Jhayu's Own

Inside a writer’s bedroom, late at night

2012-01-17T12:44:00.002+05:30

A book on the side table. Novel. Towel drying in the corner. Clothes piled carelessly…

This stinks.

Dust swirls in untraceable patterns on the floor, pushed around by the breeze the fan cuts through the cold air. It has settled on every surface, almost becoming a living breathing entity with a life of its own.

Wow. That was possibly even worse.

The thing that stinks the most about being a writer isn’t the lack of money, or the apparent subconscious necessity to live in appropriate squalor, or the fact that at parties, you’re the one standing off to a side, sipping a beer by yourself, profiling, drawing character maps, gaining inspifuckingration, when you could instead be using your ceaseless wit to impress one of the more geeky looking girls the jocks aren’t going for (ones that you might actually have a chance with), or the fact that the only reason you’re not is a crippling case of l’esprit d’escalier, or even the realisation that ‘English teacher’ is probably your best bet professionally.

It’s not the fact that you’re going to spend entire nights awake, staring at a blank piece of paper or a blinking cursor, waiting for inspiration to creep up on you and slit your throat like an assassin in the dark, or even the fact that half of everything you read will fill you with the insufferable hope that you can do so much better (I mean, come on! A monkey probably could), and the other half will leave you wondering why you didn’t pay more attention in science class and become a doctor or a fucking scumbag lawyer like everyone else in school, all of whom are going to give you that pathetic smile, that sympathetic simper at the reunion, telling you politely that they thought you’d become a senator or something important while secretly laughing at you in their heads and applauding their own life choices.

It’s not even the raging spirals, when you slip over the edge into alcoholism, hoping you’ll write something sad enough to make Nietzsche cry, or when you start popping pills, snorting powder, shooting up, hoping for a trip that shows you something amazing, some universal truth so powerful, nations of people will look up to you for wisdom and guidance, or that low sinking feeling in your gut every time you’re at a rock concert and you see with blinding clarity that these sixteen year-olds are probably better writers now than you will ever be.

And it’s not the cynics, the haters, the spouses who hope telling you gently that it’s not that good will someday snap you out of this stupor and make you get a real job, one that actually puts money on the table. It’s not the publishers, telling you that it’s just not the kind of story that they’re looking for right now, or that some of the themes are too bold and if you could please tone them down a little, maybe they could do something, or that it’s a great story, it really is, but they just can’t seem to find a way to market it that’ll ensure sales that will cover the cost of actually printing it, or even editors who think they know your ideas, your stories, your characters better than you and tell you what to do, what to write, to the point where you have to look really, really hard to recognize even the slightest part of the text as yours.

No. It’s none of that. The thing that stinks the most about being a writer is that someday, you will write something truly magical, truly special, take one look at it, and tell yourself it’s crap.

The Effects of a Modified Insomnia

2012-01-13T07:36:00.005+05:30

I have been plagued, of late, with the affliction of the most irregular sleep patterns I have ever had. Result? I'm up at 7 am, on my porch, cup of chai in hand, watching the colony wake up.

Still, I think I could get used to this.

Trying on faith for size

2011-11-16T21:00:00.000+05:30

Imagine leaping off a cliff, into freezing water five hundred feet below. The water is choppy and the waves break against the cliff wall.

Imagine preparing to jump. Calculating how far you should push yourself off to avoid smashing your skull on rocks beneath the surface.

Imagine tensing your muscles. Your gut screaming at you that you're a fucking retard for doing this. Bending your knees and pushing off.

Imagine the moment, stretching into eternity, when your feet first leave the ground. Simultaneously glorious uncertainty and resignation.

Imagine the water. Getting closer and closer. You can almost feel how cold it is already. Rushing towards you like a hungry lover.

Imagine the moment just before you hit the surface. Where you shut your eyes and hold your breath, bracing for impact.

Imagine that time stops around you. And you're frozen there, right above the surface. Unable to move. Welcome to my life.

When you're blind-sided

2011-10-19T14:38:00.001+05:30

Yes, I'm at work. No, A1, this is not the post you're looking for. This is me trying to screw my head on straight. I need to think a little, and to think, I need to stop thinking for a bit. I don't know if that makes sense. So instead of thinking of something to write about, I'm going to tell you an obscure story that just popped into my head. I don't know where it came from, just that it's here in my head right now.

This dates back a few years, when I was still in college. I was participating in some or the other college festival (I forget which, at this time, and the objective here is not to think too much), and the event was a combination of a treasure hunt, a murder mystery and an elocution. (Muduu, were you with me for this event? My brain has gone all fuzzy.)

Anyway, the point is, you had to go running around for clues; after this, they gave you information about a crime and you had to decide who the killer was; and then in the last round, one of the team members had to present the story as a newsreader talking about a solved crime. Ours was the first team to finish the treasure hunt (I pride my skills with puzzles and running), and we sat down with the story. As we hashed out the details of the story and applied the clues that we found in the treasure hunt, we realised all the facts seemed to point towards one particular person being the killer. But we wanted to be sure that we had the right guy (those of you who know me know how thorough I like to be with some things. Like grammar, for instance). So we went over the details again. Same result, but something didn't quite fit. And you know what happens to me when something doesn't quite fit.

We went over it again and again (did I mention we were the first ones done with the treasure hunt? We had extra time to solve the crime). And that's when we found it. I don't remember the specifics of it, but there was one little detail that didn't sit with the rest of the incriminating information. Most teams discarded it as bad data, but we went to the organisers with it, telling them that the person that the data was incriminating could not possibly have committed the crime. They were a little taken aback, but refused to admit the mistake (from an organiser's point of view, I can still somehow bring myself to understand this), and told us to make what we could of the data we had.

So we did. While everyone else presented how the case has been solved and the guilty person apprehended, our team's newsreader read out the report of how circumstantial evidence was being used to hold an innocent man guilty. The last round was judged by some special guest, who had, of course, been briefed about the case and told that one person was guilty. Needless to say, we didn't win that event (this, I don't understand. After we had broken their facts and proved our case, we should have been the winners if they wanted to maintain the illusion that it wasn't a mistake). But we walked out of there happy. The scorecard didn't show it, but we bested what was possibly a couple of weeks of an LA team's work that day, in less than an hour.

I don't know why I'm posting this, or even why it's in my head. But there, I got it out. Now, back to work. Hmm. Pleasant distraction. And a mildly clearer head. I like.

Every time someone tells me they're proud of me...

2011-09-12T09:00:00.001+05:30

...in my head, I hear, "Wow, I totally thought of you as a loser who wouldn't ever be able to that."

Good to know you think so highly of me, thanks!

Beginnings

2011-09-05T03:11:00.002+05:30

My birthday just ended.

A lot has changed in the past year. I got out of a five year long relationship, spent six months simply not knowing where my life was headed, then got back with The Li'l Lady. Job scene was tense, then looked better, then got questionable again (more on that later).

And just yesterday, I moved. Packed up my stuff and left the house. Just so I can know what it's like to grow up, to run a house by myself. Here's what I'm going to be calling home for the foreseeable future:

(If you don't see a pic there, leave me a comment; I don't yet know how this blogger app works)

This is scaring the shit out of me (not to mention burning a supermassive hole through my pocket), but that's the point. I want to be scared witless. I want to get to a point where I'm terrified and hungry (possibly sick), wondering what the hell I was smoking when I thought I could survive on my own and wanting nothing more to run back home and let Mommy keep house for me.

And then I want to endure. I want to entertain the possibility that I will crumble, fall apart and then I want to rebuild myself.

So hello, Andheri E. Be nice to me, okay? I promise I will bitch less about you. Okay, maybe not. But I will try. And I will do this. No matter what. So, Universe, Murphy, I know you're reading this. Do. Your. Worst.

This post was written after a 4am cleaning session. Also, discovery of a new species: Ninja Ants.

Yes, that's a sealed, airtight bag of sugar.

Resilience

2011-07-14T12:15:00.001+05:30

Yet again, last night, Bombay was tested. Three bombs in meter boxes and a car at Zhaveri Bazaar, Opera House and Kabootar Khana respectively.

Our brilliant news channels dazzled us with their complete inability to see the point, yet again (and frankly, despite all the practice they've had). We didn't want to know when the previous attacks were (we remember, jackasses) or the 'science' behind their dates; at that point, we didn't care if it was a failure in intelligence; and we most certainly didn't care what Israel would have done had this happened there (seriously, Gul Panag, wtf were you thinking?). All that mattered was if everyone you knew was ok, and if they were out, getting them home safe.

And twitter came through beautifully. I have never been so proud of the fact that I'm active on twitter. Almost without exception, everything else was dropped and the prime concern became connecting those who needed help to those who were offering it. And there were SO many of the latter. People willing to let strangers into their homes and offices, offering lifts to anyone who needed them, tracking down people who couldn't be contacted, traffic updates, information on hospitals, lists of the wounded, numbers to contact for blood banks, links to public spreadsheets with numbers for people to contact by area... I must make special mentions of @sidin and @b50 for rallying information, quelling rumours, matching up the #needhelp and #here2help hashtags, providing accurate, up-to-the-minute traffic updates; essentially keeping twitter from turning into a large group of headless chickens. I'm glad that in whatever little way I do, I know these people. All their efforts went together to ensuring many of us got home safe and sound.

And all through today, I've heard one word being tossed around. "Resilience," everyone is saying. Yes, I saw that resilience take the form of ruthless efficiency last night. And I can't help but think: is this what it's like for people in Kashmir? Is that the degree of desensitization we've reached in this city? Yes, despite how we all acted yesterday, I choose to use that word. Because as a city, as a singular unit, we have reached a point where three bombs were detonated in crowded areas and literally within minutes, we were rallied and ready. We're like the broken woman who's reached a place where she knows that at some point, the wife-beating husband is going to come home drunk again and has a first aid kit hidden in the bathroom because she knows there's no way out.

And just like that wife will patch herself up and go straight back to making his dinner, we've gone back to our lives. It's been a day. One day. And we're back at work, sending each other angry emails; back online, watching videos of cats with bowties; talking about gigs and haircuts and Harry Potter.

