Again, It Begins

June 13, 2017

It’s comforting to think of stars as twinkling ornaments of the night, rather than admit they’re un-romantic, exploding spaceballs. 

As you take your first step towards independence, my son, our little world will suffer a seismic somersault. You fell from the sky into our arms and while we indulged in the languorous delight of your intro to life, the eternal entity, ravenous as always, waited for no one. Time has called for you to grow accustomed to leaving the nest so you can walk in the path of your fortune, while we watch, disbelieving that what so recently was ours, in the blink of an eye, was not.

The journey to discover your purpose of being begins at school tomorrow. 

You’ll always have us to fall back upon, even as you’re swept with the tide of mankind that will drift you ever further away from hearth and home. 

You’ll make us proud; you’ll break our hearts; you’ll love us dearly and you’ll turn away if your passion persuades you so. 

You’ll grow, you’ll learn, and you’ll be better than we ever could muster. 

You’ll let go of our fingers and then, you’ll belong to the world.

It was only yesterday that I grew up in an instant when I first held you. It was mere moments ago that you would wake us with endearing babbling and so many fluttering kisses. But, I digress. 

It’s comforting to think of you as our very own star, our infant unto infinity, for fear of admitting you’re no more ours than the air we breathe and every moment we cling to you is simply borrowed from a long goodbye.

The service of my love

We should be ashamed. All of us Indians. We enjoy having someone to point a finger at, whether it’s to laugh at them or to place blame on their shoulders, but we don’t often look into a mirror with the same intention.
The officials responsible for the Commonwealth Games mess have become the focus of everyone’s ire and the media are doing a stupendous job of sensationalizing the problems with disgraceful reporting. It’s become so you can’t wake up in the morning without having to read about the latest disaster in Delhi splashed over the front pages of every newspaper. No chance to be proud of the opportunity to host the event; instead, we’re encouraged to cry shame and bay for the blood of the incompetents involved in setting up the facilities.

We love to hate our politicians and complain about how corrupt they are, but wait… are they really different from the rest of us? I wouldn’t blame them, because I don’t think it’s their fault at all. In this great nation, we’re all born with a defining Indian-ness. As was Kalmadi. Every time we violate a traffic rule, every time we urinate or drop litter (or worse) in a public place, every time we forge a document and every time we bribe a government official, we’re just being true to our nature.

We are so proud of ourselves that we are blind to ourselves. We talk of India being a superpower in the making, but our standards of hygiene are still not at par with the rest of the world (foolishly admitted by CWG officials). We talk of becoming global citizens, but we cannot recognize that our Indian-ness is the very factor that prevents us from attaining said citizenship. Our nature is hardly compatible with the civilized world at large, and yet we aspire to rub shoulders with them. So many of us travel abroad to earn in higher valued currency. And yet, while abroad, many are unwilling to accept or adapt to foreign habits. We turn up our noses, seeking out others like ourselves and longing for the familiarity of Mother’s cooking. Others take adaptation a little too far and simply assimilate into foreign cultures, often forgoing their own.

We make ourselves weak. We worship our celebrities like we worship our Gods. We still fawn over foreigners although we broke free of the Raj ages ago. We are insecure as a people; of our abilities, our sexuality and most other qualities that matter.
We don’t understand graciousness, subtlety and etiquette. We don’t get satire.
We. Are. Not. Professional.

We are a developing country. We have been one for a long time now. How much longer?
I don’t care if there are lavish hotels with super-smart toilet bowls that wash your ass automatically. What about the poor who still have to defaecate in the open?
I don’t care about the luxurious cars afforded by the affluent. What about the idiots still spitting out of bus windows?
I don’t care if we are nuclear capable. What about the villages that still go without electricity?

We have been trying to do a good job, but we keep getting in our own way because of that little Indian chromosome. Nevertheless, we persist.
Top international athletes are pulling out of the Games? Fuck’em. We don’t need to beg on bended knee for them to grace the Games with their presence. I say we get on with the event and hope with all our collective might that everything stays standing, at least till the curtain falls.
I am not a leader, but as sure as I am a patriot and a taxpayer, I know this much: We desperately need change. We cannot abandon our fundamental ethos, but we do need to evolve from the inside. Understanding the problem is the primary step and I am hopeful that the upcoming young leaders in the country have a better vision in this direction than the worn down politicians currently in office.

Hong Kong was handed independence in 1997. As far ahead as they are, that’s where we could have been… I’m just saying.
Unless we make big strides forward, and soon, we may forever be the underachievers of the world.


P.S. If you were offended by anything in the paragraphs above, you might just be part of the problem.

Stripped

Morning. So cold…

Bathtub? Melting ice? FUCK…!

Wait, slow down. I remember now. We emptied the ice machine last night… she wanted to do it “Eskimo style”. Crazy stuff. Man, I wish I’d passed out on the bed instead.

