Wishes…

Here’s wishing Blabby a very happy birthday. I think she deserves an award for sticking with me in spite of my awesome PJs that are cracked at the most appropriate of times… NOT!

A few examples while I’m at it…

—

Blabby: You’re my number one, no?

Me: Chi! I don’t want to be your susu.

Blabby: Oh dear God!

—

Me: Admit it, you’re expecting a pony for a birthday gift, aren’t you?

Blabby: I’m not expecting a pony. Just a unicorn, you know?

Me: Hrm, a unicorn is just a pony with a horn.

Blabby: …

Me: It’s a horny pony.

Blabby: What have I gotten myself into!

—

Oh well…

Amen.

Happy Birthday again, babe!

Food for thought…

Isn’t it weird that the greatest ideas occur to you only, and only, when you’re in the loo? And isn’t it also equally, if not extra-, weird that the moment you down that flush, you lose the great idea?

I bet you fifty bucks that the telephone was invented way before (and many times before) Graham Bell did it. It just so happened that the guy (or girl, if I want to be politically correct) was in the loo and before he (or she, oh man, political correctness!) could actually come up with GPRS and 3G, the flush was downed and the idea was lost for a few more centuries.

Moral of the story: Graham Bell’s toilet stank and nobody wanted to visit him.

It is so bad now that I have decided to take a notepad and pencil to the loo. I shall jot down the most wonderful thoughts of mine and try to express them in the most beautiful language possible. All that while I’m spewing out vile materials rejected by my body, that were temporarily stored in my large intestine, with varying degrees of stench depending on what I ate for dinner the previous night.

Now I am thinking about how ironic the title of the post is and yet how apt it is.

Oh well…

Amen.

Shotgun – cocked and loaded – shoots self in the foot.

Dear Mr. Shatrugan Sinha,

I must say your comments about cheerleaders in the Indian Premier League has made reading and viewing interesting for which I shall be eternally grateful to you.

The mundane discussions about the inflation and the consequential price rise was making live news somewhat boring and very predictable. I must say I am very glad that this is being covered with less fervor compared to your comments on the cheerleaders for which, as I mentioned earlier, I am indeed highly grateful to you.

I am also glad that you pointed out that the attention has diverted from cricket to the sideshows that these cheerleaders put up. The cricketers now seem to want to hit sixes and fours or take wickets solely for the purpose of seeing these half naked girls dance and not so that their team wins. The fact that their team wins a match is sheer coincidence, an observation of mine with which I am sure, you will agree.

I also liked the fact that your comments have taken over the news ticker, the text that runs from the right to the left on the bottom of the screen (yes, sir, that displays news too). And since there are a lot of people who want to react to your statements, both in agreement and disagreement (there will not be a lot, I am sure, for the ones that disagree with you must hang their heads in shame), I must assume that you have made yourself immortal in the annals of history for which I am very happy and extremely proud.

The doctors’ strike and its ramifications will be forgotten, as they should be, thanks to the amazing timing of your evergreen comments. Sure, things like death due to negligence and discrimination should be forgotten, our culture and customs require us to forgive and forget. For reminding us this culture of ours, sir, I am infinitely grateful to you.

Farmers commit suicides. What can anything be done about them, right? It is the ones that are alive that vote for you and win you elections. With your well-timed comments about the cheerleaders, I must say, as an ardent fan of yours, I am overjoyed at the subtle, untold messages in your words.

Our culture consists of so many violent deaths, thanks to wars and communal clashes that we tend to forget our true calling and waste our time pursuing these meaningless models of supposed equality. As long as you are around, sir, I sincerely hope that that day would never come.

The development of our country has given birth to so many evils and only stalwarts like you stand in the way of the complete erosion of our core values. We do need to be reminded from time to time, as to what we ought to do and what we oughtn’t. We are, of course, a young country and we need to be guided from time to time by someone who has been entertaining us through the wonderful medium of feature films.

I am so happy that all the news channels and other forms of the media, including my blog will talk about your comments rather than talking about other topics which have no relevance to the state of our country, state or selves.

To conclude, I would like to say I feel very lucky to witness a personality like you in action, although I am disheartened to know that you have not been able to win a single Filmfare award in spite of your splendid performances in movies. I am certain that this is the result of a conspiracy on behalf of the Bachchan family which keeps scoring at the awards’ ceremony every year.

Keep commenting, sir.

Yours Gratefully,

The Wabbster.

I know I’ve said this before, but….

USE UBUNTU OR DIE!!!!

Amen.