I want out. I don't fucking want to hear about the unbreakable spirit of my city. Because you're making Bombay out to be that wimpy kid who picks up his bag and quietly walks home after he's blind-sided in an alley by four bullies.

I don't want to be that woman. I don't want to be that kid.

Resume

2011-07-06T22:04:00.002+05:30

So I've been away a while, yes. Lots has happened in the time I've been missing:
1. My team of eight at work dwindled to a team of three.
2. I stuck around, plus I've been slogging my ass off, so I got a promotion (not what I was hoping for, but I still took it)
3. As a consequence, work has become more hectic.
4. Turbulence in relationships (euphemism of the century)

I may be missing a couple of points, but that's irrelevant. In good news, I've just bought a new phone: the spanking Nexus S. Being an Android, there's a truckload of apps on it, and being a child of Google, one for Blogger, too. Hopefully this means more writing on the move.

I sure as hell hope so, anyway.

2011-05-14T01:19:00.001+05:30

The first thing I did when the new computer arrived was to check the keyboard. It wasn’t even plugged in, but I put it on the desk and started typing. I had to get a feel for it. See if it was conducive to writing.

And it is. The keys just melt under my fingertips. I think I type faster than I ever have before. And this makes it MUCH easier to write. Because now I can keep up with my thoughts. I have a thought, and it reaches the screen almost as soon as I think it. All because my hands glide over these keys.

So why the fuck haven’t I been writing?

2011-04-30T02:15:00.002+05:30

Black ink. Black thoughts. Black words. Black tongue. Black, dark, thick, oozing, bubbling, simmering, melting. Tar. Molasses. Sludge.

I am wading.

Hubris

2011-04-24T22:06:00.000+05:30

I was at a colleague’s computer a couple of days back, discussing a website. I needed to reload the page to indicate my point to him, so I looked for the refresh button. To my horror, the browser was IE, so I was struggling a little (hey, I haven’t used IE in four years). So much so, that I actually said out loud, “Where’s the damn refresh button on this thing?”

With the gallant smile of an old lion teaching a young runt how things are done, he brushed my hand off the mouse and clicked refresh. To answer for myself, I tried to say, “I’m not used to IE, it’s a terrible browser.” I never got past the first four words. He cut me off, saying,”Yes, I know. Windows 7. It’s new. That’s okay.”

Drafts

2011-03-27T17:13:00.001+05:30

Nineteen on blogger. Eleven on the phone. Five or six more lost to a bad format of the old phone. Three on the new computer. At least another eight on the older one.

All just sitting there. Waiting for me to remember that they exist. To come back to them. To give them shape, substance.

When am I ever going to finish a damn thing in my life?

I bite my fingernails.

2011-03-16T12:20:00.001+05:30

Down to the quick. This is an important piece of information, because it is the only reason my palms are not bleeding right now. I’ve been clenching my fists way too hard for way too long, trying desperately to hold on to the things I want.

But I’m letting go now. I think it’s time I admit my loss of control to myself. I can’t believe I’m picking a lesson out of a Sandra Bullock movie, but I’m going to control what I can and let everything else be. Let things go and see if they still remain. If they do, well and good. If not, well, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.

Yes, this probably means the neurosis will grow even more. I’ll probably chew on my nails more fervently than before. But this is necessary. Self-preservation. Maintenance of sanity.

One thing’s for sure though. No matter what happens, I’ll see you on the other side of it. Irrespective of where that may be.

There's a reason they call it Chodafone

2011-02-01T14:33:00.000+05:30

I usually rant about this on Twitter, but since I never get the chance to do so when this thought enters my head, I decided to do it here, now, before I forget.

Dear Vodafone GPRS, I've always been curious. What do donkey balls taste like? Seeing how you suck on them so often and all? Do let me know. Kthxbai.

Depression

2011-01-31T09:25:00.000+05:30

It's an odd thing, really. I bought her that chocolate she likes so much, that Rum n' Raisins one. Because I figured, you know, feel-good hormones and all that.

She smiled sadly and said, "Not enough rum."

There, I fixed it.

2011-01-26T20:13:00.004+05:30

Somehow, he managed to park the car straight. He got out, swaying like an axe-worn tree that couldn't quite decide if it was ready to topple yet. Held an arm out and steadied himself against the wall.

Bucket.
Water.
Cloth.

must get rid of. little pink bits. light is busted. fuck it.

He giggled a little. Cried a lot.

Thankfully, he made it to the commode before ritually throwing up, following which, he collapsed into bed with one shoe still on.

Breakfast was silent as usual. He cleared his throat and hid behind a glass of orange juice.

"So, um, Ma. I may have been a little drunk last night."

2011-01-21T16:34:00.004+05:30

My humble contribution to a meme.

2011-01-20T12:34:00.001+05:30

Your childhood will haunt you. Forever.

Even when he's 40 years old, in a perfectly empty bus, a man will shy away from a seat marked 'Ladies'.

Why?

Because he still remembers the taunt, "What, are you a girl or something?"

2011-01-19T20:36:00.002+05:30

Orange clutched the robes of grey. Said, "You won't stop me anymore."

Morning broke.

The worst feeling in the world

2011-01-10T09:58:00.003+05:30

It's only been about a couple of minutes, but it feels like hours. Your lungs are screaming, but your brain isn't listening. It's gone dull. Forgotten what it's supposed to do. It's registering nothing but the dull throb of dirty, black blood trudging through it like sludge. There are dark spots in the corners of your vision. You're panicking, but you don't know why and you don't know what to do about it.

Then suddenly, it's over. Out of the blue, you remember how to breathe. It's a beautiful sensation. It's like the stroke of dawn, when the sun's first ray breaks over the horizon, slowly painting everything it touches. It seeps colour into a monochrome world. Everything changes, shadows disappear. The memory of great, big gulps of air returns to your lungs. And you follow that memory, mimicking it.

Except you're underwater and it's dark.

That feeling you just felt? It's nothing. Nothing.
Compared to the worst feeling in the world.

2011-01-07T01:28:00.001+05:30

This one’s been in my head for almost a month now. I’d roughly converted it into a 1000-odd word story that needed a lot of polishing, but then realised that I was complicating something that, at its heart, was a very simple idea. Hence, here it is, in original form.

Unplug

2011-01-03T02:21:00.001+05:30

Welcome back, folks. I’m here again, except I don’t quite think the guy who came back is the same one who left a week or so ago.

I’ve had a rare chance over the past few days to simply unplug. To walk away from my life, almost in its entirety, and look at it from a distance. It’s a beautiful gift, I tell you, an opportunity like this. Do it every once in a while. Forget the little things that make up your day, forget the mundane worries that fill every spare moment between dusk and dawn. Look at your life, not as a set of tasks that need completing, but as the beautiful, huge image on the jigsaw puzzle it forms.

I almost lost myself this past week. To myself. To anonymity. To solitude. To sadness. Away from almost everything and everywhere that I have to deal with on a daily basis, I was dangerously free. Untethered. Unanchored.

And a four-year-old brought me back. She and her six-year-old sister made me see what I wanted. Everything is so simple now. So clear.

All of you, do this. Just for a while, unplug from your life. Walk away from it. That way, when you turn around, you’ll see the reason to walk back to it shining brightly at you, clearer than ever before.

Blogger's Note

2010-12-24T18:48:00.000+05:30

Clearly, this blog is going through a majorly emo phase. Pliss to be excusing.

Actually, you know what? I take that back. Whatever brings me back to writing, I guess. There may be a short interval as I shall be off in the town of getting laid often (without getting any, if I may add). To that end, this blog will now see you in the new year.

At that point, we shall look back at the dismal 34 posts that this year has seen, and attempt to top that number before the first three months are out.

Wait, don't look now, but I think I just made a plan, there.

Anyhoo. G'morning, folks. See you in the new.

(Points to people who guess the place I'm going to without already knowing. You have won your freedom, yo.)

2010-12-24T18:36:00.003+05:30

Smile at me again, why don't you?
I'm not cut deep enough, yet.

Pyromaniac's Paradox

2010-12-21T16:17:00.002+05:30

In the heart of the flame,
I watch myself burn,
and it makes me smile.
But I know, very soon,
the emptiness inside
will return.

The demon blog-eater was going to snatch this one up. I decided against it. And clearly, I'm back to my bad-poetry self. Whoopee! Does this mark the return of jhayu the blogger? We shall soon see.

Unmasking

2010-12-20T02:27:00.003+05:30

They found him dead in his bed. Natural causes, as far as the doctors could tell. No one knew he wasn’t well.

They grieved for him silently for the most part, once the initial shock wore off. Each in their own way. Slowly, as the news spread, people trickled in. At first, it was just family and close friends, then in large groups, acquaintances, old flames, college classmates. So many people remembered him; a kind word, a helping hand.

The memorial was beautiful. Some were weeping, but only silently. Everyone remembered and tried to respect his well-known wish: Smile at my funeral. Dozens of them spoke, telling of how he touched their lives, selflessly. Made them realise what it was they wanted to do with their lives. How his smile had moved them all so deeply. How he’d always been laughing, always trying to make everyone smile.
Towards the end of the ceremony, just as people were about to leave, his lawyers walked in. Said they needed everyone, just about everyone to stay. Apparently, he’d left a message for them all. A video tape, with the explicit instructions that it be shown to everyone who came.

A large television set was arranged for, and the tape pushed into the VCR. An expectant crowd leaned forwards; some anticipating a reading of his will, wondering what he’d left them; others simply curious to know what he could have known he wanted to say to them even before his death.

Static. Then a hand moving away from the screen as the camera was turned on. And there he was, sitting on a simple chair, smiling calmly like he always had. To many, it seemed at the time as if the dreaded event had never happened, as if he were just somewhere else, talking to them all via video conference or something. And then he started talking.

If you’re seeing this, I’m dead. Heh. I’ve always wanted to say that. I hope you idiots aren’t all dressed in black, weeping around an open coffin draped in flowers. I sure as shit hope to God not.