“Uh, you’re in my seat.” Either she hadn’t heard him or she was ignoring him. He felt silly standing there and attempting to converse with her back. Her friend had obviously heard him because she made eye contact for just a moment. Finally, the usurper turned around, “Were you saying something?”

Suddenly he wasn’t sure anymore. “Uh, I was just sitting there a few minutes ago… but it’s alright. I’ll grab another seat.” The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could even make sure they were arranged in the right order. There wasn’t another seat at the bar, but he was flustered and needed to get away. “Oops, I didn’t know. I’m sure we can move?” she looked over at her friend. “No! That’s ok.” Too loud. He wasn’t used to these places. Awkward pause. “Umm… do you want to join us here for a drink? That is, if you don’t mind standing for a while.” One smile and he didn’t need to decide.

She took the car keys! And my folder was in there…

What was her name? Damn I gotta learn to remember these things. Emily something, I think. Gotta get back to the city somehow.

The exchange of items had gone smoothly and all he’d wanted was to get a beer before heading back to the solitary life. He normally would have never stopped at a bar that he knew was going to be this crowded, but having been compelled to, he was now glad for it. He was a relative novice, easily enticed by the alcohol and enchanted by her personality. She was attractive, attentive and dismissed her girlfriend a few minutes after he joined them.

Hi, yes I’d like to report a stolen vehicle. It’s a blue 2002 Civic. I think I’m at a B&B… I don’t remember the name, I’ll have to check. Uh no, there weren’t any valuables in there, just a file folder. I need to get my folder back! Yes, I can give you a description of the car…

“Maybe it’s just the light, but I think you’ve got an exotic sorta look. Polynesian?” “Actually, I’m one quarter Inuit,” she grinned at him, “On my mother’s side. And you’d be surprised how many people don’t know what Inuk is!” He smiled back sheepishly, as she ran her fingers through her black hair and her other palm rested on his thigh. “It’s kinda hot; do you want to get out of here?” Her eyes melted him.

Adele – Make You Feel My Love

The Morning Benders – Excuses

The Office

What did I do wrong?

Where did things take such a turn that now you suddenly can’t bear to look me in the eye?

It wasn’t very long ago that our every meeting was sweet relief. I’d make time everyday to come see you and our moments spent together seemed almost too short. But yesterday, for the first time, it was as if you couldn’t even see me.

I stood before you, head bowed in modest sincerity. And you dismissed me. No words were needed; it was as though our worlds were no longer the same. As though I had ceased to exist, the way you looked right through me in an unblinking stare.

Did I deserve this? Had I been unkind or unfaithful in any way? You weren’t the only one there y’know, but whenever I entered the room somehow my eyes always drifted only to you. I couldn’t ever not come over to you. So what happened to you? When did we stop understanding each other? I wish you’d given me a sign… something I could’ve seen and known then that things between us were about to change. I could’ve done something about it. I could’ve helped you. I could’ve helped myself.

But in an instant you’ve shown me your true nature. I don’t think we can continue what we started. You’re just not who I thought you were… instead, fickle, hateful and unrepentant are what I see now. Were you just baiting me? Lulling me into a false sense of security before turning on me? Have there been others before me? Now that I think of it, there probably were. This is a big place. Those poor suckers.

Well, if nothing else, at least we all know better now.

The worst part is that I’m still going to have to see you everyday, and then look away knowing that you wouldn’t have changed. In fact, you probably aren’t even expecting me to come back, but before the end, I have to know the reason. I can’t believe that it’s just in your nature to suddenly behave in such a way.

So why then, urinal #3, did you auto-flush on me before I was done?!

Mr. Big – To Be With You

Bon Jovi – Janie Don’t Take Your Love To Town

Winter fruit

Almost three months it’s been since I last posted anything. While I patiently await my suicide machine, please don’t disqualify me, O Elders of the Internet!

Recently, I heard the name Persephone and was immediately thrown back to my childhood. Not really being even a mediocre authority on Greek and Roman mythology, I’m not quite sure how I instantly connected the dots between Persephone and the story of Proserpina that I read as a child, but I did. It was a childhood that abounded with books and in one of them, I remember reading the story of Proserpina’s abduction by Pluto. I was pretty young at the time, but even at that age, the tragedy of it all struck me quite sharply. Now that I think of it, I think I had a book that seemed to be filled with stories filled with gloom and despair. That’s what comes of unsupervised reading! Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree was another mildly depressing story that I quite liked at that age.

On a side note, this wonderful depiction was sculpted by a 23 year old Bernini. Zoomed in, you can even see delicate tears streaming down her face. And don’t miss Cerberus down at Pluto’s feet.

Coming back to nearer times: When I had just made it into my twenties, I thought to myself that this was going to be the time of my life and I was determined to make it last as long as I could. But now that I’m on the wrong side of the decade, it’s going by all too fast. I’m not even sure I’ve had the time of my life yet… how would I recognize it? Slowly, I’ve grown to appreciate things that I would have hastily scorned but a short while ago. It’s even got to a point where I no longer run away from things that smell of lavender. The amount of time it’s taken me to get back to writing and the fact that this post barely has a point probably says something about where my mind and priorities are moving too. Enough for now.

