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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I found these while roaming randomly about on the internet like I always do (yes, I’m an internet bum, and so are most of you), and was pleasantly surprised to see how much it applied to my everyday life at work.
The depressing thing is, of these, 1, 2, 5, 6, 9, 11 and 13 are perfectly true for me. Thanks to Maniak for recommending that I put this up.
Mumbai-Pune Volvo buses, quite simply, rock. I mean, for 200 bucks (on average), you get to sit in a comfortable, air-conditioned bus that takes you to your destination, with such brilliant en-route entertainment as Khalnayak and Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jaayenge.
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The state of ‘entertainment reality television’ in India disgusts me. Was forced to watch part of Indian Idol tonight. The contestants were dancing. They weren’t even bothering to pretend to sing! The whole time, I couldn’t help comparing it to this:
Show me one person on any of the many, many Indian singing shows that can match that vocal range and control, particularly that endnote. And man, where has that kind of voice been? Going to have to dig into K’s AOR collection at work on Monday.
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Mom’s chaat for dinner is all fine, it’s just not very good for my ears.
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Turns out Maniak was absolutely right. I look Mexican. Close scrutiny of my face in a mirror in an elevator in Pune has made this clear to me. And Maniak, I’ll save you the trouble: “Of course! I’m always right!” Happy?
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My best friends = my mom. They spent the time between 9.30 pm and 2.00 am (and later, I’m sure) fraternizing copiously and unabashedly with an aged abbot, eating, stargazing, chatting and more. They then spent the time between 8.30 am and 9.30 am saying to me, “Get up. Get up. Get UP! GET UP!!!!!!!” Sound familiar? Then, there ensued an impromptu singing class, followed by toast. If you saw the link two rants up, and the one in the previous line, this was essentially a combo-pack of the two.
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Some things are in a league of their own. Playing Taboo and royally pwn-ing the girls is good. Making dinner and eating it on a terrace is good. Large quantities of the monk is good. Impromptu air hockey played on the marble floor with sofa cushions, two empty water bottles and a yellow smiley stress-buster ball is good. But nothing beats that 20 minute one-on-one conversation on the terrace.
Since we have been on the subject recently, here’s proof that I’ve lost my mind: my latest dream, fresh out of the oven, as they say.
I am an English Professor at an elite post-graduation school. Classes are held in small wooden cottages with gravel paths leading up to and between them. In one such class, I am conducting my lesson. The end of lecture is marked by a gong in the distance, and my class disperses.
I leave the cottage and walk up the gravel path, past another couple of cottages where lectures are being wound up. I recall distinctly as I walk past one of the classes that I particularly dislike the professor conducting that class, for in incompetence and inherent inability to teach. I haven’t the faintest notion who that person was.
Anyway, I move on and pass through the Teachers’ Lounge, which is another, bigger cottage some way off. The next bit is weird. I remember getting into my silver sportscar and driving off for home. I particularly remember this for two reasons. One: I’ve always thought my car would be black, and no other colour. Two: I think somewhere earlier in the dream I had already established that I rode a mountain bike.
Anyway, I drive away in my really fast sportscar, on smooth and beautifully designed roads that don’t exist in Bombay. And at the end of it, I reach a multi-storey building. I don’t actually remember reaching the building, just that I was next in it. And surprisingly, instead of starting at the bottom of the building, I was on the roof, making my way downward.
Now this was one weird building, too, because, for me to get to the floor below, I’d have to go through the room on the floor I was on. And not just through, around, in a sense. Not making sense? I thought so. That’s why I decided to add this helpful visual aid, with the arrows showing my direction of motion.
On the floor below, it got weirder. As I’m descending the stairs to get onto the next floor, I find myself already in a room. It is dark, and to my left there is a bed. There is the shadowy form of someone sleeping on the bed, huddled under heavy blankets. But what struck me as odd was the stuffed toys strewn casually and profusely all over the room and even over the bed. Odder still, the certainty and calm acceptance with which I knew the fact that the figure in the bed was my cousin. Check that. My cousin brother who’s 17 years old.
Nonetheless, I tiptoe through the room, stepping over and around several soft, blue pillows and a veritable menagerie, and begin my descent to the next floor. Again, I was already inside a room. Weird, innit? And it got even weirder.