Now, some of you are expecting me to start reading out which of my ample worldly possessions go to whom, and I’ve got a good feeling I know who you all are, too. Well, tough shit. My lawyers will do that in private, later. But I respect the fact that you’re here, eagerly listening, sitting at the edges of your seats, barely able to conceal your greed behind what is now your rapidly fading glee.

No, that’s not what this tape is for. This tape is so that those of you that have the wrong impression of me get the story straight. I know some of you would have eulogised me, said lovely things about me. Mary, I bet you told everyone the story of how we met. And Paul, how we built that treehouse one summer and I taught you how to hammer a nail in straight. I bet you all said how you really enjoyed all my annoying habits and that as you now realise, much too late, that’s the reason you loved me.

Well, this message is for all of you so that the record’s set straight. I hate myself. I always have. I couldn’t stand my guts and I don’t know how you idiots did. Mary, I cheated on you. Thrice. Once with your sister. I’ve done things that would make you people look back at me and ask yourselves if you ever knew me at all.

And the answer is no. You didn’t. No one did. And that’s why you liked me. And that’s why I hated myself. Because I knew me. And that’s why I’m in that coffin. You cannot imagine the relief I’m feeling as I tell you this. Good bye, and good riddance.

Static.

And silence.

How Messiahs Are Born

2010-12-01T11:52:00.000+05:30

The Dreamcatchers come around everyday.

They're there, at my door, every morning, in their pink and blue suits and large, yellow-rimmed sunglasses. I never understood the sunglasses; it's only about 7:30 in the morning. I think they have microcamera screens on the lenses to help them see the fragments of dreams hanging in the air around us. Did you know pink and blue are relaxing colours in the morning? The State told us. They saw it in our dreams.

Ever since Executive Decision 47065B, our dreams are property of The State. They're collected so that The State knows what the people hope and dream for and can give it to us. That's what all the campaign commercials said. So yeah, they give the people what they really, truly want. And they'd know, right? They have the only copies of our dreams.

They come in your door, bright and early; right after you wake up. I guess they have advanced sensors that tell them when we've gotten out of bed. The Dreamcatcher Wands don't hurt. They wave them through the air around our heads, and the blinking blue lights help us relax while they suck the few remaining shards of dreams out of our peripheral memory. The State tells us that The Wands are like vaccuum cleaners for our brains. Just as safe, too.

Don't tell anyone this, but I don't trust The State. That's why I have this plan, see? I've figured a way to get around The Dreamcatchers. And they'll never find out.

You see, I have a dream diary.

Sshhh!

Storymaker

2010-10-27T04:50:00.001+05:30

He was the first – perhaps the only one – of his kind. Your own personalised storyteller. I know what you’re thinking; anyone can read you a story. Few can even make one up as they go along.

But he was different. He’d spend time with you. Days, weeks, months. Whatever it took to get to know you. To become your best friend. Until then, he’d be a fount of information, effortlessly holding his own in any conversation. Drawing out your likes, your dislikes, your preferences. And then one day, when he was ready, the stories would begin.

Fantastic stories. Stories you could never have imagined, stories you’d never hear, others you’d encounter later in life. Stories about life and love and dragons and oceans, serpents and fairies. Everything your heart desired, everything you needed to hear. New stories, made-up stories, stories as old as the world. Every day, he’d take you through stories, mixing them up so they’d be just right for you. Leaving out the bits you’d hate, adding in things you’d love. Things that drove you wild and set your mind on fire. Some days, he’d tell you only half a story, leaving you aching, begging to know how it ended. And then just when you’re losing your mind, wondering what happens next, he’d finish it for you.

And sometimes, just sometimes, when he felt it really necessary, when he was sure it was something you couldn’t deal with, he’d change the endings to suit you.

I’ve had this post in my head for the longest time. This one’s for you, anna. Someday, I hope you will know how much I looked up to you then, and how much I think of you now.

Khattam-Shud

2010-09-30T14:08:00.002+05:30

And in the depths of the city, beyond an old zone of ruined buildings that looked like broken hearts, there lived... the storyteller Rashid Khalifa. ...he was Rashid the Ocean of Notions... the Shah of Blah.

Then the thing happened. The Unthinkable Thing. Rashid went out on to the stage in front of that vast jungle of a crowd, and Haroun watched from the wings - and the poor storyteller opened his mouth, and the crowd squealed in excitement - and now Rashid Khalifa, standing there with his mouth hanging open, found that it was as empty as his heart.

Salman Rushdie,

Haroun and the Sea of Stories

I've lost my words. Until I find them again.

I'm in the seventh circle if you need me

2010-09-19T12:55:00.001+05:30

"We want you to be independent.

Just tell us where you're going, how you'll travel, who you're meeting and what you're going to be doing.

We'll call an hour later and ask where you are, what you're doing then, what you did, what you ate, if you had any alcohol, when you're coming, how you'll come and how long it'll take for you to travel.

Okay? Good boy."

My Calvin Moment

2010-09-08T11:37:00.001+05:30

The most surprising thing was that she was cold to the touch.

Dark as unpolished onyx, she loomed over me, her features seeming to harden even further as she scrutinized me. I placed her at over 40 cycles, but with her kind, it's hard to tell.

She flitted gracelessly to the counter, rummaging through her supplies. Returning with what she needed, she began buzzing her instructions at me. And when her chitinous flesh came into contact with the skin on my forearm, the most surprising thing was that it was cold.

Sticking in the needle and drawing the blood only took about five seconds. She was good at her job, I'll give her that.

But she was cold.

Silver Linings

2010-08-23T14:49:00.000+05:30

Fifteen minutes after my tweet saying I was having a bad day:

There are no words that adequately describe what I'm feeling for this man right about now.

The Rain God Is A Sadistic Bastard

2010-08-19T21:00:00.001+05:30

Look, buddy.

You want to rain down on me? Go right ahead. You want to fucking drench me, then you bloody well do it. I enjoy that shit.

But if you stop halfway and say, "Thanks, I'm done," one more time, I will break my foot off up in your ass.

Slow Decay

2010-08-15T17:44:00.004+05:30

He stumbled a little. The pain in his foot had been growing.

He sat down on a bench and took off the shoe. The sock was sticky at the big toe. Gingerly, he pulled it off to find a rather large hole at the end of his toe. Later, he remembered thinking how remarkably little blood there was for something of that sort.

He turned his foot around to get a better view. That's when he saw the maggot inside his toe, eating away at his flesh. He woke up screaming.

He could still feel it, inside his toe. Quickly, he pulled up his foot to check. Nothing. Sleep didn't come back to him for a very long time.

He felt it on the bus, going to college. Frantically, he pulled his shoe off to check again. Nothing. 'Get a grip,' he told himself, pulling his windcheater on and stepping into the rain.

Through three classes, he paid rapt attention, willing himself to concentrate on anything else. His friends found it odd that he was so quiet.

In his head, he was screaming.

Why I Don't Go To McDonald's Anymore

2010-08-07T00:07:00.001+05:30

1. A burger that used to cost me 55 bucks (all inclusive) now comes for close to 80 (+ taxes).
2. I like to eat a full meal. Ronald's food leaves me hungry half an hour later. This fact is simply horrific in light of point 1.
3. It has people that wave their heads and mouth the words to 'My Dil Goes Hmmm'.
But far more importantly,
4. It plays songs like 'My Dil Goes Hmmm'.

Of overcoming Fear

2010-08-02T09:22:00.005+05:30

I've been terrified of picking up Pratchett for a while. As with any author that everyone unanimously says is fabulous, I'm terrified that I, quite simply, will not understand the writing.

So understand my trepidation as I pick up Small Gods. And on the very first page, this happens:

Now consider the tortoise and the eagle.

The tortoise is a ground living creature. It is impossible to live nearer the ground without being under it. Its horizons are a few inches away. It has about as good a turn of speed as you need to hunt down a lettuce. It has survived while the rest of evolution flowed past by being, on the whole, no threat to anyone and too much trouble to eat.

And then there is the eagle. A creature of the air and high places, whose horizons go all the way to the edge of the world. Eyesight keen enough to spot the rustle of some small and squeaky creature half a mile away. All power, all control. Lightning death on wings. Talons and claws enough to make a meal of anything smaller than it is and at least take a hurried snack out of anything bigger.

And yet the eagle will sit for hours on the crag and survey the kingdoms of the world until it spots a distant movement and then it will focus, focus, focus on the small shell wobbling among the bushes down there on the desert. And it will leap...

And a minute later the tortoise finds the world dropping away from it. And it sees the world for the first time, no longer one inch from the ground, but five hundred feet from it, and it thinks: what a great friend I have in the eagle.

And then the eagle lets go.

*sigh*
I'm sold, Terry.

Flight

2010-07-14T14:18:00.000+05:30

She looked around herself. At the clouds. The ground so far below. She stretched out an arm. Flexed her fingers and felt the wisps of cloud trailing between them. 'Cold,' she thought. 'And tingly...' She shivered a little. She hadn't realised how cold this would be. Reaching out, she traced the edge of another cloud. Then swooping, pirouetting, drawing lazy circles through the air, she flew. The sensation was unbelievable. The freedom. The beautiful feeling of detachment. She pulled to a stop and swirled on the spot, arms stretched out on either side. A feeling of warmth began to spread through her as she climbed, soaring, above the clouds. If she were someone else, she'd have whooped in delight.

For another moment, she stared longingly out the window. Then head bent, she continued to sketch.

(Found this lying in my drafts since October 2008. It was practically finished.)

Facebook: Helping You Define Your Sense Of Self

2010-07-14T14:12:00.001+05:30

Dear Jhayu,

Your friends have voted on your strengths and weaknesses:

STRENGTHS:
best friend
most trustworthy
person with the best sense of humour

WEAKNESSES:
most absentee
best room-mate

Best room-mate? That’s my weakness? I don't even have a room-mate!

The New Guy

2010-07-10T20:16:00.001+05:30

This new gig isn't so bad.

I mean, what do I have to do? Just sit here? Look interested as these rich motherfuckers walk past once every hour or so?

What time is it? Fuck. Seven clusterfucking hours to go.