“Too much change is not a good thing; ask the climate!”

Shakin’ Stevens – Cry Just a Little Bit

Berlin – Take My Breath Away

The Age of Man

I hate when people say how good it feels to give. I think that is utterly selfish and hypocritical behaviour. If you want to give, give for the cause, not for your own satisfaction or peace of mind.

I felt for the victims of the Haiti disaster but since I did not have the power, ability or compulsion to help them directly, like many others I thought it best to place my contribution in the hands of those who did have the compassion, capability and resolve required to render relief. I know it isn’t simple to empathize with someone caught in the aftermath of a catastrophe, to imagine the mental and physical trauma they are experiencing. But as a closet claustrophobic, I can only partially identify with the emotional distress of being trapped without hope. And this is before even trying to comprehend the heartache of loss suffered by the survivors. Grim.

While I was reading an article on the quake in an online newspaper, I came across a comment from another reader who swore not to donate a single penny. He couldn’t understand why whenever there was a crisis in some third world country, they always looked to the United States and the United Kingdom for help. Well Nathan from London, I’m sure you’re entitled to your own view, but all this comment did was it made me donate twice as much as I had planned to, just to even out the karma. I live in a country many people in ‘developed nations’ might prefer to refer to as third world, but I don’t want for much more than my country can offer. Nathan, you obviously never learned it in school but you need to be grateful every single day, that you were born into your family and not somewhere the sun didn’t shine so favourably.

I am not a proponent of religion. As for God, I believe in an entity that is omniscient and omnipresent (omnivorous too, maybe), a Creator and Destroyer; but I do not take God the Protector for granted. I believe in people. People have to look out for people and therein lies the root of all that is good. And by good I am referring to the most common understanding of what is right as opposed to what is wrong, not other definitions that may be twisted by religious observance, upbringing or social circumstance.

So fuck you, smiling pricks; be charitable, but stop telling us how warm and fuzzy it makes you feel. Giving doesn’t grant you the right to gloat.

And fuck you, Nathan from London. You are simply one of the bad ones.

Foreign types with the hookah pipes say: Is antidisestablishmentarianism = establishmentarianism? If yes, then whatever happened to brevity?

Travis – Sing

Hootie And The Blowfish – I Only Wanna Be With You

In the air

I don’t travel frequently, so when I do take a trip I always hope to meet an interesting member of the opposite sex during the journey, who can at least uphold one end of a stimulating conversation. I’m always looking for the random stranger that I won’t soon forget (in a good way, not because she swiped my wallet).

Recently on a bus to Mumbai, hitherto Bombay, I found myself seated beside a pleasant lady. We weren’t both supposed to get on the 8:00 AM bus, since the travel company in its infinite wisdom had given me a ticket for 8:30 AM. I realized this error too late, however, as with most things in this country, it’s easy to wriggle your way into almost anywhere, provided you know the words. Long story short, I boarded the bus I wanted and ended up beside the same girl who travelled with me in the shuttle to the bus station.

Much like a ’92 Ford Escort on a wintry morning in Oxfordshire, she took a while to warm to me, choosing to ignore my icebreakers. After about half an hour of persistence, I finally elicited a response when I commented on her funky shoes. Apparently, they were quite popular with the girls up North, but I really think they could have found a name more feminine than ‘Gladiators’. She though, had a very pretty name (which I shall not reveal, for no particular reason) and was visiting from Jaipur to spend time with her sister and see the ‘big city’. While she described all the things she liked about Pune, I wondered to myself if this was the same city I lived in or if, being a tourist, she had access to an ocean of serenity hidden within the city, which was only revealed to visitors.

We chatted on for a while as she shared her snacks and slowly revealed more about herself without needing much prompting. It was slightly intimidating to learn that although she was younger than me, she was already Regional Service Manager at a bank, but heck it wasn’t like I’d ever see her again, so I told her I was a Director of Sales (no I didn’t).

It was a long, slow ride and eventually we both fell asleep. The shared arm-rest between our seats wasn’t wide enough, so our arms were up against each other. I suppose it would have been good manners to either let her have the entire arm-rest or move my elbow away so that it wasn’t touching her. Or she could have done the same, out of Bharatiya Nari modesty. But she didn’t, so I didn’t. For the rest of the journey, every time the bus lurched so that our arms moved away from each other, I (or she) readjusted and they would come together again and sleep continued unabated. When she finally awoke and began to settle her hair, the missing warmth on my arm woke me too. Our conversation didn’t resume and she was soon at her stop. Her casual goodbye simply involved inviting me to come up North ‘soon’ and then she was gone.

I’m not saying she’s the stranger I won’t soon forget and I don’t want to read too much into these sorts of casual meetings, but all the same, I think they’re special because for a short time you can be completely open with someone without worrying about being judged since in all probability you’ll never meet them again. Or you could lie, and they’d never know the difference.

Soylent Green is people!!

