Thursday, 20 May 2010


Dude, you HAVE to taste the cold coffee today. It’s awesome.

I take a long look at the glass mug with a straw sticking out of it.

Not. A. Chance. The colour is too light for the coffee to be strong. If it’s not strong, chances are it’s not good.

No, no! It’s bitter! Really good. Try it.

I take the mug and sip lightly. Savour the combination of flavours.

You idiot. The bitter taste in your ‘cold coffee’ is the juice that was last served in that mug.

I walk away as he sips the coffee again, disbelievingly.

And behind my back, I hear a groan as he realizes I’m right.



Friday was our last day at the Worli office. Where the average workday consisted of three parts talk, two parts gossip, one part serious work, one part PriyankaBalls (no, don’t ask me to explain) and about five parts elaborate pranks. A place of tropical canteens (see pic).

The wonderful place where an unrecognized, practically faceless team got a room to themselves. A room where we let the rest of the office be damned, and did what we liked. A room that we will sorely miss, seated in a row of cubicles.


On our last day, we sat in that room for over an hour, just talking. Not about work, not about anything in particular. And when it came time to leave, we dawdled. None of us realised how strongly we felt about that room till that minute.

I was looking at my phone as we walked out of the building for the last time. As I reached the gate, I got a wi-fi notification that broke my heart.



Wednesday, 12 May 2010


They planned to work out together. ''If you don't want me to be fat, I'm not going to let you grow a paunch,'' she said to him.

''Kickboxing! Or sparring!'' he said excitedly. ''You can try taking me down.'' She disagreed. Said she didn't want him kicking the tar out her physically as well. Apparently, he did that enough verbally. It took three weeks of convincing. Very persuasive convincing, at that. Finally, as a compromise, she agreed to try it out once.

The kickboxing lasted exactly three minutes. They sparred every morning.

Sunday, 9 May 2010

The Devil & The Deep Sea

Every morning, my parents wage a war. An epic battle with one simple aim. Waking me. They take it in turns. One is effective but lazy, the other persistent as hell.

Mom's modus operandi is simple. Yell 'Get up' / 'Utho' or some other derivative of the same in her loud, scary, kindergarten-teacher voice.

Unfortunately, this appeals to the eternally-eight-year-old in me. Yes, that stubborn, never-do-what-you're-told eight-year-old. And I stay under the sheets, stuff my head under a pillow, only to have her repeat the cycle till I groggily tumble out of bed.

Dad, on the other hand, comes and sits on the bed next to me. Gives me a back massage. While I'm still half asleep, he asks (and I'm sure he's perfectly aware this is the best time to get an answer out of me) what's happening with me.

And somewhere, completely casually, he'll slip in one of those scary questions; the kind that are hard-wired to set off alarm bells ringing in your head. Questions like 'How much money is in your bank account?' And suddenly, my eyes are wide open, my mind completely alert. Somehow, I deflect his question and shoo him away. But I'll be damned if I can go back to sleep after that.

I'm not sure which I prefer.

Saturday, 8 May 2010


It is a terrifying sight to see wild dogs fighting. They scrabble around, pawing furiously, snarling, snapping, scratching. And as you watch, the words 'animal instincts' take on an entirely new meaning.

And yet, there is something perversely beautiful about it.

Something in the way these filth-covered, bloodied, bruised beasts throw themselves at each other. Twisting, writhing. Lunging for the other's throat, looking to rip out the jugular. With every last fiber of their being.

And you could gather a crowd, throw stones, even beat them with sticks. But they will ignore you.

Because the fight isn't over till one of them is dead.