Yeah, I'm smiling at you, but I'm not going to put in the effort. Fuck you. And your prissy little car, too. Go fuck the tailpipe, jerk-off. The least the bunch of you twerps could have done was get me more than a little hut at the end of nowhere. The fuck do you expect me to do here, huh? I got two plastic chairs and a fucking phone that doesn't dial out.

What time is it? Aaargh! Five more hours of this shit. I swear I'm going to shoot someone.

Oh, fuck. Look at the legs on her. Walking around like a little slut. She knows exactly what she's doing to me, the little bitch. I see the way she glances at me and whispers to her little friends. No, you little cunt, I have eyes just for you. Yeah, walk away with that ass swaying at me just like that. Fuck yeah.

What time is it? Oh, yes.

Yay! The most exciting part of my fucked up job! There, it's closed. You feel all cozy and snug now? Not afraid anymore? Can you sleep now? Motherfucking pussies.

What time is it? Oh, fuck it.

Why's she out here at this time? Why's she looking at me like that? Why the fuck is she dressed like that? Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She's calling me. She's fucking calling me! With one finger! Oh, I'm going to make you do things with that fucking finger, you tease! Yeah, go behind that wall there. Yeah. Sit on that ledge just like that. I like it out here in the dark. You do too, don't you, bitch? What's that noise? Shut up, bitch. Aaargh! What's that light?

Wha..? What time is it? What's that noise? Fuck.

Yeah, I'm coming. Hold on! Quit fucking honking, will you? There, it's open. No, wait! Stop! Which house, jackass? Oh, you're the secretary? Sorry, sir. Mohan, sir. Yes, sir. 9.30 am, sir.

What time is it?

Fuck.

Fun Week

2010-06-30T09:17:00.001+05:30

Headache, check.

Nose blocked so bad you could barely breathe, keeping you up ALL of last night, check.

Said blocked nose deciding to run like a leaky tap this morning, check.

One snot-soaked handkerchief, check.

Cumulative lack of sleep over the past four days, check.

To-do list descending into the seventh circle of Hell, check.

Boy, it's going to be creamy buckets of awesomeness this week, isn't it?

Times have changed

2010-06-25T11:46:00.001+05:30

Jack was running late, as usual. Throwing on a Batman tee and a pair of ripped jeans, he ran to the bus stand.

Waiting for his bus, he bumped into Andy. Andy wore a simple shirt, trousers and a watery grin. They exchanged pleasantries, deciding when to catch up for drinks with the boys. And as their respective buses arrived, they went their separate ways.

Jack to his office, and Andy to college.

Connoiseur

2010-05-20T10:16:00.001+05:30

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.

Goodbye

2010-05-20T01:03:00.001+05:30

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.

Disconnected.

Workout

2010-05-12T09:18:00.001+05:30

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.

The Devil & The Deep Sea

2010-05-09T01:03:00.001+05:30

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.

Dogs

2010-05-08T03:55:00.002+05:30

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.

Unwindings

2010-04-24T21:47:00.001+05:30

Sometimes, the best way to take the edge off a week is simply to sit back with a book, an old CD you haven’t heard in a while and a well-iced beverage.

'I Hate Mumbai Indians' and other assorted stories

2010-04-22T17:26:00.001+05:30

'Most anyone who knows me over the past three years knows how much I hate the 'Mumbai Indians'. The name itself is a double whammy. First, it murders the name of my city. Then it claims to be a bunch of Indians, casually ignoring the fact that one each of the opening batsmen and bowlers are Sri Lankan. And that logo. *throws up*

Excuse me. Sorry about that. Anyhoo, last night, I was in a bar, meeting The Shrew and The Little Lady. This particular watering hole, popular amongst The People, was playing the match, and most were in attendance on a Wednesday night just for this reason. As the evening wore on and the spirits began to settle well and truly in bloodstreams across the room, the spirits of some of these MI (I can't even stand to write the full name) supporters began to soar, and they to become more more vocal with their support. Every time those blasted MI batsmen managed to get the ball past the boundary line, they'd cheer. This was more than I could bear on a quiet evening out with friends. This. Was. The. Proverbial. Sparta.

In the calm before the storm that was to be the next ball, I yelled, "Come on Jumbo!" Two people, thus far hiding their faces in their beer mugs in corners of the bar, afraid to show their true colours, saw their leader and yelled their support for their new champion. Said bowler ambled up to the crease, swung his arm and let loose. A telepath in the room may have, at this point, passed out from the sheer weight of prayers for a boundary.

The ball sailed through the air, flighted. The batsman misread it and swung wildly, knocking the ball straight up in the sky. Having just issued my challenge, with the surge of adrenaline and testosterone still coursing through my veins, I raised my voice in an emphatic cheer, joined in by my two I'm-too-scared-to-stand-up-for-what-I-truly-believe-in-without-a-strong-leader-type-to-show-me-how supporters. The sphere was now on its descent, gracefully parting the air before it, heading straight for the waiting hands of one of the Non-MI kids on the field. Projecting all the confidence I could safely muster without busting every electrical fuse in that room, I crossed my fingers behind my back.

The boy caught it. As one, my heartless supporters and I turned around, cheering loudly. Inconsequential, in the grand scheme of things, but loud for the three of us, anyway. By the time we were finished, we turned to smile (read: gloat) at the crowd behind us. Only to find them grinning back at us. I faltered. Hesitantly, I turned back to the television. Only to see the umpire framed gloriously on screen, one arm held out beside him. And then they erupted. Jumping in their seats, their yells much louder than ours. Jeering, leering, hooting. Defeated, I turned back to my glass.

And I grinned. I don't care either way. But those people there, when they go home, or meet their friends, they have a story to tell.

Sin

2010-04-15T00:25:00.001+05:30

Rivulets of brown swirled round and round, rushing towards the gaping round black holes waiting hungrily for them.

His chafed, soaked fingers looked like bright pink raisins, shining in the dim light.

But were they clean?

Let's remix a patriotic song. No one cares after that.

2010-03-04T19:30:00.003+05:30

It's been a while since I bitched/ranted (yes, those words imply opposite meanings for me) about an ad or a campaign. So here we are, with possibly the single most often run ad on TV currently: DLF IPL.

The ad is so magnificently bad, I'm not even going to get into the asininity of the carpet running across what I presume is intended to be the four corners of the country. I'm not even going to say anything about the sheer fucking randomness of the carpet travelling all over the country and ending at one stadium where suddenly the team Captains appear with children waving their flags. I will ask just one question.

Why did the carpet lead from the Himalayas to a stadium, and if it did, did those poor kids have to run the entire length of it?

Fine, so that's technically two questions. Whatever.

And while we're talking ads, Have you seen these?

Update (08/03/2010): It's not even a friggin' original idea.

Help this poor lady out, please!

2010-03-02T17:39:00.001+05:30

Today, out of the blue, this wonderful lady by the name of Corine emailed me at my work address. I'm not sure I can help her out. Can you guys?

I hope all is well with you,including your health, job etc ?. My name again is Corine. I am 25 years old single lady,never been married before. I am from Sierra Leone in west Africa. Iam Easy going,down to earth,loving,caring,with a good sense of humor.some of my hobbies includes,long walking,reading,listening to music,gadening and swimming. I am not a trouble person,but peace loving kind of.

Presently,I am residing in the missionary here in Senegal,where I ran to for safety,because of the political civil war in Sudan. I am suffering in pains here in this missionary here and I really need you to help me out.I need your help also to get my Inheritance from the bank if you can. I will explain more about it to you when we get to that. In brief,My late father left me an inheritance in a bank.He deposited some amount of money in the bank and he used my name as the next kin as his only child. I need help from a nice person with a good heart like you to help me get the money out from the bank so i can come out of this situation that i am into right now and start a new and better life.

My late father Dr. F.D Conteh,was A wealthy business man in gold and dimaond in the western Darfur Sudan and in Sierra Leone until his death at the general hospital in free town where he was rushed to after he was shot. During the war,the rebel being loyal to one of the greedy business partner of my late father,attacked our house one early morning and killed my mother in cold blood,Injuired my father seriously and he later died some weeks after in Free town,Sierra leone.Is only me that is alife and so for fear I managed to run away to this country,Senegal where i now live in the missionary quaters as a refugee. I was able to escape through the help of the UN army though they did not know i was in the car until they crossed the border.Rev Arunna Frances,is the one incharge of this place and it is from his office computer that i use to send you this E-mail most times.I only use it when he is less busy and just for some minutes.

Please,i will also like to know more about you.Your kind of person,your likes and dislikes and the things you feel i should know about you. I will send you my photos when i hear from you again.

Do have a nice day until i hear from you and please write soon.

Yours Corine.

If anyone wants to tell Corine about 'their kind of person', please email her at kabbia204@yahoo.com.

2010-02-24T00:56:00.001+05:30

We both knew we wanted a dog. She wanted to call him something silly like Booboo or Appu. I wanted to sound cool and name him a punctuation mark.

We went with Apostrophe.

Service With A Heavily Powdered Smile

2010-02-22T02:16:00.001+05:30

Go on, sir. Be a good vegetarian. Enjoy your wada-sambhar. Yes, that’s right. That’s a fancy-looking piece of bread to go with it. No, sir, it’s a very popular combination.

And you sir? Oh! Non-veg? You’re the rebellious, atheist type, aren’t you? With the tshirt over your shirt and the casually spiked hair. I bet you’ve got either rock or hip-hop music playing on those earphones. Rock, isn’t it? Here you go, sir.

What’s that, sir? The best part of the meal is undoubtedly the sealed packet of butter? Why, thank you, sir! I placed it on that tray myself. Yes sir? Oh, you thought the potatoes were particularly bad? Yes, that’s a special recipe; they’re just boiled, then lightly fried and sprinkled with stale, finely chopped coriander to lend the appearance of having been flavoured with some exotic European/
Continental herbs. Anything else, sir? You’re wondering what the little black things in the omelette were, since it had no discernible taste to speak of? I’m afraid I haven’t the faintest notion, sir. Dog hair, perhaps? Glad to have been of service.

Tea or coffee, sir? Wait, let me guess. You’re young and anglicized. Coffee, I’m sure. Oh, and you’re one of those pretentious types who have it black, with just a dash of sugar, no? Aha! I knew it!