Robbie Williams – You Know Me

Animotion – Obsession

Finishing line

Good gravy, I’ve almost missed another month. I know it looks like I’ve been away from here for a long time, but I haven’t really. In the process of starting my Tumblr page, I may have left behind my November post in favour of ‘micro-blogging’, but that was just a minor oversight. I’m still here, and Tumblr will only be my new graffiti wall, not mind space.

The time for retrospection, revelry and resolutions is upon us and most everyone around my age is under great pressure to be happy. Appropriately enough, I’ve been looking back at myself over the past year to find the bright spots and the not-so-bright ones, all essential to passing the time. While there were enough low points that I’d rather not dwell upon, one memory certainly stood out as a highlight to remember for a long time yet.

So far, I have never been in an unsuccessful interview. Or rather, I have passed every interview that I have ever attended (and having said that, I hope I haven’t jinxed myself). Early this year, I was the subject of a totally unconventional interview, conducted by a young lady who was obviously quite experienced at this sort of thing. She had with her a notepad in which she recorded my every answer, which kinda made me nervous, but I wasn’t sure why. On the subject of names, she first struggled through spelling mine, but was then quite giddy when she found out that she shared my mother’s first name.

She then asked me to show her my home city on a globe of the world and then had me calculate the amount of time it took to get from Point A to Point B. Contrary to a regular interview, she wasn’t concerned with the process, only the final answer; she was quite satisfied with mine. After that, she suggested that I shift home.

Of course, there was a cultural disparity since we were from different countries, which was probably why she was so interested in every little detail that I provided. But I still couldn’t believe my lucky streak; yet another interview in which I could do no wrong! At one point, she even high-fived me when she found out that I enjoyed Jolly Rancher candy as much as she.

And then we had dinner and she gulped down all of the root beer I had brought along.

I really should mention that she was 8 years old.

KT Tunstall – Christmas (Baby, Please Come Home)

Koop – Strange Love

And now, the news

Ok, I haven’t had time to write something special for today, so I give you this delightfully horrific little story by Edgar Allan Poe: Read!


On a side note, too bad about poor Caroline Wozniacki’s on-court spasm. Although, I’ll bet that video of her cramping up is really popular on the Internet and her grandchildren will probably watch it when they’re old enough to surf the net unsupervised!


Warren Zevon - Werewolves of London
Michael Jackson - Thriller

When September Ends

One of my favourite cinematic scenes is when someone crashes through a wall. No matter if the wall looks like it was constructed of papier-mâché, it’s still a greatly dynamic instant. I’m pretty sure I can’t break through a regular wall, but drywall is very much within the realm of possibility! Idly dreaming during (sometimes unnecessarily) long work meetings, I can imagine myself busting through the wall into the adjacent conference room. And just in case that isn’t intimidating enough to the unassuming folks on the other side, I can also be green and make caveman-ish sounds. Easy peasy!

I know I have a long way to go still, but at some point during the journey I would like to experience the event that becomes my story. Many people have many stories to tell, some more than others, but only a few have the story, the tale they tell that stokes the ember of interest in every listener. Whether horrific, fantastic or ecstatic, the story never fails to enrapture its audience. And I don’t mean the fluff you might catch in a break room, cafeteria or around the water cooler. This is serious stuff; the kind of stuff that is passed down within families, from generation to generation, changing ever so slightly with every new retelling but never forgoing the wonder of the original. In fact, the story is narrated so often by its owner, that with every passing year it either evolves into something more fanciful than before, or loses some of its less major elements to the clutches of time.

Unfortunately, I have no follies of youth to speak of, no movie-style romantic trysts, nor had any adventure that can be recounted with great gusto and pride. I might say my existence is absolutely unremarkable at present, if only that wasn’t such a cliché for someone my age. Unlike the general trend, I like to look at my life from the outside in, thus requiring more than just a personal sense of satisfaction or achievement to be suitably happy. Which doesn’t mean that I yearn for acknowledgment or approval by the people that surround me; on the contrary, it doesn’t matter as much as my own critique when I look back in at the events that have gone by and continue to do so, shaping my path through time. Narcissistic though it may seem, I think honest retrospection and self assessment does me well, rather than enduring the condescending, biased or disinterested opinions of others.

I don’t want to be greedy in wanting everything at once without having paid the price by facing the rigours of lice life, but I also hate having to think of an unpredictable future in which dreams can be forgotten or snuffed out in an instant, without anyone ever knowing they existed. This has certainly been the nature of things from time immemorial, but I don’t think it’s unfair to want a highlight before it’s too late. I don’t know, maybe it’s all this dreary rain that’s got me edgy and maybe tomorrow I won’t even feel the same way. But at the moment, this is my retrospection and I don’t want to lose it.

“Your world is nothing more than all the tiny things you left behind.”

