Simply Complicated

New Boys

2011-10-23T12:04:00.000+05:30

We were new boys in a new school, he and I.

He was the first to introduce himself. The first to fit in.
It took me a while to figure things out.

He was always first with a joke and a smile.

I was too busy reading paperbacks in class.

He was the first to figure that the knot on the school tie

was perfect camouflage for the quiet rebellion of leaving

undone that suffocating top button.

I caught on, a few days later.

He was the first to adorn the ubiquitous post-school

denim jacket, with patches of bands now forgotten.

I promptly followed suit.

He was the first to figure out the logical intricacies

of ICSE mathematics.

Then, as now, I stuck to the semantical sanity of words.

I don't recall either of us consistently coming first in class,

but he was the first to figure out that what really mattered

was finding something you loved doing, and being good at it.

Took me years to catch on to that one.

He was the first to figure out how to bunk.

And the first to visit the headmaster.

In both cases, I was half a step behind.

Being something of a gentleman, he never told,

but I'm pretty sure he was first to figure out girls.

(As much as any man ever can.)

The day I split my head wide open, the effects of which

are still plain to see, he was first to take me to the doc.

And stuck around till panicking parents arrived.

Thankfully, I never had cause to return the favour.

Years after graduating, and going our separate ways,

he was first to get back in touch.

Something I never thanked him for sufficiently.

He was the first to tell my wife what I was like

as a terrible teen.

The three of us caching up over a good drink,

and old school stories.

After all these years of playing catch up,

I won't say goodbye, Kaushal.

I'll just say see you later.

In the unlikely eventuality...

2011-10-13T19:26:00.000+05:30

... of ever getting around to opening that dingy little bookshop that's been my dream ever since I saddled myself with a desk job, I intend to classify books as follows:

Books you need to buy, borrow or steal, to read.
And books you need to lend, donate or sell (elsewhere) to get rid of.

(Commenting on a post over at city life... is what brought this one on.)

Words

2011-10-04T18:16:00.000+05:30

"The thought of sitting in front of a man behind a desk and telling him that I wanted a job, that I was qualified for a job, was too much for me. Frankly, I was horrified by life, at what a man had to do simply in order to eat, sleep, and keep himself clothed.

So I stayed in bed and drank.

When you drank the world was still out there, but for the moment it didn't have you by the throat."

Factotum, Charles Bukowski

40 years

2011-09-15T16:29:00.000+05:30

A Forensic Colonoscopy Into Post Modern Dialectical Materialism

2011-09-10T09:30:00.000+05:30

Hypothesis: God (a fictional construct) Hates Us All

Corollary: Hank Moody (also a fictional construct) is a God

Observation: Women (thankfully NOT a fictional construct) find

Hank Moody irresistible

Conclusion: It is theoretically possible to woo Natascha Mcelhone with the written word

There's Nothing to Do In Sweden

2011-08-19T11:16:00.000+05:30

So the Swedes fuck. Or kill.

It's a conclusion I've arrived at after much research and painstaking investigation. In other words, I finally read the much-touted "Millenium" series.

What a crock of shit.

The Girl Who Kicks Suspension Of Disbelief In the Nuts. In other words, the female protagonist. Lizzy What'sherface. Not only is she a Big-Willy-Hunting genius, she's also an awesome hacker (with that one, single, solitary programme that let's her rip off hard disk after hard disk). Plus she's the daughter of some sort of ex-Soviet super assassin. Plus she's at the heart of of some hard core state sponsored conspiracy. Plus she has tattoos and piercings. Gasp! Plus she's a billionaire.

The Guy Who Fucks Everything That Moves. A patently irresistible, crusading financial journalist. Fucks his editor. fucks his researcher. Fucks his clients. Fucks lady cops. This guy is the Swedish Human Dildo. (Comes with a free side of Swedish Meatballs.)

The Douche Bag Husband. A guy who is so Euro-cool, all his wife has to do is call him and tell him she's spending the night with The Swedish Human Dildo, and he hies himself off to the nearest singles bar, to pick up a bloke.

The Girl Who Kissed My Hairy Brown Ass. That's what the fourth installment ought to be called. Although thankfully, there won't be one, because apparently the sheer effort of pounding out paragraph after paragraph of unadulterated crap, proved too much for the author, and he has departed this veil of suckers for that big second-hand bookshop in the sky.

In other news, three practically new books will shortly be donated to the neighbourhood library.

Over 30 ways to change your life.

2011-07-21T17:58:00.000+05:30

There Are At Least 50

2011-03-25T23:44:00.000+05:30

At least 50 people, who I would rather see running the world, than the morons in power, today.

For 2 weeks now, these people have proven, day after day, that they are pretty much absolutely selfless.

Here's to the Fukushima 50.

And if one believes everything one reads on wiki, they've been joined in recent days, by another 950 like-minded folks.

That's 1,000 decent people.

Now, how do we go about putting them in charge?

Wonderwall Cover

2011-03-19T00:41:00.000+05:30

Texting. Texting. 1... 2... 3...

2011-03-10T17:20:00.000+05:30

"Surrounded by bikers. Should I tell them it's not about money, but attitude," said a friend's text, over the weekend.

"It's not about money, or attitude, but if you have to tell them what it's all about, then they're not bikers, just guys who own bikes," was my response.

Silence ensued.

Ten minutes later, she texted again: "Don't think I'll tell them that. Might depress them. Too many mid-life crises here, already."

"Wankers," I texted back. And resumed my siesta with no further interruptions.

Sad moppets are probably going to be polishing the chrome furiously, again, this weekend, in the hopes of impressing her.

Don Draper's Guide To Picking Up Women

2011-02-18T18:40:00.002+05:30

Don Draper's guide to picking up women por pedroliveira_69 no Videolog.tv.

U2 - Cedars Of Lebanon

2010-12-15T22:05:00.000+05:30

Bangalore - Mercara - Manipal

2010-12-15T11:55:00.005+05:30

On the way up the hill to Mercara

Random thoughts from the road:

When you're suffieciently saddle-sore, any rum will do.
(And you'll even settle for Pepsi, as a mixer.)

Gotta love that Leatherman.
Somewhere along the road, the fiddly little plastic thing that switches the fuel tap from main to reserve, breaks off. The control nut, however, is very much still in place. Discover this when I run into reserve. Unsheath Leatherman. Unfold pliers. Quick twist of the wrist. Ride up to the next bunk, grinning.

How come people you meet on a road trip, are always so pleasant?
They always have time to stop and give you directions. And ask where you're from, or where you're headed. Maybe all of us in the big city ought to find a little more time for each other.

Why do guys in small cars on the Bangalore-Mysore highway, drive like such jerks?
Guys in Swifts. Guys in Santros. Pretty much any guy in a hatchback. (Except for the old 800.) Very odd. Maybe they feel inadequate. Strangely enough, the Merc-Beemer-Audi brigade are so much better behaved. Maybe they're just better drivers. (Or have better drivers.)

Truckers are a biker's best friend.
Going up or down a hill, or riding along a twisty, narrow country road, and sooner or later you wind up behind a truck that's just trundling along. The guy pretty much always sees you in his rear view, and let's you know when to pass. Or flags you off, when there's oncoming traffic, that you can't see. In case he hasn't noticed you, a short friendly toot on the horn gets the man's attention. And chances are you'll get a wave and a grin, as you pass.

Sooner or later, on any given road trip, you'll come across a guy with a backpack, on a Bullet.
And even if, like me, you can't be arsed to join one of the multitude of motor clubs for Enfield enthusiasts, you wind up exchanging a nod and a wave, anyway.

The Adventures Of Double Om Seven

2010-11-29T11:33:00.003+05:30

Double Om Seven: "Do you expect me to talk?"

Auric Goldfinger: "No, Mr. Swamy. I expect you to preach."

Twatskyism

2010-11-26T21:21:00.011+05:30

"But what is Twatskyism?" you ask.

Well, rather than delve, like some cunning linguist, between the sturdy peasant thighs of a discourse on dialectical materialism, it may perhaps be better to point out some leading twatskyites.

A. Raja, for instance, is a twat.
Kalmadi is a legendary twat.
Yeddyurappa is an eminent twat.

As the recent global meltdown proved, bankers are monumental twats.
The governments who used our taxes to pay them bonuses, are twats.
And we, the people who voted them into office, are the original twats.

You'll find twatskyites all over Pg. 3. (In print, and on TV.)

Barkha Dutt, is a hysterical twat.
Ratan Tata, is a successful twat.
The Ambani boys are spoiled twats.
And Bill Gates is the ultimate twat.

Actually, you can run into a twat, pretty much anywhere in the world.

Obama was a twat, in Copenhagen.
Osama was a twat, in New York.
Paul Bremer, was a twat in Baghdad.

Being a twat, however, is not just the prerogative
of the rich and shameless.

I can be a twat. (Just look at this post.)
You, can be a twat. (You're reading this.)
He, She, and They are, in all likelihood, absolute twats.

(And, if they're all members of the same popular micro-blog,
they probably spend all day just Twatting and Re-Twatting.)

Nor is twatskyism one of those chronological inconveniences
like, say, Nehruvian Socialsm. Indeed, with every turn of the
pages of history you'll find a twat or two wreaking mayhem.

Take Hitler, a notorious twat.
Or Oppenheimer, that lethal twat.
Even Idi Amin was just a hungry twat.

Now, please don't confuse Twatskyism with that noble
school of thought named after a famous victim of the
erstwhile USSR's black ops department.