Sir, you really must stop pushing that button so much. We have other passengers to attend to as well. Oh, just one statement and one question and then you’ll leave me alone the rest of the flight? Splendid! That’ll be lovely, sir. Yes? You’d like to thank me for the warm, flavoured water that I told you was coffee? You’re welcome sir! Anytime! Now, that question? Rather quickly, if you don’t mind; there are others waiting. Why does my head resemble a dog? I find that question offensive, sir. Please remain seated, sir. No, you may not have another packet of butter. No, sir, you can’t get out of your seat. Just over an hour to go, sir. Please remain in your seat, sir. Yes, we will land at some point, sir.

Thank you for flying with us!

(Inspired by the wonderful flights to and from Delhi I just had. On a side note, has anyone seen the wonderful instructions in airline lavatories? They’re well placed, since I’ve always thought of airlines as the perfect place to dispose of soiled underwear… Click to make it all big and sexy.)

An Unequal Relationship

2010-02-05T14:50:00.000+05:30

They'd made love like gentle summer winds. Fucked like wild rabbits on the brink of extinction.

She lay back, dreamy, exhausted. He reached over to the dresser and lit a cigarette. Adoringly, she whispered in his ear, "I love you."

Absently, he replied, "Yeah, me too," contemplating the benefits of mushrooms in a cheese omelette.

Does ink die?

2010-01-13T14:07:00.003+05:30

...as it dries on a page, spread out into incoherently scrawled symbols?

Or do those symbols grant it a new life eternal?

Just a thought.

One Word

2010-01-11T03:53:00.001+05:30

He cradled his head in his hands. Breathed slowly, deliberately. His head was pounding. His eyes were close to watering. And every muscle in his body burnt. All he wanted was to find a soft mattress of some kind and pass out on it.

The phone rang.

The headset was already plugged in. He looked at the display. That sappy executive at the associate firm. Again. No doubt asking his stupid, ignorant, inane questions. Again. Refusing to understand logic. Again. Trying to get three weeks’ work done in two days. Again.

He answered.

The customary bout of arguments ensued. He tried keeping his calm. Gritted his teeth and rationally explained why it couldn’t be done in such little time. His calm lasted 30 seconds. As he exploded on the phone for the second time that day, at least three people looked up from their machines, eyebrows cocked. Others quietly, and wisely, chuckled to themselves.

He hung up.

He looked around, daring anyone to say something. A few gazes lingered, then quailing, went back to their work. Rubbing his eyes with the balls of his palms, he rested his head against his desk. More than anything else, he wished for the day to end.

His message tone beeped.

Certain he’d be looking at another mountain of work, he looked down at the screen. A pleasant surprise awaited him. It wasn’t from the account executive. Or biz-dev. Or his boss. Or any of the clients. He opened the message. It contained just one word.

Coffee?

He looked up and across the room at her. Their eyes met and they both smiled. As one, they got up and walked to the pantry.

And just like that, the first post in the new year gets dedicated to Pink. Because even now, she has no idea what that ping did for me.

Quiet, Cold Nights

2009-12-27T03:48:00.001+05:30

That’s when I miss you most.

Words

2009-12-27T03:00:00.001+05:30

They’re here somewhere. It’s almost three in the morning and I can’t sleep because I can feel them. They won’t let me.

They're somewhere underneath. Waiting. Crouching. Ready to pounce. Looking for a way out. Stringing themselves together. Lazily floating through each other, joining, disassembling. I close my eyes and the letters are right there, behind my eyelids. All jumbled up and swimming around me randomly.

I have to let them out. They leave me no choice.

I’m glad they don’t.

Landmark, you disappoint me.

2009-12-24T17:27:00.003+05:30

I visit you often. There is no way you can deny that. I come see you about once a month, on average. Not only do I visit you, I spend time with you. I wander your shelves, lovingly caressing the spines of volume after volume. Picking them out at random, reading the blurbs, even a few pages. I've even 'stolen' three books by reading them entirely in your hallowed halls.

And you know me. Almost every time I've walked into your outlets, I've walked out with at least one heavy bag, filled with books. And you have records of the kind of books I've picked up. You remember them all, don't you? Of course you do. Don't pretend. You even made me one among 'The Fellowship'. The Fellowship, Landmark. Know what that means? It means you promised to value me. To remember things about me. Wish me on my birthday. Send me a little reminder when I'd stayed away too long. To let me know when that book I had my eye on came back into stock. To gently prod me when new titles released in my favourite sections, softly filling the words, "Come see me again..." in my mind.

Then why? Why did you send me this, Landmark?

No, really. What did I do to deserve this? I don't seem to remember buying the Twilight series.

Then why?

I am heartbroken.

For those of you who miss me loads

2009-12-11T11:07:00.001+05:30

So there’s a wedding happening in my house. Going to be busy running around organising and whatnot. Naturally, no big posts coming.

However, I will be microblogging (140 characters and all that) from my phone once in a bit (read: every couple of hours). If you’re interested at all (which I know you will be *heh heh heh*), the action is all on my Twitterpage.

Seeya in a bit!

2009-12-08T23:58:00.001+05:30

For two and a half years, my baby cousin sister, who I adore, has been asking me – no, begging me – to get framed the painting that she stayed up three nights to make and give me as a birthday present.

Today, I lost it a cab in front of VT while taking it to get it framed.

Now Playing: My Life

2009-11-26T23:55:00.003+05:30

This may sound a little repetitive to the two of you who used to read my blog a year or so ago. But then again, seeing how my posts aren’t that memorable, I think it’s safe to proceed.

Doesn’t it just knock the wind out of you when the radio (or your shuffle playlist) pulls up a song, out of the blue, that perfectly describes the state of your mind?

I’m still trying to catch my breath.

Because I don’t have the time

2009-11-10T22:44:00.001+05:30

This was meant to be at least two long beautiful posts, but it won’t be.

Two things on my brain right now, no time to post:

1. I’ve switched jobs. Started two days ago.
2. Dad’s in hospital since two nights. Is better now, thanks for the wishes in advance.

I’ll be back when I can.

Why I Need A Stressbuster. And Fast.

2009-11-05T14:24:00.012+05:30

A good few years back, when I was your quintessential lad o' pairts (see, I'm always striving to improve your linguistic skills and general knowledge), I spent about five hours a day generally running around and playing cricket and climbing trees and being a general menace to society and whatnot. And in that, my youthful exuberance and exploratory aggression had a healthy outlet.

Since the end of college and the time I sold my soul to the Devil (it's so easy doing business with oneself, it's not funny) (read: got a job), I haven't had the time for any of that. And I miss it. The 'menace to society' bit most of all. = )

Anyhoo. The point of all this rambling: It's been almost two years now since I've had a decent outlet for my frustration. The closest thing I had to it was our office LAN parties, and those were more a mental release than anything else (seriously, how much physical frustration can you wear down by yelling at people to stop giving you headshots and then screaming jubilantly as you snipe them the next round and immediately getting fragged by one of their teammates and then setting off to crush them both the next round and buying the most expensive guns only to have yourself killed in like 15 seconds and it's a colossal waste of money, so you start going at them with the deagle just to act all 'oh, look at me, I'm playing with a mofo'ing bad-ass pistol'... oh, sorry).

You get my point, yesno? No? Umm.. too bad.

Again. Anyhoo. Moral of the story. I need to start playing a sport or start being physically violent in some way and work off my frustration. Why, you ask? Well:

As usual, clicking on the image
will make it all big and awesome.

Awesomeness, no?

Yeah, for those who didn't already guess, and especially for those who did, that screen is supposed to show me the time, battery charge, signal, etc., etc.

Yeah. Awesomeness, no?

The WTF Marketing Idea For The Day

2009-10-30T12:23:00.011+05:30

I was randomly trawling the internet like I always do, and stumbled across this
[link to original].

I know. It's in German. The description on the vid reads:
Jung von Matt/Neckar lässt für Eichborn, den Verlag mit der Fliege, 200 mit Bannern bestückte Fliegen auf der Frankfurter Buchmesse starten.

Now, my German is a little rusty (read: non-existent), but I know enough about languages, translation services and advertising to know that this is what happened:

Random-goddamn-pseudo-effin'-intellectual publishing house wants to have a hoity-toity, attention-grabbing launch.
Said goddamn publishing house approaches a smart-alec ad agency known for their 'edgy' ideas.
Among other things said during the briefing, someone accidentally uses the phrase 'We want to get off to a flying start'.
Head-up-their-arse copywriter/planner/ideator latches on to that line, and adopts it as their brief.
Said individual thinks, "Hmm, what would be a really cool way of showing something got off to a flying start?"

Result: This ridiculous excuse for an idea.

What surprises me most is the fact that journos are happily going about snapping pics of the little things flying around. Now I'm not your biggest environmentalist/animal lover/save-the-planet-love-all-its-creatures hippie. But did no one have a problem with this?

I'm going to sign off with the best reaction I've seen yet to this video. Cheers to illustriouschin:

"yeah combining the two most annoying things in the universe, buzzing flies and advertisements. all they need now is to glue a screaming baby and a barking dog to it and they will have the ULTIMATE ANNOYANCE. the only bad part is that it drives people to kill instead of buying their shitty product, not like there is a difference though."

I Don't Know What To Call This

2009-10-28T20:25:00.000+05:30

They walked side by side, slowly. Savouring each step. Bodies accidentally brushing against each other every few steps.

The hour was late, the night quiet. Except those slight murmurings only lovers can hear. They didn't have to say a word. The night said it all for them.

Hello Again!

2009-10-23T18:35:00.003+05:30

I know, I know. I've been gone too long. You have missed me like no one's business. I know. But please. Calm yourselves. Yes, all four of you (I love how this statement puts on that beautiful farce of humility. I know there are more than four of you, but I say this just to look cool and play down the number of readers I have. Though actually, I don't know anymore. Haven't blogged in ages, post frequency was waning before that... Hmmm. Still, pretentious enough, methinks).

