nonsense. Just as you're seething with jealousy right now. Ha!
And a day can start no better. And you will agree. Correct?
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
What's That You Were Saying?
Hello? Hello? Hello? Is there anybody out there?
Just nod if you can hear me...
Is there anyone home?
But apparently nobody is. Every once in a while I come online, and I'm an optimistic soul. So I think positively, and look forward to hearing from friends from across boundaries. I go after link after link, jumping from one to the other, surfing the waves of the golden internet coastline (bad bad pun), looking for anecdotes, for jokes, for serious issues, for anything. Oh just for life.
And what have I here? Life in my corner of the blogosphere, I find over the course of my extensive perambulations, has been obstructed more or less permanently by a hideous, huge monster of a writer's block. Victims lie here, here and here and here, bravely fallen heroes who no doubt fought off the madness for as long as they could. Or just laid down their pots and pans and went scurrying down south like the Dravidians. The Aryans are coming! The Aryans are coming! Aaaaaaaahhh!
Which brings to the fore a most important question. Writer's block? Writer's block?! What in the world...? Perhaps we have been smoking up, for certainly we seem to be having an overly large-sized image of oneself, dont we? Its not something we should indulge like this. The overly large-sized image I mean. Better that be left to the professionals. Such as myself? Yes, yes. Thats better. I ask not too much of you. I ask not that you compose great lyrical ballads. I ask not that you regularly enrich the world of literature with poetry that could be simultaneously likened to oh the sweet savor of honey and the bitter tang of poorly made nimbu ka achar. I ask not that you give me great and inspiring tales of heroism, of how your friend's friend once battled a lion in a camping trip and how your aunt felled a tiger with a single stroke of her Hatori Hanzo. I dont want a tale of courage in the face of adversity, or cool wit in the face of teachers in class. I dont want your first chapter of your War & Peace.
You might say, or ask, who I am to ask. You are free as a bird, and you may do whatever you wish, or nothing at all, and be a bum. Point. I'm just the guy who constantly wanders from address to address every day, looking for something to relate to, and something deep to ponder over. Looking for a tale about a bus ride, a story about a poor beggar girl, the overheard snippets of conversational banter at an adjoining table over lunch, and anything else at all that once piqued you. My lure is not the incredible writing talent you put on display post after post. It's the chance to glimpse into another life, and know more than I ever could otherwise, with the benefit of saying a word or two about it every now and then, if only I offered a peek into mine as well. Its a fair offer.
So I ask of you that you think. Or rather, that you not think so much. Put fingers to keyboard, and that itself is quite a soothing experience for those of us who have laptops what with the soft, sunken keys and everything, and let the words pour. Tell me. Tell everyone. Tell us about your lunch today. Or how you tripped over three consecutive rocks in your haste to get to college and subsequently became so conscious that you collided with a beefy guy coming the other way. Tell us about a cat you saw on a window-sill. Or a peculiarly shaped cloud while walking back home. Tell us if you love kaju ki barfi. Tell us why you roam in malls all day, despite it being the silliest thing an even slightly self-respecting person could do. Tell us how you dont eat pork, because pigs are filthy animals and you dont eat filthy animals. Tell us about a sport you played once, for just a day, and you shone at it with the brilliance of a thousand suns.
As for me...
I once scored a mighty innings of 23 runs (not out) in the garage of a friend's house, my palm my bat Excalibur, and a red rubber ball stinging it with every masterful stroke I hit to the corners of my dark, dingy packed stadium for that day. I was a force they couldnt reckon with. Single-handedly (quite literally) I closed in on the opposing team's mammoth score (41), and reached the golden 20 run mark with an absolute marvel of a forward drive. You, who are not intimately acquainted with the ins and outs of hand-cricket, cannot really appreciate the problems faced in forward-driving. So just take my word for it when I say I was spectacular. I was good. Very. I was a master. I was, I might say, spectacular. You agree? Yes yes, I know its just about apt isnt it? After I hit the winning runs, the team lifted me on their shoulders and carried me back to the pavilion with rousing cheers and glad hurrahs. The losing team, dejected and embittered, enquired wailingly of God what sin they had committed that He pitched them against me in an obviously one-sided match. They still have my name on a wooden plaque, gravely engraved with my career stats beside it. (In a reign spanning 47 test-matches and 79 one hour internationals, I scored close to 3000 runs, at an average of 17.15. Top score 27*. ) It lies somewhere beneath the tools cabinet, among the amateur canvasses painted in enthusiastic pre-teen years, covered in dust and grime and spider-webs. It records only a few random numbers to the casual eye, frivolous and meaningless in a world comprised of meaningful and weighty terms such as Osama bin Laden, inflation, rising oil prices and global warming. But it holds infinite moments of individual glory (mine) and bitter examples of defeats (theirs). Its a record of achievement, a record of growing up and learning the valuable lessons of life, a record of how I so bloody rule. There amidst cans of lubricating oil and ragged clothes for cleaning and beside the old and rusted Fiat, by solemn hand-cricket law, it lies.