It has its roots dug deep in the rich, fertile soil of
authentic Anglo-Saxon slang. And has achieved
the pinnacle of evolution right here in India,
as embodied by Arundhati Roy.

Radiohead vs Dave Brubeck - Five Step (mashup by Overdub)

2010-11-11T00:03:00.000+05:30

To The Woman In The Tight Blue Jeans

2010-10-30T12:48:00.003+05:30

On a Sunday evening in early September, three men were waiting patiently for an elevator at Manipal Hospital.

The patient was, of course, the distinguished looking elderly gent with his chin sunk on his chest, in the wheelchair. The tall, thin bloke behind the chair, was the mandatory hospital attendant. And the tall, not-so-thin bloke off to the side, looking somewhat concerned, was the patient's son.

This last was concerned, because just a week ago, the patient had undergone intensive cardiac surgery. And this day's tests, would determine the date of his release.

He was concerned also about whether the patient had retained his sense of humour.

So there things stood.

Three men, waiting patiently for an elevator at Manipal Hospital. One, a little despondent. One, quite concerned. All, somewhat lost in thought.

Until, the unexpected click-clacking of high heels, filled the corridor. And a pair of rather shapely legs, tightly wrapped in original blue denim, crossed the patient's field of vision.

Slowly, his chin came up. His head lifted. And as the legs swayed by, he watched.

And once you had walked on by, happily unaware of this minor miracle, he turned the other way, looked up at his son, raised an eyebrow and gave a firm nod of approval.

"Ready to go home tomorrow then, Dad?" said the son, with a grin.

"Absolutely," said my father. And grinned right back

Heh

2010-03-02T17:50:00.001+05:30

Listen

2010-03-01T23:46:00.002+05:30

Somewhere, Mick's waiting for that well-earned pint of Guinness to settle just perfectly.

Somewhere, Paddy's getting into a brawl just for the hell of it.

Somewhere, McCarthy's about to step into another bar with his name on it.

Somewhere, there's a red-headed, green-eyed, cheekily freckled, fine Irish lass, about to walk out the front door and break a thousand hearts.

Somewhere, there's a craggy old man perched atop a craggy old hill, thinking about the first days of The Troubles.

Somewhere there's one hell of a beef stew being dished out.

Somewhere the story of the potato famine is being learned by yet another generation.

Somewhere a British soldier is thanking God it's all over. for now.

Somewhere, there's a curmudgeonly Indian writer perched at his keyboard, seeking salvation at the bottom of a bottle of Bushmills, thinking of all these other somewheres every time he hears this track.

Apologia

2010-02-26T15:46:00.002+05:30

Note: A full-time friend, and part-time relative-by-marriage (I disown him once in 6 weeks, just to keep in practice) has just officially announced the fact that he is getting married. I responded with one word. "Idiot". And then I thought that might require some clarification. What better place to do it, than in a public forum?

Dear A,

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for all the rude things I'm going to say in the years to come. Rest assured, they will all be directed solely at him.

I'm sorry for all the alcohol I'm going to consume at your wedding. And your reception. And his bachelor bash. And on every other day that I feel the need to slake the thirst.

I'm sorry for all the hangovers I'm going to have in your house, at some distant date in the future. Please understand, the bugger's been getting smashed at my place, whenever he feels like it, for 6 years now. And I've been waiting for the day I can return the compliment.

I'm sorry for the all the ridiculous late-night conversations on graphic novels and music, that you're going to be privy to. I'm sorry for all the ones you've missed out on already.

I'm sorry for the high rate of attrition you're going to face when it comes to having a maid in the house. It's really not my fault. I can only suggest that you hang around long enough for him to write that book about it all, so you can demand half the royalties in alimony.

I'm very, very sorry for Dr. Prakash. But please, don't worry. The good doctor, to drop into post-modern colloquialism for a second, has got your man's back.

I'm sorry for the fact that I'm probably the most dysfunctional of all the relatives you're going to meet. (Assuming he continues to acknowledge my existence, after this little stunt.) On the plus side, you will be amongst a select few, who are allowed access to my eclectic collection of books, music and movies, painstakingly built over the last few decades.

I'm sorry for all the days you've known him, when he couldn't be bothered to grab a shower. And I'm sorry for all the days to come, when he won't be, again.

I'm sorry for the things he does to his socks, and his trousers. I sincerely recommend that you get him to run his own laundry. And please keep lots of white vinegar handy. It is effective when dealing with mysterious odours.

I'm sorry for not using your full name, even though the family jerk just shared it in a bulk e-mail with your photograph, and what I'm sure he fondly imagines to be a cute paragraph describing the state of your impending union.

I haven't taken the liberty, because I don't even know you yet. And the list of things I need to/will need to apologise for, is long enough, already.

Apart from your photograph, all I know about you, is your name. However, I have no qualms in believing that like the rest of us, you're someone he doesn't deserve.

Welcome to the family. And don't mind the funny noises from under the stairs - that's just Uncle Fester being cryptic again.

Everything Sonic featuring Dave Grohl

2010-02-15T14:49:00.001+05:30

On The Origin Of Religion

2010-01-29T15:21:00.011+05:30

By all accounts, our ancestors (including the Neanderthals) were a pretty brainy bunch.

Take the first tribe to descend from the trees, for example. Then, a few aeons later, the genius who rubbed two sticks together long enough to discover fire. And then, of course, there was that whole business with the wheel.

So, pretty sharp, all in all. Sharp enough, certainly, to observe that fittest, survived.

Which caused a bit of a problem, really. After all, what is true today, was true even way back then. There just aren't a lot of fit people around.

Especially not the ones who were more inclined to daubing grade school landscapes on the cave walls. Or the ones who repeatedly made strange markings on clay tablets, while chewing that weird wacky weed. Definitely not the ones who just sat about the watering hole all day, "thinking". And certainly not the ones who showed up every 5 minutes, to ask the twig-twisters if the fire was lit yet.

Arty types, writer types, planning types and servicing types, in other words. (And in a strange twist of DNA, this sloth has been genetically handed down from generation to generation, just like that much maligned Harley brief from the 1980s, that every servicing trainee is shown, but not allowed to emulate, and every copy trainee is shown, but not allowed to ask for.)

You see where this is going, right?

All these pot-bellied types spent their days mooching around the cave, updating their status on CaveBook, and awaiting the arrival of potato chips and reclining arm chairs, while the fit went about doing all the real work.

This state of affairs couldn't last forever. An eviction notice was clearly in the offing. So a bunch of these clowns got together in a corner of the cave, late one night, and tossed the problem around.

The arty types proposed painting everyone the exact same colour as the grimier bits of the cave walls, and pretending to be invisible.

The scribblers wanted to set down a long list of reasons why they should be tolerated, and share that with everyone.

The proto-planners wanted to search for the semiotic truth.

And the chittery, hyper cro-magnon servicing types just flapped their hands and said "Hurry up! Hurry Up! They'll be here soon."

Nothing happened.

For hours.

And then.

More nothing.

Until dawn tip-toed across the sky, high heels in hand, like a lissome college lass sneaking back into her hostel, in the wee hours of Sunday morning, trying desperately not to wake the night watchman. And someone (later, each one claimed ownership of the thought) had the bright idea of finding something to scare the strong, fit types, thereby distracting them from what was really happening.

The what, was simple.

People at large, even the strong, fit types, were generally sensible enough to respect nature's more violent side effects. It didn't matter how many push-ups you could do, or how far you could chuck sharpened flint, an earthquake could still flatten you, a flood could still drown you, a volcanic eruption could still fry you, etc. etc.

Why not use that respect? Why not claim nature was a person? Someone who got seriously pissed off by all the helathy bellowing and leaping about of the strong and fit. Why not also claim that a select few knew the secret to calming nature down? And that they would be happy to do so, upon being provided a few small perquisites like food, clothing, shelter, and a note excusing them from heavy lifting.

So the planners took the literal approach. And made a 500 clay tablet presentation, full of rules. (Mostly, what NOT to do.) Thus came about Judaism.

The art types went for visual appeal. They came up with cherubs. And halos. And a rather picturesque thing they called hell. In short, they begat Christianity.

The writer types, as always, couldn't resist the temptation of long copy, filled with fire and zeal. And, as always, they went completely overboard. Enter Islam.

And servicing, as they do to this date, wanted to please everyone, and so came up with a few million options, which has given us the craziness that is Hinduism.

Predictably, they couldn't make up their minds on which approach was better, so they ran them all. And the rest, as they fondly refer to it, is history.

Books

2010-01-11T14:01:00.008+05:30

I've enjoyed a surprisingly long, uninterrupted stretch of good books over the past few months. These, are some of them:

How Mumbo-Jumbo Conquered The World by Francis Wheen.

Mr. Wheen (read his book, and you'll see why he rates a "Mr." in mine) is smart, sharp, skeptical and a dab hand with words. Making this the sort of book you can shave with. It certainly wakes you up, but not with the soul-jarring crudity of a wet dog's nose nuzzling your exposed foot at the bottom of the bed on a cold morning. No. This is much more subtle, much more disturbing. Like the slow, sphincter-clenching fear that the black guy in Uncle Sam's White House might just be Uncle Tom.

Holidays In Hell by P. J. O'Rourke.

