tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-378251492024-03-07T05:49:56.784+01:00Of Travels and Travailsin the quest to solve the travelling salesman problemScript Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12304385280899569694noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37825149.post-67361528747674572342011-11-04T08:20:00.002+01:002011-11-04T08:26:37.371+01:00When I saw Ra.OneMuch has been said, written and heard about this movie. No movie has caught the public’s imagination the way this one has. There have been comparisons galore. “His is bigger than his” type analogies are all over the electronic space around us. Love him, hate him or ignore him. But the juggernaut that is SRK rolls on.<br /><br />I will be honest. I went to the theatre wanting to hate the movie. Ra.One – clever play on words – the name is in line with the current trend of naming movies after their villains. And a very menacing villain, indeed! But truth be told, I ended up liking the movie. By default, I do not like any SRK movie. By default, I want every SRK movie to crash and burn.<br /><br />Yes, the movie is a mish-mash of almost everything good that Hollywood has thrown at us. Spiderman meets Terminator 2 / 3 meets Spy Kids meets blah blah. Who cares? ‘Cause it works. It works like nothing else has worked before. I do not understand the holier than thou attitude that we Indians revel in. Originality is overrated. There is one of only four or five stories in every movie. Even the fantastic Star Wars series is basically a father-son saga narrated in the backdrop of intergalactic war.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.underthebluesky.in/index.php/blogs/108-when-i-saw-raone">Read More.</a>Script Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12304385280899569694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37825149.post-11924689404098174062011-10-11T07:21:00.002+01:002011-10-11T07:24:22.589+01:00When Ghazal dies<em>Aankhon se aasuon ke marasim puraane hain</em><em><br />Mehmaan yeh ghar mein aaye to chubhta nahi dhuaan</em> <p class="MsoNormal">Jagjit Singh. <em>Naam hi kaafi hai</em>. For 45 years his <em>ghazals</em> enthralled us. He had a unique gift – he made you feel as if he was singing only for you. And that voice! It enraptured us, kept us glued to him. To most of us, Ghazal is Jagjit Singh.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I consider myself blessed. My father has a decent collection of Jagjit and Chitra Singh’s live performances. I was introduced to music heaven as early as 4 or 5. The first Jagjit Singh ghazal I ever listened to was a recording of ‘<em>Kal Chaudhvi Ki Raat Thi</em>’ performed at South Hall. Smashing start, wouldn’t you say? It is perhaps his finest work. Ever. I did not know it then but I was sold. Completely sold on the man.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.underthebluesky.in/index.php/blogs/106-when-ghazal-dies">Read More.</a><br /></p>Script Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12304385280899569694noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37825149.post-1929978944714907872011-05-10T08:10:00.003+01:002011-05-10T08:46:37.633+01:00Where are all the men?Yes, there are billions out there with an appendage dangling between their legs. But the rate at which the Orlando Blooms and Robert Pattinsons are crawling out of the woodworks that very appendage will soon evolve into a vestigial organ. Something like the appendix which serves no useful purpose, yet retains the ability to put you through severe agony when it feels like it. Not that the penis does not put us through the misery of masking those untimely at-office hard-ons.<br /><br />Born in the 80s, to me a man using a deodorant was as familiar a sight as a woman admitting to passing gas. While I do appreciate the good sense of using deodorants that the 90s brought, in the 00s men went completely berserk. To an extent, I can probably let slide the use of moisturisers and nail filers. But waxing? Seriously? Waxing?<br /><br />I distinctly remember Akshay Kumar in a bedroom romp with Shilpa Shetty in the movie ‘Main Khiladi Tu Anadi’. He had enough hair on his chest to give a bear a run for his money. He was a man, a man’s man, the way all men had evolved over millions of years. Then he got married, probably had his masculinity taken away from him, and re-appeared topless devoid of all chest hair. There are countless scenes of Anil Kapoor in the shower in his earlier movies. He has stopped taking his shirt off. Whether it is his response to the neutering of the manly hero or due to his extreme shame at having gone the waxing way himself we will never know.<br /><br />Most women would find all this talk of chest hair revolting, disturbing, may be even scandalous. That, however, would be missing the point. Chest hair, or references to it, is not nearly as disturbing as the fact that metro-sexuality seems to have become the accepted way of life. In their quest to become our equals, women have succeeded in converting men to women.<br /><br />It does not end here. Married men are expected to not beer-burp or fart when their wives are around. In the unfathomable event that the unthinkable happens, lavish gifts have to be bestowed as an apology for letting their natural bodily functions occur. I see this evolving further. One day women like Renuka Chowdhury will have their way. Beer will be outlawed and all men will be required by law to have a butt-plug up their arse.<br /><br />But we won’t have any men left by then. There will be women, and there will be those without a vagina. I am sure those without a vagina will have evolved mammary glands in human race’s eternal quest for gender equality.Script Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12304385280899569694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37825149.post-61075815106844723952010-02-07T08:16:00.007+01:002010-02-07T08:45:20.153+01:00The Great Indian Road Trip – Day 2<span style="font-weight: bold;">Itarsi – Bhopal – Agra – Bharatpur (780km; 5:30 am)</span><br /><br />After a night spent at Meghdoot Hotel, Itarsi on sheets that only ever get washed when Lord Indra himself decides to send in the sporadic shower of rain, the wife and I made a dash for Bharatpur before the first rays hit the tarmac.<br /><br />The distance of about a 100km or so to Bhopal takes more than two and a half hours. This is why:<ol><li>You are traversing through MP's infamous roads</li><li>You will wait at least one level crossing out of the three as per law of averages</li><li>You just have to stop at the stream running along the highway and get your feet wet</li></ol>Most of MP is ghats. The views are breathtaking. The forests are still lush enough to seem other worldly. The wildlife seems not to care when you pass by. If you have the luxury of an additional day, take MP slow and breathe in nature at its best.<br /><br />Bhopal is something else. It is possibly the only city on this planet where it is quicker to go through the city than take the bypass. The bypass is a 10km stretch resembling the result of a random gravel throwing contest. The Bolero struggled to average 12kmph. Yet, they have the gall to put up a signboard that limits maximum speed to 50kmph. Talk of rubbing salt into wounds!<br /><br />Once you chug your way out of the bypass, things actually get worse. Apparently, everyone in Bhopal believes there is a different road to Agra. We must have stopped for direction three thousand two hundred and seventy seven times only to be told as many varied routes. I believe we clocked 50km simply going back and forth trying to locate NH 3. Here is a guide to a fellow traveller. Ask for directions to Rajgarh/Baora or the Ayodhya bypass.<br /><br />NH 3 is driving heaven compared to all the roads post NH 7, especially the diversion laced NS 61/62 between Adilabad and Nagpur or the NH 69 between Nagpur and Bhopal, which is not saying much but it is the thought that counts. In fact, my wife formulated a theory that states 'Highways get their numbers designated based on how motorable they are'. Of course, that theory does not hold water once you hit NH 1A between Leh and Srinagar or NH 1D between Srinagar and Jammu.<br /><br />Gwalior is a picturesque town that runs a narrow gauge railway. Since I am quite enthralled by relics of the past, this was a moment that made my eyes light up like a child’s on Christmas. Seeing people perched atop the train reminded me of the movie 'Gandhi'.<br /><br />From Gwalior it is a couple of hours to Agra. The road dualises all the way through except for 10km in Rajasthan where you drive hoping that the car in front of you can find a way out. Neither does this stretch have roads nor does it have directions telling you how to locate one.<br /><br />We learnt this the hard way, but to reach Bharatpur follow the signs to Jaipur that are displayed fairly prominently as you approach Agra. We lost an hour or so navigating through the city. The highway is lonely, more so when you are travelling with your wife at 9pm. It is dark, the darkest I have ever known a highway to be. It took us an hour to reach Bharatpur.