Another night another fight
Another child is torn
Another pillow hugged tight
Waiting for the morn
Another night another fight
Another child takes a vow
To set right all the wrong
And make his father bow
Another night another fight
Another fist in the fray
Another boy wheeled into a van
As the sun declares the day
Another night another fight
Another man is born
This time the boy no more could wait
Until his dad was done
Another night another fight
Another child is torn
The boy has become his Dad
Another monster born
Monday, December 21, 2009
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Puzzled!
If you dabble In jigsaw puzzles, like I do, you'll realize that there's a method to the madness. There's a logical way in which illogical pieces come together to form the larger picture.
The reason I mention it is because I realized midway between one that this logic applied to life itself. It seems to me that all of us are pieces of a colossal puzzle waiting to come together. Or maybe there are multiple puzzles and finding one's own puzzle adds to the, challenge.
This would explain why some people find their groove before most. Let me explain.
The easiest pieces to discern in a puzzle are the corners. Once you find these, it's just a matter of finding out which end fits where. Top left, top right, bottom left and bottom right. These pieces are plain on two axis, like the people they represent who are mostly plain or 'sorted' on two plains. Their variable lies on only two sides. These are the guys you went to college with who pretty much knew where they were headed. It was just a matter of time before they found themselves.
Then come the sides. Once again these are easy to find. They happen to be sorted completely on one plain and variable in three. Still, they are easy to put together. It takes these sorts a little time to find their place in the larger scheme, but it happens with a minimum of experimentation.
Then come the tougher ones, the ones in the middle. These are the slightly more complicated ones. You can find their places with reference to the ones on the sides, but they are tougher to put together. They struggle through life for a while before they eventually find their place.
Among these too you can find different sorts.
The ones with protrusions on all four sides. These are the type 'A' personalities. They don't make allowances for anyone and want others to accommodate them. They seem easier to put together and you reach out for them in the box, because they scream for attention due to their dominant shape.
Next are the ones with protrusions on three sides and a void in one. They are sure about what they want, but often need the dominant side of one to complete them and make them whole.
The two-protrusion ones are often the more balanced of the lot. They give as much as they get. Filling others, while also taking an equal portion of another. These are the couples you see who in life seem to be poles apart, but somehow seem to get along perfectly.
The one-protrusion ones are the more complex ones. The ones with a mad streak, often brought about by the voids in them. Their insecurity drives them to be wild on one side of their personality. These are the women who want their navel pierced in their 30s or guys who buy a motorcycle in middle-age.
And then come the all-voids. These are the ones who have no dominant sides and can be led, mostly by more dominant parts. You'll often find them clinging to the handles of four different parts of other people's personalty. They are the ones who no-one has anything bad to say about. The people's person.
And then come the stragglers. These could be any of the five sorts mentioned before, but even so, make no sense till the puzzle is almost done.
My problem is that my part in this puzzle, is a puzzle to me.
The reason I mention it is because I realized midway between one that this logic applied to life itself. It seems to me that all of us are pieces of a colossal puzzle waiting to come together. Or maybe there are multiple puzzles and finding one's own puzzle adds to the, challenge.
This would explain why some people find their groove before most. Let me explain.
The easiest pieces to discern in a puzzle are the corners. Once you find these, it's just a matter of finding out which end fits where. Top left, top right, bottom left and bottom right. These pieces are plain on two axis, like the people they represent who are mostly plain or 'sorted' on two plains. Their variable lies on only two sides. These are the guys you went to college with who pretty much knew where they were headed. It was just a matter of time before they found themselves.
Then come the sides. Once again these are easy to find. They happen to be sorted completely on one plain and variable in three. Still, they are easy to put together. It takes these sorts a little time to find their place in the larger scheme, but it happens with a minimum of experimentation.
Then come the tougher ones, the ones in the middle. These are the slightly more complicated ones. You can find their places with reference to the ones on the sides, but they are tougher to put together. They struggle through life for a while before they eventually find their place.
Among these too you can find different sorts.
The ones with protrusions on all four sides. These are the type 'A' personalities. They don't make allowances for anyone and want others to accommodate them. They seem easier to put together and you reach out for them in the box, because they scream for attention due to their dominant shape.
Next are the ones with protrusions on three sides and a void in one. They are sure about what they want, but often need the dominant side of one to complete them and make them whole.
The two-protrusion ones are often the more balanced of the lot. They give as much as they get. Filling others, while also taking an equal portion of another. These are the couples you see who in life seem to be poles apart, but somehow seem to get along perfectly.
The one-protrusion ones are the more complex ones. The ones with a mad streak, often brought about by the voids in them. Their insecurity drives them to be wild on one side of their personality. These are the women who want their navel pierced in their 30s or guys who buy a motorcycle in middle-age.
And then come the all-voids. These are the ones who have no dominant sides and can be led, mostly by more dominant parts. You'll often find them clinging to the handles of four different parts of other people's personalty. They are the ones who no-one has anything bad to say about. The people's person.
And then come the stragglers. These could be any of the five sorts mentioned before, but even so, make no sense till the puzzle is almost done.
My problem is that my part in this puzzle, is a puzzle to me.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Better man!
A friend and I were watching 'Lord of War'. I told her to watch the title sequence for I think it's one of the best ever. She saw the whole thing and said it was 'nice'. 'Nice'? Why was it just 'nice'. Why wasn't it 'awesome'. Or 'out-of-this-world'. I thought it was fucking fantastic. I wonder.
You see this friend isn't from my background. She doesn't work in advertising. She is a doctor and spent her life reading doctory things, and doing doctory stuff. While I come from advertising and do advertising things- which effectively means drinking all night, reading stuff you won't wipe your arse with, fucking around all day and being mean and horrid to people who don't belong in advertising. I'm full of myself, and liquor all the time. While she drips with the milk of human kindness.