So it's been an eventful couple of months. Yeah, I know. If it’s been an eventful couple of months, then how come you haven’t heard about it? Well, quite simply, I just haven't been in the frame of mind to write for the longest time. Also, wasn't in the postlet frame of mind either, where I could rattle off a 15 word post and put it up (and when I was, the bastard Twitter stole the thunder).

Methinks that desire to write may return soon. I can feel it on its way back. Big developments happening too, so when they do, you'll be sure to hear about it.

I intended this to be a nice, long, well-written, crisp piece of prose you'd want to come back to every time you wanted a warm, fuzzy feeling deep down in your gut. But clearly, that's not going to happen, and if it does, that's probably bile, so...

On that wonderfully tasteful note, this is a signoff. Not a goodbye, because I know I'm going to be back soon.

I goddamn better be.

Reactions

2009-08-29T19:40:00.001+05:30

He stared absently at the blur that was the street whizzing by. As the rickshaw slowed to a halt, he wished his mind would, too. No such luck.

A red Maruti 800 pulled up next to him. The child in the passenger’s seat looked at him and smiled.

He couldn’t even return it.

Of Dirty Walls, Sundays and Stained Fingers

2009-08-18T02:24:00.001+05:30

This Sunday gone would have seen another edition of The Lazy Sunday Photoblog making its way to you. Instead, it found me halfway between Mahim and Matunga Road stations, brush, paint and spray cans in hand.

The stretch of wall from Mahim to Dadar (about 4 kms) has been thrown open by the Municipal Corporation to the public to paint. If that wasn’t enough of a shocker, they even brought paints, brushes and whatnot for people to use. Friggin’ awesomeness. I haven’t been in much of a writing mood for a while, so I’m going to let the images do the talking.

Just throwing this in as an intro: The only things I really wanted to do were
a) share one of my major philosophies in life, and
b) introduce the world to one of my bestest friends

I did both. Here’s the life lesson:
(as always, click through for a bigger image. Hansa, this is as close as I can get you to being there)

And here’s my friend:

The whole thing was really one section, as you’ll see in the holistic view below:

Of course, I wasn’t alone in this. Of course not. I possess the artistic abilities of those fabled monkey-owning typewriters. Wait, what? Gah, never mind. You get what I mean.

So let’s just put into the open the fact that without the shady abilities of @wanderblah, I’d have been lost. Of course, without my able supervision, she’d be lost as well, really; it wasn’t like she’d made something without any help from me before…

Umm.. yeah. Whatever.

So I got her to ~~do my slave labour~~ help me out with some bits,

while I ably supervised the whole thing.

And of course, she wasn’t the only one. This here is the whole gang of peeps we managed to round up, starting of course with His Awesomeness who was the first to reach there.

Standing up: Jai (really cool artist dude with an awesome piece of art next to ours) @Spitphyre, @adityab and @wanderblah. Kneeling/sitting: @Ideasmithy and @shawnlewis
And that’s @Spitphyre’s wall behind them.

Here are some more of us awesome peeps, denying each other Crimson Bovines (which we got for free). And believe me, you really want to zoom in on that pic on the left. Also, there’s us generally looking cool while really just sitting around under trees, doing nothing.

(that’s @VagrantSeeker’s bro {you try remembering
his name in just one go} Hmmm. Rhyme.)

@Ideasmithy, @adityab and Jai had their own ideas on what their wall art should be. As you can see, they include alien boobies, weird sexual acts and random violence.

Also, since most of us here knew each other from twitter, things were incomplete without a twitterstream. Hence, our timeline:

And this is me shamelessly plugging myself on twitter.

And of course, the best thing to come out of this? My kickass new dispic. Kudos to @wanderblah for the steady hand, 'cos I tried doing this, and it’s NOT easy.

Why So Serious? Because You Have Really GOT To Be Kidding Me.

2009-08-02T02:58:00.001+05:30

This is the commercial currently playing in India for the new Honda Jazz. This damn post has been in my head for near on three months now. Someone please tell me what the fuck this ad is trying to say.

That this car is so awesome that it will make the transparent cars of geriatric (and closet homosexual) senior executives explode into little bubbles?

That a 9-year old will like this car more than a transparent car made of plastic?

That cute college chicks will leave their bubble-blowing boyfriends for me?

And what the fuck is it with that stupid cactus plant? No, really? What are you trying to say?????

GYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRGGHHH!!!!

If anyone out there understood this ad, please, do let me know. Really. Because it’s killing me to have to see this ad on TV all the time.

Oh, and fucktards, that music you’re playing, it’s not jazz, it’s swing.

Floodgates

2009-07-30T12:13:00.004+05:30

He sat there, staring into space, fingers twitching nervously. It just sat there next to him, saying nothing, doing nothing.

He cradled his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes, trying to erase the images. His hands were shaking now. The visions took over.

Sitting there on the porch, he lit his first ever cigarette.

Simple Things

2009-07-28T11:03:00.002+05:30

It's amazing to see what reactions you get if you just get out of a rickshaw and thank the driver. The simple shock on their faces is worth it.

Yeah, I know I've been away a while. Hopefully, this marks a comeback.

The Lazy Sunday Photoblog – Vol IV

2009-06-29T00:02:00.002+05:30

It’s been a productive work week (Pt.1) People *love* my ideas

Meter matters (Pt.1) Go on. Tell me how much money I need, too.

The Erstwhile Ant Army (post to follow soon) 2030 hours, Thursday. The Recession *is* here.

Childish thoughts, anyone? Encouraging signs at famous eatery

It’s been a productive work week (Pt.2) They always said it was harmful, but DAMN!

Meter matters (Pt.2) Uncaptioned.

As usual, clicking gives the full size image. For those who know where to look, there’s more here than what you see now.

Realizations

2009-06-16T10:40:00.004+05:30

The past couple of weeks have held quite a few startling revelations for me.

Realization One:
As a copywriter, it seems my duties include adjudicating matters of literary dispute. The case in point was an accurate definition of a 'workaholic'. One party held that a workaholic is a person who has an option to leave the office, but chooses instead, to work. The other party was of the opinion that a person who works when there is a need to work, no matter what would be worthy of being called a workaholic.

Now, I take my literary responsibilities very seriously, as any of you who have spoken with me for more than three minutes and/or been corrected more than twice in three sentences will know. This mission was taken on with similar gusto. After a few moments spent deep in thought and carefully weighing the options before me, I realized I agreed with both parties in part. How to proceed now?

Simple. I put together the parts that I liked from each. Ergo, this becomes my definition of a workaholic:

A person who
a) has an option to leave the office, but
b) perceives a need to work, and therefore
c) chooses to stay back

As I was conveying my definition to the two original parties, I realized it was a perfect description of me. Memories of my manager saying, “There’s no designer, let it be. We’ll finish it tomorrow,” and me replying with, “No. This is important. I will do it myself. You leave.” flashed across my brain. The first party saw fit to verbalize the same.

Realization Two:
I am the needless martyr. If the above example wasn’t enough to show how I crucify myself, here’s another little anecdote.

I usually send rough copy to my designer (I’ve mentioned K and his music collection before) to put in a layout, then I refine it at his desk. I did the same thing recently, and when he was done with his layout, I made him move over and edited to my heart’s content, after which he came back to add his final touches. When we were done, it had to be sent out to a couple of people for approval.

K’s typing out the mail. He turns to speak to someone for a second, and I reached over to move his hand from the mouse to attach the file myself. He turns to me with an incredulous stare. This is when I realize what I’m doing.

It seems I love taking on other people’s work and getting screwed for not doing my own. Woo the hoo!

Realization Three:
The past week has been good. I’ve woken up these past two mornings with dreams that would have become posts under ‘Thoughts A-stupor’. I don’t remember them well enough anymore for them to become posts now, but that’s not the point.

I’m dreaming again. = )

The Lazy Sunday Photoblog – Vol III

2009-06-01T01:15:00.002+05:30

A few hours and a couple of weeks late, it’s here nonetheless.

(Click any of the pics to see full size images.)

A View To Offend

2009-05-19T19:41:00.005+05:30

It’s two am. A traffic signal blinks desolately yellow at a now-ignored intersection. The most activity comes from a pack of fighting dogs and three cows. The yeasty crawling of Jack London’s Wolf Larsen is all but at an end.

The jagged road makes a swathing cut through the hutments, the pale yellow lamplight a lame attempt to divide, to cut through a living, breathing mass of the city. The distant road marks a bejeweled, outlined crown.

Surreptitious meetings take place in dark alleyways. Shaken hands, whispered words, short walks together. The sound of the odd vehicle passing by is alien, foreign. It intrudes on the beauty of this silent spectacle.

Cigarette smoke and friendship waft before me, my silent companions in a dark, secluded balcony, reminding me of those I’m with. And those I wish were here.

Inspired by the view from Maniak's balcony.

Utter Randomness meets Utter Nothingness

2009-05-15T22:45:00.006+05:30

I don't really have anything that I want to say. It's just been a while since I blogged. Or for that matter, since I let my fingers free on a keyboard. Let them roam randomly wherever my brain may send them. Without any instructions from me, of course. Total loss of control.

I've wanted to do this from home, but since I got the awesome keyboard at work, the one at home is just so rough and clunky that I don't feel like typing at home. So for those of you who haven't guessed yet, and especially for those of you who have, yeah, I'm at work right now. Not the best time to be at work, yes? 11.30 on a Friday evening. But meh, we do what we will. Besides, I'm not working right now, just chilling with some music.

Sorry about the delay. Oh wait. You didn't notice, did you? That last line was typed 15 minutes ago. I'll remember to mention that next time. Anyway, we just ordered food here at the office. Two plates chicken lolipops. The working non-vegetarian adult's escape to childhood. It just got here. Yummy! Awesome chicken smell!

All our wallets emit moths. = )

Yo's gone running to the ATM to pay for it...

2 minutes 49 seconds later...

Damn, those were good. And after a long time, too. * satisfied sigh *

Ah, well, nothing much more to say right now, so I guess I'll see you when I see you.

Note to self: Fingering the keyboard is awesomeness. I need to do it more often.