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmdyJrHXZ1FVJpEqjL3EKqxmYljuWCt1NvusM596GZ7XLJw0BFd560zTWDWQtslfN_2c56ujbIJ19VsZiyNtqqnknor1HvLUx3QeWfCk-nGNzzyEJN0kaniLZiWcvc3mrnvsG7/s1600-h/bharatpurAshokForestLodge.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmdyJrHXZ1FVJpEqjL3EKqxmYljuWCt1NvusM596GZ7XLJw0BFd560zTWDWQtslfN_2c56ujbIJ19VsZiyNtqqnknor1HvLUx3QeWfCk-nGNzzyEJN0kaniLZiWcvc3mrnvsG7/s320/bharatpurAshokForestLodge.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435399721979278786" alt="Hotel Bharatpur Ashok Forest Lodge" border="0" /></a>It being off season, rooms in Hotel Bharatpur Ashok Forest Lodge (an ITDC Hotel) were available. At Rs. 2300 a night during off season it is a tad expensive, but worth every penny. It is located inside Keoladeo National Park, and being a Government of India enterprise they treat you like Royalty. The food is delicious, the way it usually is in Government hotels.<br /><br />A word of advice. Before checking into a Hotel haggle. Haggle for a good price. All private hotels give you discounts, even if they happen to be the Taj. When you are on a 20 day road trip, a difference of a few hundred rupees a night can make the difference between visiting a place and going around it.<p></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-family: verdana;">Also, check-in into tourism department hotels wherever available. They don’t give discounts but they provide you standard amenities like fresh towels, hot water, room service, laundry, etc. at reasonable rates.<br /><br />To be continued...</p>Script Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12304385280899569694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37825149.post-44735724895068000292009-10-08T21:52:00.007+01:002009-10-08T22:04:47.395+01:00The Great Indian Road Trip - Day 1<strong>Hyderabad – Adilabad – Nagpur – Itarsi (780km; 6:00 am) </strong><br /><br />The journey of a thousand miles may begin with a single step. But a journey of 4500 miles begins with a paradigm shift. Not a shift in ideology for that is an exercise in self-righteousness (hence a subject non-conducive to most deliberations) but a shift in location.<br /><br />There I was half-way across half the world somewhere in the jungles of Africa working a pretty fulfilling job. Of course jobs tend to be fulfilling in direct proportion to the paychecks they bring in. Even so, not everything can be monetized and Marylin Monroe was right in crooning that the best things in life were free. Three years on it was time to move on to the proverbial greener pastures.<br /><br />The wife and I decided to go to Ladakh. The sensible among us fly to Srinagar or Kullu and then drive up to Leh. The smart ones fly down to Leh. We decided that driving all the way from Hyderabad was the way to do it. In these times of fast food and T20 cricket, it is fairly easy to instantly certify us lunatics. Well, who am I kidding? In most times it would be fairly easy to instantly certify us lunatics.<br /><br />Anyway. The move back to India was made and the appropriate car was bought – a shiny black Bolero SLX. As the yarn is spun further more details about the car shall be divulged wherever appropriate.<br /><br />The jaunt began on 20 September 2009 at 6:00am from the Script Writer house at Ameerpet, Hyderabad. As it has now come to be widely accepted yours truly got lost on a road straight as an arrow. It has never been satisfactorily explained how feats of such impressive magnitude are achieved time and again. Perhaps greatness is never meant to be fully understood. Despite all that we made it to Nirmal (about 270km off) in three hours courtesy the beautiful dual carriageway almost all the way through. National Highway (NH) 7 is possibly the best road in the country (<em>shaayad ab tak Atalji lete hue hain us sadak par</em>), which is not necessarily a good thing for it lulls you into believing that all roads are as benign.<br /><br />About 80km or so from Nirmal is Adilabad, and then you cross over into Maharashtra. Whoever says Maharashtra has the best road network in India needs to have their head dipped in ice-cold water any day of the week and twice on a Sunday. The road to Nagpur is laced with at least 60 diversions, not counting the ones that are unmarked. It is hard enough making sense of them in the day leave alone the dangers of navigating after sunset for some diversions if not taken will land you in a 20ft deep pit. Most will plunge you into an abyss.<br /><br />Nagpur is 485km from Hyderabad. 730 days of the formative years of my childhood were spent in this city. Yet I fail to understand why Nagpuris take pride in the city being the state’s second capital. I mean why be content with being the next best thing? It is a good place to have lunch, though. As you enter the city soon after you descend the first flyover on your right you find the famous Haldiram’s food outlet. You could eat there if that is the sort of thing you like to do or you could drive down a little further and find yourself a proper dhaba.<br /><br />When doing a road trip, the most important thing is getting the right directions. And filling stations are great at giving you those. There is a Bharat Petroleum filling station after the Sitabuldi flyover. You will know the flyover once you take it because on your left would be Lokmat Bhavan, the city’s tallest building. The fuel station is located at a traffic junction. Take the left and head out straight on NH 69, the highway to Bhopal. Fuel in Nagpur is terribly expensive. Tank up only if you are in dire straits.<br /><br />35km from Nagpur is Saoner. Somewhere after that is the border with Madhya Pradesh (MP). I would describe the stretch between Saoner and Multai as that quintessential ‘<em>Haryaali aur Raasta</em>’ in Manoj Kumar movies. It is the most scenic stretch of road. Absorb in the beauty of the Vindhya Mountains for it gets unbearably dusty after that.<br /><br />The camera is the tool of the annoying tourist. It is sometimes a very good memory encapsulating device. Mostly it is just a source of proof for ‘I was there’. Keep it handy, especially at Betul. Some of the sunsets over the lake (Sampanna Jalashay) there will seem more unreal than modern art. More visually appealing too.<br /><br />Itarsi is where we halted for the night. Considering how big the railway station is, one is bound to expect more of the town. Only, it is too much to expect even clean sheets in a hotel room. By then, you are usually past caring. You just flop on to the bed and crash. It fully makes you appreciate the depth of the Hindi proverb:<br /><br /><em>Neend na jaane tooti khaat<br />Bhookh na jaane jhootha bhaath</em><br /><br />That said, drive up to Bhopal if you are not tired. It is an hour and a half away with much better accommodation.<br /><br />To be continued...Script Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12304385280899569694noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37825149.post-15308454941807692872009-07-25T12:07:00.001+01:002009-07-25T12:13:02.727+01:00Decisions, decisions, decisions...Every once in a while man comes to a decision. No offence meant to women for they also come to a decision as and when it is the right time in their lives to come to those sorts of decisions, whatever they may be. The use of the word 'man' is generic here. It is all encompassing, the same way the phrase 'Early Man' also includes (as an adolescent yours truly gleefully discovered in his history books) all the early women.<br /><br />Make note that I did not make a gaffe like Neil Armstrong did when he landed on the moon and uttered those now indelible words, "... one small step for man... giant leap for mankind." He conveniently overlooked the insertion of the indefinite article 'a' before 'man', without which 'man' and 'mankind' mean the exact same thing. That we choose to ignore this grotesquery in the name of nitpicking explains the proliferation of bad grammar in our literature.<br /><br />Moving on, every man must decide for themselves. Again, in non-sexist language, the conflict between <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grammatical_number">grammatical numbers</a> vis-à-vis singular/plural can be consigned to oblivion. However, feminists out there would hardly consider the use of 'man' to denote the entire human race non-sexist. See, I am in agreement with feminists in their push for non-sexist language. It is about time they got on with it and realised that everything else is quite bunkum.<br /><br />The sharp among us would have observed that all I have succeeded in doing thus far is to postpone the inevitable, which is what most of us do before crossing over the threshold of the decision-making process. It is merely a reflection of our need to absolve ourselves of all responsibility for our actions. No wonder I am such a fan of our kind. To evolve through millions of years into a being with the greatest brain mass to body mass ratio, yet pass over all opportunity to exercise those grey cells is not to be scoffed at. Clearly, man has transcended the need to think.