The reason I think I liked the title sequence is sort of complex. Allow me to explain. First of all, the camera angles. Film opens on Nicholas Cage's head. Actually the back of his head, and continues with a first person view of the life of a bullet being manufactured and its journey across the world, to Africa. Now I know my friend is not schooled in the business of film shoots and doesn't know much of camera angles, and how hard it would have been to shoot it thus. So I concede the point.
The next shot sees the bullet loaded into a crate and shut, only to open and show a Russian officer inspecting the cargo. This I am sure, barely registers as a blip in my friends's radar. As its some news she read in passing. Like "The east block funds terror in Africa" or some such headline.
While I have read of it before my time, but with much enthusiasm, (I was 13 when the Berlin wall went down) I've followed ever step of the communist era, complete with Soviet vetted Russian Folk tales in every Russian book fair in India. And of 'Afghanistan' and of the 'Red Army Faction' in Germany and 'Ilich Ramírez Sánchez' and the 'Baader-Meinhoff' group, and how the CIA and Interpol stopped it. I'm not a Communist by any stretch of the imagination. I merely find the era fascinating. Where would Fredric Forsythe and Robert Ludlum be without them. In the gutters, I imagine.
The next shot arrives in an African state, for the person, once more prising the lid off is a black man. (I'm brown, so I'm allowed to say black. (You whites can wait till you qualify.) She also looks at with no response. Since it's again been a headline on a newspaper, years back. For me, I followed the african conflict and still do. I read about Che' in the Congo, the massacre at Rhwanda, the problem in Uganda and everything. I have read, watched and heard every news from these lands and feel the pain.
The third sequence is of someone who picks up the round and fills it into a magazine. And since I've been a state level shooter, I know how good the camera angle is. This we can leave out of discussion, since not many among you are sportsmen of this kind.
The final shot had the round chambered in the barrel and the barrel pointed to many people before firing the bullet from the chamber, that speeds towards an innocent civilian.
This is where it all breaks down. For when the shot hit the man between his eyes, I didn't. But she did.
And so my friends, the judgement is yours to make. Though I am not religious, merely spiritual, as most people who know me knows.
I shall leave you with something from the bible.
"If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but do not have love,
I have become a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.
If I have the gift of prophecy, and know all mysteries and all knowledge; and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing.
And if I give all my possessions to feed the poor, and if I surrender my body to be burned, but do not have love, it profits me nothing."
She had love on her side. While I had knowledge. Who's the better for it.
You see this friend isn't from my background. She doesn't work in advertising. She is a doctor and spent her life reading doctory things, and doing doctory stuff. While I come from advertising and do advertising things- which effectively means drinking all night, reading stuff you won't wipe your arse with, fucking around all day and being mean and horrid to people who don't belong in advertising. I'm full of myself, and liquor all the time. While she drips with the milk of human kindness.
The reason I think I liked the title sequence is sort of complex. Allow me to explain. First of all, the camera angles. Film opens on Nicholas Cage's head. Actually the back of his head, and continues with a first person view of the life of a bullet being manufactured and its journey across the world, to Africa. Now I know my friend is not schooled in the business of film shoots and doesn't know much of camera angles, and how hard it would have been to shoot it thus. So I concede the point.
The next shot sees the bullet loaded into a crate and shut, only to open and show a Russian officer inspecting the cargo. This I am sure, barely registers as a blip in my friends's radar. As its some news she read in passing. Like "The east block funds terror in Africa" or some such headline.
While I have read of it before my time, but with much enthusiasm, (I was 13 when the Berlin wall went down) I've followed ever step of the communist era, complete with Soviet vetted Russian Folk tales in every Russian book fair in India. And of 'Afghanistan' and of the 'Red Army Faction' in Germany and 'Ilich Ramírez Sánchez' and the 'Baader-Meinhoff' group, and how the CIA and Interpol stopped it. I'm not a Communist by any stretch of the imagination. I merely find the era fascinating. Where would Fredric Forsythe and Robert Ludlum be without them. In the gutters, I imagine.
The next shot arrives in an African state, for the person, once more prising the lid off is a black man. (I'm brown, so I'm allowed to say black. (You whites can wait till you qualify.) She also looks at with no response. Since it's again been a headline on a newspaper, years back. For me, I followed the african conflict and still do. I read about Che' in the Congo, the massacre at Rhwanda, the problem in Uganda and everything. I have read, watched and heard every news from these lands and feel the pain.
The third sequence is of someone who picks up the round and fills it into a magazine. And since I've been a state level shooter, I know how good the camera angle is. This we can leave out of discussion, since not many among you are sportsmen of this kind.
The final shot had the round chambered in the barrel and the barrel pointed to many people before firing the bullet from the chamber, that speeds towards an innocent civilian.
This is where it all breaks down. For when the shot hit the man between his eyes, I didn't. But she did.
And so my friends, the judgement is yours to make. Though I am not religious, merely spiritual, as most people who know me knows.
I shall leave you with something from the bible.
"If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but do not have love,
I have become a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.
If I have the gift of prophecy, and know all mysteries and all knowledge; and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing.
And if I give all my possessions to feed the poor, and if I surrender my body to be burned, but do not have love, it profits me nothing."
She had love on her side. While I had knowledge. Who's the better for it.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Directionless!