The Turtles – Elenore

Skeeter Davis – The End of the World

Slither In

As far back as I can remember in my adult life, I’ve been waiting for my own ‘falls to his knees’ moment. It’s the much dramatised scene in which our protagonist falls to his (or her) knees, utterly overwhelmed. Maybe exhaustion from rescuing pensioners out of a burning building, or relief as they spy an oasis from afar after thirsty days in the desert wilderness, or even in reverent awe as they watch a projection of God himself descended to the Earth.
I’ve wanted it not so much for the drama involved, but rather for the spontaneous feeling that ignites the moment. You obviously don’t plan for it, and I don’t think many people like being on their knees, so when it does happen it’s likely the effect of a profound emotion. And that is something I think I need to experience.

It’s not hard to be weathered by the world so that you’re desensitised to where you barely betray or even feel much emotion. There are only phases in life when you actually care about shit. I mean when you really, truly give a fuck about shit. Any shit, however inane or intense, as long as you wake up to the day with a thought in your head that you really believe in. But after a point, the journey seems to take a common turn for most people, irrespective of which walk of life they are from (I say most people because I obviously haven’t met all people. I haven’t met most people either, but I’m surely allowed to take creative liberties in my assumptions, without going to hyperbolic extremes). You learn to take things as they come, finding ways to deal with or work around hiccups along the way. You’re doing well, always looking to ‘get ahead’ in the old rat race but hardly noticing the slow countdown that runs unerringly in the background while you take baby steps towards inescapable doom.

There needs to be an awakening, a break from the mundanity that creeps up on you in the guise of life-as-it-has-been-foretold. Enough of this urban bullshit. Forget the work week. Nevermind making plans for the weekend. I need to feel something. I need to feel emotion well up to where it has to bust out of me. I need to cry till I run myself dry, I need to laugh till I can’t bear the aching, I need to rage till I’ve forgotten the very the reason. And all these things shall make me happy and tired and alive.


“Can’t seem to get it together. I’m twenty six years old. I’m healthy, I’m capable, I’ve had every opportunity. My friends are getting married and having kids… and I’m just so far away.”

Nikka Costa - Call Me
Glen Hansard / Markéta Irglová - When Your Mind’s Made Up

Twilight of the Thunder God

I’ve decided to re-try my hand at something I haven’t done in a long, long time - reading. It’s been a while since I last perused something in print other than a price tag or the occasional newspaper headline so this is a big step for me.
For some reason I felt compelled to choose Douglas Scott Adams’ first book, although I have never really read his comic strip and even confess to hating it for no particular reason. Today, I began.

I have a tendency to try and find glimpses of myself in any fiction I read before I actually imbibe any of the intended content. Although I haven’t done much in recent times, old habits are meant to die hard, and in keeping with this fine tradition I was soon thinking how alike in thinking we were and how I had missed out on being a syndicated caricateur (I think this word sounds WAY better than ‘caricaturist’; unfortunately most dictionary folk don’t see eye to eye with me. And maybe Adams isn’t really a caricateur but I don’t give much of a fuck, ‘cos that isn’t the point) and an author. But there was a lingering uneasiness even as I got through to every next page, as though I was trying to write with the wrong hand or kick with the wrong foot (I’m no soccer player). 38 pages later, I gave in and turned back to my laptop instead. Guilt, me, awash with it. But luckily, I can live with that!

It has come to my attention that my writings are being found by those who would seek fruitful information and are accordingly dismayed when they come upon my posts, misleadingly titled such that they are irrelevant to the immediately following matter. Besides, the incongruity can’t be helping my credibility with Google search, whatever it may be. Be that as it may, I shall continue as before, to use titles that bear little or no resemblance to the actual posts they are associated with, other than to provide an additional point to ponder, perhaps.

Floyd: Heard anything from that girl recently? I haven’t. Have you?


I’m always thinking one step ahead, like a carpenter… that makes stairs.

Roxy Music – If There Is Something
Jon Secada – Just Another Day

Verkhoyansk

A couple of weeks ago just as I was leaving for work, I saw this lady come out of the neighbouring building. About mom-sized and, as is the norm around here, wrapped in a million scarves. Big deal, I think, and carry on my way happy with the thought I’d thunk that I’d be long gone before she even extracted her keys from her hideous purse. Instead, I eventually found myself behind her on the road, trying desperately not to gun the throttle and smash into her tail light out of frustration. Not only was she going my way, all the way, she somehow constantly managed to stay ahead of me, slowing down only at every turn, where she seemed too timid to maintain her momentum.

So I had to take her out before she caused me further embarrassment and potentially endangered the life of the mother of her children. A few nicks and bruises never hurt anyone.

I have a phobia of bodily penetrations. Before that statement is misconstrued to be what it isn’t, I should add that I mean bodily penetrations by inorganic objects. Hmm… Ok pointy metallic objects, more precisely. Dammit that still sounds dirty. Ok, I will narrow it down to knives. When blade meets flesh, that’s when my balls literally jump up into my body and wait there till it’s safe to descend again.
For many years, I tried to figure out if there really was something to this ‘stomach churning’ business, as others have put it, but I’ve only recently understood that the most profound effect an external stimulus can have is on my testicles.

