The Itchy and Scratchy Show

My baby

That's my darling Sophie. Sophie with white socks on all four feet. Sophie with the perfect diamond on her back. Sophie of the 'wow wow wow' song. Sophie of the kidneybean dance(You have to own a Boxer to get that one). Sigh! I miss her so.

Presenting the Panipuri Principle

The Panipuri principle states that "The second plate of Panipuri is never as tasty as the first".

This principle actually extends to everything in life but I call it that because the realization came to me when I was on my second plate of Panipuri.

Hum Log

I wish love was like Doordarshan. The old Doordarshan.

Back when you had to wake up early to see the colour bars beeping at you on the cathode tube which took a minute to come on. And then sit through a lifetime of silence, only to see the the 'Vertigo'-inspired opening sequence logo, morph into the Doordarshan logo, come to whet your appetite for the drama that was scheduled, loosely, to unfold on the colour TV.

You had to sit through 'Guru Sachi Bani' to get to the good stuff. Like 'Jamie and the magic torch' and 'He-man' (Admit it, you drooled over Teela's tits, didn't you?). Just to get to the 'Mickey and Donald Show' and the crowning glory "Spiderman". And then, in the evening, you came home from play early enough to see the credits of 'Krishi Drashan' and watch the 'Nirma' commercials before the 'Feature Film' began.

Back when you made do with the only one channel you had. Back when you climbed terraces and braved vertigo to turn the Ariel a quarter inch so the reception was less snowy. Back when the whole family was nothing but a relay for 'Not yet' turn it clockwise' or 'STOP STOP! Awww! Go back it was better a second ago'.

Back when, like your folks, you made do with one. Partner or channel. For better or for worse.

Now you've got a remote-full of channels. One to satisfy every whim. There's one for every religion and sexual inclination. Two for every musical choice. Three for every language and four movie channels shovelling every sort of international drivel into your home.

Love's like than now too. With a number of women you can flick through without feeling that commitment towards. Just press the 'Next' button to let the new one through.

But think about it.

With all this choice, do you really have a choice?

Dead Beat

I think we spend the first 28 years of our lives collecting ghosts, only to lay them to rest in the latter half. You collect experiences that when re-lived turn out to be duds. And that thing you once held sacred, dies a mortal death, coughing its last breath in your head.

Take for instance Kovalam. I first came to kovalam when I was 24, out of work and directionless. I had just chucked two lucrative careers, one as a Manangement guy and another as a Software Engineer because it didn't do anything to me. I was broke and knew only this that I didn't want to see the new century dawn in Delhi, where I lived. So me and another equally directionless friend decided to watch the year 2000 dawn in Kovalam. I don't recall why we chose the place but we did. So I freelanced and wrote a script for a Management Institute, shot it, pocketed the 10k and pushed for Kovalam in the December of 1999.

It was a scene right out of a dream. A lighthouse completed the picture with its presence at the end of a pristine, crescent shaped beach. The shacks were lean-tos put together by tying logs of wood together with a thatched roof of plaited palm leaves. There was always fresh seafood and Rum with fresh coconut water.

I had the time of my life. Went snorkeling, boogie boarding, lay about in the sun doing nothing. I found love and lust in the arms of an older woman. In just 4 weeks, I became a beach bum, surfer, gigolo, artist, photographer and writer. I found my calling in this land with no calling.

I went back last year. After I quit my post at Grey. It had a concrete walkway. The shacks sported brick walls. The water was dirty. You could get a Fillet Mignon in one of the shacks. It was a disaster. I buried Kovalam in my head that night.

And now Aerosmith.

I first heard Aerosmith when a friend bought the album 'Pump'. Back when I was in school. 'Love in an elevator' and 'Janie's got a gun' made it to the top of my charts the moment I heard them. Then came 'Get a Grip'. I loved it so much, I begged my uncle in the US to send me an original Geffen tape, along with the Peart Jam '10'. I knew every song by heart. The foreign tapes even had lyrics in the covers. I covered them with scotch tape and pasted them up on my wall. The intro to 'Eat the rich', I even now consider unparalleled. This album cover the gamut of emotions i traversed in my college years. 'Crying', 'Crazy' and 'Amazing' were my best friends.

So with much expectations I went to see them perform, just last week in Bangalore.

I was left cold. This was the first time I left a concert with my voice intact.

I buried Aerosmith in my head that night.

The SWAT team

They’re in all the shops. Even the corner provision store has it. The malls are stocking it like it’s the hottest thing since sliced bread. You can’t cross a traffic light without setting eyes on someone selling it to people in cars. I walked into a friend’s house and was accosted by one lying on the table. Why do people want to buy it? I don’t understand.

You can buy an ‘All-Out’ or a ‘Good-Night’ mosquito repelling machine for 120 Rs. And these things can work all night, night after night for over 60 days, keeping the swarms at bay.

Then why should someone spend 75 Rs. and buy an electric mosquito swatter? These Chinese made, electric swatters look like badminton racquets and carry enough electricity in the mesh to instantly fry any insect to a crisp. Swipe it at a healthy mosquito, and with a loud snap, it’s a late mosquito. Just like that.

If it was efficient mosquito extermination you wanted, this surely isn’t what you would buy. Imagine the time and energy you’ll have to spend chasing down every mosquito in the house.

I believe people buy it only for the perverse pleasure of watching the mosquitoes fry. Like playing god to a world of smaller creatures, you decide which one shall escape and which shall perish. One friend I asked claimed it was “therapeutic, like bursting bubble-wrap”.

Really? Then why stop at mosquitoes? Move on to squirrels. And with a larger surface area to inflict pain upon, you should feel even more relaxed when you’re done torturing it.

Friend flinches. But I plod on. “Why not rabbits? And after you’re done torturing it, it’ll even make a good dish.”

I went home perplexed. It’s ok to zap insects and ants and mosquitoes but things higher up in the order are taboo? So guilt about killing a being is directly proportionate to the size of the creature? You’ll stomp an ant and swat a fly in a heartbeat, whack a rat with a hint of hesitation, think a little before kicking a dog, avoid having to bludgeon a monkey and say no to shooting a tiger?

Seems rather cockeyed to me.

Hmm! How much did you say they cost?

Counter-feat

Last weekend, I had installed a stat counter on my blog. This nifty little piece of code helps me keep a track of the number of people reading my blog.

The maximum number of comments I’ve ever had to a post is 6. And that too since a friend linked her blog to mine. So imagine my surprise when the counter tells me that since last week, 197 people have visited my blog. Damn! And I thought I was as alone out here as Jonah in the Whale’s stomach.

And though I’m elated, something doesn’t quite add up. 197 visitors and just 1 comment? That is really appalling.

Why do these voyeurs not leave even a vowel behind as a sign of their visit?

Most movies have the often hackneyed scene where a parent walks into a child’s room at night and upon seeing the child asleep, gazes at him/her with adoration and then tiptoes out after either planting a kiss on the sleeping body, or covering it with a sheet that’s been flung aside.

My ego will love to believe that this is the case here too.

But I’m not an angel by any stretch of the imagination. And considering the nature of my posts, it’ll be more like walking into my room and silently watching me play with myself. A very unsettling experience, to say the least.

No wonder I don’t get any comments.