A compass needle one fine day
Decided he did not like the Northern Side
And so he swung the other way
And the man in disgust threw it aside
Decided he did not like the Northern Side
And so he swung the other way
And the man in disgust threw it aside
The Flight
The old coop was flown
The Rooster still paced the ground
Though he searched high and low
Not a trace of the hen could be found
3 years could wipe out every trace
yet every sight was in his seeing
What was the point of revisiting the geography
When every second of their history lived in his being
The Rooster crowed his last call
In the place where he had taken his first breath
As a man, and though it befitting
That the very ground that gave him life
Should witness his death
The Rooster still paced the ground
Though he searched high and low
Not a trace of the hen could be found
3 years could wipe out every trace
yet every sight was in his seeing
What was the point of revisiting the geography
When every second of their history lived in his being
The Rooster crowed his last call
In the place where he had taken his first breath
As a man, and though it befitting
That the very ground that gave him life
Should witness his death
Thursday, May 29, 2008
The Spell Checker
Found this poem on the net. Loved it. Putting it up here for everyone to enjoy.
'Spell Checker Blues'
Eye halve a spelling chequer
It came with my pea sea
It plainly marques four my revue
Miss steaks eye kin knot sea.
Eye strike a key and type a word
And weight four it two say
Weather eye am wrong oar write
It shows me strait a weigh.
As soon as a mist ache is maid
It nose bee fore two long
And eye can put the error rite
Its rarely ever wrong.
Eye have run this poem threw it
I am shore your pleased two no
Its letter perfect in it's weigh
My chequer tolled me sew.
Anon
'Spell Checker Blues'
Eye halve a spelling chequer
It came with my pea sea
It plainly marques four my revue
Miss steaks eye kin knot sea.
Eye strike a key and type a word
And weight four it two say
Weather eye am wrong oar write
It shows me strait a weigh.
As soon as a mist ache is maid
It nose bee fore two long
And eye can put the error rite
Its rarely ever wrong.
Eye have run this poem threw it
I am shore your pleased two no
Its letter perfect in it's weigh
My chequer tolled me sew.
Anon
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Leonard Cohen - A Thousand kisses deep
Thanks to a bundle of joy and energy called Vani, I discovered this song. Consider this my little tribute to you.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Inane observations
1. No matter how carefully you clip your nails, one always gets away.
2. Most good songs on an album fall on 3, 5 or 7
2. Most good songs on an album fall on 3, 5 or 7
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Monday, March 10, 2008
The story of my life
This is an attempt at listing chronologically, books that have left an indelible mark on my life. I trust you won’t judge them by their authors or content but appreciate the fact that they, in their own way, completed the void I felt in my life, or steered me onto another path.
King Lear – Age 2
Now I never read this book at that age, but my grandfather used to tell me the story, as a kid. I can’t remember much of him now and almost nothing of what he told me remains in my memory. But yet, I can’t help being moved every time I read the play, or watch it staged. And though there are others of the bard’s plays I love more, there still remains a special place for this one.
Russian Folk Tales ages 3-6
Bought at an Indo-Russian Cultural fair, this book wrapped me up in its covers every night with stories of Vasilisa the Wise, the witch Baba Yaga and the hut that stood on chicken legs. I always wondered why all the heroes in the stories were called by the same name – Ivan.
The Magic Carpet ( or something to that effect. I really can’t remember the name) age 6-8
This was a Russian story book about two boys who find a carpet in their grandmother’s house and take it to use in their tree-house. They realize soon that it flies and have a series of adventures involving a machine gunner’s nest in a clock tower or something. I can’t seem to remember the plot but the feeling of awe is still there. Led to years of staring out of class windows playing out my own fantasies with magic carpets and machine guns.
The Three Investigators - age 7 onwards
I’m so happy I never met the Hardy boys first. After all, Jupiter Jones kicked ass, together with Pete Crenshaw and Bob Andrews. Much to the dismay of my mother, I ran around drawing question marks on walls with chalks and walking about with my dad’s magnifying glass looking for clues.
Tales of mystery and Imagination –Edgar Allen Poe age 8
It was not the original I read, but the abridged version. The book actually had some of Poe’s best short stories. The chief among them being “The fall of the house of Usher”, “The cask of Amontillado”, “The tell-tale Heart” and the “Gold Bug”. I was in love with Poe and his love for the morbid. I remember making my own crest with the words “Nemo me impune. Lacessit” Let him who provokes me die. Or something to that effect.
The Illustrated Weekly: age 10
Sinmply because of its last page with it’s famous semi-nude actresses. I vividly remember Sonam in a wrap-around that really didn’t wrap much of her anatomy (and what an anatomy it was), and Lisa Ray. I think I really fell in love with her. I was in love with the Bombay Dyeing towel ads. By now I had become aware of the other sex and what to do with mine. ☺
The complete Sherlock Holmes Age 11
Man did I become a fan. I nearly cried when Sherlock disappeared, and then suddenly realized there was still half of the book more to go. Obviously, you can’t fill the rest of the book with Watson’s memoirs, so I took heart and plunged ahead. Needless to say “Moriarty would remain a bad word in my dictionary for years to come.
Men In Love – Nancy Friday age 12
Was this a godsend or what. I had by now been linking my low grades and any misfortune that befell me, to my activities in the bathroom. And though I couldn’t desist, I felt guilty about what I was doing. And then during a transfer between towns, this book turns up in a crate of my father’s books. I tasted sexual freedom for the first time. I mean if so many people were doing it, and a book had been published about it, and my dad owned one, it can’t be wrong can it?
Roots – Age 13
This was a recommendation by a teacher who read my essay about slavery and gave me an A+. Thank you Mrs. Dhawan. I owe you lots.
Papillon – Age 13
A chance read in someone else’s house, it made me want to see the world. I loved the part where he spends time with the pearl divers. Refused to read the sequel cos I believed nothing could top the original.
East of Aden – Age 14
My first taste of American literature, kind courtesy an aunt. I loved it though was constantly chided by my father for reading ‘American Crap’. His foray into American Literature ended at Art Buchwald. (If you can call that literature)
Jude the Obscure – Age 15
In response to my reading American authors, my father gave me a course of the classics. And since he is a Tomas Hardy fan, I was flooded with his works. The mayor of Casterbridge, Return of the Native, Tess and many more. I loved Jude more though. Made perfect reading on cold foggy night in the remote towns of Haryana.