Chronicles of the Thunderful Bird! - 1

He was an average Tamilian, on a Karnataka registered bike, with a learner’s license from Mumbai. The thought of it made him smile. He turned the odometer knob to make it read ‘000’ as his father yakked away instructions – a list of dos and don’ts, one might call it. He kick-started the bike to life and the ‘Bird obligingly thundered.

“Call me every hour”, his fathered muttered amidst the thumping of the bike.

“Every hour? How about I call you every time I stop for a smoke?”

“Don’t smoke a lot.”

“Then don’t expect a lot of calls.”

A quick wave and he was off. His first bike trip since he moved to Mumbai.

—

There isn’t a lot that I expect when I do road trips. It is my expression of freedom. Freedom from home, from work, from, well, life! This was my sixth road trip and my fifth alone. I don’t mind riding alone, in fact, I enjoy it. I relish the lack of additional responsibility a pillion brings. I love the fact that I can think of a song during the ride and head-bang to it without having to make anyone uncomfortable.

—

Sunrise on the highway is a biker’s dream, he was told once. He, on the other hand, found it rather unnerving. The visor was dirty and cracked in a few places. He cursed himself for not having it changed before he started. But then, it was typical of him to ignore the minor details. He was not too fussy about preparations. All he needed were three things, his ‘Bird in good running condition, fuel and a destination.

Life was a road trip, he concluded. Different folks, different strokes and different gears! Some like to plan it, some people don’t. Some people actually put their plans to work whereas some take things as they come. He believed he was more like the latter.

—

I didn’t know the way to Nashik. All I had was a ‘fair idea’. That’s cowshit talk for not having a clue.

Borivali to Thane. Thane to Nashik. That was the plan.

The first fifty kilometers were slow, mostly because I didn’t know the route. The first thirty kilometers included a lot of stopping and asking for directions. There were only two turns, one to Thane and the other to Nashik. I was on the right track.

—

A hundred kilometers in ninety minutes. The biting chill threatened to ruin the exhilaration but a well timed cigarette break kept the excitement levels up.

A quick sms session followed by a call to his mother ensued during the cigarette break. It was cold and he had completely forgotten to take into account the fact that he was going to a colder city.

But where there is a Wills, there is a way, he thought and took another long drag off his cigarette.

—

In no time, I was in the middle of Igatpuri. The beauty of the place has to be seen to be believed. The mountainous roads give you the illusion of being dangerous but they are pretty harmless, unless you start gawking at the scenery while on the bike (which I did). Oh well, the oncoming truck had pretty effective horns, so, in a way, I was saved by a horny truck driver.

I stopped for my second break about fifteen kilometers from Nashik. A quick sms to A about logistics followed.

—

Taj Hotel, she told him. He was still ten kilometers from there. Time for a smoke and this time it was at a Mallu tea shop. He was amazed at the fact that he could find one here, but it made him feel at home for some reason.

—

A few minutes later, I was in Nashik. The ‘Bird drew a well received ‘oooh’ from A and a few moments later, we were at A’s place…

Two days of awesome fun. Double breakfasts, beer at 4:30 pm, roaming around the streets of Nashik with no helmet on, shopping for trousers at Big Bazaar, dinner with A’s folks, a photo session the following morning and off to Mumbai.

—

The return was less eventful. A traffic jam in the middle of the hilly Igatpuri and Thane meant his return journey would take him an hour longer.

As the ‘Bird turned left on the Link Road towards Gorai, he had a big smile on his face. A mental checklist was being ticked off – road trip, check; to Nashik, check; meet A, check; kick some ass on the highway, check; plan next road trip…

Well, that could wait for a while, he thought. And he had a feeling he wouldn’t be alone then.

Amen.

Indian Idiots - III (Indian? Racist!)

You can also read:

Indian Idiots - I (patriotism guaranteed, conditions apply)
Indian Idiots - II (People and Eating Outlets - Bad Combo)

Or…. You can just go ahead and read on!

—

Pseudo people – they piss you off, don’t they? Pseudo-secularists, pseudo-politicians, pseudo-evangelists, pseudo-friends, pseudo-feminists – the list goes on and on, the length and breadth of human hypocrisy, endless.

What irritated me most about the recent events in Australia, involving the Indian and Australian cricket teams, is precisely this hypocrisy – this presumption that we, Indians, are an angelic set of people, who have been oppressed for eons and that that is the only thing that separates ‘us from them’.

First, the whole ‘us’ concept is the very start of segregation. Racial, national, or international, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is, when you say ‘us’, you’re automatically saying there’s a ‘them’ and that they’re ‘different’.