<br /><br />Perhaps I have too. I was never a thinker. Yes, I can deliver day-long discourses on just about anything though that is largely due to the short-circuit between my mind and my tongue. But when it comes to making those life-altering decisions I have been known to take thousands of years. Some say I like making informed decisions. Others say I delay them till the time that making them does not matter any more.Script Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12304385280899569694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37825149.post-10877334454055598412009-01-26T13:18:00.001+01:002009-01-26T13:21:36.251+01:00When music had its Concorde moment...Most of us born in the 80s tend to have grandeurs of eloquence. We believe the rest of humanity is a lump of turd, that it is somehow beneath us to even have some attributes in common with them. It is always us vs. them. Heaven forbid if we should ever share a taste in music or clothes. That would be sacrilege. As Motley Crue once famously put it, "The biggest career gaffe that we could ever make was getting caught having a glass of milk." Perhaps they did not put it quite this articulately with all the booze and drugs getting in the way of their coherence but you get the drift.<br /><br />The 80s was all about excess. Rock n Roll excess, Metal excess, and even bad hair excess. For all that us 80s progenies make a fuss over, the one thing we completely disown is the decade's sense of style. We lean more towards 90s grunge styling. It is a reflection of the times that we live in - contradictions are everywhere.<br /><br />The latter half of the 20th Century can be described musically. Elvis Presley ruled the 50s. It was all about The Beatles in the 60s. Def Leppard rocked the 70s. Michael Jackson was the king of the 80s. That MJ managed to carve out a throne for himself atop the metal mania is a feat in itself. Of course, for us 80s borns MJ's music is beneath us. Hypocrisy? No. That is what our trait is. As I often keep saying, you do not begrudge a Scorpion for its sting.<br /><br />As the 80s gave way to the 90s and then to the 00s, 80s borns entered their teens and their adulthood. Ironic isn't it that not a single artist / band stands out in the last two decades? Oh there has been an explosion of 'artists'. Either none has been good enough to rule the roost or we are a screwed up generation that does not know what it wants.<br /><br />Of course, if you ask most of us metal heads we will tell you that music died with Kurt Cobain's suicide. The bands we listen to even today belong to 80s and before - Quiet Riot, Metallica, Megadeth, Motley Crue, Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, Twisted Sister, to name a few. We wear our taste in music almost as proudly as a mother displays her child's trophies on the mantle piece. Unlike a mother though, looking down on someone who listens to a Britney or a Mariah is a given. Today's pop culture makes us cringe.<br /><br />Being as I am, a result of the 80s, I believe we had our Concorde moment in music in the 80s. For the uninitiated, a Concorde moment is one where mankind reaches the pinnacle of its achievement - ever since the Concorde no passenger aircraft has been built that can fly supersonic, and perhaps none ever will be. It is all downhill from there.Script Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12304385280899569694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37825149.post-81104270918147805792008-08-16T15:38:00.001+01:002008-08-19T13:40:02.158+01:00Basic InstinctAs a race, we have always take things a little too far. Haven't believed in moderation. During the industrial revolution we worked the workers to death, which eventually led to Karl Marx having a field day. During renaissance we thought our brains out, which eventually led to grotesqueries that we are forced to acknowledge as pieces of art for fear of ridicule. During the writing of this post I was completely incapable of coming up with a third important period in history, which eventually led to the formation of this banal sentence.<br /><br />As I said, extremes. With time, we have sunk lower into this nadir. It has never been truer than in this century. Green Peace activists have taken the red out of red meat, while at the same time we have dumped so much of our filth that mother nature might as well give up on us tomorrow. Why? At least let me enjoy my meat without making me think of the torture that the animal to which the shoulder on my table belonged to underwent. There is not much to look up to, is there?<br /><br />They say the night is always darkest before the dawn. Things are at their worst before they get better. Just when we thought things could only get better, they give us hybrid cars. Really. Hybrid cars! Human ingenuity or human stupidity? Cars. It was the only constant in our lives. No matter what the world went through, there was always the comforting thought that a couple of hammer strokes in the right places would always get the car started. We did not have to depend on the bloke with a laptop to tell us what was wrong with our throttle response (This line, of course, is a complete rip-off of Neela's in the movie Tokyo Drift).<br /><br />I remember the days when even the slightest of engine misfires told me if it was the fuel line, suspended matter in the fuel, spark plug, or distributor cap that was the culprit. Today it could be regenerative braking, battery (Yes, battery! Imagine that.), MPFI, Engine Management System or any or all of a host of other factors that we previously thought could only occur in the Star Trek universe. If I wanted to be bothered with all that I would call Captain Kirk. If I want a car, do not saddle me with a computer.<br /><br />There was a time when if you could afford to buy a car you could not be bothered about the fuel prices. Those were simpler times, freer times. You could buy a Lincoln that did 8 miles to a gallon because, heck, you were rich enough to buy a car. Cars were never meant for anyone other than the rich. That is why we have public transport. That is why I love the Ferraris and the Lamborghinis. They have stuck to the basics while all around them have lost theirs.Script Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12304385280899569694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37825149.post-39985490397808761722008-07-15T16:35:00.003+01:002008-07-15T16:44:06.598+01:00How to write a blog postAsk not what a blog post can do for you. Ask what you can do for a blog post. No, not for the altruistic reasons of working for a bigger cause (all that is humbug) but for the obviousness of it being insanely simpler to answer the latter. You can do nothing for a blog post, save for creating it. Then again, human beings have been making babies for eons and look at where that has brought us.<br /><br />Before purists start to frown (do purists ever not frown?), it should be stated that this blog is not a 10 step guide to Nirvana. The Buddhists have the 8-fold path, the Jains have the 4-fold path. This needs verification - since this blog cannot be prosecuted, I am not going to spend my energy checking facts. That reminds me of this statement made in the US Senate about the right to be entitled to your own opinion but not to your own facts, which is a complete load of bull since it violates my fundamental right as a being on this planet to be entitled to whatever the hell I want to be entitled to, not to mention how much more colourful life could be if we all had different definitions for, say, the colour red.<br /><br />That brings us to the subject of stilettos. <Trinity impression begins> No? Let me tell you what I believe. I believe that my blog means more to me than it does to you. I believe if you are really serious about deciphering it, you are going to need my help. And since I am the author of this blog, if you don't like it I believe you can go to hell. Because you are not going anywhere else <Trinity impression ends>. Stilettos are such fine creations, exceeded in fineness only by the fine legs that go into them. Speaking of fine legs, I have not seen a pair finer than those belonging to the sassy Stacy Keibler.<br /><br />We should pause here to note the sickness of the jibe made by whoever it was who chose to coin the word ‘lisp’ to describe the condition that lisp describes. Now that it has been noted, we can choose to move on. Only, I prefer being here. Why move on when you can be perfectly happy not moving on? Besides, if Einstein was right (and I would like to think that he was – not for any good that this may bring to mankind but to avoid the disaster its falsehood can cause, a case in point being all nuclear reactors suddenly deciding to shove E=mC<sup>2</sup> right up Einstein’s backside turning this planet into one giant fireball (on second thoughts, that may be fun)) no matter how far you travel you would end up where you started. Perhaps that is why all political speeches never seem to get anywhere.