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.

The DMS syndrome and its role in my downfall

I suffer from drunken SMS syndrome. A seriously debilitating disease that affects me almost every night. In the past my cellphone didn't support saving outgoing sms and so the next morning i was content with just reading the reaction to the chaos I had caused. My new cellphone is rather unforgiving that way. Like a graphite shaft 1 wood for a 200 yard shot instead of a metal shaft. You can now realize your mistake the instant you make it. And consequently live with it for the duration of the week.

Ususally, with my old phone, I would send out some nonsensical love essemmesses to women I just recently met and therefore screw up any chances of conjugal bliss. For that matter conjugation at all.

Now I can take corrective measures in the morning, when after a close scrutiny of the sent messages i can conjure up an alibi for the madness of the night before. Gettng dumped, losing a close uncle, (And believe me I have a lot of uncles to lose), being witness to the sight of my friend's dog become a roadkill, (I also have many friends), and my trump card, domestic violence and sexual abuse. I've actually gotten over the last two but it's a good card to flash when it's convenient.

The one good thing that comes of this affliction is that I have realized that I'm deep down a very deep person. I'm not superficial at all. Once drunk, I care for neither race nor religion, age or state of physical well being, economic disparity or beauty. I sms regardless of the fact that the woman I'm smsing is as old as my grandmother's nanny or the fact that she has a Saigon eye, a Normandy leg and a retractable clit. My emotions are not swayed by any of these factors.

It's only when the roosters come home to crow in the morning that I realize my folly and the magnitude of the blunder I've made.

Last call for Alcohol

So you’ve gone and done it again
The Tequila told me so
I’d just dropped by for a stupor
When I came to know

When the Tequila was done talking
The Beers picked up the strain
The Whiskey chipped in with his deep baritone
And the Vodkas hummed the refrain

The Bourbon alone kept his peace
Perhaps he knew my plight
It’s been the friend of many a broken heart
Till the wee hours of the night

And soon the bar resounded with
The dashed deed you’d done
And I had no choice but to comply with
“Free Drinks for everyone”

Thank God it's Friday

Aaah! the joys of travel. This weekend ended up being one of the most fullfiling ever. Funny I only noticed it when I sat down to write this blog. Maybe that's cos I'm still a part of it, though I'm back in office on a Monday morning. Hope it lasts.

I don't believe in Monday morning blues. Mondays can whizz past reminiscing about all the fun you had the previous day. A similar feeling can get you through tuesdays too. But come Wednesday, and you're bang in the middle of the week. Two days since your last fun binge and two days away from a fresh one. Life seems at it lowest on a wednesday morning.

But coming back to the weekend, I was off to Chennai. A last minute decision on friday evening found me running from pillar to post, looking for any means of getting me from Bangalore to Chennai, a distance of 360 Kilometers, as the crow flies.

YessBee travels came to my aid in the last minute. "Ess Saar" said the voice over the phone in a pronounced Malayalee accent. "Ve hawe jest one ticket left in the bus. Please come to Madivala by 10:30"

Madivala? That's beyond the back of beyond. It's one of those places you hear of, but never venture to. Like those vague horrible diseases you read about in the papers, but have never met anyone suffering from. Angiofollicular Lymphoid Hyperplasia, Lymphohistiocytosis, Hemophagocytic, Ramsay Hunt Auricular Syndrome. There are thousands more where that came from. A list of unending disorders and condition ranging from the unpronounceable to the unmentionable. Madivala's like that. Everyone can tell you where it is. But few have ventured there.

Anyway, since there was no time to dilly dally, I pack my backpack and look for an autorickshaw that will take me to Madivala.

You haven't felt rejection until you’ve been rejected by a Bangalore rickshaw driver. Nothing prepares you for the absolute rejection that he’s about to mete out to you.

Women might give you a reason for rejecting you, people at interviews may hem and haw but come up with an excuse, friends may try and put it to you gently. And thought you’ve been through “But we can be friends”, “Sorry but we think you’re overqualified for the job”, “Sorry dude, I’ve got to take my girlfriend to the movie” and “No! you may not borrow my car.”, nothing prepares you for the Bangalore rickshaw wallah.