O'Rourke writes about war in a manner that would make Hemingway hang up his guns and run home screaming to Mommy. He gets sarcastic about it. The book is a bit dated, having been published back in late '80s. However, many of the death-filled shit holes he describes so very well, are still basically death-filled shit holes. In some cases, we have a new cast of death dealers (many of them American). In other cases, they've been over-shadowed by newer, gorier death-filled shit holes. Either way, this is the guy you want to visit Baghdad with, today. This is the guy whose bags you'd like to carry while you're trying to get the hell out of Kabul. This guy is to real political journalism what Spider Jerusalem is to Transmetropolitan.

Preacher by Garth Ennis.

You know that little voice inside of you reminds you that you ought to be a little more disturbed by something that's obviously disturbing by normal social standards? Strangle it before you start reading Preacher. Funny. Violent. Sexy. And mostly, all three at the same time. I read the digital version a long time ago, and was only able to convince someone to bring the 75 odd issues and special in print, this last December. And since then, I've re-read them. Twice.

The Gun Seller by Hugh Laurie.

Yes, it's the same Hugh Laurie. The guy from House. The guy who played Bertie Wooster, to Stephen Fry's Jeeves. The guy who ought to be bloody well shot, because it's unfair that anyone can be so damn funny, no matter what the hell they try. I never did figure out whether this was meant to be a funny thriller or a thrilling funner (?) but honestly, I was too busy enjoying myself to give a crap. And I like the fact that there's a bit of a message in there, without any of the sermonising.

McCarthy's Bar by Pete McCarthy.

One of the best travelogues I've read. Look forget everything else. This half-Irish guy starts off with the basic premise that he's bound to have a good time in an Irish bar with his name on it. If that doesn't grab you enough to get you to go out and buy the book - well, your loss. There's alcohol. Drugs. Other people having sex. Some nice insights into Catholicism. And a jaundiced view of tourists and tourist traps, that's surpassed only by Terry Pratchett and his characters Two Flower and Rincewind.

From Hell by Alan Moore.
Alan Moore's take on Jack the Ripper, based loosely on Stephen Knight's proposed solution. And before you say, wait-a-minute-wasn't-there-a-film-starring-Johnny-Depp-that-sucked-sideways, I'd like to point out that the film bore as little resemblance to this graphic novel, as Michael Keaton bore to Batman.

Night Watch and Day Watch by Sergei Lukyanenko.
As mind-bendingly good as the films. And for those who have only seen the films, there are quite a few surprises in store.

Things My Girlfriend And I Have Argued About by Mil Millington.
Funny. But to be very honest, I thought the blog (top of the links' list on your right) was funnier. Still, very definitely worth a read.

The Book, The Film And The T-Shirt by Matt Beaumont.
This is the guy who wrote "e". Funny. Hilarious. And other applicable adjectives. I wish he would start up an agency somewhere, so I could go and apply for a job, and learn how to write.

The Informant by Kurt Eichenwald.
I haven't seen the film yet. Not very sure I want to, because I really enjoyed the book, and I'm pessimistic enough to admit I wouldn't enjoy being disappointed.

Truth be told, there are plenty of other new acquisitions that deserve to be on here, but I'm running out of steam. (And I need to spend a little time trying to magically fit them on shelves that are already chock full.) So in the off-chance that you're dropping by your friendly neighbourhood silverfish breeder anytime soon, pick on (or all) up, and enjoy, with my compliments.

Dear White Fella...

2009-11-12T17:25:00.001+05:30

The Gay Extra-Marital Affairs of Langda Tyagi

2009-10-05T17:39:00.001+05:30

Whoever did this, has a brilliant sense of humour.

What I'll Remember About Jaipur, 20 Years From Now...

2009-10-03T15:33:00.004+05:30

...sitting around and laughing.

Laughing at good jokes. Laughing harder, at the bad ones. Laughing at breakfast, lunch and dinner. Over drinks. After drinks. In the car. In the room. At photographs. At each other. At other people. At the world. At old stories. And new ones.

As a holiday, it was a classic. The rare, old-fashioned kind.

Where what you come home with, is not what you bought. Or what you saw. Or what you photographed. Or just a bag-full of dirty laundry.

What you come home with, is the kind of well-being that only comes from good times spent with your favourite people.

Thank you bro, smritz and chica, for a truly brilliant holiday.

Of Saints And Singers

2009-09-04T12:15:00.002+05:30

If you're one of those pseudo-intellectuals who don't just watch films, but decode them looking for the hidden message/joke/perspective that's being intimately shared between the director, the writer, you, and a few billion other people, don't watch The Boondock Saints.

If, like me, you enjoy the occasional bout of gratuitous violence, cussing and off-colour humour, please do.

If you're not sure, watch the flick up until the cat scene (you'll know what I mean). If you don't find yourself laughing helplessly, turn it off and watch The Boat That Rocked, instead.

Many of us wish we were living in the '60s, for many reasons. This film about a fictitious pirate radio station (although there were actually radio stations that operated just like this) just made that list of reasons a little longer. Plus it has a kick ass soundtrack and some seriously slick editing.

Here Comes Another Bubble v1.1 - The Richter Scales

2009-08-25T16:09:00.001+05:30

Yes, I will blog about it.

Mad Avenue Blues

2009-08-25T16:04:00.001+05:30

Drown

2009-06-05T22:21:00.003+05:30

Just finished Drown, by Junot Diaz.

He writes the way Mondays feel.

There's the feeling on the surface, that all this ass-kicking is happening to someone else. But deep down you know it's happening to you. The way it feels when you wake up with the sickeningly comforting taste of too many cigarettes the night before, that makes your mouth smell the way unwashed scrotum does.

I assume most of the tales Diaz tells in Drown, are autobiographical in nature. (If not, the man's more of a master than I thought.) And if they are, I'm sure the literati constantly patronise him for his achievement at having raised himself from barrio pusher, to professor of teaching creative writing at MIT. (And of course, the Pulitzer.)

But having read this book, what I really admire him for, is having survived, and never once in the entire book making the reader conscious of this accomplishment (unlike the Angela's Ashes of the world, where the pathos of the author's situation, is constantly reinforced by the author himself.)

Courtesy The Onion

2009-06-01T16:12:00.000+05:30

Study: Children Exposed To Pornography May Expect Sex To Be Enjoyable

Green Eyed Monster

2009-05-23T21:02:00.005+05:30

It took me an hour and a half, last week, to read One Life To Ride, by Ajit Harisinghani. It's taking me a hell of a lot longer, to get over it.

Not that the book is about to win the next Booker or Man or whatever, for the author. It's no literary heavyweight. And has no such pretensions. Matter of fact, this travelogue detours, every now and then, into metaphysical bylanes that you can easily skim (or skip) without missing out on too much of the flavour.

No, the reason I can't quite get this book out of my head, is simply that I'm suffering from a good, old fashioned envy.

After all, here I am at 33, my liver at its prime, spending more time writing copy and riding my fucking desk, than in the saddle. And, in stark contrast, is this 50-something gent - Ajit - a practising speech pathologist, who manges to take his Bullet on month long ride from Pune to Ladakh.

In this era of salad freaks and pg. 3 gymnasiums, I admire his acknowledgement of the restorative properties of rum. In these poIitically correct times, I admire his honesty about stopping for a coffin nail every now and the. And naturally, I admire the man's grit - it's not an easy ride for anyone, of any age.

But what I'm envious of, is the fact that he has the wisdom to sort out work/life so he can make the ride in the first place.

I mean he's a medical professional. Someone who actually contributes something worthwhile, to the human race. In comparison, given that all I'm doing with my life is something as pointless and inconsequential as advertising, I should have ridden up to Ladakh and back, 9 times, by now.

Instead, all I ever manage to come up with, are excuses. Feeble ones at that. Shit like: There's a lot of work. I don't have enough money. I don't have enough leave. My colleagues are counting on me. I'm involved with a start-up. There's a recession. We've just got a new client. Blah-di-fucking-blah.

One would think, given all the creative liberties with the truth that I take on behalf of assorted clients on a daily basis, I would at least be more imaginative with my excuses. But until such time as I begin successfully deluding myself, or muster up the cojones to take month off (come hell or high water) and make the ride to Ladakh, I suppose I'll have to console myself by at least emulating the man as far as the rum is concerned.

Observations And Results Of Sustained Exposure To Steven Seagal Movies

2009-05-10T23:09:00.003+05:30

Corrupt Cops: 0
Steven Seagal: 1

Corrupt Politicians: 0
Steven Seagal: 1

Corrupt CIA Types: 0
Steven Seagal: 1

Terrorists: 0
Steven Seagal: 1

The Mafia: 0
Steven Seagal: 1

Gangstas: 0
Steven Seagal: 1

The Posse: 0
Steven Seagal: 1

Assorted Thugs: 0
Steven Seagal: 1

Sadistic Henchmen: 0
Steven Seagal: 1

Criminal Masterminds: 0
Steven Seagal: 1

Conclusion: While it appears that even a low yield nuclear weapon will NOT stop him from kicking ass and taking names, this researcher still maintains that Steven Seagal runs like a PANSY.

Tata to the turtles?

2009-05-08T15:28:00.001+05:30

Backstage with Bob Dylan

2009-05-05T16:56:00.001+05:30

Be Prepared

2009-04-27T15:30:00.002+05:30

The biggest problem with trying to get authorised service personnel to actually arrive at your door step, are the idiots in the call centre masquerading as customer care executives (or whatever the nomenclature is these days). After years of trial and tribulation, I've finally figured out an effective way to deal with these morons, and actually get things done:

Step 1

Call in and log your complaint/request, politely. Make sure to write down the reference number assigned to your call.