<br /><br />It is not all bad. Aside from the obvious plus of no one ever needing to listen to speeches (which, by the way, does not need an Einstein to point out) there is also the comforting relief that one part of this world is always going to get rich by sucking on the other part, or for that matter, one part of this world is always going to make the other part read their blog posts by suckering them into it, evolution my fine tight ass!Script Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12304385280899569694noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37825149.post-65552682149386785002008-05-22T11:41:00.000+01:002008-05-22T11:43:54.002+01:00Of Die Hard and RomanticismBeing a man of strong opinions, I have been accused of many things. Never before, though, have I been accused of ‘pulling off a Scripto’ or something to that effect.<br /><br />For the uninitiated, ‘Scripto’ is a term of supreme endearment that my favourite blog reader addresses me with. Whether the endearment ends there I shall never know – I would be shattered if it did. Thus I choose to live in my ignorant bliss.<br /><br />I have been a die-hard romantic, strictly in the sense of John McClain who simply refuses to die however hard the situation may be. I take pride in my romanticism being as it is a disappearing trait indeed in these days of T20 cricket, not that I have anything against or for this brand of the sport. At any rate, I refuse to partake in an argument that has many takers. I root for the underdog, always have, always will.<br /><br />Instead let us examine the psychological effects of a nude painting of Lalitha Pawar on adolescent boys. This is a thin line to walk. Aside from bordering child molestation, it verily crosses into the territory of human rights abuse. I do not know what is more horrifying – subjecting under-age boys to the anguish or having the imagination to conjure up such a scenario.Script Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12304385280899569694noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37825149.post-53537860692501838572008-02-21T12:10:00.002+01:002008-02-21T12:13:27.491+01:00Gabbar, Thakur, and the rest of them"How many men were they?"<br />"Two, chief."<br />"Hmm... They were two. You were three. Despite that you are back. What did you think? Chief will be happy? Will slap your backs? Sons of swines!!!"<br /><br />Sadly, this is what my posts have been reduced to - making impressions of classic, immortalised dialogues of the holy grail of Indian cinema, Sholay. That is not to say that it has not been done in the past. In fact, that is what makes it such a nadir of creativity. When your brain cells are completely dead, you turn to Sholay.<br /><br />Self-loathing aside, what made me allocate some disk space to Sholay on my blog was this bolt of enlightenment I was hit by a couple of nights ago after some frenzied sexual activity. Well, yours truly is now a married man. And that means he has the social licence to do it whenever, wherever though, unfortunately, not whoever. Ah, the vagaries and travails of life!<br /><br />Driving the point home, or at least making an exercise in slipping to the abyss of writing by using phrases as hackneyed as this, the question to ask is whether Gabbar really cut off Thakur's hands. I know in the movie they show us he did. But then, they show a lot of things in the movies. We can't go around believing everything we see on celluloid, can we? What if Gabbar did not cut off Thakur's hands? Does that not leave a new line open for alternate thought?<br /><br />Picture this. Gabbar has Thakur by his balls, not literally of course. The only way out is for Thakur to give Gabbar a handjob, literally of course. Thakur, like any man facing a life and death situation does what any man facing a life and death situation would do. It was not the handjob that was disgusting. It was the aftermath of it. Not everyone is smart enough to use as hair gel a body fluid that has had no precedent of being used this way before Cameron Diaz. The fluid spills over Thakur's hands. And Thakur was so grossed out by it that he could never bring himself to use his hands again. Ever.<br /><br />Now, that sounds like a logical explanation.Script Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12304385280899569694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37825149.post-85535201800266542972007-10-15T15:19:00.001+01:002007-10-15T15:44:55.706+01:00Much ado about nothingGuys like me can make their entire careers out of making mountains out of mole hills. No wonder then that it has never happened. Partly because as a race we do not appreciate mountains enough, but mostly because there aren't guys like me. And do we even want to get started talking about me? We could but then we would never get to the point where the conversation ends, such is my all pervading aura that binds those around me. How aura should relate to end points in conversation I cannot elucidate as of this moment. Suffice to say, that it is there. The aura, that is.<br /><br />Now that we have brought that thought out in the open, I am not sure there is anything that as a race we appreciate enough. As a non-race? Well, that is completely left open to interpretations depending on one's predilections. What those interpretations and predilections should be I should not say. Not that I 'cannot' say, I 'should' not say for there is not much that I believe I won't be able to say about. But if you believe that keeping your mind open and your legs closed if you happen to be a woman or your legs open and your mind closed if you happen to be a man is the road to eternal happiness and bliss then I must say that someone went wrong terribly somewhere or something went wrong'ly' terribly somewhere, depending on (what else?) your predilections.<br /><br />For the longest time, there has been this eternal confusion about predilection and predisposition. I am not one to rant and rave over incorrect usage of words. I usually bite anyone's head off who does not know the basic nuances of language. Say for instance, the difference between beside and besides. I would definitely love to sleep beside Mary should Mary happen to be a smoking hot biologically active woman. And I would definitely more than love to sleep besides Mary should Mary happen to be a cold frigid maid. If you don't get the difference now, you are never going to get it in which case you will probably end up sleeping beside a cold frigid Mary, and sleep besides the smoking hot biologically active one.<br /><br />Followers of my blogs (I am not sure she is alive any more - may her soul rest in peace - but it is the thought that counts, right?), would recollect that there are things in the paragraph above that I have already stated before. Actually, they wouldn't for anyone with a memory span greater than that needed to remember where the bookmarks are stored would have a life. That would make the exercise of sojourning on these pages redundant unless they are one of those self-righteous masochistic sods.<br /><br />PS: This post is dedicated to Twigrl. She seems to be the only reader I have left. Attagirl!Script Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12304385280899569694noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37825149.post-86307316921256576042007-06-13T13:33:00.000+01:002007-06-13T13:37:54.171+01:00Losing my religionThere are events in a man's life that make him lose his faith - painful heartbreaks, bankruptcy, and E! becoming a subscription channel. Note that I have spoken entirely in the masculine gender on a blog that is completely anti-sexist. No, I have not changed my outlook. I am only talking about the male of the species.<br /><br />Why don't we talk about men? All 'they' seem to be bothered about is the fairer sex - glass ceiling at workplaces, unequal pay, exploitation, trafficking, etc. Has anyone ever thought about the everyday agony of men? Trying to find a pair of matching socks, dishes piled a mile high, eating without the tie getting into the soup bowl, getting through office firewalls to find the good internet porn, picking out curtains that go with the sofa? Okay. Strike the last one. Let us pretend I never said it and move on.<br /><br />In the midst of all this, there is an image to cater to. We are not supposed to cry during a movie. So what if I cry buckets even in movies that can only be termed plain pathetic? At least I don't not cry in movies that are truly moving. No pun intended, intentionally or otherwise. That brings us to a bigger question. Is something happenning better than something not never happenning? Sample this.<br /><br />An optimist and a pessimist are walking down a street. A pigeon does its thing on the optimist, and he is smiling about it. The pessimist looks at him quizzically. Basically gives him the 'you must be freaking out of your mind, gone bananas, lost your marbles' look. The optimist is simply happy that elephants can't fly. This goes beyond the 'half empty and half full' shenanighan. It is plain nuts. QED.<br /><br />Except that, there is more. There is always more with me around. More not sugarcoating, presenting things as they are. That is why children are so difficult to please. They see things for what they are and not for what you want to make them out to be. There is nothing more misleading than the phrase 'child-like innocence'. 