And that, so to speak, is that.
Just nod if you can hear me...
Is there anyone home?
But apparently nobody is. Every once in a while I come online, and I'm an optimistic soul. So I think positively, and look forward to hearing from friends from across boundaries. I go after link after link, jumping from one to the other, surfing the waves of the golden internet coastline (bad bad pun), looking for anecdotes, for jokes, for serious issues, for anything. Oh just for life.
And what have I here? Life in my corner of the blogosphere, I find over the course of my extensive perambulations, has been obstructed more or less permanently by a hideous, huge monster of a writer's block. Victims lie here, here and here and here, bravely fallen heroes who no doubt fought off the madness for as long as they could. Or just laid down their pots and pans and went scurrying down south like the Dravidians. The Aryans are coming! The Aryans are coming! Aaaaaaaahhh!
Which brings to the fore a most important question. Writer's block? Writer's block?! What in the world...? Perhaps we have been smoking up, for certainly we seem to be having an overly large-sized image of oneself, dont we? Its not something we should indulge like this. The overly large-sized image I mean. Better that be left to the professionals. Such as myself? Yes, yes. Thats better. I ask not too much of you. I ask not that you compose great lyrical ballads. I ask not that you regularly enrich the world of literature with poetry that could be simultaneously likened to oh the sweet savor of honey and the bitter tang of poorly made nimbu ka achar. I ask not that you give me great and inspiring tales of heroism, of how your friend's friend once battled a lion in a camping trip and how your aunt felled a tiger with a single stroke of her Hatori Hanzo. I dont want a tale of courage in the face of adversity, or cool wit in the face of teachers in class. I dont want your first chapter of your War & Peace.
You might say, or ask, who I am to ask. You are free as a bird, and you may do whatever you wish, or nothing at all, and be a bum. Point. I'm just the guy who constantly wanders from address to address every day, looking for something to relate to, and something deep to ponder over. Looking for a tale about a bus ride, a story about a poor beggar girl, the overheard snippets of conversational banter at an adjoining table over lunch, and anything else at all that once piqued you. My lure is not the incredible writing talent you put on display post after post. It's the chance to glimpse into another life, and know more than I ever could otherwise, with the benefit of saying a word or two about it every now and then, if only I offered a peek into mine as well. Its a fair offer.
So I ask of you that you think. Or rather, that you not think so much. Put fingers to keyboard, and that itself is quite a soothing experience for those of us who have laptops what with the soft, sunken keys and everything, and let the words pour. Tell me. Tell everyone. Tell us about your lunch today. Or how you tripped over three consecutive rocks in your haste to get to college and subsequently became so conscious that you collided with a beefy guy coming the other way. Tell us about a cat you saw on a window-sill. Or a peculiarly shaped cloud while walking back home. Tell us if you love kaju ki barfi. Tell us why you roam in malls all day, despite it being the silliest thing an even slightly self-respecting person could do. Tell us how you dont eat pork, because pigs are filthy animals and you dont eat filthy animals. Tell us about a sport you played once, for just a day, and you shone at it with the brilliance of a thousand suns.
As for me...
I once scored a mighty innings of 23 runs (not out) in the garage of a friend's house, my palm my bat Excalibur, and a red rubber ball stinging it with every masterful stroke I hit to the corners of my dark, dingy packed stadium for that day. I was a force they couldnt reckon with. Single-handedly (quite literally) I closed in on the opposing team's mammoth score (41), and reached the golden 20 run mark with an absolute marvel of a forward drive. You, who are not intimately acquainted with the ins and outs of hand-cricket, cannot really appreciate the problems faced in forward-driving. So just take my word for it when I say I was spectacular. I was good. Very. I was a master. I was, I might say, spectacular. You agree? Yes yes, I know its just about apt isnt it? After I hit the winning runs, the team lifted me on their shoulders and carried me back to the pavilion with rousing cheers and glad hurrahs. The losing team, dejected and embittered, enquired wailingly of God what sin they had committed that He pitched them against me in an obviously one-sided match. They still have my name on a wooden plaque, gravely engraved with my career stats beside it. (In a reign spanning 47 test-matches and 79 one hour internationals, I scored close to 3000 runs, at an average of 17.15. Top score 27*. ) It lies somewhere beneath the tools cabinet, among the amateur canvasses painted in enthusiastic pre-teen years, covered in dust and grime and spider-webs. It records only a few random numbers to the casual eye, frivolous and meaningless in a world comprised of meaningful and weighty terms such as Osama bin Laden, inflation, rising oil prices and global warming. But it holds infinite moments of individual glory (mine) and bitter examples of defeats (theirs). Its a record of achievement, a record of growing up and learning the valuable lessons of life, a record of how I so bloody rule. There amidst cans of lubricating oil and ragged clothes for cleaning and beside the old and rusted Fiat, by solemn hand-cricket law, it lies.
And that, so to speak, is that.
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