One Short

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

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

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

Shani's song

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

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

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

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

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

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

Designated Dolt

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

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

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

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

Where then, does one find the errant driver?

Let me propose a theory.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Reason

Sorry Mates, long time no write..



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ciao

Forgive them father

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

Newbie

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

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

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

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

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

Gaana

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

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

Decomposing Composers

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

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

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

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

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

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

Claude Achille Debussy-- Died, 1918.

Christophe Willebald Gluck-- Died, 1787.

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

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

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

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

How Now Brown Cow

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paro and I

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

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

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

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

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

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

Apni dhun mein rehta hoon!

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

Oh pichle baras ke saathi
Ab ke baras mein tanha hoon

Teri gali mein sara din
dukh ke kankar chunta hoon.

Mera diya jalaye kaun.
Mein sirf tera kamra hoon.

Apni laher hai apna rog
Dariya hoon aur pyasa hoon.

OK Computer!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hmmmmmmm!!

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heavy Fuel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like Knopfler said

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

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

Black magic music

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

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

Motorhead

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

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

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

World peace?

Scribbles

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

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

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

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

Puzzles

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

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

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

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

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

Inspired perspiration

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

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

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

I don't know.

Amazing grace

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Homecoming Queen

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

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

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

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

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

For now, the coffee tastes good.

The beginning of the end

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dilli meri Jaan

I MISS DELHI.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why

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

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

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

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

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

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

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

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

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

All work and
no play makes
Jack a dull
boy.

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

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

The end of a relationship

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

"To whoever it may concern,


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



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


A few of the many reasons:

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


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


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


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



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



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



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

Thank you and good riddance,

George Koshy

Books

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

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

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

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

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

Only the lonely

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like Kerouac says,

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

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

On the road. Again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He says she says

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please stay away. Both for my sake and yours.

?

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

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

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

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

The Living Dead

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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