'Grown-up ignorance' is more like it.Script Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12304385280899569694noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37825149.post-57597523177031679962007-06-07T17:26:00.000+01:002007-06-07T19:23:36.626+01:00Spoon and LemonSome of us are born with a silver spoon in our mouths. I am not sure why anyone would want to be born that way. Does it not get in the way of breast feeding? Come to think of it, may be that is why the silver spoon people have traits of retards, delinquents, sex offenders, child molesters, serial killers or a multitude of other things that even I consider unprintable. That does not happen. Ever. That is not to be constructed to mean that I don't consider many things unprintable. I do. I print them anyway.<br /><br />For instance, my sojourn in a strip club. I would never have put that in black and white, or in zeroes and ones as is the case here, had it not been on this space since this is a space where I consider nothing about myself unworthy of being put on. Besides, the very notion of losers being the only frequenters in a strip joint is as real as George Bush's balls for the green you splurge can only rival Swiss bank account balances.<br /><br />Having used two most over-abused metaphorical references in this day and age, and topping it up with a phrase only more hackneyed than 'From time immemorial' (which is not all that cliched save for the teeny weeny fact that I have used it often enough to cause permanent brain damage in a friend of mine) things can only go one one way. Downhill. And not only as far as the quality of this post is concerned. My life too. But that is not something people are usually bothered about.<br /><br />Even if I have said this before, I am jaw-droppingly apalled at the increasingly falling standards that we have started making peace with. As if the boy bands were not enough proof of the decandence of the human race, we now have the onslaught of the ugly people to contend with. Lest anyone should misconstrue that statement (a feat that would need the thought capacity of an amoeba or that of Einstein depending on the level of misconstruing), I am a staunch believer in having only beautiful people in showbiz. Seriously. Fat rappers? Balding newscasters? Wrinkled grammy winners? Or Oprah Winfrey? Hyuk! There used to be a world where genetically favourably disposed people ruled. What have we done in the name of progress?<br /><br />To mangle a quote from 'The Third Reich', a thousand years shall pass and the guilt of equality shall not be erased.Script Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12304385280899569694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37825149.post-9013633745041987512007-05-07T09:48:00.001+01:002007-05-07T09:51:03.020+01:00Save the planet'Save water - shower with a friend'. Oh, the brilliance of that statement! It almost pardons the travesty of making covers of eternally immortal songs. Almost, not quite, especially when it is a Floyd cover. But that did make me think of the friends I would love to share the shower with. Perv, am I? No. Just a man.<br /><br />Statistically, a man spends one-third of his waking hours thinking of sex. No wonder that statistics are like bikins - what they reveal is exciting but what they conceal is vital. Men don't trash their time on such banal activities. They make the best of it. The remaining two-thirds is spent thinking of ways to think of sex.<br /><br />Over the last almost twenty six years that I have spent on this planet (I say 'this' planet because whatever I did outside it is irrelevant) I have come to the one conclusion that usually takes years of dedicated meditation to come to. Thought is the cause of all suffering. Any surprise then that there is a phrase in the English language for it - Eyes lit up like a child's on Christmas. Well, okay. No context there either. But is not a beautiful statement made out of context better than an ugly one made in context?<br /><br />There is not much I can say about this post except that making it felt like a good idea at the time. That and it was Sunday evening. Outside of a Monday morning, the Sunday evening is the most clinically depressing time of the week. You are too wasted with all the drinking on Saturday to go out, and too bored with all the cranial atrophy to keep your sanity. The latter does not apply to me. I lost mine a long time ago - it is easier to live that way. And I rather enjoy intellectual inactivity. What I enjoy even more, however, is vanity. Shocking then that I have never mentioned it on this space. At least not in a vehemently offensive way. Anything else does not count.<br /><br />Shall we dance? Over my dead body! No, no. I have nothing against dancing. I rather enjoy it myself. But that movie was sickeningly mushy, and I say that despite not having seen it. Make no mistake. I am a sucker for those over the top mushy romantic comedies that the dream merchants dish out to us off an assembly line. I draw the line at 'How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days'. And only because I saw it in a theatre where I was the only man. Everyone else was a woman.<br /><br />Whoa! That was nearly as emphatic as 'Indira Gandhi was the only man in her cabinet' descriptive. And yes. As Einstein said, 'Gravitation is not responsible for people falling in love'. Neither is Sir Isaac Newton who in his most famous speech said all of two words three times, "I conceive. I conceive. I conceive." It took a woman to tell him of the futility of that sermon. He conceived thrice and produced nothing, and a woman conceived once and produced Newton.Script Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12304385280899569694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37825149.post-51526343199004563562007-05-05T16:50:00.000+01:002007-05-05T16:54:26.458+01:00Hair today gone tomorrow...They say a Nation can show her might but for this she has to fight. Who are 'they'? And why do they keep saying things? Kirsten Dunst did manage to satiate a part of my curiosity when she said that 'they' are the inimitable collective or something of the sort in Elizabethtown - a silly romantic flick starring the chick Orlando Bloom.<br /><br />That reminds me of facial hair. Basically, of guys who need to keep facial hair to constantly restate their fledgling manhood. I know of at least two of the male species who are like that - Aftab Shivdasani and Abhishek Bachchan. And not only am I not in the habit of mentioning anyone by their names on this blog for the very simple reason that even my whining gives them a higher rating on search engines, I don't ever wear a habit either. Whether that statement is grammatically correct is questioning (I have read and re-read it a thousand times over and I still am not certain of its grammatical integrity) but I am too darn fogged up to reconstruct. So it shall stand as it is, which is a first. It is also a testimony to the standards I am now willing to put up with. Perhaps five and a half months of celibacy does that to a man.<br /><br />I don't like hair of any kind unless they happen to be on the head of bald women. Since I have not come across bald women other than those who have gone bald of their own volition, I can't say that I like hair. I certainly don't like armpit hair (really, what was Julia Roberts thinking when she wore that lovely dress on unshaved armpits!), and I don't want to talk about hair in the nether regions. I shall only say this to all the women out there, 'if you don't want men to treat you like animals then please don't look like one down there'.<br /><br />Being a man has its advantages. For one, we can pee standing up. We can pretty much pee anywhere we want. And we can pee just for the heck of having a contest. Not like I am saying that I do any of these things or even that I do not. But that is about the only upside of being a man. Whoever says it is a man's world has no idea what she is talking about. Look around you. Who does the world belong to? Brock Lesner or Jessica Simpson's perfect breasts?<br /><br />And with that, I rest my case.Script Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12304385280899569694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37825149.post-84090832079507888342007-04-16T14:19:00.000+01:002007-04-16T14:24:18.329+01:00A lotta nonsense...Oh, well. The last two days have been spent under house-arrest. And, no. That is not to be taken to mean literally. My life is not that exciting. Sad!<br /><br />This one time I am being sensible about it all. That is the difference. The gubernatorial elections were held on Saturday. What amazes me, nay baffles me, is the sheer gazzel-like swiftness with which the results were declared. On Sunday! See, I am from India where we use Electronic Voting Machines. Even those take about twice as much time to pronounce the verdict - the calculations are checked, re-checked, and then checked a few times more just to be absolutely sure. And here they could manage to hand count the paper ballots in a jiffy. Fast, like George Bush in the Lincoln bedroom.