Zen and the art of Motorcycle maintenance – Age 18
Man did this book give me a dose of wanderlust. I’d take any opportunity to travel anywhere. Though I would get a motorcycle only a year later, this book made me look at the journey more than the destination.
On the road – Jack Kerouac age 21
I was primed and ready for this book to come along. In it I found a soul as restless as me. I longed for the road and a bunch of mad friends to take me away from my soulless existence. This was also when I began to experiment with substances and realized dope just wasn’t my sort of thing and travel really was the high I seeked.
I could add a couple of more books that I consider monumental in my literary pursuit but the 20s are an age when you stop letting books steer the course of your life the way they did before. You become suspicious and judge the books you read. Often with the benchmark of your peers. You no longer let the written word carry you away on a magic carpet ride, or seek clues in rosebushes and flowerbeds. And so I desist to list out any more.
King Lear – Age 2
Now I never read this book at that age, but my grandfather used to tell me the story, as a kid. I can’t remember much of him now and almost nothing of what he told me remains in my memory. But yet, I can’t help being moved every time I read the play, or watch it staged. And though there are others of the bard’s plays I love more, there still remains a special place for this one.
Russian Folk Tales ages 3-6
Bought at an Indo-Russian Cultural fair, this book wrapped me up in its covers every night with stories of Vasilisa the Wise, the witch Baba Yaga and the hut that stood on chicken legs. I always wondered why all the heroes in the stories were called by the same name – Ivan.
The Magic Carpet ( or something to that effect. I really can’t remember the name) age 6-8
This was a Russian story book about two boys who find a carpet in their grandmother’s house and take it to use in their tree-house. They realize soon that it flies and have a series of adventures involving a machine gunner’s nest in a clock tower or something. I can’t seem to remember the plot but the feeling of awe is still there. Led to years of staring out of class windows playing out my own fantasies with magic carpets and machine guns.
The Three Investigators - age 7 onwards
I’m so happy I never met the Hardy boys first. After all, Jupiter Jones kicked ass, together with Pete Crenshaw and Bob Andrews. Much to the dismay of my mother, I ran around drawing question marks on walls with chalks and walking about with my dad’s magnifying glass looking for clues.
Tales of mystery and Imagination –Edgar Allen Poe age 8
It was not the original I read, but the abridged version. The book actually had some of Poe’s best short stories. The chief among them being “The fall of the house of Usher”, “The cask of Amontillado”, “The tell-tale Heart” and the “Gold Bug”. I was in love with Poe and his love for the morbid. I remember making my own crest with the words “Nemo me impune. Lacessit” Let him who provokes me die. Or something to that effect.
The Illustrated Weekly: age 10
Sinmply because of its last page with it’s famous semi-nude actresses. I vividly remember Sonam in a wrap-around that really didn’t wrap much of her anatomy (and what an anatomy it was), and Lisa Ray. I think I really fell in love with her. I was in love with the Bombay Dyeing towel ads. By now I had become aware of the other sex and what to do with mine. ☺
The complete Sherlock Holmes Age 11
Man did I become a fan. I nearly cried when Sherlock disappeared, and then suddenly realized there was still half of the book more to go. Obviously, you can’t fill the rest of the book with Watson’s memoirs, so I took heart and plunged ahead. Needless to say “Moriarty would remain a bad word in my dictionary for years to come.
Men In Love – Nancy Friday age 12
Was this a godsend or what. I had by now been linking my low grades and any misfortune that befell me, to my activities in the bathroom. And though I couldn’t desist, I felt guilty about what I was doing. And then during a transfer between towns, this book turns up in a crate of my father’s books. I tasted sexual freedom for the first time. I mean if so many people were doing it, and a book had been published about it, and my dad owned one, it can’t be wrong can it?
Roots – Age 13
This was a recommendation by a teacher who read my essay about slavery and gave me an A+. Thank you Mrs. Dhawan. I owe you lots.
Papillon – Age 13
A chance read in someone else’s house, it made me want to see the world. I loved the part where he spends time with the pearl divers. Refused to read the sequel cos I believed nothing could top the original.
East of Aden – Age 14
My first taste of American literature, kind courtesy an aunt. I loved it though was constantly chided by my father for reading ‘American Crap’. His foray into American Literature ended at Art Buchwald. (If you can call that literature)
Jude the Obscure – Age 15
In response to my reading American authors, my father gave me a course of the classics. And since he is a Tomas Hardy fan, I was flooded with his works. The mayor of Casterbridge, Return of the Native, Tess and many more. I loved Jude more though. Made perfect reading on cold foggy night in the remote towns of Haryana.
Zen and the art of Motorcycle maintenance – Age 18
Man did this book give me a dose of wanderlust. I’d take any opportunity to travel anywhere. Though I would get a motorcycle only a year later, this book made me look at the journey more than the destination.
On the road – Jack Kerouac age 21
I was primed and ready for this book to come along. In it I found a soul as restless as me. I longed for the road and a bunch of mad friends to take me away from my soulless existence. This was also when I began to experiment with substances and realized dope just wasn’t my sort of thing and travel really was the high I seeked.
I could add a couple of more books that I consider monumental in my literary pursuit but the 20s are an age when you stop letting books steer the course of your life the way they did before. You become suspicious and judge the books you read. Often with the benchmark of your peers. You no longer let the written word carry you away on a magic carpet ride, or seek clues in rosebushes and flowerbeds. And so I desist to list out any more.
Friday, January 18, 2008
The Farmer song
I owe this song to Stephen Sen, an old friend from college. I never tired of hearing him sing it so seriously while we around him will be cracking up. He has been kind enough to send me the lyrics as best as he can remember and I managed to track down another version of the same sung by the Ozarks, and completed it. The song is sung in a waltzish kind of meter and the ... signifies a significant pause to let the person imagine the next word. Stephen Sen take a bow.