Second, aren’t Indians racist too? Okay, agreed that we faced all that discrimination from the firangs and all that, but even when we were being discriminated against, didn’t we come up with the caste system? Didn’t my ancestors say that they’d become impure if they came in contact with a shudra’s shadow? Didn’t they monopolize learning, power and all the opportunities? Okay, this was in the past. So, it really shouldn’t matter now. Let’s talk about what’s happening now. A few examples here and there and I’ll prove that you and I – and most Indians – are, in fact, racist bigots.

• When you laugh at a Sardar joke, you’re a racist.
• When you imitate a Mallu accent, you’re a racist.
• When you call all South Indians “Madrasi”, you’re a racist.
• Here’s a riddle – Why won’t you find a Raymond showroom in Pakistan? – Because there aren’t any complete men there. Funny? You’re a racist.
• When you call Telugu people “Goltis”, you’re a racist.
• When you call Malayalees “Mallus”, you’re a racist.
• When you call Tamilians “Katpadi” and/or “Kongas”, you’re a racist.
• When you call anyone from North East India / East Asia “Chinkis”, you’re a racist.
• When you call Bengalis “Bongs”, you’re a racist.
• When you’re looking for a fair bride/groom in your matrimonial, you’re a racist

(list incomplete)

We are racists. So, don’t go around acting hurt when someone calls you one, you hypocrites. And just because you got caught being one, don’t make a big fuss. Apologise and get it over with.

Oh and a happy new year to you!

Amen.

Changes…

One of the many things that I enjoyed in Bangalore was the fact that I could start my bike any time I wanted and go anywhere I wished. Mysore, Chennai or even Hampi! That’s certainly the best of the many good things about living alone, I guess.

But now, now that I’m in Mumbai, living with the family, the small things that I’d been taking for granted has become a rarity in terms of occurrence.

Like smoking, for example. In Bangalore, I could smoke wherever, without fear (of getting caught and/or being lectured by someone) and without any guilt. And it’s very easy to get into that sort of a routine, harmful as it may be.

Now, I have to sneak out of my house, get to the terrace, look around if the coast is clear, light one up, look around some more, and in between the looking around, take a few precious drags of the nicotine-filled carcinogen. And I’d never be able to finish an entire cigarette. By the time I finish half of it, I realise it’s not worth all the trouble. The cigarette has stopped ‘helping’. Couple that with the fact that I have to sneak back into my own house like a thief and rushing to the bathroom before anyone breathes and smells my deed, the guilt trip just makes the smoking totally not worth it.

When I’m at work, however, between bouts of jobless Wikipedia-ing (and sometimes, more recently, working), I manage to slip out for a smoke. This gives me the best pleasure. A coffee and a sutta – the best bloody combination. Sometimes, I wonder if it’s the cigarette I enjoy or the lack of guilt that I’ve come to associate with it these days.

So many other things have changed now. For example, I’m sharing a room with my brother. What’s even weirder is the fact that I’m not protesting. I’ve come to accept it as a phase. My brother, I’ll be fair now, is a pretty bearable roomy and he does respect my need to be left alone every now and then.

A lot of things annoy me, still. In Bangalore, I was so used to enter an empty house, devoid of any human presence that every sound now has become an irritant. I wake up with a start every time the maid turns the fan off. I wake up again when she turns it back on. The constant yammering of my mother annoys me and my dad’s racist utterings (still) piss me off.

But its home and I love it. I love it for its quirks and I love it because it’s the only thing that’s mine. I love my parents because they love me for no apparent reason. I love the nag in my mother and I love the snags in my dad! I love my sibling now and it’s not just because he’s my brother.

I don’t have a lot of friends in this city now, I don’t have a girlfriend now and I don’t think I’m enjoying my work a lot, but I am not distressed. Its life and I love it for some reason. Everyday in this city looks like an adventure although it’s routine!

But you know what the best part about being home is? BED COFFEE!

Amen.

The Mahindra Renault Logan is, quite literally, butt ugly.

Amen.

Moved!

The blog hasn’t moved. I have. To Mumbai.

Special thanks to:

1. Everyone at work: For throwing me an awesome ‘get the fuck outta here’ party.
2. Shireen and Rabin: For coming down from Chennai to see me off.
3. The Crapper: For all the beer and conversation I barely remember (blame it on the beer!).
4. The rest: For calling/messaging their goodbyes.
5. Uncle Mike: For being an amazing boss/mentor/friend throughout my stay at Infy BPO - Deutsche Bank.

Amen.

Conversations…

Parul: hehe.. and the movie is short and has an impact

me: Hrm. That’s what I say about porn.

Parul: oh god!!

Amen!