Step 2

Irrespective of whether you've been promised problem resolution in 4 hours, 24 hours, or 48 hours, call back precisely 5 minutes (or one beer) later, demanding resolution. Be firm, but polite.

Step 3

Repeat step 2, after 5 more minutes (or another beer) interval. Vary only in going from firm, to authoritative.

Step 4

Repeat. (Cheers!) This time, scream.

Step 5.

Repeat. Chug. Exercise your four, ten and 15 letter vocabulary.

Step 6

60 seconds later, call again. Regress to screaming mode. Demand technician's number. You will receive his boss's number.

Step 7

Call technician's boss. Humbly request his invaluable assistance, while roundly abusing those idiots at the call centre. Say thank you, when he gives you the technician's number.

Step 8

Call technician. Drop his boss's name. Explain your problem patiently, in detail. Fix a time for him to arrive. Take half a day off (account for 2 hours on either side of the appointment) and cool your heels. Grab a beer. Grab six. Put on some Stevie Ray Vaughn (or music of your choice). Ensure you're nice and mellow. When technician arrives, greet him with a smile, a handshake, and mild complaint about customer care call centre jerks.

Step 9

Imitate a good nurse - be polite, attentive, but stay out of his way. Occupying yourself with a beer, is recommended.

Step 10

Bakhsish. Offer technician a beer too.

Step 11 (Optional)

Call and inform spouse (at spouse's office) that work has been done. The thingamajig or whatchamacallit has been fixed/replaced/beaten/threatened/cajoled into performing, again. This may irritate spouse, but you can claim the moral high ground, for having had to deal with all this inconvenience, so you're safe. Grab another beer. Put on some JJ Cale (or music of your choice).

Emotional Atyachar - X rated version

2009-04-16T16:45:00.001+05:30

Calling Mr. Tata

2009-03-20T13:17:00.000+05:30

Who am I supposed to be afraid of?

2009-03-11T18:31:00.003+05:30

Hysterical Hindus?
Mad Mullahs?
Juvenile Jews?
Crazy Christians?

The moral police?
The fashion police?
The traffic police?
The good old police?

The L-e-T?
The LTTE?
The J-e-M?
The MNS?
The VHP?
The BJP?

Osama?
Obama?

Al-Quaida?

Al Gore?

The radical right?

The ludicrous left?

The crappy centre?

People with bombs?
People with guns?
People with halitosis?

Stateless terrorism?
State sponsored terrorism?
Terrorist states?
Terrified states?

Narendra Modi?

If the end goal of terrorism is terror (as seems implicit in the word) then will someone please let me know precisely who I'm supposed to be in terror of?

Because the way things stand now, if someone blows up the building I inhabit, or the plane I'm on, or even the pot I piss in, nobody will ever know who the perpetrators are, and therefore no one will be one iota more terrified than they were before said event. (Except for the Bangalore sales managers of Bacardi and ITC - but then their terror is rooted more in recession, than explosions.)

Terrorism seems to be the only industry thriving despite the recession. There seems to be no lack of bullets, RDX, grenades, or collateral to damage. What terrorists lack, however, are clear cut corporate identities. Logos, that the public can identify and empathise with. Baselines that "just do it", for the man on the street. Signature visuals, that help them optimise media coverage.

Now, being a generous soul, I'm happy to give away this new biz. idea, absolutely free, to all the desperate suits out there in ad land. No thanks required.

Morricone meets Nike

2009-02-17T16:41:00.001+05:30

Tata Steel - We Also Make Turtle Soup.

2009-02-11T12:44:00.010+05:30

We also make steel.

Snappy line, that. Catchy. Memorable. And for those of us old enough to remember the first TATA Steel commercial it was used in, backed by stunning visuals and the subliminal promise of progress. All in all, a line that's carefully constructed to leave you with that warm, fuzzy feeling.

Unless, of course, you're an Olive Ridley sea turtle.

In which case, you're probably down on your flippers, hoping and praying that TATA Steel stay the hell out of (admittedly profitable) associated ventures like building a port in Dhamra, Orissa.

Why?

Because that just happens to be your favourite nesting site. For generations, you've headed there to raise your young. It's quiet. It's peaceful. The sand in the maternity ward, is scrubbed on a daily basis. And it's covered by your HMO.

The perfect place, in other words. Until now.

Now, TATA Steel also find it perfect. Perfect, for a port.

Ok. TATA. Bye Bye.

This is the ecological equivalent of living in low income housing projects that have been slated for "urban renewal".

If you're an Olive Ridley sea turtle, suddenly you have to say bye bye to all the familiar old landmarks. The little pool where you learned to swim, the playground for the kids, that romantic little beach where you first wooed the Mrs. - all gone. And in their place is this massive concrete edifice to progess .

And it's not like it happens overnight. No. The construction takes years. Your favourite sand piles are raided. The waters are choked with cement dust. Petrol and diesel fumes are all that's left to breathe. And all the other chemicals sitck to your shell with a sickening toxic shine.

So if you're an Olive Ridley sea turtle, you're seriously considering going ninja on these TATA Steel guys.

If you're not an Olive Ridley sea turtle, but just your average, ordinary, everyday biped, and don't like the sound of what's happening, click here.

Beer Is Thicker Than Blood.

2009-02-04T00:31:00.003+05:30

A new study shows that our favourite brew is apparently thicker than the sticky red stuff that flows through our veins.

Sociologists can find no other explanation for the recent outburst of 'activism' surrounding the Sri Rama Sene annual pub bash last week.

One befuddled, bespectacled bean-head went so far as to label this a phenomenon, which, as we all know, is merely the official scientific label applied to anything that the men in white lab coats can't wrap their heads around.

A spokesperson for the Amalgamated Sociologist's Symposium had this to say "These are stirring (not shaken) times, for all of us here at A.S.S. For years now, we have been tracking instances of violent Hindu fundamentalism orchestrated by the minions of the VHP. But apart from a few khadi wearing, jhola toting, unshaven, leftist liberals, nobody gave a shit."

When asked how exactly this inverse correlation between the viscosity of lager and lahu was determined, he said "Just a few short years ago, we thought the blood on the streets of Gujarat would be the tipping point. We anticipated a huge groundswell of righteous anger and furious protest against the saffron brigade. Instead, our leading corporate criminals congratulated their brother from a political mother on being a great administrator."

"But just a few suds have fallen on the parched earth of Mangalore, and look at the reaction. Tipplers of every description have raised their glasses in unison. The hard working, hard drinking, urban crowd have staggered to their feet in inebriated indignation. Except for the poor women who were actually attacked, of course. They seem to have disappeared from the face of the party scene."

"What else can it all mean, except that beer is thicker than water."

When asked for a comment on the spreading wave of dipsomaniacal dissent in the desh following this dastardly deed, the chairperson of the NCW said nothing of any consequence.

In the meantime, beer guzzlers and pub hoppers across the nation have taken to their bar stools in protest. A rally organised on Sunday had to be cancelled, as the principles had all made it a point to attend the pre-rally bash the night before, and were still recovering.

The question of why people have waited until this fundamentalist insanity has reached their doorsteps (or at least their local watering holes) before raising their voices in protest, remains to be answered to anyone's satisfaction.

Amen.

2009-01-14T23:43:00.008+05:30

Shameless plug.

2009-01-08T15:26:00.003+05:30

Two fantastic blogs I've found quite recently. Funny. Addictive. And much, much better than this tripe.

They're both Australian. Which really doesn't mean anything much, unless you're a conspiracy theory nut, in which case I'll see you at the meeting, next Wednesday.

Now stop wasting your fucking time here, and go read 27bslash6 and cricket with balls.

Israel to deploy Barbara Streisand.

2009-01-07T17:00:00.007+05:30

In a stunning development, a spokesperson announced today that the use of Barbara Streisand in the ongoing Gaza pogrom, has been unanimously approved by the Isreali Legislature -
the Knesset (pronounced ness~phlegm~et).

When asked, by a naive, young reporter, whether this was not in fact a blatant contravention of the Geneva conventions, the international moratorium on biological weapons, and basic human decency, the spokesperson blithely replied "You'll never work in dis bidness again", before going on to pay more attention to the corporate mouthpieces we all know and love.

The spokesperson went on to explain that Israel has taken this extreme step because, "We are simply not inflicting enough collateral damage. Our troops are people too, you know. Even real mensch, need to sleep. So, we have decided to unleash Barbara."

In an emphatic demonstration of the modern face of war, Israel plans to surround the disputed area with high fidelity audio equipment, all hooked up over the internet to Barbara's 14,000 sq.ft. home studio, in the US of A. "What? You expected us to ask Barbara to shlep her mic all the way here? What are we? Animals?" was the response to an innocent question by a veteran journo who really should have known better.

"In the interests of humanity, we will be using ammunition only from The Way We Were and The Broadway Album. After all, we don't really want a holocaust here. Who's going to clean up all the bodies? But if they don't give up what's rightfully theirs, we'll have to turn up the heat. We'll put up big screens, and force them to watch Yentl night and day, till they relent."

To nobody's surprise, George W. Bush has applauded the move, and plans to attend the concert, err... the slaughter, with Barbara, Bush Sr. and the rest of the clan, to show his unflinching support.

When asked for a comment, Condoleeza White said "Look man. This honky only gonna be in here fo 13 mo days. Y'dig? Don't sweat it. Ain't no thang but a chiken wing, yo. Den we finally get some colour upin dis here White House. Obama gonna come set all dem uppity money-lending mo-fo's straight. Y'dig. Peace out brother."