There was a young farmer who lived by the pool.
A handsome young farmer who played with his....
marbles in springtime with the lady next door.
You could tell by her movements that she was a ....
charming young lady who walked like a duck.
She said she had found out a new way to ....
educate her children to sew and to knit,
the handsome young farmer, he pulled at her...
horses and carriages to go for a hunt
While the charming young lady was washing her...
linen in buckets and laying them on the grass
And if you don’t like this story you can kiss my…
Daughter in the parlor she’s winding the clock
And tying gay ribbons all around her…
Pussy cat, pusst cat and same as before
If you don’t like my story I’ll tell it no more.
There was a young farmer who lived by the pool.
A handsome young farmer who played with his....
marbles in springtime with the lady next door.
You could tell by her movements that she was a ....
charming young lady who walked like a duck.
She said she had found out a new way to ....
educate her children to sew and to knit,
the handsome young farmer, he pulled at her...
horses and carriages to go for a hunt
While the charming young lady was washing her...
linen in buckets and laying them on the grass
And if you don’t like this story you can kiss my…
Daughter in the parlor she’s winding the clock
And tying gay ribbons all around her…
Pussy cat, pusst cat and same as before
If you don’t like my story I’ll tell it no more.
Monday, January 07, 2008
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Normal is boring
Everyone has a muse. It could be as simple as a movie that changed your life, or a song that sang your life with its words.
For me it was a wristband. And one that I consumed large amounts of aerated drinks to get. 7up to be precise.
Circa 1989, Venue: Ambala.
The object of my desire was a 'Fido Didi' wristband. Newly launched because 7up was newly launched too. It took me 7 sittings in 7 weeks (my pocketmoney was meager, I was in 9th standard after all) to save up the money to get myself a 'Fido Dido', self strapping wristband. And I had to wait 2 weeks to get it.
It was an unassuming little band of metal covered with plastic, that wrapped itself around your wrist (magical in the Rajiv Gandhi era of India), when you hit your wrist with it. And the thing that influenced me the most was the slogan that said (headline - for the rest of you who've been corrupted by advertising) "Normal is boring".
I took it as a mission statement. The rest of my life has been a quest to support that line on a wristband. And I thank it for what I become. (Or blame it, depending on which part of the fence you sit on).
After all, what chance has a Mallu boy, born in Rohtak to a Cop, brought up by Jats, who studied for most of his life in Haryana, (Excluding a few years in Lawrence, Sanawar) to make it to "St. Stephen's " in Delhi and finally in a dog-eat-dog world like advertising, to make it to where I am today.
Am I showing off?
Maybe I have a right to. Raise your hands, you who changed 12 schools, had no friends, was lonely enough to climb trees for entertainment, didn't have a 'He-Man' toy until college where he bought it so he could set his mind at rest, had too look up 'vela' and 'arbit' in dictionaries that didn't have it, just to speak the lingo, and had to pretend that his torn jeans were 'fashionable'. (Luckily they were)
I love Fido Dido. I still believe 'Normal is boring'. And I have 7up to thank for it.
Thought I hate the shitty thing.
For me it was a wristband. And one that I consumed large amounts of aerated drinks to get. 7up to be precise.
Circa 1989, Venue: Ambala.
The object of my desire was a 'Fido Didi' wristband. Newly launched because 7up was newly launched too. It took me 7 sittings in 7 weeks (my pocketmoney was meager, I was in 9th standard after all) to save up the money to get myself a 'Fido Dido', self strapping wristband. And I had to wait 2 weeks to get it.
It was an unassuming little band of metal covered with plastic, that wrapped itself around your wrist (magical in the Rajiv Gandhi era of India), when you hit your wrist with it. And the thing that influenced me the most was the slogan that said (headline - for the rest of you who've been corrupted by advertising) "Normal is boring".
I took it as a mission statement. The rest of my life has been a quest to support that line on a wristband. And I thank it for what I become. (Or blame it, depending on which part of the fence you sit on).
After all, what chance has a Mallu boy, born in Rohtak to a Cop, brought up by Jats, who studied for most of his life in Haryana, (Excluding a few years in Lawrence, Sanawar) to make it to "St. Stephen's " in Delhi and finally in a dog-eat-dog world like advertising, to make it to where I am today.
Am I showing off?
Maybe I have a right to. Raise your hands, you who changed 12 schools, had no friends, was lonely enough to climb trees for entertainment, didn't have a 'He-Man' toy until college where he bought it so he could set his mind at rest, had too look up 'vela' and 'arbit' in dictionaries that didn't have it, just to speak the lingo, and had to pretend that his torn jeans were 'fashionable'. (Luckily they were)
I love Fido Dido. I still believe 'Normal is boring'. And I have 7up to thank for it.
Thought I hate the shitty thing.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Oh Shit!
Written below is a scrawled message on the door of one of the bogs at St. Stephen's. I just remembered it and thought I'd share it with you.
It depicts the constant struggle that a man faces everyday in his head. Very profound.
"Here I sit and contemplate,
whether to shit or masturbate"
It depicts the constant struggle that a man faces everyday in his head. Very profound.
"Here I sit and contemplate,
whether to shit or masturbate"
Friday, November 30, 2007
Pussy!
I constantly surprise myself. And it's scary how much.
After a lifetime of professing that I hate cats, I've gone and got myself one. Walked into a pet shop yesterday and saw this adorable brown one up for adoption. And so I took it.