You stand on the road and motion for a rickshaw to stop. One veers out of the traffic at the last moment, nearly missing the cyclist who now swears at him. He pulls over, next to you and cocks his head in your direction, all the while never once looking you in the eye.

You step up and say “Madiwala?” Suddenly the gear is engaged and the throttle pulled and the rickshaw peels off and joins the traffic, while you are left standing there wondering if you said something wrong. You’ve just been rejected. And that’s just the beginning. You invariably have to go through half a dozen of them before you finally find one who’s willing to take you. By that time, you are humbled. You meekly climb into the rickshaw, licking your emotional wounds and scheme at how to get back at him. Should you not tip him at all. Naw! Too cheap. How about overtipping him. That may make him a little less harder on the next unsuspecting traveler. So for the sake of mankind, you dig deep into your pocket and generously tip him. As you walk away, you turn back to see the look of surprise on his face. You expect him to look at you the way the children of Israel looked to Moses as he parted the Red Sea.

But you’re rejected again. He just pockets the change and drives off. The rejection is now complete.

Now that I have reached Madivala, I think I can rest easy. 'Have no fear YessBee is here!' I settle down with my ticket and wait for my iron steed to arrive. 2 hours later, I’m still waiting.

When finally the bus arrives, I’m told that my ticket was a temporary ticket, and I was supposed to get it confirmed at the booking office. But now it’s 12 a.m. and the office is shut. 200 bucks later, I have in my hands a confirmed ticket.

Completely exhausted, I climb into my bus seat and settle down. I shall be in Chennai at 7 in the morning. I think I life’s shown me all his cards. There are no more surprises left. The game has ended.

Just then life plays his last card. It come in the form of an extremely plump man whose ticket entitles him to sit on the same seat that my ticket entitles me to sit on.

What follows is a melee of sorts. An extremely agitated fat man with a high pitched voice trying to drown out the voice of a thin squat conductor with a voice like he has a couple of frogs mating in his throat.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m on the bus. This time in the cramped seat right in the back. I lean my head on my bag and turn the AC vent towards myself.

It’s going to be a very, very, very long night.

The remains of the day

I just cleaned out my backpack and was amused at what I found there. Here's a list of what all was there:

- Swiss Army knife
- Spare duracell batteries
- Durex Ultras thin condom
- Boarding pass of an Indian Airlines ticket to Chennai
- Receipt of 4 chocolates and a book bought at the airport
- Silica Gel pouch from my camera bag
- A AddGel pen cap
- Some spare change
- A packet of 'Chutki' mouth freshener
- Airline sweets
- A toothpick from the 'Golden Dragon'
- a piece of bark I picked up at 'Naukuchiatal'
- Pebbles from Manali

Wonder what that says about me and my travels?

Gone to Oktober....

I'm going to Ammmmmmsssssssttttttteeeeeerrrrrrr DAMN. Damn that feels good. First it's Frankfurt, then the Hague and then AAAAmmmmsssttteeerrrr DAMMMMMMNN. Pity I couldn't leave earlier. I would have loved to be in Germany during the Oktoberfest. But guess you should count your blessing and not ask for too much.

Nordic and slavic blond chicks, lots of good beer, hash bars, great nightlife. Could a man ask for more. I'm in seventh heaven already. I hope my visa works out thought. The fact that I'm Indian and single doesn't help much. But there's no harm in trying anyway.

Please wish me all the luck. God knows I need every bit.

A tale of three tales

I just noticed that reading three short stories at one stretch tires me more than reading half a novel. I think it has something to do with the range of emotions you traverse across in three short stories. How else would you explain the feeling of fatigue after reading 3 stories consisting of 12-15 pages each, while I have sometimes read as many as a 100 pages of a novel without feeling a thing.

I was reading a book of short stories by Jack London.Three stories down, I was emotionally exhausted. I had gone from happiness to excitement, to dejection, to elation all within the 12 pages of one story. Three stories later, I lay spent. It was almost as if I lived the life of the characters I had read about.