It is understood that Ms White has recently been seen buying multiple copies of Roots, although highly placed sources say authoritatively that she "Doesn't have a chance in hell!" of keeping her cushy job under the new administration, because "dat bitch ain't nothin' but an Oreo".

While Ms Streisand could not be reached for comment on her role in the upcoming onslaught, highly placed members of the Tel Aviv Genocidal Wives and Mothers Association were observed buying copious quantities of Bose noise cancelling headsets and packing them in large wooden crates addressed to Our Brave Lads At The Front.

Before departing hurriedly for an anechoic chamber deep in the desert, the Knesset spokesperson said "We have already Fed Ex-ed a custom tailored regular army uniform to Barbara's bunker err... studio, because we don't want to be perceived as sponsors of stateless terror. Sieg l'chaim! Sieg l'chaim!"

Awe

2008-11-24T17:52:00.005+05:30

Most copywriters fancy themselves as wordsmiths. Many, intend to write a book.

I stopped thinking I could quite some time ago. I have neither the focus, nor the skill needed to write anything of length, leave alone quality.

So, having shed delusions of literary grandeur, I stuck to writing copy and the occasional blog rant. And while I wasn't shaking the foundations of the world of advertising, I did feel I was doing an adequate job. In short, I felt justified in telling boring people - the kind who ask inane questions, at inconsequential gatherings - that I was a writer.

Then I read The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak.

I'm now very wary of claiming to be a writer. I'm going to start telling people I clunk words on the head with a sledgehammer, for a living. And then, when they're dead, I jump up and down on them a few times. I drag them, and toss them over a high cliff, into shark infested waters. And when the remanants float soggily up onto the shore, I wrap a piece of paper around them, and throw them to the nearest art director.

This is easily the best book I've read in recent times. No needless, pseudo-intellectual polysyllables. (Like "pseudo-intellectual" and "polysyllabic".) No twisted character flaws in the protagonists. No incest. None of that Arundhati Roy type whiney self pity. No cheap tricks. Or thrills.

Just a hell of a story. One hell of a story. And some amazing people. (They go beyond being mere characters.) Amazingly crafted, by someone who knows how to tell a great tale.

Summertime

2008-11-12T00:30:00.007+05:30

In every boy's life, there is 'The Summer'. (Or if there isn't, there certainly ought to be.) Not just any summer. The Summer.

For some, it was The Summer of the Cycle. When you spent weeks perfecting the art of racing downhill without holding on to the handlebar. When every scraped knee was a badge of honour. Every grazed elbow, the price of admission. And the boy with the plaster cast, the most envied lad of the lot.

For others, The Summer by the Pool. When you learnt to swim. When you held competitions to see who could cling longest to the bottom of the ladder in the deep end. (And when a water proof watch was THE accessory.)

Some enjoyed The Summer of Basketball. When 8 hours a day of running, shooting and jumping under the blazing sun, burned away the awkwardness of adolescence. And your parents winced at the thought of you growing out of shoes and clothes for the fourth time in the year.

For many, it was The Summer of The Internal Combustion Engine. When you learned to ride your first motorcycle. Or got behind the wheel of the first car. For some strange reason, this generally also wound up being The Summer of The First Beer.

For many more, The Summer involves The Girl. And no more need be said about this.

The luckiest, of course, had more than just one such summer. But whether you had one, or more, they all had great similarities. An endless succession of bright, cheerfully hot days. Blue skies and wisps of white clouds, straight out of fiction. Fresh, clean air (well, relative to today, at least). Warm nights filled with chirping bugs and the hypnotic drone of a pessimistic ceiling fan. An incredible feeling of health and well-being. And an unspoken, but firm belief in one's immortality.

I count myself fortunate, in that I got to spend the college years working outdoors. Four years, with four spectacular summers spent working with my hands, and building up an honest sweat in the fresh air. Lying on the freshly cropped grass in the evenings, to take a breather, and then strolling back home for a light dinner and the solitary brew, before falling into a deep, deep sleep.

And it's this, that I hate most about working in an office. Even an airy, window-happy one with a garden and ducks, like ours. There's something about an office, that kills the summer. I suppose it has everything to do with riding a desk, instead spending all day riding a cycle, no hands.

Mr. Banker

2008-10-31T13:03:00.001+05:30

A Few Good Creative Men

2008-10-07T16:37:00.002+05:30

LMFAO.

Kleenex at the movies.

2008-09-29T15:54:00.006+05:30

Sniffle. Sniffle.

Shiver. Shiver.

Novaclox LB.

Water.

Allerid D.

Water.

Sniffle. Sniffle.

Shiver. Shiver.

Let it ride.

Chuckle. Chuckle.

Moon over Parador.

Guffaw. Guffaw.

Novaclox LB.

Water.

Sniffle.

Shiver.

A Wednesday.

Wish I'd written that.

Mumbai Meri Jaan.

Wish I'd written that.

Sniffle.

Shiver.

Hellboy II: The Golden Army.

What crap What utter cra... Zzz... Zzz.

Novaclox LB.

Water.

Allerid D.

Water.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead.

Brilliant. Just brilliant.
No way I could ever have written that.

Snif...

Oh-shit-I've-got-to-go-to-work-tomorrow!

Zzz.

(Perhaps the only good thing about being under the weather over the weekend, apart from giving the old liver a break, is the amount of quality cinema you can justifiably spend all day on the couch watching, without middle-class morality raising its ugly little productive head.)

One good. One bad.

2008-08-13T14:26:00.003+05:30

Let's start with the bad first.

Sea of Poppies, by Amitav Ghosh.

This man does not like trees. There's no other explanation for such a waste of paper.

Okay. So I was sold on the hype. To be honest, it's a truly interesting setting for a novel. Set in a time when whitey was cheerfully lining his pockets with the proceeds of the opium trade, and sowing the seeds for generations of conflict, addiction and general mayhem, in that inimitably British fashion.

Then, I read the book. (Having coughed up hard earned cash for the hard cover, mind you.)

Despite having no fondness for those who are pigmentally challenged, I have to wonder why pretty much all the Brits in this book were either sexual deviants or ethically challenged, or both. If the intent wa to create a caricature of the Brit of the Raj, it's come off rather badly. Sort of like a child maliciously imitating a dis-liked older relative.

Then we have the Indian (not to forget one mulatto lad and one french lass) characters. They are multi-dimensional, to some extent, but they too seem rather obsessed with throbbing members and heaving cleavage.

The occasional digressions do pop up - indentured labour, womens' lib, annexation, botany, the lot of the agrarian class, and even the odd references to opium. By and large, however, the story revolves a lot more around bonking than doping. Which is not a crime in itself, but it does make one feel the book would have been better titled Cream of Poppies.

The scary part is, it's just the beginning of a trilogy. Someone tell this man how fast the Amazon forest cover is depleting. Please.

Which brings us, to the good.

A case of exploding mangoes, by Mohd. Hanif.

Well written. Well structured. Well crafted. Okay. Fuck all that Siskel-Ebert crap. It was fucking brilliant. Haven't enjoyed a book from this part of the world, this much, in ages.

Funny where it has to be. Bizarre where it needs to be. Beautiful premise. Incredible characters. In short, a great entertainer. It doesn't promise to open your eyes, or change your life, or any such highbrow crap. And it bloody well doesn't pretend to try and do it either.

Fast paced, reasonably tight, and manages to keep you guessing pretty well. And worth every penny.

If you're at the airport, and stuck for a choice between one of these, well, you're not, actually. Buy A case of exploding mangoes, with my very best wishes. Enjoy it. And if that jerk Amitav Ghosh is ahead of you in the security check queue, stick an aluminium foil cutout of a hand gun in his carry-on baggage.

Nailed

2008-05-27T17:19:00.008+05:30

There is no reason on earth to suppose that people in advertising are a fit, healthy lot. Especially those of us who, inspired by the wild, swinging tales of the ad men of the '80s, joined the industry ourselves. Too many of us smoke. And drink. And whole lot more indulge in substance abuse of some other kind.

So it begs disbelief when the Advertising Association of Bangalore holds a five-a-side football tournament. And it's especially silly to shamble on to the field with a couple of other ageing jocks (with the stress on age). Especially when you realise the other team are a bunch of 20 something blokes who look like they'd enjoy running rings around you all day, before buzzing off to drink all night.

But it all gets downright embarassing, when you make what you fondly imagine to be a swift, graceful, elegant tackle, only to realise you've lost more than half a step in the intervening decade, and wind up striking the underside of a well worn pair of football boots, rather than the ball.

As the very essence of your being suddenly concentrates itself upon the nail of your right big toe, as every nerve ending heads shrieking, for the self same spot, as the pain rips up from the shredded nail, past the metacarpals, up your leg, through your gut, past your heart, and straight to your brain, you realise one thing.

You really couldn't give a fuck if the ball went into the goal, or not.

And with the sweat pouring into your eyes, you can't see to make out anyway. And even if you could see, you'd rather be combing the field for your left lung, which you think you hacked up somewhere near the half. And even if you've convinced yourself that you're a going concern on one lung, your calf muscles have formed a union and called a strike, claiming flagrant abuse by management.

So no. At this stage, sweat pouring off, sucking in deep draughts of air, hopping on one foot and gasping out your four-lettered vocabulary, you don't give a good god damn about the ball.

About all you do, is turn to the ref, and in a croaking, wheezing, half-plea, half-query, say "Time?".

A few hours, a second match, and many pain-numbing beers later, you limp home, promising yourself never to indulge in such childish hi-jinks again.