She's called 'Cinnamon'. Other names considered were 'Auburn', Hazel. But I felt Cinnamon had more, how shall I say it, spice. (Yes it was deliberate)
She was very quiet in the office and very worried in the car. But once I got her home, she transformed completely. She scooted around the house climbing up this chair, scaling that curtain, and when I settled down to watch some tv, she jumped right into my lap and started licking me. I got the distinct feeling that I had passed her test and had finally been adopted by her, instead of the other way around.
But I'm worried. I've been cheating on my species. How shall I face my Sophie? Will she accept her? Shall I have to give one up? Should I tell Sophie about her? After all, she's back home with Mom and Dad, while I whore around the countryside with this hussy. :)
Oh! the pains of pet polygamy.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Chanel Allure
One moment the sky is clear. The next, they descend on me. In hoards. Like Stukas from the sky.
They come out of the sun. Like any self-respecting fighter pilot would.
I lower my visor and prepare for the onslaught.
They come at me in a straight line. As if playing 'chicken'. And swerve at the last millisecond.
All except one.
Splat! And what was once a healthy dragonfly, becomes a late dragonfly. He's ceased to be. He's passed on. He's demised. He's no more. He's gone up to meet his maker. He's pushing up the daisies. He's deceased. He's a late dragonfly. He rests in peace. He's expired.
Like the milk in my fridge. Like the 'life' in my life.
Which explains why I'm on this 7 hour motorcycle journey to Chennai on this Diwali weekend.
I need to be. I need to know that I still am.
And so I took off on a Friday on Liz, my trusty 350cc, Enfield Thunderbird.
As usual I've taken hours to depart. I love traveling but keep feeling I might leave something behind. So I spend hours preparing for it.
Backpack, riding gloves, helmet, hip-pouch, riding jacket, CAT boots, cellphone, handsfree, medical kit etcetera etcetera. In a moment of lunacy, I decide to leave spares and puncture kit behind. Living on the edge. It'll only add to the experience.
I'm ready to go. Lock my house and climb on to Liz. Who is angry with me for neglecting her for over 6 weeks. And shows it by kicking back. Nearly missed my knee banging on the handlebar.
I caress her sweet-spot. The fuel tank. Just below the logo. And whisper sweet nothings into her rear-view mirrors.
Kick again. This time she catches. First gear, and Elvis has finally left the fucking building. About fucking time too.
Hosur traffic. But I don't care. I've a cigarette on my lips and a song in my head.
Chris Rea. Driving home for Christmas.
Outside Hosur I stop for a bite. French loaf from 'BreadZ' (Hate the Z but love the taste) and cheese spread. Heaven. Food always tastes good when it's more than just nourishment.
Crossing a town. Can smell Ittar and cordite from the crackers in spurts. Love it.
Start wondering why people like smells associated with their own religion, and despise those of other religions.
How can belief reign on your senses?
Dislike or like by association. Always a problem.
Something like the 'appam' i get in church, during the lent season. It's a pot luck thingy. Every woman in the congregation makes it and brings it to church so people can have it, along with black coffee, after mass.
Now don't get me wrong. I love appams. Just not ones made by bad cooks. Every housewife in a 20km radius, regardless of taste buds, makes them and adds them to the kitty. I'd love to have my mother's appams. But I get Mrs. Thomas's instead. It hasn't risen. It gums up in my mouth and has as much taste as a sponge. Besides, it doesn't contain cashews and dates. Like my mom's. I see Philip over there with the date studded one. I make like I don't like it.
"Don't waste it." my mom says "neercha aa" (It's holy).
Ok! I'll eat it. Just don't expect me to like it. I'll eat it cos it's blessed and because it's tradition. But do I have to like it because it is?
I mean, I believe in the lord. Do taste buds too? Is there a church for tastebuds? Imagine having to baptize every part of your body to align with your faith.
"I christen thee George Koshy's tongue. And you George Koshy's lips." And so and so forth.
It's a mystery.
My ex is my first clue. She loved 'Chanel Allure' until we had a fight one night. Ever since then, she hates it. Because it reminds her of 'that day'.
Can't you simply love a smell, a shade, a feel without your memory or conditioning influencing your choice?
Is it a sex thing or a religion thing? I believe it's a personal thing.
We're taught to not question things that are remotely connected to faith and beliefs. No matter how riduculous.
Like touching your books with your feet.
I used to get whacked for keeping my books on the floor and reading with my feet on it. "It's Vidya" (knowledge). I was told. "She'll curse you."
I'd desist from doing it if the books came free and the lessons just eased themselves into my brain without studying. Here I have to buy the confounded things with money, spend hours reading it and memorizing it. And am expected to worship it too? Fat chance.
I take care of my books now. Not because it's religion, but because i read them religiously. Because I want them to last.
Like the Conan Doyle, limited edition complete collection, with original illustrations. Like my RAF Navigation handbook from the 1940s. I love them cos they deserve it. Not cos I'm stuck with them for a year and will help me get into college.
Reaching the outskirts of Chennai. Cross the Kuwam river. It stinks to kingdom come. And my sister says Chennai is happening. With just 3 pubs and hot weather, I fail to see how.
But I'm happy. I've left the stench of advertising behind. Everything else is just Chanel Allure.
They come out of the sun. Like any self-respecting fighter pilot would.
I lower my visor and prepare for the onslaught.
They come at me in a straight line. As if playing 'chicken'. And swerve at the last millisecond.
All except one.
Splat! And what was once a healthy dragonfly, becomes a late dragonfly. He's ceased to be. He's passed on. He's demised. He's no more. He's gone up to meet his maker. He's pushing up the daisies. He's deceased. He's a late dragonfly. He rests in peace. He's expired.
Like the milk in my fridge. Like the 'life' in my life.
Which explains why I'm on this 7 hour motorcycle journey to Chennai on this Diwali weekend.
I need to be. I need to know that I still am.
And so I took off on a Friday on Liz, my trusty 350cc, Enfield Thunderbird.