<br /><br />Forty-eight hours of confinement makes a man think. He starts to wonder about the existential theories of treadmills that clock a lot of mileage without getting anywhere, of the futility of intelligent conversations that have the power to enthral but leave you with that sense of longing, and of the brilliance of Baywatch. In short, he starts to question all that is of no consequence whatsover. With the exception of Baywatch. That show started a whole new debate on the importance of floatation devices, sun tan oils, and skin cancer. Well, the first two anyway.<br /><br />Either I have a sense of appreciation for a varied spread or I have no opinion of my own and choose to be moulded by the elements. The other day I watched Dirty Dancing and Blood Diamond in quick succession, and the day before that I went for 300. Loved them all. 300 left me with goose-pimples, Blood Diamond filled me with a sense of speechless frustrating despair, and Dirty Dancing gave me that glow of a pregnant woman. Sometimes, I am not certain if I am coming or going. At others, I am in a conundrum over sugar and cream. And occasionally, I talk sense.<br /><br />Like today. I opted for Indomie with egg over Khichidi. Okay, not many would label that sense. But they would not have the complete context of there being no Ghee and Dahi at home. Khichidi without Dahi, Papad, Ghee and Achar is like having sex without a condom. The pleasure is not considerably greater but the thought of potentially contracting STDs means you spend many a night tossing and turning. Just not worth it.<br /><br />Instead, I will tell you what is worth it. Nothing. Nothing is worth anything other than itself. We all pay for the consequences of our actions. There is no escaping karma. But there is escaping mediocrity. And with that thought, I shut up.Script Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12304385280899569694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37825149.post-14429238853081257662007-04-13T13:31:00.000+01:002007-04-13T13:34:42.637+01:00Vodka, Rum or Me?Those who know me, and I mean really really know me, are aware that I am usually one for making tall claims. It is a different matter completely that I, more often than not, live up to those claims. But when I make a claim to the only woman who I have never had anything but platonic thoughts about, and I do something completely to the contrary, then that is something to be reckoned with. In fact, it is more a force to reckon with than Naomi Campbell bending over in that oh-so-hot pic in German HQ.<br /><br />The claim is not important. Well, it is. But I am not up for discussing it on this day in time. Or night, depending on which side of the international date line you are on. But the fact remains that I am in serious danger of becoming one of those I despise. They are the ofay people. Put simply, they are those who behave like Simi Garewal does in that schtick of a show of hers called <i>Rendezvous</i>. Sample this. Whenever I can blow my trumpet, I do. It is either the house I live in is fabulous or, wait, I just got the bedrooms carpeted. Look at me. I am so cool, types. Wouldn't you love to kill me? Or if you are kinky enough, make love to me!<br /><br />That said, let us not walk down the road of making love. I have been bloody celibate the last few months, and much of it is of my own volition. Basically, I am in love. Yes, yes. I have already dedicated enough disk space to proclaiming it to the whole wide world, or at least that part of the world that happens to chance upon these pages. But the thing is this. I am at a place where I am happy with the way things are, even if she has made it more than clear that I am standing against on-coming traffic. And, though I have said it before on this space, didn't The Architect say, 'Hope. It is the quintessential of all human emotions consequently the source of your greatest strength, and greatest weakness.'?<br /><br />At any rate, when you have had as much Vodka and Rum as could otherwise have taken care of the needs of a small country, even if that country happens to be Vatican City, then it is completely pardonable if your fingers choose to type against the grain of your thoughts. Seriously, are there any thoughts once an alcohol-induced mindfreeze sets in? Then again there is no mindfreeze as of this moment, provided I am not held accountable for whatever has been said so far or will be said from this point on.<br /><br />Pity that I have to resort to old theories to fill up pages these days. Or what is that stupid song? <i>Nikamma kiya is dil ne...</i> Now I know how.Script Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12304385280899569694noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37825149.post-42770993539927526922007-03-16T09:39:00.000+01:002007-03-16T10:02:30.382+01:00Stupid E!When E! makes a list of the 101 most shocking moments in entertainment and chooses to place Michael Jackson's burning hair ahead of the day the music died you know that the world is no more a safe place to live in. Well, when you start watching E! you know that, safe or unsafe, you are no longer sane enough to live in the world.<br /><br />Good for me then that I have neither been sane nor been alive. But more about that later. Partly because I like keeping people guessing. Mostly because I have no idea how to go about reasoning that. As a friend of mine once told me after he made a grotesquely unbelievable statement, "I have said it. I will think and tell you how it can be." And voila what do you know! He actually managed to give me a plausible explanation. Don't expect that of me, though.<br /><br />Whoa! That was my first non-woman quote on this blog outside of the person being Douglas Adams. That really does not mean that I have oodles of respect for him. I have called him non-woman after all. Just that quoting him felt like a good idea at the time, and I don't like using the backspace key. I would much rather go back on what I say. There is a certain charm in doing that.<br /><br />The same way there is <b><i>no</i></b> charm in feeling exilarated during a world cup cricket game not because the underdog is winning but because the team you hate is losing. But there is not much else that charmless people do. Either way, do they have to take it to the extreme by strutting around the house in flaming red tracks and a white vest? And that when they happen to be men? Hyuk! Not satisfied with that they keep up with their endless chatter. Blah blah blah blah blah.<br /><br />What do you do when you come across the matrimonial ad for someone you know? Probably no different than making such extremely disconnected statements. No, seriously. Do you tell the guy she was dating that her parents have put her on the marriage market? Or do you hold back for reasons of preserving personal dignity? Who would want to be known as the kind of person who reads matrimonial advertisements? Especially when they appear in the Sunday papers! More importantly, what are you supposed to do if the ad is for the girl you want to spend the rest of your life with? Obviously she is willing to go through the pains of screening three million guys just so she does not end up with you. Does it mean you are really pathetic or is she being plain stupid? Questions. Questions. Questions.Script Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12304385280899569694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37825149.post-56603880944273381132007-03-07T09:55:00.001+01:002007-03-07T09:55:42.639+01:00Tom, Dick, and HarryI make no attempt to mask my absolute dislike for corporate gyan. Nay, make that abhorrence. I could never understand for the life of me why anyone would ever spew away so many hours of their lives penning down literature on the subject. More than that, it completely boggles me why anyone should choose to read those books. Ever! I mean, did your mom drop you on the head or something?<br /><br />Talking of kid-dropping parents, what really goes through their minds when they come up with names for their offspring? Goldie. Dick. Chandi. Shanna. Seriously. The kid has to go through her entire life with that name. What were they thinking? Perhaps the same thing that they were while conceiving the baby - nothing, for had they put that cranium through its paces they would have used birth control.<br /><br />Not everyone is born with the intellect of Einstein. That said, not everyone needs the intellect of Einstein. You would not want someone rattling on about the Schroedinger Wave Equation when you are on a date. Unless you are in the habit of dating people like that in which case you must re-evaluate your lifestyle choices. Either way, with all the technology of internet search engines at our disposal is 'Guy' the best we can come up with for a boy's name? Jeez!<br /><br />The most famous bard could say 'What's in a name' and get away with it. Writers tend to get away with a lot. Besides, 400 years ago there was not much in anything let alone a name. Except in the gunpowder treason. That had an idea behind it, an idea so strong that it became the foundation of modern day democracy. And please! Not those mutilated versions that US presidents have passed down through generations.