Your wife, with the patience borne of 4 years of salvaging the wreck of the Hesperus, greets you with a gentle smile. To save you the time and trouble, she quickly confirms that you have no intention of visiting a qualified physician of any denomination. She silently, but effectively, delivers a hint by placing your towel within easy reach.

And as you gently disentangle your sock from the remains of your toe-nail, she dutifully ignores your unsuccessfully stifled gasps, and considerately turns away to hide her wry grin.

Perhaps next year, the Ad Club will hold a chess tournament. Or bowling. Or a Halo 3 shootout. Perhaps. But somehow, I don't think so. I think the wives enjoy football too much.

Salvation Is Nigh

2008-05-21T01:03:00.002+05:30

Given that we, as a nation, are currently devoting more money, attention and political weightage to the IPL, than to the agrarian crisis, I'm left with just one thing to say.

Let's put Lalit Modi in charge of things on that side of the urban divide as well.

So he does his thing, and starts up a league. (And he's certainly experienced enough to handle it.)

Then the farmers get auctioned off. (And they're certainly more experienced at being bought and sold like so much chaff, than those poor firang cricketers.)

And then we bring bollywood into the picture. Aamir Khan gets a team. (But thanks to Lagaan he gets icon status.) And the Big B. And the Little Big B. And all the other Bs. And Cs. And SOBs.

Lalit bhai can con the sponsors. And sell the TV rights. The filmi types can flaunt it. We can import the Nebraska Corn Huskers to come and cheer things up. And maybe some of the famed Irish Potato Skin Dancers. Nautrally, qualified referees will be provided by the UN and other interested parties. The big agencies can figue out how to pimp it all to the public. (But with celebrities and big ole corn pones shaking their husks, it shouldn't take much.)

And if people get tired of trying to keep track of who's out-harvested who, we can always bring Harbhajan in for some light entertainment.

Of course, there will be those who say "it just isn't cricket, old chap". The die hard fans, who'll swear there's nothing like a good, old fashioned 5 year drought. And the captains of capital, who'll swear that it's no substitute for the old debt-and-death days. But who cares about them anyway? They're just crying after sour GM crops.

So there you have it. The mounting food crisis. The sky-rocketing acriculturalist suicide rate. That pesky inflation thing that just won't go away. All sorted out, in one fell swoop.

What?

Trust me.

Saving Jaguars, Killing Turtles.

2008-04-02T15:35:00.013+05:30

A few days ago, to the accompaniment of jingoistic headlines courtesy The Crimes of India (and other rags), Ratan Tata broke open his piggy bank and acquired Jaguar (and Land Rover).

The flag wavers, waved flags.
The chest thumpers, thumped chests.
The rich, got richer.
The poor, rather inconsiderately, stayed poor.

TELCO saving Jaguar, however, overshadowed other TATA group activity in the animal kingdom - the construction of the TATA Steel port in Dhamra, Orissa.

To put the whole thing in a nutshell, Dhamra is an ecological soft spot, on this battered old planet we infest with such blissful ignorance. Among other things, it is cheek by jowl with the world's largest mass nesting site of Olive Ridley sea turtles. Massive construction (the only sort that comes to mind when one is talking about ports) would wreak the sort of havoc in the turtle world, that George W has wrought in ours. Collateral damage would include King Crabs, Crab-eating Frogs, and others. To know more, from people who know more, read this.

So what's my point here?

Quite simple, really.
The Jaguar, is not native to India.
The Olive Ridley sea turtle, is.
Perhaps it's time to remind Mr. Tata of the fact.
To write to Ratan Tata, just click here.

Holy Handjobs, Batman

2008-03-27T11:48:00.001+05:30

The Onion: Queen Will Leave Behind Long Legacy Of Waving

The Old Man And The Pee

2008-03-26T19:14:00.004+05:30

With age, comes incontinence.

A commonly known fact, the ramifications of which have been discussed everywhere from Gray's Anatomy to Garcia Marquez's Love in the time of cholera.

Of late, however, the problem has hit closer to home, here in India, for readers of Outlook magazine, thanks to editor Vinod Mehta.

With depressing, metronomic regularity, this geriatric gasbag garrulously generates graph upon graph of gibbering garbage. Halcyon days in Lucknow, for example. (Or was it something equally inconsequential about Kanpur?) And that ode to some editorial crony of an insignificant tabloid that enjoyed an existence of no pith, and even less moment, in the '80s. (But then, they were the '80s.)

Of course, when he's not slathering us with septugenarian syllogisms, Mr. Mehta sees fit to turn his magazine over to the ravings and rantings of pseudo-socialists, pseudo-secularists and just good, old-fashioned pseudo-intellectuals.

Outlook used to be a good magazine.

Now it seems to be a collection of pages spasmodically splattered with sepia splotches and suspicious stains, such as last week's cover story on the Indian youth's renewed lust for the English language. Is this really the most important thing that happened anywhere in the world over the last fortnight?

Might as well read Time.

Listening to Arundhati Roy...

2008-03-06T18:52:00.003+05:30

... one gets the feeling that impassioned concern, has now been patented, trademarked and copyrighted. By Ms Roy, of course.

Is Ms Roy truly the only Indian horrified by the ease with which the pogrom has been powdered, primped and rouged into progressive Gujarat? Is she the only writer on the sub-continent with a socialist conscience? Is she the only one possessed by a slow burning anger at the pandering of succesive central and state governments, to the ultra-rich and the elite? Is she the only one who sees the burgeoning apathy and self-centeredness of the middle class as worrisome? Is she the only one worried about the rather tottery foundations and bizzare judgements of the nation's courts?

I don't think so.

What I can say for sure, is this. Arundhati Roy, seems to be the only one who uses the privilege of regular access to national (and international) soap boxes, to rant.

Immediately after the Gujarat riots, when we were flooded by political posturing, right-wing propaganda, and patently unbelievable statements from police officials, the need of the hour was fact.

Ms Roy, responded with a piece in Outlook, that later proved to be (at least) partly fictional.

One of India's most recent "shining moments" - Nandigram. Once again, investigative journalism, is what was required. Someone to dig down deep enough, to tell us precisely what happened, and more importantly, who was responsible.

Ms Roy, provides a long-winded diatribe and blames it all on big business and capitalism, with a few grasshoppers thrown in, for literary effect.

There are a few hundred thousand concerned Indian citizens. (A reasonable assumption, given that there are about a billion of us infesting the globe.) Many of us, are equally concerned. Many, feel the need to express this concern. Some, do all they can, and are more effective. (Tarun Tejpal, for instance.) Some, through actions, bring about change. (Medha Patkar, for instance.) Some persist in battling on, largely ignored. Some use the system, to improve the system. Some, ineffectively, just blog and rant. (Myself.)

If Ms Roy does not accept that objective reasoning, or an unbiased autopsy of the facts, will help change the minds of a lot more people, perhaps she would be better off confining herself to a blog.

Account Planners @ the circle

2008-02-25T23:57:00.003+05:30

There were three, originally.
One drowned.

I'm serious.
A duck, drowned.
Planners. I tell you.

Have camera. No clue.

2008-02-25T23:54:00.003+05:30

So fine. I won't quit my day job.

Ole Hoss

2008-02-25T23:45:00.006+05:30

Bangalore - Nagarhole - Bangalore

2008-02-24T19:39:00.000+05:30

The sky got big again :)

Worth Reading

2008-02-12T15:50:00.000+05:30

Please consider this a shameless plug for Sacred Games by Vikram Chandra.

It's been a while since I've read something as entertaining, by an Indian author. Most of what's on the shelves nowadays seems to be trying very hard to be meaningful or insightful. (The end result of these efforts is generally an impression that the author has tried too hard, or that India is a depressing place to live.)

Chandra, on the other hand, manages to make his points without NGO-esque angst. He writes about India's many woes, but with the understanding that there is often a constructive side to the chaos. From Napien Sea Rd. to the North East, from spy games to sex games, you'll find it all here.

So, read all 900 pages of Sacred Games. Enjoy the masala, with my very best wishes. And maybe if enough of us by the book, Vikram Chandra will have enough in his pockets to churn out another top-notch entertainer.

Intelligence Will Out

2008-02-08T17:19:00.001+05:30

This is why my wife, is the only person allowed to send me forwards.

Guns don't kill people. Americans kill people.

2008-01-03T15:05:00.001+05:30

Or at least that's what I'm led to believe after watching The Kingdom.

Remember all those clichéd old films from the Cold War? The ones where ideological and cultural boundaries are effortlessly overcome in a single bound by two strong men out to "do good". The ones where years of fear, suspicion and misunderstanding are all cleared 15 minutes before the interval, so that the second half can have decent gun play, puns and witty asides.

Well some Hollywood hack dug up a bombed script circa 1980, polished up the political differences to reflect today's religious tensions, and plugged it straight into post 9/11 celluloid. And since Genocidal Americans vs. Islamic Zealots are cinema du jour, it saw the light of day, complete with de-sat, dramatic grading, "meaningful" music and lots of blood and gore.

And before you ask, the film doesn't require the mere suspension of disbelief. No. It means putting disbelief in a plain brown envelope, along with a little white chalk powder, and sending it through the U S Mail.

Are we seriously expected to believe that a lowly FBI Special Agent is going to be able to arm twist the Saudis into giving him permission to take his team to the scene of the crime, in Saudi, after having been denied said permission by the US State Dept., the US Attorney General's Office, and the White House coffee boy?