As usual I've taken hours to depart. I love traveling but keep feeling I might leave something behind. So I spend hours preparing for it.
Backpack, riding gloves, helmet, hip-pouch, riding jacket, CAT boots, cellphone, handsfree, medical kit etcetera etcetera. In a moment of lunacy, I decide to leave spares and puncture kit behind. Living on the edge. It'll only add to the experience.
I'm ready to go. Lock my house and climb on to Liz. Who is angry with me for neglecting her for over 6 weeks. And shows it by kicking back. Nearly missed my knee banging on the handlebar.
I caress her sweet-spot. The fuel tank. Just below the logo. And whisper sweet nothings into her rear-view mirrors.
Kick again. This time she catches. First gear, and Elvis has finally left the fucking building. About fucking time too.
Hosur traffic. But I don't care. I've a cigarette on my lips and a song in my head.
Chris Rea. Driving home for Christmas.
Outside Hosur I stop for a bite. French loaf from 'BreadZ' (Hate the Z but love the taste) and cheese spread. Heaven. Food always tastes good when it's more than just nourishment.
Crossing a town. Can smell Ittar and cordite from the crackers in spurts. Love it.
Start wondering why people like smells associated with their own religion, and despise those of other religions.
How can belief reign on your senses?
Dislike or like by association. Always a problem.
Something like the 'appam' i get in church, during the lent season. It's a pot luck thingy. Every woman in the congregation makes it and brings it to church so people can have it, along with black coffee, after mass.
Now don't get me wrong. I love appams. Just not ones made by bad cooks. Every housewife in a 20km radius, regardless of taste buds, makes them and adds them to the kitty. I'd love to have my mother's appams. But I get Mrs. Thomas's instead. It hasn't risen. It gums up in my mouth and has as much taste as a sponge. Besides, it doesn't contain cashews and dates. Like my mom's. I see Philip over there with the date studded one. I make like I don't like it.
"Don't waste it." my mom says "neercha aa" (It's holy).
Ok! I'll eat it. Just don't expect me to like it. I'll eat it cos it's blessed and because it's tradition. But do I have to like it because it is?
I mean, I believe in the lord. Do taste buds too? Is there a church for tastebuds? Imagine having to baptize every part of your body to align with your faith.
"I christen thee George Koshy's tongue. And you George Koshy's lips." And so and so forth.
It's a mystery.
My ex is my first clue. She loved 'Chanel Allure' until we had a fight one night. Ever since then, she hates it. Because it reminds her of 'that day'.
Can't you simply love a smell, a shade, a feel without your memory or conditioning influencing your choice?
Is it a sex thing or a religion thing? I believe it's a personal thing.
We're taught to not question things that are remotely connected to faith and beliefs. No matter how riduculous.
Like touching your books with your feet.
I used to get whacked for keeping my books on the floor and reading with my feet on it. "It's Vidya" (knowledge). I was told. "She'll curse you."
I'd desist from doing it if the books came free and the lessons just eased themselves into my brain without studying. Here I have to buy the confounded things with money, spend hours reading it and memorizing it. And am expected to worship it too? Fat chance.
I take care of my books now. Not because it's religion, but because i read them religiously. Because I want them to last.
Like the Conan Doyle, limited edition complete collection, with original illustrations. Like my RAF Navigation handbook from the 1940s. I love them cos they deserve it. Not cos I'm stuck with them for a year and will help me get into college.
Reaching the outskirts of Chennai. Cross the Kuwam river. It stinks to kingdom come. And my sister says Chennai is happening. With just 3 pubs and hot weather, I fail to see how.
But I'm happy. I've left the stench of advertising behind. Everything else is just Chanel Allure.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Zero balance
I'm teetering on the verge of bankruptcy. Not the fiscal kind but the mental one. For I have no more memories to fall back on. The kind that gets you through a hard day in the office. The kind that Wordsworth talks about in 'Tintern Abbey'.
I quote him here.
"These beauteous forms,
Through a long absence, have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet."
I'm talking of memories of the crisp sound of pine needles under your feet as you tread over them on a path in Naukuchiatal. Of a hot cup of tea and 'Phan' to warm your soul on a wet and cold ride to Manali. Of watching the sun set from a hill, just off Gokarna, with dragonflies to keep you company. Of taking a turn in Wayanad and stopping to silently watch a herd of elephants cross, not 50 meters away from you.
I'm tethered to an office now. And running dangerously low on memories.
Collected one today. A far cry from the ones harvested earlier.
It was one of standing under an awning on Infantry road at 7 in the evening, in the rains, smoking a fresh bowl of Borkum Riff, White.
Maybe it can't compare to my earlier ones. And maybe I'm clutching at straws here. But they are, after all, a drowning man's only hope.
I quote him here.
"These beauteous forms,
Through a long absence, have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet."
I'm talking of memories of the crisp sound of pine needles under your feet as you tread over them on a path in Naukuchiatal. Of a hot cup of tea and 'Phan' to warm your soul on a wet and cold ride to Manali. Of watching the sun set from a hill, just off Gokarna, with dragonflies to keep you company. Of taking a turn in Wayanad and stopping to silently watch a herd of elephants cross, not 50 meters away from you.
I'm tethered to an office now. And running dangerously low on memories.
Collected one today. A far cry from the ones harvested earlier.
It was one of standing under an awning on Infantry road at 7 in the evening, in the rains, smoking a fresh bowl of Borkum Riff, White.
Maybe it can't compare to my earlier ones. And maybe I'm clutching at straws here. But they are, after all, a drowning man's only hope.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Killer toys
Came across this article that celebrates the 10 most dangerous toys ever marketed. Those treasured playthings that drew blood, chewed digits, took out eyes and caused a spurt in child cosmetic surgery.