And all this medical jargon is reminding me of another thing I hate. Doctors. And the thing I hate more than doctors – doctors who don’t agree that you’re as sick as you feel. I mean it’s a helluva medical anticlimax when you go to the doctor and then undergo a bunch of tests expecting to find conclusive evidence that your spine is horribly mis-shapen, which is the cause of your incredible pain, and after all that he tells you to go home and take an aspirin. Hell, if I’m paying you 400 bucks for consultation plus 1,500 for the tests, at least humour me and say I MIGHT have a horribly mis-shapen spine, which is the cause of my incredible pain!
Or at least have a hot nurse draw my blood. The rest I can deal with.


For the accompanying image: I swear I don’t remember where I got the original. If you read this and happen to be the artist, creds to you. At least I’m not using it for commercial purposes and so you can’t sue me, right? Right?

“This isn’t goodbye, it’s great-bye!”

Robert Palmer – Simply Irresistible
Imogen Heap – Hide and Seek

RIP, Michael. I still love ya.

Advice from my ATM

I had an unusual dream a couple of nights ago that I will now dwell on for my own amusement – I dreamed I was colourizing an episode of I Love Lucy. I know that you aren’t supposed to remember dreams because of REM sleep and all that jazz, but I do recall them sometimes, as I’m sure most people do. Every time I manage to recollect a dream, it is vivid enough for me to break down into parts that I can relate to occurrences in the previous day, at least on some level. This rationalizing allows me to scoff at all those dream readers.
This time though, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what brought Lucille Ball into my sleeping consciousness. I don’t remember any other faces or sounds from that dream, not even Ricky; just her. And her red dress and her red hair.
I don’t like loose ends. This is going to trouble me for a while now.

On a less unusual note, change is in the air. Not just the weather, but me too. I’ll be 26 shortly and before I do that, I’m shedding some skin. Less cursing through the traffic is a start; instead I’d rather enjoy the ride and musical accompaniment. More outdoor activity is another chapter of this new edition. I’m getting used to a gym locker room and hopefully, I’ll soon be emulating a namesake with a racquet in my hand. The best part of all this is that I get to roam around in shorts. It doesn’t matter that the little girls sitting in a row along the garden fence giggle whenever I pass them, this is the calmest I’ve been in a very long time.
There will always be empty spaces that need filling, but I think there are some that need to be filled first so that you can move on to the rest. Maybe I’ve started right.


“Every time I lay you down in that damn crib, I'm gonna think, ‘Damn baby. Damn Crib.’”

Amber – This Is Your Night
Ludacris – Get Back

The Report

That’s it! I, am hereby, herein, hereforth AND herewith done with aging... From now on, I’m getting younger by the minute!

Fort Minor - Remember The Name
Bobby Vinton - Blue Moon

Unnecessary acks

Some stuff I found. Not sure how long ago I wrote this.

For giving me an excuse to sing out loud: Queen
For giving me an anthem: John Lennon
For always listening to whisperings: Pepe, the paranoid parakeet
For holding open the door to life before and after me: The Beatles, The Jetsons
For keeping alive a spark of religiosity, no matter how shamelessly small or elusive: Mother
For the sound of romance in spite of today: Norah
For being an ideal, not a stereotype: Dad
For giving me something I can rock out to when there’s nothing left: Metallica
For letting me be a kid: Superman, Hanson
For letting me grow up: Bon Jovi, The Spice Girls (yes, it’s true)
For the hotness: Jennifer Connelly
For existing: Zooey Deschanel
For tears: Forrest Gump
For a life bound in music: Millions of unknowingly generous users on the World Wide Web
For proving to me that life’s a female dog: You know who you are
For grounding: Friends four
For being a dork: Richie Cunningham
For not kicking my ass: Nan, when I walked in on her in the bathroom; Uncle Norbert, when I walked in on him in the bathroom
For keeping me out of showers for a *very* long time: Jaws (no thanks for that)
For cool: The Rock, No Doubt, Fonzie
For my first read: Oliver Twist
For one free drink: Steve the bartender
For just happening: The 80s, The 90s
For the funk: Prodigy
For being way more awesome than “Friends”: Seinfeld
For pampering: My first 9 schoolteachers
For looking up to me: Rucha

Floyd: Nice choice of pictures. The last one may have been questionable; this one makes the entire page completely gay!


“If I had to choose her or the sun, I’d be one nocturnal son of a gun”

Kelly Clarkson – My Life Would Suck Without You
Jason Mraz – I Melt With You

Seriously.

Dammit February, you’ve screwed me over with your 28-day fashion. By the time I’d realized the month was out, I didn’t have anything ready to post. So I may try to make it up this month; or I may not. Whatever.