Moron Couldn’t Keep His Birdie(s) Hidden

2009-05-10T04:42:00.001+05:30

A man was arrested on Wednesday for attempting to smuggle 14 birds from Vietnam into the US [link]. He was nabbed when an airport inspector with a wayward glance spotted copious amounts of bird poo on his socks (the journalist would like to assure you that he really wishes he were making this up).

It is still unclear how and why said official came to be inspecting the perpetrator’s socks in the first place. Foot fetish has not been ruled out as a possible alternative.

Investigators believe the smuggler, one Sony Dong, was motivated by deep hatred of his own name and a latent inability to keep it in his pants. Not the name, that is.

Animal rights activists across the world have condemned the incident. On the other hand, Human Rights organizations across the board have unanimously stood up in support of Dong, saying a man thus named could not possibly be blamed for his actions. Legal experts close to the incident expect Dong to plead insanity and mental trauma caused by being named after a large reproductory organ , a product that rivals the male (see defn. #9) and a horrifically valueless currency.

In what is being seen as a shocking fallout, indicative of the trauma they went through, none of the birds involved have tweeted about the incident.

2009-05-06T23:19:00.001+05:30

Racing along a lonely highway, two buses, side by side.

He looked out the window and there she was. Searching.
Looking for a familiar face? Seeing her own face in every other.

He smiled when she caught his eye. There, in that moment,
they connected.

His bus slowed and stopped. Hers went on. But those few
seconds were enough.

(Just wanted to let you know, I think of you always)

Reboot

2009-05-03T04:45:00.001+05:30

One old rechargeable battery. A seven-year-old movie ticket. A tie pin with a chimp on it. An old, chipped, marijuana-leaf locket. A pouch with Grandpa’s spectacle lenses, bottle thick and slightly scratched. A pink pocket comb, fading to white. A compass, rusted. A gift pen case.

Stories, all of them. Memories of an age long forgotten. Gingerly, he traced the edge of the tie pin. Picked up the pouch. Felt the weight of the lenses in his palm. Held them up to his face. Looking at the world through his grandfather’s eyes. Reverently, he returned them to their pouch, and his fingers came to rest on the pen case.

Carefully, he lifted it out of the box; for a while, just staring at it. Then slowly, he lifted the lid. Lying in repose on the grooves in the fabric inside, like the sculptures of kings on tombs, dormant, were four pieces of chalk. Only one of them was intact, retaining it’s perfectly cylindrical shape. With trembling fingers, he lifted the other three pieces, one by one, out of the case, setting them on the table. Two rooks, one pawn.

And it all came back to him. The days of sucking up to his teachers in school, just so they’d put him in charge of the class cupboard. Bringing them fresh boxes of chalk from the staff room. Filching them slyly to make rocketships, cars. And a full-blown, self-made chess set.

The days of sitting at the back of the class, scratching away at a piece of chalk with the compass, an old and disused pen cap, and the comb – his greatest discovery in the art of chalk-carving. A tool with ruthless efficiency at making straight-line cuts. The memories all came flooding back.

Absently, without even thinking about it, he picked up the compass and the last piece of chalk, starting the second pawn.

Goodbye For Now

2009-04-13T00:26:00.002+05:30

I am not me.

Jhayu seems to have left the building. I don't know where he is or when he'll get back. This may seem familiar to you, but it isn't to me.

Till I can find him again, adios.

Jhayu's Theory of Hair Length

2009-04-06T20:59:00.004+05:30

Over time, I have noticed a trend in the appreciation I receive for my hair. Here it is now, in an easy-to-understand graphical form.

Blogging is no fun

2009-04-04T14:06:00.002+05:30

= ( yes my friends, I'm afraid it's true. Office has dropped the hot bun. And I have to juggle it till I can hold it without screaming.

Relax, relax. It's not as bad as it sounds. The office has switched me to Ubuntu. I now use the Gnome version of Intrepid Ibex. I was on KDE before, but I had an issue with it on my second day, so I've switched back to Gnome. And I just wanted to say this so I can show you people what I had to go through. Imagine, if you didn't know what I just said, I have to use all that.

My biggest argument is the fact that Windows Live Writer is now a thing of the past. And what a beautiful thing it is, too. So here I am on Linux, desperately looking for a decent blogging tool.

And currently, that search has drawn me to Scribefire, a Firefox extension. It appears to have some promise, but let's see. I still miss WLW.

I know this wasn't a real post, but meh, I've got some posts lined up in my head, so when I get the time, I'll put them up. Work's kinda crazy right now, so let's see when that is.

Thassall.

Does This Mean I'm Rich?

2009-04-01T21:07:00.006+05:30

And just when you thought Facebook couldn't get any more retarded, they pull out this little ace in the hole. You think I could use this to score some chicks?

*insert evil grin here*

Look Out for the Erupting Volcano Before You Leap

2009-03-28T12:54:00.001+05:30

My mobile phone bill was due on the 22nd. And I hadn’t paid it till today. You know why? Because they never sent me the goddamn bill. And until I saw my bill, I wasn’t going to make no damn payment.

I made the damn payment this morning. I hadn’t seen my bill yet. How could I have backed down from my ideals? How could I have let this happen, you ask? Well, simply put, Vodafone are a bunch of persuasive b@$tards. How’d they persuade me, the man with the iron will, you ask? Well, they had to try, that’s for sure. They called me like a gazillion times, but I steadfastly held my stance. And every last one of their telemarketers was stumped by one question I asked: Where’s my bill?

But today they tried a new line of arm-twisting. They deactivated outgoing on my phone. So I went into their office to dole out some ass-whuppin’. They gave me one of those token thingies and asked me to wait my turn. I did. Then some guy calls me forward to his desk. With the confident swagger of one about to stare down yet another tie-sporting, smug, “How may I help you, Mister Jhayu?” schmuck.

I sat down at the desk in front of him, leaning back, preparing myself for the pleasure of seeing another man fall before the salvo I was about to fire off. In that usual, aggravatingly deferential tone, paced for the average Bugatti, he began with, “GoodafternoonsirwelcometoVodafonehowmayIhelpyou?”

Ha ha! Nice try. I was waiting for it, so his attack was wasted. And, I must admit, with not just a little smugness, I replied, “Yeah, I haven’t paid my bill. ‘Cos I never got no damn bill. Two of your people assured me that they’d have a duplicate bill dispatched to me ‘within two days’. The last time that happened was four days ago. They even asked for my email id so they could mail me a soft copy. They haven’t even done that.”

The guy blinked. I waited for a more extreme reaction. It didn’t come. I couldn’t believe it. Nothing more? He simply drew a breath, and casually started off himself. “ThankyouMisterJhayuforsharingthisinformationwithmeI'dbehappytohelpyousortthisp
roblemcouldyoupleasesharewithmeyourmobilenumberandfullnameandmailingaddressa
nddateofbirth?”

It was my turn to blink. Several times. I hate to admit it, but I was kinda blown back by this. Not only did he simply blink away my powerful argument, he fired back with questions of his own! Somewhat meekly now, I answered. He smiled. I think he sensed that the jugular was exposed, because his grin got wider and his fangs stood out even more. With evil glinting sharply in his eyes, he began again. “ThankyouMisterJhayuforsharingthisinformationwithmeifyoucouldpleasewaitforamom
entI’llverifythestatusofthedeliveryofyourbill.”

Only a few mouse clicks later, he grinned and pulled out his ace in the hole: “MisterJhayuI’mafraidIhavetoinformyouthatwehaveconfirmationofthereceiptofyourbill
atthatmailingaddress.” And suddenly, just for this bit, he regained his powers of normal speech. “It was received at your mailing address on 9th March. The contact number provided on the courier slip is XXXXXXXX.” That grin returned to his face. You would probably have seen the blood on his teeth.

But I didn’t. I was too fazed. I had almost stopped listening to him in the middle, but at the mention of the number, my attention sprung back to, well, attention. Familiarity and realization dawned over me.The number he read out was my aunt’s phone number. My aunt who lives upstairs.

Shifting nervously in my seat, I asked him to wait a moment while I confirmed this. Called Dad. Asked him to ask. And sure enough, my aunt had not only received, but also kept my phone bill, without mentioning it to anyone.

Sheepishly, I asked the man where and how much I was to pay and left. But I wasn’t quick enough to avoid his last, ingratiating jibe. “ThankyouMisterJhayuforcomingdowntotheVodafoneofficetoclearupthismatterIhopeI
wasabletobeofassistancedocomeagainhaveaniceday.”

Weakly, I smiled at him and left.

Moral of the story:
Look left, look right, then look left again. Then ensure there isn’t a volcano erupting somewhere halfway around the globe. Then cross the street.

Facebook Needs To Get A Life

2009-03-27T23:30:00.001+05:30

Yeah, ‘cos I’d be such a better friend if I sent a Top Gift. I mean, like, OMG!

Mes Apologies

2009-03-24T20:49:00.001+05:30

Sorry about the disappearance. And for the delay in replying to your comments. Yes, that means I will be replying to all those comments I’ve missed so far.

And expect something by later tonight. = )

2009-03-22T22:52:00.001+05:30

After that whole flurry of posts at the beginning of this month, I don’t feel like blogging now. I don’t feel much like anything, actually, right now.

Oh, and I’ve realized, that I don’t think I want anyone other than the ones who came up with the name to call me Jhayu in person. Online and all, it’s fine, it’s typed, so I’m hearing myself say it. But I don’t think anyone can say it like it was meant to be said, and how my buddies from the colony and school do.
Bummer, yeah.

In other news, I’ve realized that the reason I avoid coming home in time for dinner is because I simply cannot stand the sounds of my family at a meal. As for how I’m going to live the rest of my life, I don’t know.

Don’t really feel like I have much more to say; I’m having second thoughts about where this blog is headed and who’s writing it. There may be some downscaling of stuff that’s happened here recently.

Meh.

2009-03-17T23:50:00.001+05:30

There is a feeling of immense satisfaction washing through me. I just sat and chatted with Dad over a mug of draught beer. Mommy and Bro were there too, but they were having soup.