<br /><br />We live in very shallow times. What you can pass off as your own is of the essence. Basically it makes more sense to own the keys to a Ferrari and not the Ferrari itself. Kinda hard to flash the car inside a restaurant. Oh my God! I finally got it - the true depth of the message of 'The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari'. Sell the Ferrari, but as long as you still have a set of its keys you can remain a part of that pseudo intellectual socialite crowd.<br /><br />See what I mean? I never had to read the book to understand its message. In a nutshell, that is what corporate gyan is all about. No one understands it, not even the CEO who spreads it around.Script Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12304385280899569694noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37825149.post-35424945295952112142007-02-14T08:56:00.000+01:002007-02-14T08:57:17.445+01:00Of wit and the people who don't get itIt gets a little unnerving when even someone you have slept with for over a year does not get your witty remarks. Ordinary mortals would begin to question the very genesis of their sense of humour. It is one thing to have your wit bounce over those you work with - they usually have the IQ of a Microsoft Windows computer and it is quite acceptable to look down upon them. Quite another, however, when that happens with someone who is aware of how many moles you have in those regions of your body that you never saw yourself.<br /><br />Thank the devil for life's small favours then that I am neither ordinary nor a mortal. So what if I choose to work the numbers on my laptop in a Salsa club teeming with hot women tapping their feet to some lovely music? Could any ordinary mortal resist the lure of giving in to the temptation? That I don't know Salsa from Dirty Dancing (not much difference, or is there?) notwithstanding.<br /><br />I have made it abundantly clear that I don't discriminate on the basis of race, colour or marital status. Up until yesterday I did not know if I actually believed in it or if it was an illusion I had built up around me. Anyway. The woman in reference called me at what can be described as the best time of the day - the 15 minutes before wake up time. We are still on good terms though now there is nothing between us. Not even a sheet! He he he. Could not pass up making an innuendo. My bad.<br /><br />So we get talking about this woman I meet at the club. Not like I want to grow old with her or something. I have an eye that tends to appreciate the finer aspects of life, and let us leave it at that. She is married. In fact, that was the first thing that I noticed about her. Did not make an iota of a difference. But that is all supporting information. Here is the part about the wit.<br /><br />I tell the woman who called that the woman who does the Salsa is exactly my type. She knows what my type is - any woman who knows what she wants and is not afraid to get it. She asked nonetheless. That was all the invitation I needed. The conversation went something like this:<br /><br />Woman on phone: "So what is your type? Tall, beautiful, demure?"<br />Me: "Married."<br /><br />C'mon. That was a good one. But it sailed right over her head. Or may be that is what happens to women post me. Withdrawal symptoms perhaps? Whatever it is, let me not try to analyse it lest I should get a thump on my skull.<br /><br />Since I have never bothered with order on my blogs, let me continue with the tradition and digress. I think I am falling in love all over again. With my feet. I was giving myself a foot massage, and the skin was oh so soft! Like I was touching a baby. If there is ever such a thing as masturbating your vanity, then feeling your smooth feet would be it.Script Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12304385280899569694noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37825149.post-24310334628054038422007-02-12T09:28:00.002+01:002007-02-12T10:55:23.753+01:00Leaving on a jet planeIt is no secret that I was meant for a different era. I have learnt to accept it with time. It is not easy to come to terms with it. Not effortless at all to finally make peace with the fact that you skipped a generation or two. In fact, quite demanding. Only more painful than writing a whole paragraph saying the same thing over and over again.<br /><br />I love the old world, the world of the 60s and the 70s, the world of free sex, rock and roll, Ursula Andress and Sophia Loren, and no airport security. Anyone who has spent more time getting through baggage screening, metal detectors, and frisk searches than in flight would have the good sense to concur. Whether it is all for "our security" is questioning, especially since I did manage to 'sneak in' a can of deo in my cabin baggage just for the thrill of it. This woman I know has been carrying a cigarette lighter in her hand bag with elan.<br /><br />Anyway. This is not about airport security. It is about the absence of it. For a good part of last week I have been travelling. Nigeria has no baggage screening in any of its airports. No aero-bridges, either. You just walk on the tarmac! Fantastic, isn't it? To still find the old world. I especially loved the Owerri airport. Well, it is a cargo airport doubling up as a passenger one since the Port Harcourt airport has been closed for what seems like forever. It is green all around. Lovely.<br /><br />Abuja is the perfect example for lopsided development. In a country where three-fourths of the population lives below the poverty line, is a capital city of broad expressways, glittering hotels, and magnificent landscaping. It is the bride of Nigeria - all decked up as if she walked straight out of the bandbox.<br /><br />We went to Dome, the only bowling alley in Nigeria. I don't know if bowling is a silly game or if it was the five double shots of vodka but I managed to score three strikes without ever having played the game before. Nah, it must be a silly game. I have consciously kept off bowling. I believe it is a game for the superficial snobs.<br /><br />Flew down to Owerri the next day. The drive from Owerri to Port Harcourt is beautiful. Green everywhere, and a smooth stretch of the road too. Just try not to get involved with the booming business of the region - kidnapping for ransom - since you would mostly be on the wrong side of it. When you are not unnerved by the sight of burnt vehicles dotting the road, the sight of highway police greets you - they stop you virtually every two kilometres or so.<br /><br />Port Harcourt is called the Garden City. Make no mistake, it is not like the garden city of India. The gardens here refer to the natural growth. It is gorgeous, nonetheless. Went to Choba the following evening. One of our instant noodles plants is in Choba. Basically did not do much there except have a jolly good time. Went to the plant sometime after midnight where I was quite the bundle of joy to discover that I still can recognise a shell and tube heat exchanger when I see one. Yes Dad, all that money you spent on my education did not go down the drain.<br /><br /><i>Chaand sifaarish jo karta hamaari deta woh tumko bataa<br />Sharmo haya ke parde giraake karni hai humko khata<br />Zid hai ab to hai khudko mitaana<br />Hona hai tujhmein fanaa</i><br /><br /><i>Humse door jaaoge kaise<br />Dil se hamein bhulaaoge kaise<br />Hum woh khushboo hain jo saanson mein baste hain<br />Khud ki saanson ko rok paaoge kaise</i><br /><br />Saw <i>Fanaa</i>. Finally! I was wrong, and it is not often when that happens. They still know how to pen lyrics. And they still know how to write good Urdu <i>shaayari</i>. As the song goes, 'Subhaan Allah'!Script Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12304385280899569694noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37825149.post-34818869896933386222007-02-05T13:04:00.000+01:002007-02-05T13:05:07.611+01:00Kan o!I have had my fingers in a few pies - both the metaphorical and the American variety, if you get my drift. This post is not about the latter. Partly, because my sister reads my blog. Mostly, because I really really really wish to avoid being run over by a mob of pissed women should I choose to discuss their pies or my fingers in them out in the open. Also, that would be crass. I like to maintain the delusion of class, not only as far as others are concerned.<br /><br />That is important to me. For instance. You won't catch me dead with an unattractive woman. So what if I don't go out with women at all, or rather they choose to not go out with me. The point is you won't catch me dead with an unattractive one. In fact, that statement is oxymoronic. I have not come across any woman who is unattractive, though there are those with unattractive feet and those with unattractive minds.<br /><br />May be that is a delusion too. No matter. The charm of delusion lies in that with time you do not know if you are deluded or if reality has moulded itself to fall in line with your delusion. That does not mean you are not able to differentiate fantasy from life. There is no difference, save that fiction makes sense. Besides, nothing exists except atoms and empty space. Everything else is an opionion.