Then, are we seriously expected to believe that said gung-ho team of FBI agents will be allowed to run amok through inner-city Riyadh, going hand-to-hand with the Saudi armed forces and indulging in a 20 minute shoot-out with "the bad guys"?

And last of all, are we seriously expected to believe that these G.I. Joe feebs manage to get through it all unscathed, thanks to their superior training, but that the Saudi cop manages to get himself killed?

(As a puzzling aside, why is it this film - and all its zillions of predecessors - rely so heavily on cops, to be the buddies-through-it-all? And why does one of them always have to die? Has anyone ever asked the cops - any cops - what they feel about it?)

If there is one redeeming feature about the film, it's the main title sequence. Interesting. Well done. And though I don't much care for its 60-second-TV-commercial approach to the history involved, it really did get my attention.

The main title, was good. But not good enough to warrant sitting through an hour and a half of a Jamie Foxx playing an intellectual Rambo in the heart of Riyadh.

Insult Upon Injury

2007-12-21T18:34:00.000+05:30

Fellow denizens of Bangalore, especially those hailing from the 'Gulf's Own Country' will join me in mourning, as I tell them of the gastronomic disaster that has struck Little Home - the Mallu mess in Koramangala.

Mysterious menace or malicious malady has made misanthropic maniacs of the men at the mess and mercilessly marred their once marvellous menu.

For the anti-alliterate amongst you, let me get to the point.
Little Home, has banned beef.

Gone forever, that beautiful beef roast.
Gone forever, that brilliant beef fry.

An unsuspecting victim was I,
accompanied by three mallus staunch (and stout).
As they mumbled for meen,
I ordered beef, my stomach growling out.

But a shake of an oiled head
greeted my humble request.
He couldn't really turn red,
but his epidermis tried its best.

"No beef", he said,
another shake of the head.
"No beef", he said,
as my appetite fled.

"Why?" I enquired,
my brow one big furrow.
"Because of something said
by some North Indian fellow."

In shock and awe, were my companions and I.
"North Indian" I said, "well technically, so am I."
But it made no difference. Nay, not a whit.
Another bit of Bangalore, ruined by some complete twit.

My Kinda Flight

2007-12-05T23:29:00.001+05:30

Listen.

Curse at the Golden Flower

2007-12-04T16:14:00.000+05:30

Okay. Okay. so it's supposed to be 'Curse of the Golden Flower'. Or 'Man cheng jin dai huang jin jia' for those of you who are sticklers for detail.

The point is not whether you say "fly lice" or I say "fried rice".

The point, is that this film is crap.
Utter, total, irredeemable fecal matter.

Oh it's impressive crap, to be sure. But then so is what you find floating in the rest room at a truck stop. I mean it's awe-inspiring to think that any one human being, could be filled with so much shit.

It's immaculately art directed.
(Though I have doubts about the historical accuracy of some of the costumes.)

It's a visual spectacle.
(Though that's not always a good thing.)

It has a cast of ten thousand extras.
(And funnily enough, the scenes with the extras, are the only redeeming feature.)

It has a script with holes wide enough to drive a Mack truck through.
(Which will probably then be found parked outside the afore-mentioned truck stop.)

I sat through and finished this paen to pain, only because I'd begun it, and felt compelled to see the thing through. (Sort of like a root canal).

This, is what happens when the wife pushes off for Sunday evening dinner with her folks, and I decide not to tag along. It's all karmic. Or quantum. Or something.

If you missed the original release in 2006, and the video release thereafter, count your lucky fortune cookies, and don't lose any sleep. It'll put you right off your kung pao chicken.

Featuring the voice of Hugh Laurie

2007-11-29T21:21:00.001+05:30

Get a load of the "Drool" song.

Art

2007-11-29T21:10:00.001+05:30

Brilliant soundtrack.

Nuke This

2007-11-14T21:34:00.000+05:30

Is it just me, or is it so transparently hypocritical of the Left to volte face on the nuclear power issue mere days after CPI(M) cadres ran amok in Nandigram?

Are we as a nation truly so obsessed with the conspicuous consumerism bestowed upon us by this tottery economic boom, that we comfortably ignore the actions being taken on behalf of us all?

Will the state of the pitch, tomorrow, once again displace the state of the nation in our newspapers?

Is nuclear power suddenly acceptable again, because a few months ago The Economist ran a biased cover story?

Is it just me, or has renewable energy been erased from our lexicons, to make way for the market returns of Reliance Energy?

If this is truly how things are, then here's how I see the future panning out:

Sooner or later, the Chinese will conquer their accents.
Sooner or later, Africa will find peace.

And we'll be faced with two huge demographies, comfortable with the English language, offering better priced slave labour. And infinitely more real estate.

Then, goodbye IT sector.
Farewell, BPO sector.
Adios, BT sector.

And we'll be left with a bunch of nuclear plants we can't pay for, a vast pool of 20-somethings who are un-trained for anything beyond "Hi, How ya doon?", and an economy with a rather large vacuum.

None of which will really worry us, because we'll all be sitting on large heaps of irradiated waste, wondering what to do with our 7-thumbed kids.

If this comes true, remember, you heard it here first.
(Assuming, that is, your ears haven't dribbled off the side of your head.)

Here's why I'm no good at meetings...

2007-11-13T23:52:00.000+05:30

I've always had a problem staying focussed during meetings. The mind, tends to wander. And then find bizzare things to laugh about. Then, of cuorse, there are meetings like the one I had earlier today. Meetings, where the folks on the other side of the desk lead my mind down the expressway to hilarity.

A bit of background... This was the first time I was meeting this young woman, at this particular client. We had exchanged a few phone calls, which accomplished precisely nothing. So, in the hope of finally getting some productive work done, we scheduled a meeting. This, is what what happened...

*Disclaimer: This is a true story. No clients were harmed during the course of this meeting.

(Within the first few seconds, after the obligatory Meet-Greet-Grin-Shake bit...)

Young Woman: "I really like your pants."
Self: (nonplussed) "Thanks."
Byker's Mind: "Okay. But there's no way I'm taking them off."

Blah. Blah.
Blah. Blah.

Young Woman: "So, where are you from?"
Self: "Bangalore."
YW: "No I mean your home town."
S: "Well, I was born in Bombay."
YW: (Vaguely discontent) "Oh. I thought you might be from somewhere abroad. The way you look."
S: "The way I look...?"
YW: "Yeah. You look like Jesus."
S: (Sickly grin) "Hah-fullstop-hah."
Byker's Mind: "And you act like Mary Magdalene."

Blah. Blah.
Blah. Blah.

YW: "So please do something creative. Ok? I don't know how you guys do it."
S: "We just try not be boring."
YW: "Well I'm more into writing for theatre, you know. It's my calling."
Byker's Mind: "Exit, stage left. Pursued by bear."

Blah. Blah.
Blah. Blah.

YW: "So, I could take you upstairs for lunch..."
Byker's Mind: "Note to self: Garlic. Always carry garlic."
YW: "...or do you have something better in mind?"
Byker's Mind: "Run Forrest Run."

Quick thinking, by our man on the spot.
Goodbye. So long. Farewell. Adios.
Start bike.
Scoot.
Laughing.
But only on the inside.

Pass a poster for 'Sree Raajeshwari' theatre.
They're now showing Dhoodh Waali.
And the baseline goes:
"Desire with young womens."

Forced to pull over. Paroxysm of laughter.
2 minutes, before I wipe my eyes and ride on.

Brilliant

2007-11-13T02:54:00.000+05:30

DJ Democracy

2007-10-24T13:54:00.000+05:30

For a while now, I've been looking for the perfect analogy for the Indian political scenario.

Perfect, not in the descriptive sense; a number of words that describe bodily waste, industrial waste, or any combination of the two, spring to mind. No, what I sought, was the perfection in accuracy.

An analogy, in other words that would capture the essence of Indian politics, in all its gory glory.

Then I remembered something that a friend named Gene came up with, to describe the rather dysfunctional sex life of a mutual friend. Believe me, when I say it didn't take much adaptation.
Politics in India, is much like being stuck, for life, with a 3 cd changer, and just 3 cds in your collection.

On Disc 1, we have the Greatest Hits of the Congress, and other Golden Oldies. We've heard them all before. We know all the words by heart. They've been around forever. They get too much air time.

Disc 2, has the harsh, incoherent, death-metal-meets-jingoism of the Hindutva brigade. Music for moshing, in other words. The perfect accompaniment to mindless violence, mayhem and an all around gore fest.

Last of all, we have Disc 3, on which may be found the JD, the Left, and other artists, who gained some popularity, but never quite made it to the sopping-wet-womens'-undergarments-flung-on-stage level of popularity.

So sometimes we play them consecutively.
Sometimes, we hit the shuffle button, and waltz randomly through.
And sometimes we programme them, in a Disc 1/Disc 3 sort of way.

Then, there are those very bad times, when Disc 2, gets stuck on repeat. And all we hear, are the Wagnerian overtones to something like the Gujarat riots. Or Disc 1, declares an Emergency, to save itself from the trash bin. Or Disc 3, can't figure out who it should play after.

Then, it's time to pull the plug.

I figure we're long overdue for some serious plug-pulling.

While you weren't looking...

2007-10-23T00:16:00.000+05:30

... somebody made a really good film starring Kevin Costner.

No, he's not a golfer.
No, he's not a ball player.
No, he's not a post-apocalyptic messiah.

Yes, Kevin Costner does act.
Yes, he plays someone other than Kevin Costner.
Yes, it's very much worth watching.

Meet Mr. Brooks.