I paid for dinner. Dad’s birthday. There are waves of satisfaction drowning me (have I said that already?) and I can’t get this stupid grin off my face.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day, people.

My First FB Tag

2009-03-16T00:04:00.003+05:30

This is the first remotely interesting tag I’ve come across on Facebook.

This is the cover of my first album, Love Is To Listen
with my band, Chares of Lindos.

Here’s how it goes:

Go to Wikipedia. Click “Random article” from the left navigation pane, or just follow this link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random
The title of the first random article you get is the name of your band.
Go to Quotations Page and click "Random Quotes" from the left navigation pane, or just follow this link: http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3
The last four or five words of the very last quote on the page is the title of your first album.
Go to Flickr and click on “explore the last seven days”, or just follow this link: http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days
Find a pic that suits your fancy, and that will be your album cover.
Use Photoshop (or MS Paint if you’re not that cool :p) to put it all together.

Here’s what I got:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chares_of_Lindos
The first duty of love is to listen - Paul Tillich (1886 - 1965)
And for my album cover, I got this: http://www.flickr.com/photos/7823190@N03/3354586720/

I’m not going to turn into my own worst nightmare and tag anyone with this. If you think it seems like a fun thing to do, go on ahead. Be nice and tell me about it, too.

The Lazy Sunday Photoblog – Vol II

2009-03-15T19:33:00.001+05:30

                Athos, Porthos & Aramis                                     Rest in peace, big guy

               Coffee and conversation                                                 Why me?

      Will Mom ever let me wear these again?                       Lightspeed Superhighway

                       Holi Whodunnit!                                           Disclaimer gone wrong

(Click on any of the pics to see the original resolution)

I Need To Take A Hint

2009-03-14T01:23:00.001+05:30

Dad: Will you be joining us for dinner?
Me: Depends. What’s for dinner?
Dad: Oh, just some brinjal sabji your Mom has made.
Me: Oh, then I’m definitely not coming home for dinner. I’ll eat and come.
Dad: Are you sure?
Me: Yeah.

I didn’t go home for dinner. Ate some grub somewhere. Dad was already asleep when I did get home.

I just opened the fridge looking for something to munch on. Tonight’s main course was crab.

My Dabba Scares Me

2009-03-12T13:44:00.001+05:30

Determined to not leave me in peace, one of my Tupperware dabbas (Fluorescent Green, in case you were wondering) has decided to give me the fright of my life.

I unfortunately left my dabba at work the day before Holi, with some food in it. Woe is me. I know. It’s going to smell like hell right now. You’re right. It does. But that’s not the scary bit.

Here I am, ~~copying~~ writing, as usual, minding my own business, working, like a good boy. And Pop! goes the dabba. I kid you not, the damn thing just popped open on its own!!!!!! JUST LIKE THAT! No catalyst, no change in air pressure, NOTHING!

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! My dabbas hate me!

Exercising Personal Choice

2009-03-11T14:18:00.001+05:30

Do you smoke?
No, I don’t.

Oh, why not?
It doesn’t really appeal to me.

Oh, but you should smoke! It’s fun!
For you, maybe. Enjoy!

No, no… You MUST smoke! Everyone else does!
That’s great for them, but I’d rather not.

But it feels brilliant! Come on, just try to smoke.
Thanks, but no thanks.

But look at those children there, smoking. Don’t they look happy?
Sure they do. And they’re entitled to that happiness; it’s just something I’d rather not share with them.

Oh, no. You’re smoking, and there are no two ways about it.
No, I’m not… Hey, let go! I don’t want to!

Lovely conversation isn’t it? Go back to the start and replace ‘smoke’ with ‘play holi’. Welcome to my life.

Monkey Found To Be Smarter Than Ex-President

2009-03-10T19:49:00.001+05:30

A scientific study has been released suggesting that a chimpanzee named Santino is smarter than an ex-President of a certain superpower.

In fact, so intelligent is this primate, that he manages to chuck rocks at people, and make them love him for it. The former President of whom we speak has been quoted as being “amazed that one of ’em little people” could pull off such a task. It is believed his representatives are attempting to contact the zoo authorities where Santino currently lives in order to relocate the chimp to his Texas residence.

In response, the ex-President’s successor reportedly said, “I’m no one to stop long-lost brothers from being united.”

Okay, I promise. From now on, I’ll leave it to Over and Hades.

2009-03-10T12:34:00.001+05:30

I am Santa.
I am Satan.
I am a genius.
I am a spectre.
I am all-powerful.
I am the world’s greatest guitar riff.
I am the best pot of black coffee you ever had.
I am a four-thirty am chat window.
I am a lion’s mane.
I am the line.
I am a word.
I am a dog.
I am a God.

The Neo-Marketer is here

2009-03-09T18:47:00.000+05:30

A new kind of marketer has been born. He is ruthless. He sees nothing but his goal and his means to achieve it. Anything else is but a distraction and/or the wind from the rear end of one of them old geezers whose time has come and gone.

No one knows better than the Neo-Marketer how to get a job done. And no one has skills to compare. His a$$licking skills are the stuff of legend.

What follows is the thought process of the Neo-Marketer:

Task Assigned: To sell bottles of blonde hair dye.

Once assigned such a task, the Neo-Marketer forgets all else and falls immediately to fulfilling it. When the inclination strikes.

He begins the process by saying, “I want to sell this blonde hair dye to black haired men.” Once this target is set in his mind, he sets off to find black-haired men. And one of the places he looks for them is a shady street corner where men look for cheap pleasure.

There, his keen eyes espy a black-haired man who's desperately looking for a quick f@#k, and screams at him, "Buy this blonde hair dye!"

Do not argue with the Neo-Marketer. He is right. You are wrong. The man on the street will buy his product.

The Lazy Sunday Photoblog

2009-03-08T22:56:00.000+05:30

(Click on any of the pics to see the original resolution)

A Campaign To Remember – Tata Safari Dicor

2009-03-06T20:09:00.000+05:30

So a couple of nights ago, we decided to en masse to step out of the office and meet Sir B for a drink. We did, except the drink wasn’t what I quite expected.

We met at the Wagh Bakri Tea Lounge in Vile Parle to sit and chat over a couple of cuppas, discussing, as usual, life and work (are they the same?) at P******m, advertising and books. We happened to notice the new Tata Safari Dicor ad on the TV set they had there, and we started talking about their older ads, which I’d loved from the start. Thought I should put them up here.

The Dicor campaign was characterized by its amazingly insightful and rather philosophical copy, artistic, abstract shots, brilliant, brilliant music score, simple voiceover, and a pleasant diversion from the usual My-Car-Is-So-Powerful-It-Will-Leave-Your-Car-Far-Behind-On-The-City-Streets approach.

This is the first ad that I remember seeing for Dicor. I’ve always been anti-corporate, so the opening line hooked me. And the music (soundtrack for the movie Requiem For A Dream) ~~was~~ is simply spectacular. The message embodied was something I believed in. And it had nothing to do with the car itself. I also like the last frame, where ‘Reclaim your life’ flashes and then disappears.

Sorry about the time delay, I couldn’t find a better clip.

This is the second ad – Lines. This was Maniak’s favourite. Again, brilliant music – subtle, yet in that subtlety, powerful - with simple narration in the background. Abstract shots, again. And again, a brilliant closing frame.

This is my favourite ad from the old campaign. The thing I liked most about is was the brilliance of the copy, again, something I associated with completely. And yet again, the music, punching in at the end. I can remember headbanging to those last few seconds sitting at home on the couch. And my dad looking at me like I’ve lost it.

As far as the new ad goes, I liked it, but not as much. They don’t have the punch these ones do, and I loved the narration in the earlier ones.

I leave you with the print campaign. Again, abstract shots, powerful copy. Hope you liked this as much as I did.

I’m trying to ignore the typo in this one for the idea it embodies.

And my favourite...

The Dabba Dilemmas Continue…

2009-03-05T21:04:00.001+05:30

I think I’ve ranted about my dabbas before. And again. But are my troubles to end? Of course not! That would just be totally uncharacteristic of my life (and my blog) wouldn’t it?

Only this time, my troubles don’t involve wannabe cat-burglars. My mother seems to have decided, Enough Is Enough. It is time to Stand Up For What We Believe To Be Good And Right In This World, like a man’s (read her son’s) right to take a dabba to work and be able to bring it back home at the end of the day.

And to ensure that this right is not snatched away from me, she has started giving me dabbas of the following colours:

Bright pink
Fluorescent green
Baby blue
Sunburst yellow

Now who in their right minds would want to filch something so pigmented, right? Exactly what my mother thought. Of course, what I would look like carrying something of this colouration is an altogether different and completely irrelevant matter.

Is woe me yet? I should think not! My mother noted with no little glee, that it was the Lock & Lock dabbas that most often disappeared. So to counter that, it was mutually decided by my mother and my mom to switch to Tupperware.

Mmmmmmmm, mmm. Tupperware. That sacred brand so trusted by Mothers around the world. Beautiful. I’ve had some bad experiences with Tupperware, mostly because of my ignorance of its properties. Like, for instance, carrying (and let’s just get this out of the way; yes, I did this through college) hot coffee in one of them Tupperware glasses (go ahead, guffaw. No, no, I insist. No need for politeness amongst us, now, is there?). Result? Jeans that needed washing often.

Anyhoo, that history notwithstanding, I consented to carrying the deathtraps in my bag (provided, of course, that the food be cooled before sealing). A wise move, perhaps.

Perhaps not. Two days ago, Baby Blue decided to spew out some aloo sabji that I was carrying back home. Great. My bag took on the aromatic semblance of a masala dosa. Woo the hoo! But of course, woe hasn’t become me yet!

Yesterday, Bright Pink decided to stage a revolution, too. This time I was taking home aloo-and-some-unidentifiable-inedible-object in a tomato-ey gravy. Woo the hoo two! Now my bag smells not just like masala dosa, but also like the sambhar they had at college. Yippee.

Hang on. Hang on just a gosh-darned minute. Did I see a trend there?

Food I take home
Aloo

Great. Now I’ll have to find some way to convince people at work to finish my dabba for me every time I have anything that contains a shred of potato.

Meh.