I’ve done it so many times now, that the “airport post” has become quite predictable. I can’t help it though, because I generally have an unreasonably long wait at every major airport I visit, so I see stuff and save my thoughts for a more composed expression that is NOT a Tweet.
Airports are quite predictable too. And by airports, I don’t mean just the airports themselves, but the people inside them as well. There are the families who try to enjoy the whole experience and count the airport wait as part of their vacation fun, and the families who can’t keep the kids in control and end up cursing the vacation before it even starts. Then you have your casual travelers who generally have their MP3 players out with some light reading and a snack, distancing themselves from the rest of the world till their boarding gate opens, followed by the newly-baptised/try-too-hard IT professionals who, in an attempt to blend in, will always appear with their Grishams and Coelhos in hand and a notebook case in tow, not to forget the mandatory cup of gourmet coffee and the overdone outfit. And finally, the seasoned travelers, who, whether they’re out for business or pleasure, always know how to best utilise their time without having to turn to music and/or fiction.

I didn’t think I’d be seeing Heathrow so soon again, but that’s how it happened. Out of boredom, I tried to look at a different dimension this time around… Oh the boots! I love ‘em in all shapes and sizes. I worked out that a good pair of boots could move a girl up from plain average to attractive. But, the wait was long and owing to the fairly large difference in time zones from when I got onto the airplane and when I stepped off it, it wasn’t long before my eyes began to roll back in their sockets and mysterious but hot women came floating by to ask me hot but mysterious questions like Haven’t you been chewing that gum far too long? and Try on my underwear?

Switching topics, so many movies (read: Romantic Comedies) show the guy who dates this rebound chick after he loses the main lady in his life, who is in fact so hot AND so well rounded that losing her is probably the greatest sin on earth that should actually leave him depressed for life. But the world keeps turning and so he decides to get back into the dating scene and looks for the shallow women who can keep him amused so that he doesn’t need to think of what he recently lost. Inevitably, he runs into his ex-lady love at just the place they shouldn’t have met, after which one or both of them remembers that they were so good together and they were fools to ever let each other go. Here’s where our boy unceremoniously dumps the new girl with a condescending hug and smile as if to say you’re a helluva lay, but you don’t stimulate me intellectually. But don’t worry, it’s not your fault you’re a boob.
Did it ever occur to him, or anyone else for that matter, that the reason this chick seemed so shallow could have been because that was exactly how every guy she’d been with treated her, without allowing her a chance to exhibit anything more than her physical talents (if at all)?

Freaky moment of the year: I was downloading David Bowie’s Major Tom (or Space Oddity, if you want to call it that) when Winamp pulled up Peter Schilling’s Major Tom at the exact moment the download began. And the preceding song? Tom’s Diner (DNA/Suzanne Vega).

“I’ve got two tickets to Iron Maiden, baby
Come with me Friday, don’t say maybe…”


Crowded House – Don’t Dream It’s Over
The Subways – Rock ‘N Roll Queen

Moonlight over Rome

From recent events, I’d say it’s fair to assume that people WANT to think they are victims of racism, because it’s an easy way to reject criticism of themselves. People WANT to think they are being projected badly to the rest of the world, people WANT to think they are being looked down upon. In fact, I’d say that is close to being an Indian trait. It is an effort to gain a sympathy vote and to give ourselves an excuse to think that we are better than we really are.
I’ve been reading positive as well as negative reactions on this movie, by Indian as well as non-Indian viewers. While some people rightly compare it to Cidade de Deus, others find the comparison horrifying and still others find the movie cheesey and just don’t see what all the fuss is about. One thing is for certain though: very few are ambivalent in their opinion on this film.

Slumdog Millionaire has got itself 10 Academy Award nominations, which I find quite surprising ‘cos I’ve watched it and while it was good, I didn't think it was SO good that people start bestowing superlative praise and golden statuettes upon it.
As an Indian, I would think one is torn between two opinions: you want to say it was a good movie because it was engrossing and well made and thus brought acclaim to the Indians involved in its creation. You also want to say it was horrible, because although it was about India, it was a movie by an Englishman that showed the worst side of the country. Abject poverty, violent and perverse slum life and children who are never children at all; City of God did that too.

Plenty of folks passing judgment on this movie seem to label India a “third world country” in which the events depicted were bound to happen because of the living standard. The fact is, while we sit in our ivory towers, that is exactly what most Indians think of the slums too… a “third world country” within the country. I know because I am one of those most Indians.
I don’t agree with these foreign labelers, but I don’t blame them either because if you watched this movie with no presumptions about India, you’d probably feel the same way too. I found the observation of a celebrity columnist in a local newspaper to be quite apt when she opined that the world would want to see what life was like in this Indian city that was only recently targeted by terror attacks, which would be one of the reasons driving them to watch this movie. Unfortunately, for many, this will be how they discover India. This is what they get for their curiosity. A nice little (all of 120 minutes) film that depicts life in a country they probably know exists somewhere out there, at its worst but interwoven with real drama, undying love and culminating in an expected fairytale ending, complete with a gratuitous song and dance sequence.
It’s just a shame that it took a firang to put it on display for the world, when the story was already written in our own backyard.