I'd love to have got my hands on the 'Jart'. Wait! I had something way more cool than that. A bayonet that was taken from a dead Chinese by my uncle during the Indo-China war. I used to play with it in the backyard. (Without my parents' knowledge, of course)
And then there was the tribal bow and arrow that Someone had brought back from Manipur. Managed to kill a squirrel with it. And the misfired .303 rounds I found at the shooting range. Or the used syringes from a neighbour's insulin shots. Come to think of it, most of my playthings promised death, or in the least, permanent disability or dismemberment.
Maybe that's why I grew up tough. Click on the link to read.
http://www.radarmagazine.com/features/2006/12/toys.php
I'd love to have got my hands on the 'Jart'. Wait! I had something way more cool than that. A bayonet that was taken from a dead Chinese by my uncle during the Indo-China war. I used to play with it in the backyard. (Without my parents' knowledge, of course)
And then there was the tribal bow and arrow that Someone had brought back from Manipur. Managed to kill a squirrel with it. And the misfired .303 rounds I found at the shooting range. Or the used syringes from a neighbour's insulin shots. Come to think of it, most of my playthings promised death, or in the least, permanent disability or dismemberment.
Maybe that's why I grew up tough. Click on the link to read.
http://www.radarmagazine.com/features/2006/12/toys.php
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Gas
I have Gas. Not what the Americans mean by the word, but what the other 90% of the world means by it. And yes, it's strong enough to clear the room with one whiff. No! it's not the intestinal kind.
I'm talking about the industrial kind. The kind that comes in a red coloured cylinder with the words INDANE stenciled across it. The kind that, thanks to the Indian government, you have to pay double the price to get one. Because I got it illegally.
Why? Because a legal cylinder has to be applied for. And it costs 1700 to apply for it. And you get a stove and regulator free along with it. Regardless of the fact that you already own one. So you have to pay 1700 no matter what. Whether you already bought a cooking range that cost you 20k. Whether you already have an empty cylinder and just want a filled one.
And the worst thing is, you're paying double the price for the 'black' cylinder and you even have to stand in line and wait your turn. Then get turned away and stand in line again and plead with the man. Get rejected again and then stand in line and offer more money. Then stand in line and... you get the picture. Basically do it over and over until the guy dismisses you with a wave and tells you to wait till he's free.
Which takes a couple of hours anyway. Finally he saunters over to you and demands double the price. 600 bucks. And you eagerly shovel it out to him.
He tells you to go home and wait for him at 1 in the afternoon and ask you to watch out for 4 long knocks and three short ones on your front door, or some other secret sign like that.
So you wait till 4. At which point your boss is livid, until you tell him you were waiting for the gas to be delivered. There is a pregnant pause over the telephone line. And then you hear him sigh too. "Ok! I understand." Do come in early tomorrow. The campaign is due by afternoon. And I'm sorry I'll have to deduct this day's salary."
But I don't care. I got gas, you see!
I'm talking about the industrial kind. The kind that comes in a red coloured cylinder with the words INDANE stenciled across it. The kind that, thanks to the Indian government, you have to pay double the price to get one. Because I got it illegally.
Why? Because a legal cylinder has to be applied for. And it costs 1700 to apply for it. And you get a stove and regulator free along with it. Regardless of the fact that you already own one. So you have to pay 1700 no matter what. Whether you already bought a cooking range that cost you 20k. Whether you already have an empty cylinder and just want a filled one.
And the worst thing is, you're paying double the price for the 'black' cylinder and you even have to stand in line and wait your turn. Then get turned away and stand in line again and plead with the man. Get rejected again and then stand in line and offer more money. Then stand in line and... you get the picture. Basically do it over and over until the guy dismisses you with a wave and tells you to wait till he's free.
Which takes a couple of hours anyway. Finally he saunters over to you and demands double the price. 600 bucks. And you eagerly shovel it out to him.
He tells you to go home and wait for him at 1 in the afternoon and ask you to watch out for 4 long knocks and three short ones on your front door, or some other secret sign like that.
So you wait till 4. At which point your boss is livid, until you tell him you were waiting for the gas to be delivered. There is a pregnant pause over the telephone line. And then you hear him sigh too. "Ok! I understand." Do come in early tomorrow. The campaign is due by afternoon. And I'm sorry I'll have to deduct this day's salary."
But I don't care. I got gas, you see!
Sunday, September 30, 2007
What's cooking?
If you're single, try like hell not to live an an apartment with married people around you.
Look at the state I'm in.
The lady next door has been cooking Mallu food since 12 o clock and I'm going nuts over here. The smells of the dishes keeps wafting over into my drawing room, through my kitchen window. I actually spent 10 minutes in my kitchen, savouring the many different smells drifting into my house.
A Half hour back, I smelt Kappa being cooked. Then there was the mashed onion and green chilly chutney. Now there's a distinct smell of 'Pappadum' being fried, overridden by the overpowering smell of my favourite 'Thiyal'.
And all this while I'm watching 'Red Beard' by Kurosawa. Sorry Akira, It's not that you aren't good. It's just that the neighbour's wife's cooking is better.
Suddenly, arranged marriage doesn't seem that bad an idea after all.
Look at the state I'm in.
The lady next door has been cooking Mallu food since 12 o clock and I'm going nuts over here. The smells of the dishes keeps wafting over into my drawing room, through my kitchen window. I actually spent 10 minutes in my kitchen, savouring the many different smells drifting into my house.
A Half hour back, I smelt Kappa being cooked. Then there was the mashed onion and green chilly chutney. Now there's a distinct smell of 'Pappadum' being fried, overridden by the overpowering smell of my favourite 'Thiyal'.
And all this while I'm watching 'Red Beard' by Kurosawa. Sorry Akira, It's not that you aren't good. It's just that the neighbour's wife's cooking is better.
Suddenly, arranged marriage doesn't seem that bad an idea after all.
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