Trying on faith for size

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

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.

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?

There's a reason they call it Chodafone

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.

Khattam-Shud

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

"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."

The Rain God Is A Sadistic Bastard

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.

Why I Don't Go To McDonald's Anymore

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'.

Facebook: Helping You Define Your Sense Of Self

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

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

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?

Connoiseur

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

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.

The Devil & The Deep Sea

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

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

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

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

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

I'm not sure which I prefer.

Dogs

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.

'I Hate Mumbai Indians' and other assorted stories

'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.

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

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!

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.

Service With A Heavily Powdered Smile

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.)

Quiet, Cold Nights

That’s when I miss you most.