If You Seek Amy... lingua magnifica!

“You! Yes, you behind the bikesheds... stand still laddie!”

Prodigy – Breathe
Jimmy Ray – Are You Jimmy Ray?

What ho, Black Knight!

As Sir Marcus Rigsby is wont to say, Whatever you’re doing, stop it now!

I was browsing my Internet today and reading through a few random but mostly not-so-random blogs to note what the (sometimes questionably) funny folk were up to. As I am wont to do at most times, I noticed a couple of things. I shall now share the immediately-aforementioned observations.

1. Plenty people like to just make up words as they write, like I do. That does slightly take away from the joy of doing it, but it isn’t enough to make me want to stop it now!
2. People like to link. It is a compulsion of sorts that makes the writer want to distract the reader with such a venom that every second effing word of every effing line links to something else somewhere else, often only obscurely referencing the writer’s original intent.
But here’s a clue for all the linkwizards: it’s called TARGET=“_blank”. Learn it. Live it.
3. Some people are sometimes funnier when they don’t try.
4. If there is a photograph of a weird or not-necessarily-weird-or-even-just-out-of-the-ordinary something, there will invariably be an Asian tourist/not-tourist with a camera, OR the shadow of one, somewhere in the photograph.
Right place, right time... or just too many everywhere so the odds of one being in your photo are so high anyway that you needn’t bother calculating?
Sweet cream on an ice-cream sandwich! When will they stop it now?


A while ago, I had thought of starting a new series of posts based on something I called “Daniel Rutgers’ Memoirs”. Don’t ask me where I got the titular character’s name from; it was meant to be ironic... if a name can ever be ironic.
I realized I wouldn’t be able to come up with enough material to actually create something resembling a book, but I thought I could at least churn out enough to cover a few posts as a sort of regular appearance on my pages. Like Floyd... who is, in fact, pretty irregular these days.

To start with, I had the whole thing ready over the course of one night of near insomaniacal (YES!) pondering, with a complete world in which Daniel could live and breathe and be anything but real, absurdly molded characters that might never support a storyline and a storyline that could never possibly have existed before me. (While taking care to not split my infinitives, these days I also take care to follow up random negations with contradictions.)
Each post would consist of excerpts from one or more days from Daniel Rutgers’ utterly unnecessary personal log. I even had the side characters that would pop in every now and then to provide relief from Daniel’s own inane but somewhat amusing musings.
Unfortunately, due to constraints of time and deteriorating imagination, I was unable to develop Daniel into a suitable Harry Potter rebound past a single page taken from the entry of November, 17. Fuelled with disappointment in self and country, I decided it would be appropriate for me to stop it now!
Starting from scratch sucks.


“The eyes are the groin of the head”

Black Sabbath – Iron Man
Peter Frampton – Baby, I Love Your Way

Camo

I hate sitting around at airports, mostly because my international layovers are almost always reeeeallly long. But sometimes the wait is not all that bad because once you get used to the seats and find all the restrooms you don’t want to use, an airport is an airport is an airport. No matter how much I hate Starbucks, I’d probably still stop for a bagel or bear claw to pass the time. It’s nice to eat and watch people. I mean watch people while you eat what you’re eating; not people.
At Heathrow, although my wait was as long as it always is anywhere else, it was nice to be among the English for once. Good looking, fashionable folk all around, with their many accent derivatives. And all the time two things were constantly passing through my mind: I should have shaved before I left home and I am WAY underdressed! Also there was this pleasant Polish dude, Maciej (I only just figured out that his name was not spelled the way it was pronounced), who just happened to be everywhere I was, from on the way to Bombay, to on the way to the bathroom in the plane, to the security check queue, to wandering around the airport.
As I sat near the elevator bank to Gates B and C, fingers tapping at a frequency that was a varying multiple of that of my toes, sometimes integer-al(?) and sometimes fractional, I realized that it was a neat personal feat of uncoordinated motor movements. A shapely brunette with the highest heeled boots and shortest skirt I’ve ever seen introduced herself into my frame of view and turned to face me before beginning the journey downward. Her grey eyes locked with mine for what seemed like a clichéd eternity of seconds till the lift doors closed.
There was no joy in her stare. It was no fun sitting there after that.

SFO is now getting too familiar for comfort. And this time around it was as though the senior citizens of France had descended as one upon the city of San Francisco. As I waited at my boarding gate surrounded by France’s eldest, I was overcome by the urgent need to soothe an itch in the crotch. Being of modest character, obviously I did not act to deter this agent of evil in such company. But, for those 20 minutes during which I had to allow an invisible irritant gnawing at my gonads, I shall forever despise the elderly from south of Belgium.
Plus, longest pre-boarding, ever!


Damn that Katy Perry... getting me all hot with her silly song. Plus she reminds me sometimes of Zooey Deschanel.
In other news, Debra Messing reminds me of Lucille Ball.

“I would stand in line for this”

Shelley Duvall – He Needs Me
M.I.A. – Paper Planes