<br /><br />But this is definitely real. I have the plane tickets to prove it. I was in Kano last week. Beautiful place. As different from Lagos as the colour of Jenna Jameson's hair on her head is from that between her legs. It is a medieval kind of place, one frozen in time. It was the biggest centre of commerce in Nigeria. The political power and the money still wrests with the people here. The weather was lovely - cool and breezy like Pilani in late October. The atmosphere of the city is laid back, and it has a very welcoming air to it.<br /><br />I realised something this Saturday. I have very strong thighs. I have lovely feet too, and I am not the only one to say it. I know a gorgeous woman who concurs. Anyway. About the thighs. I did not take a moment to sit from 10 in the morning to 7 in the evening on Saturday. There was the year end customer party we threw. Huge guest list. 1200 people. Kept moving around all the time, talking to customers, doing the PR, things of that sort. Took a few shots of flaming B-52s at the end of the day to feel the blood running through my legs again. But it was all worth it.<br /><br />I need to invest in a mosquito net. Nothing else keeps these blood suckers at bay. I have slept with LGMFs (Little Green Motherfuckers). They were bad, very very bad. But African mosquitoes are goddamn fantastic. Usually Indian mosquitoes respect air-conditioning. The bitches here laugh in the face of it, even when my room is cold enough to keep meat fresh for weeks.<br /><br />All whores are bitches but all bitches are not whores. Interesting aside I came up with today while I was in that wonderful period of drifting in and out of sleep. A whore is a bitch because she does not care which dog rams her for she gets what she wants when it is done. A bitch is not a whore because she gets what she wants before it is all done. However, the act is always done. It is the chronology that differs.<br /><br />Aside bonus: Why is love so hard to get once you find it?Script Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12304385280899569694noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37825149.post-15179576384829266702007-01-29T11:43:00.000+01:002007-01-29T11:50:27.516+01:00Hyuk! There goes the chomu...The blank page! I never thought I would admit that the blank page staring back at me could be intimidating. And thank whoever controls the universe that I never did because it is not going to happen. The admittance, of course. I have spewed enough gut on this blog. Why add to the gore?<br /><br />There are <i>chomu</i> (Chomu: 1. Anyone whose parents should have had the good sense to abstain since their ten minutes of pleasure produced nothing but an annoying irritance. 2. Anyone who is lesser than you, more specifically in their fashion sense, personal hygiene, eating habits. 3. Anyone with intellect limited to the extent that you risk spontaneous head implosion everytime you ask them a question.) people everywhere. I don't think very highly of chomu people. I believe they should be exterminated, a la ethnic cleansing.<br /><br />Everytime I see this male (yes, yes I mean that as a highly derogatory reference) my anal hair stand on their end almost jutting out of my pants through my underwear. Whether I have very coarse hair or I wear silk underwear I shall let the women who read my posts decide. But that male is the quintessentially real chomu. Pardonable chomus are those who have no qualms of being otherwise. The anal-hair raising kinds think that sliced bread is the next best thing since they happened.<br /><br />Personally, I don't know why sliced bread is accorded an exalted status. Trust the yanks to come up with something this banal. I don't approve of many things as it is but if the yanks were the last things (things only - they are an accident that happened to the human race and let us leave it at that) left in this cosmos I still would not approve of them. The same way I would not approve of chomu people using face creams or people sharing bathrooms/loos. Who does that?<br /><br />That brings us to something very tragic. I have had to share my housemate's bathroom the last few days because the drain of my bath has become a Centre for Study in Transport Phenomenon. It has re-engineered itself to work the reverse way. So what if I am all for personal toilets? I am not very approving of casual sex either. The point being?<br /><br />It was not very long ago when this woman ran her <a href="http://www.fullhyderabad.com/blogs/blog.php?blog=artfilm&action=comment&id=4845">hands all over my tight ass</a>. A near repeat occured two days ago at a bar. I say a near repeat because this woman went a step ahead. She actually felt me up. I don't know how drunk she was, which is not to say that I don't have the stuff that deserves feeling up even if at that moment in time it very much preferred to be by itself. What happened next? I can't say for my sister reads my blog. What I will state, however, is that I don't have in me what it takes to take advantage of a drunk woman, unless she is that former colleague of mine. For her, ethical issues are good for only one thing - to be flung out the window. At the same time, I am not saying that the woman who felt me up was drunk or even that she was not.<br /><br />I put two and two together the other day. And voila! I realised that during the first half of business about 300 people walk in and out of my office. The abrasion on the tiling mocks the manufacturer's claims of 'scratch resistance' like Neha Dhupia mocked the Miss India contest when she entered it with those atrocious teeth of hers. That she won it quantifies the foul odour there would have been due to the collective bad breath of all the contestants. In some cultures, France for instance, bad breath may be a turn on (come on, show me a French with good teeth) but good sense prevails elsewhere.<br /><br />Thank you and goodnight.Script Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12304385280899569694noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37825149.post-73446348641727455012007-01-24T09:35:00.000+01:002007-01-24T09:37:27.427+01:00Goodyear - one fuck ahead!This year has been nothing short of crazy, a la the Dhoom 2 song 'Crazy Kiya Re'. It started on a high - as Aishwarya says in the movie, 'fucking good'. Well, she actually says 'funny guy' but she tries bloody hard to make it sound like 'fucking good' in an instance or two. Besides, the year has been fucking good. No fucking in the equation though.<br /><br />When a single hormonally active heterosexual male says his year has been rollicking without any of the rocking that is associated with it then that is usually something to be reckoned with. Marriage prepares us men for prolonged periods of forced abstinence but let us not walk down that road. One of my favourite readers is quite pissed with my sexual banter as it is. This one is for her. Or rather, this one <b>not</b> is for her.<br /><br />So. The goodness. Friday cricket was awesome. Not nearly as awesome as my shirts but as awesome as William Shatner's ties in Boston Legal. Why? We won. Okay, one side has to win. But I captained the winning side. That gave the kick. Of headbanging to a live performance of Fear of the Dark when you are about two feet away from speakers that throw out 25,000W of sound. If you have never done that, you will never know what I am talking about. Gumballs (opium), ganch (marijuana) and happy dust (coccaine) can collectively never get you there.<br /><br />I have done a lot of stupid things. Have had my share of youthful indiscretions. But the absolute nadir should be this one time when at a bar I gave my number out to a guy. Yes, should be. Alas, it is not. It is when he actually called! I felt used. In a cheap way at that. Like a hooker feels after a two-dollar blowjob. The lesser mortals among us would have showered to cleanse themselves of the disgust. I scotched it away. There was Havana rum lending a helping hand too.<br /><br />Enough can never be said about the therapeutic properties of rum and coke. More so Old Monk rum and coke. I have had a lot of rum in my life. I am yet to come across any that can match the sheer raw intensity of Old Monk. I have never had the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster but I am sure the best drink in the galaxy would be an Old Monk rum and coke if Ford Prefect had had the good fortune to savour it.<br /><br />Of late I must admit that some good music is being made again. Music, tragically, died with Kurt Cobain's death in 1994. That is not to imply that Kurt Cobain was music personified. Just that coincindentally nothing noteworthy came out after him. There are some new kids on the block who have made someone as fixed in his notions about how music should be sit back and listen. Sadly, Hindi motion picture soundtrack is yet to recover from the blow of a 'Kya ada kya jalwe tere, paro'. Jeez, they can actually make something like that and call it a song?<br /><br />I have started writing again. No, not on the blog. I dabble in poetry. Used to. Had not put pen to paper in nearly six years. Till a few days ago. The result is not great, but it is a start. Writing gives me bliss. It is hard to explain. But it is definitely doing its bit in making the year as good as it has been!Script Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12304385280899569694noreply@blogger.com6