What else could it be. I consider myself pretty emotionally strong. I have weathered storms that would make a lesser man shrivel up and die. Physical abuse, mental torment, battery and assault. Peer pressure, I've sailed through all of them and emerged unscathed. But three short stories have humbled me.

Is another's burden heavier than one's own. Or is the time factor to be blamed.

While reading a short story, in 15 minutes, you relive all the emotions that the character did in a month. So the effect on you is more profound.

Is that it? Are short stories a more powerful medium than 600 page epic novels?

The Agency song

The deadline cometh, and I'm not yet done.
It's going to be curtains, for everyone.

I can feel butterflies, in my pit.
The shit'll hit the fan, and I'll be rolling in it.

The Art guy casts, a longing glance,
Hoping that there might, still be a chance.

That I shall, the campaign crack.
And get servicing, off his back.

But his prayers, have been in vain.
And I'm beginning, to feel the strain.

My nerves are shot, my brain's turned to jelly
And there's a funny feeling, in my belly.

My sphincter seems, to have lost control.
And my stomach's doing, a triple jump roll.

My doom it seems, is imminent.
My star is definitely in descent.

But just when you think, disaster is nigh.
There appears a light, in the sky.

Coeus, it seems, has heard my prayer.
And delivered me, from my despair.

The deadline now, has come to pass.
And I have just barely saved my arse.

But a new deadline shall come again,
And I shall write yet another refrain.

About the nature of the job I’ve come to love,
And the divine intervention from up above.

And the hundred deaths I die each day,
Just to sell come ‘Frito Lays.’

Gin soaked boy

I'm the darkness in the light
I'm the leftness in the right
I'm the rightness in the wrong
I'm the shortness in the long
I'm the goodness in the bad
I'm the saneness in the mad
I'm the sadness in the joy
I'm the gin in the gin-soaked boy

I'm the ghost in the machine
I'm the genius in the gene
I'm the beauty in the beast
I'm the sunset in the east
I'm the ruby in the dust
I'm the trust in the mistrust
I'm the trojan horse in troy
I'm the gin in the gin-soaked boy

I'm the tiger's empty cage
I'm the mystery's final page
I'm the stranger's lonely glance
I'm the hero's only chance
I'm the undiscovered land
I'm the single grain of sand
I'm the christmas morning toy
I'm the gin in the gin-soaked boy

I'm the world you'll never see
I'm the slave you'll never free
I'm the truth you'll never know
I'm the place you'll never go
I'm the sound you'll never hear
I'm the course you'll never steer
I'm the will you'll not destroy
I'm the gin in the gin-soaked boy

I'm the half-truth in the lie
I'm the why not in the why
I'm the last roll of the die
I'm the old school in the tie
I'm the spirit in the sky
I'm the catcher in the rye
I'm the twinkle in her eye
I'm the jeff goldblum in "the fly"

Who am i?

The Lowe song

Found an old poem I wrote, back when I was a trainee copywriter with Lowe Lintas, Delhi. Back when I was paid peanuts and worked like a donkey. I captured my helplessness in this poem one night while chasing a deadline at 5 in the morning after 4 days of constant work. I then went and made numerous copies and pasted it on everybody's tables as an act of retribution. It worked, and I finally got 2 days off. Finding it after 5 years, this feeling of nostalgia washes over me. I wanted to share it with whoever's interested.

The Lowe Lintas Song (The company name has now changed to Lowe)

Abide with me Lowe, comes the big deadline.
Client Servicing threatens, Lowe with me abide.

Media planning fucks up, and all the CDs flee.
Help of the helpless Oh! Abide with me

I need thy presence, every passing hour.
what but thy grace can foil the clients power.

Who like thyself my guide and stay can be,
through brief and deadline, Oh abide with me.

I fear no foe with thee at hands to bless,
BILT has no weight, eGurucool no bittterness,

Where Parker's sting where Nestle's Fruit-tips three.
Help of the hopeless, Oh! Abide with me.