On this floor, there was a TV set in what is the top right corner of my visual aid. It was switched on to Cartoon Network, and was blaring at a ridiculously loud volume. In the diametrically opposite corner was a music system playing heavy metal. A figure lay on the bed, hands covering ears, as if attempting to block out the cacophony in the room. Instead of blankets, this person was covered by an orange Jai Maa type shawl. A closer look revealed that the person was meditating. And that it was Baba Ramdev.
That’s when I woke up, stifling a scream.
It being a lazy Sunday evening and having nothing much to do, I took an online Psychological Disorders test. Here are the results.
| My Score | Web Avg. | ||
| Paranoid | |||||| | 30% | 49% |
| Schizoid | |||||||||||||| | 58% | 53% |
| Schizotypal | |||||||||||||||||||| | 86% | 53% |
| Antisocial | |||||||||||| | 50% | 47% |
| Borderline | |||||| | 30% | 47% |
| Histrionic | |||||||||||||||||| | 78% | 43% |
| Narcissistic | |||||||||||||||| | 70% | 41% |
| Avoidant | |||||| | 26% | 39% |
| Dependent | |||||||||||||| | 54% | 37% |
| Obsessive-Compulsive | |||||||||| | 38% | 40% |
Paranoid - generally tends to interpret the actions of others as threatening.
Schizoid - generally detached from social relationships, and shows a narrow range of emotional expression in various social settings.
Schizotypal - uncomfortable in close relationships, has thought or perceptual distortions, and peculiarities of behaviour.
Antisocial - shows a pervasive disregard for, and violation of, the rights of others.
Borderline - shows a generalized pattern of instability in interpersonal relationships, self-image, and observable emotions, and significant impulsiveness.
Histrionic - often displays excessive emotionality and attention seeking in various contexts. They tend to overreact to other people, and are often perceived as shallow and self-centred.
Narcissistic - has a grandiose view of themselves, a need for admiration, and a lack of empathy that begins by early adulthood and is present in various situations. These individuals are very demanding in their relationships.
Avoidant - socially inhibited, feels inadequate, and is oversensitive to criticism
Dependent - shows an extreme need to be taken care of that leads to fears of separation, and passive and clinging behaviour.
Obsessive-Compulsive - preoccupied with orderliness, perfectionism, and control at the expense of flexibility, openness, and efficiency.
I’m shocked! Anyone who knows me knows about my OCD! And I avoid everything like the plague! This must mean I really AM going crazy for not knowing these things! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!
On the other hand, they’re spot on about the narcissism and the histrionics.
I have lost count of the number of times I have been asked this question. The idea behind it has always escaped me. Every time I move into a new social setting, unfailingly, someone asks it of me. I hate it, from the very core of my being. What is it supposed to determine?
I never give a straight answer. Mostly, I just ask people to guess; seeing how there are just 28 states in the country, you can only really go wrong 27 times. Unless I’m from a Union Territory, in which case, I can snag you on a technicality. Even then, that’s just 7 more.
But since it is such a popular question, here is the answer.
I come from a father who never shied away from using humour and sarcasm on his children, schooling them both for life and in intelligence. From a man who never brought his work home with him. A man who, whether he knows it or not, taught me to love grammar as I do.
I come from a mother who fiercely protected (and continues to attempt to protect) her children from every evil in the world, and succeeded for the most part of fifteen years. From a woman who poured her love for music into me for as long as I can remember.
I come from a family, from cousins who treated me as most people treat only their friends, as equals in all respects. From endless games of Boggle and Teen Patti played late into the night. From a group of like-minded, yet distinct individuals who subconsciously brought out the best in each other. I come from fifteen different music tastes melded into one.
I come from twelve years of everyday sport, of cricket, football, badminton and table tennis. I come from a childhood spent diving on grass, mud, gravel, shale and asphalt alike. I come from fifteen years spent running barefoot, over whatever the terrain may offer.
Last, and definitely nor the least, I come from surprisingly large groups of surprisingly close friends; at home, in school and through my three colleges. From theosophical discussions and professor bashing in dusty lecture halls.
That is where I come from.