Save Rs. 4,100,000. Or, save a few hundred.

2007-10-22T15:04:00.000+05:30

You could even do both, if you're feeling energetic enough.

Here's the funny part though. Saving a few hundred bucks will involve a hell of a lot more effort, while saving Rs. 4,100,000 (that's 41 lakh, for those who prefer it) is astoundingly simple.

Now for a brief explanation. If you've been reading the papers recently, or (heaven forbid) watching the idiot box, you've been inundated with images of the Mysore Palace all lit up for the festivities. Just click here and you'll see that simply switching all those lights over to CFL, will save tax payers the afore-mentioned 4,100,000 simoleons.

And last time I looked, everyone was griping about taxes.

So does this mean you can give the Maharaja a call and tell him to get his act together?

Well, no.

What you can do, is sign up for a petition that aims to make our trained monkeys in parliament pass effective legislation. The kind of legislation that will ensure the Mysore palace and other monuments that just "need" to be lit up, don't stay a royal pain in our collective, tax-paying ass.

Just click here.

(By the way, legislation of this sort will also be environmentally beneficial. But think of that as just a fringe benefit to your savings bank account.)

Now here's why saving a few hundred bucks, takes a little more effort.

(If, that is, you actually care about addressing climate change enough to do more than bring up Al Gore-Nobel Prize jokes at cocktail hour.)

What you'll have to do, is switch over to CFL personally. Change all the bulbs at home. And if possible, in the office.

I'll try and make it easier for you. If you're in Bangalore, just head to
Mahaveer Electric Co.
#2 A. M. Lane, Chickpet,
Bangalore 560 053.
Ph: 2226 4557 or 2220 6689.

These guys have the best deals on CFLs, which is where you'll save a few hundred. You'll also save on your electricity bill. And as an inconcsequential aside, you'll be doing your two bits for the envionment.

All of which, should leave you with a warm, fuzzy glow every time you flick the light switch.

Concentrate on the subtitles

2007-10-17T21:16:00.001+05:30

Whoever did this, is infinitely patient.

1 degree...

2007-10-17T18:22:00.000+05:30

Finally.

After 3 decades on this planet, someone I personally know, stars in a no-holds-barred interview.

Worth Watching

2007-10-15T16:06:00.000+05:30

You Kill Me (2007)

Zodiac (2007)

Factotum (2005)

Songs To Shave By...

2007-10-03T01:25:00.000+05:30

One of the few enduring memories of my rather forgettable childhood, is watching my father shave.

I'm talking about the good old days, when shaving meant a Topaz blade, shaving cream in tubes, a brush, and Brut.

The days when a safety razor had a screw on the bootom of a faux wood handle, that opened the casing to insert the blade. The days, before Gillette messed it all up with gels and ball bearings and light sabers.

It used to be a ritualistic process. And if you weren't paying attention, you risked walking around doing a passable impersonation of Al Pacino, in Scarface.

I think one of the reasons I found it all so fascinating, was that the razor, was taboo. (Plus the odd chance of getting a splash of Brut - also normally well inside forbidden teritory.)

The other reason, is what this post is all about.

The music.

I remember an old, portable transistor radio - made by Bush, if I'm not mistaken - that was always cranked up at shaving time.

(Like all card carrying, red-blooded males, my father had his Technic amp and floor standing speakers and stuff, but it was always the old radio that grabbed center stage in the mornings.)

In its tinny voice, I first heard all the songs that we all know by heart. Kishore Kumar. Hemant Kumar. Mukesh. I learned the words to Paanch rupaiyya, baarah aana well before I figured out what they meant. So too with Hai apna dil, toh awaara and myriad others.

Time passed. We changed cities. We moved into, and out of, multiple houses. And somewhere along the line, that old radio went kaput, and was eventually disposed off.

In a fit of adolescent wanna-be-ism, I also insisted I'd have nothing more to do with Hindi music and tuned out, completely.

Thankfully, at some point, I grew up.

(Part of this growing up included shaving, but that soon lost its charm, having been reduced from mesmeric razor-edged ritual, to mere gadgetry. And as my photograph shows, I've regressed completely, into full blown facial fur.)

I never did forget the music on that radio. The sound, the timbre, the words, the melody.

And every now and then, in the wee hours of the night, or on a suddenly quiet Sunday afternoon, I hear the same old songs, in a similar tinny voice, piping up from the security guard's little radio, four storeys below.

And every now and then, indulgently nostalgic, I think about not giving in, to my own red-blooded male desire for the ultimate audio experience.

Someday, I may even convince myself.

Family Planning, by Bajaj

2007-09-11T22:00:00.000+05:30

I'm not very clear what it is the Bajaj family is seeking retribution for, but the Bajaj Avenger certainly lives up to its name. It takes revenge, with ruthless efficiency, upon the scrotal sacs of an unsuspecting Indian public.

I spent 4 days last week in Goa.

I made the incredible error of renting one of these fiendish contraptions, instead of getting off my lazy ass and looking for an Enfield.

I now feel like apologising to the Bros. Bajaj for anything and everything, from the existence of Dan Brown, to the state of Manmohan Singh's wardrobe.

My only other theory is that I have stumbled upon a conspiracy to ensure that Indian men who attain the height of 6', are rendered incapable of reproduction.

The other party to this heinous plot would appear to be Capt. Gopinath, who stands to gain incalculably, if the avg. Indian height is say 5'4". Just imagine two whole rows more, on every Air Deccan flight.

Technology That Takes Lives

2007-08-20T13:00:00.001+05:30

Paradox

2007-08-06T20:58:00.000+05:30

As a dyed-in-the-wool pessimist, who anticipates the very worst from people, I expect I'll hardly ever be disappointed.

Is this optimism?

Biography

2007-08-06T19:41:00.000+05:30

He was born, shortly after his thirty-first birthday, at the bottom of a bottle of rum, in a boom town bar.

He walked a crooked line out of the bar, straight out of the lives of those who knew him. The doting parents. The loving wife. The frolicsome friends. The dependable colleagues.

An arrhythmic lope led him far away from all those who depended on him. All those with needs. And wants. And obligations.

The city, had many cracks. He found one. And with no fuss whatsoever, slipped comfortably through.

Time passed.

Masked in graceless anonymity, mired in the accumulated grime of months without soap and water, he scratched his bristly, lice covered jaw, and discovered how to smile again.

His, now, were the stand-up bars that were packed at 9 am.
His, now, the backdoors of the idly-dosa joints, with kindly cooks.
His, now, shady nooks in leafy parks with cold concrete for comfort.

She, found him there one day.
Smiling in his sleep.

Wrapped in words that told the story of the rich and shameless.
Covered in the comfort known only to those, with nothing left to lose.

She looked down, a barely discernible twitch, on her mirthless lips.
To the perceptive, it would have appeared as though she hesitated for the briefest of moments. One millionth, of a nanosecond.

The perceptive, could easily have been mistaken.

With a languid ease that bespoke aeons of repetition, she swung the scythe.

The Men In Charge

2007-08-04T18:27:00.000+05:30

I'm convinced that somewhere, someone in this city has found a way to solidify memes of idiocy into some kind of micron level dust, which they have sprinkled all over the coke our glorious leaders snort with their evening whiskey-and-curd-rice.

"Proof", you scream.
Very well, Your Graces.
Very well.

The Govt. of Karnataka outsources construction of a flyover at a major intersection, to an outfit from UP - a state renowned for upright business practices and impeccable honesty.

Years after the deadline passed, the GoK made a fetching display of naivete and evinced convincing disappointment that the project was still not complete.

Of course, now that it has been completed, everyone's so busy patting themselves on the back, that they've conveniently overlooked the tons of scrap and debris that lie around like orgasmic detritus of Transformers mating.

More, Your Graces? But of course.

Real estate prices are through the roof. Everyone from the assistant bum washer of the quasi-sub-registrar, to the white kurta brigrade, is raking it in.

Now, the city is over-crowded. It's primed to implode. And all those lovely IT firms that the GoK is lending its collective arse to, threaten to flitter away to Chennai, or Hyderabad, with their dainty little digital noses held high in the air.

So the minions of the mighty, those masters of mental masturbation, that holy order of organised onanism, the BDA, come up with a Master Plan.

This, is the plan. Open more residential areas, for commercial purposes. And increase the height to sq.ft. ratio for construction. Brilliant.

Not convinced of the theory I postulate, Your Graces? Read on.

Shedding faux tears all over the faux leather of their gigantic offices, the babus decide to apply an enema to the city's constipated channels, by building a Metro rail system.

Holes, have been dug. Boards, have been placed. And a deadline has been set.

Given that I pass these proposed sites for posts twice a week, I can say with some authority, that I have seen sweet fuck all happening around them, for months now.

And last, but not least, Your Eminences, as a little post-coital dribble down the thigh of this once fair, now bloated city, the aftermath of the fucked-up flyovers, was this: the men in charge have decided that henceforth, only underpasses will be used to alleviate Bangalore's clogged arteries. whether they're needed, or not.

I submit that if these pinheads in power are not ingesting my proposed powdered idiocy memes, then they're all part of a vast conspiracy to de-stabilise planet Earth, wrought by the dog-headed denizens of Sirius B who are looking for a little more room to raise a leg in.

Good Reads, Lazy Post

2007-07-20T01:09:00.000+05:30

Came across a well-written article on the standoff at the Lal Masjid and its aftermath, written from a refreshingly original perspective.

A few links later, stumbled upon a lovely piece, that drips critic acid, about what one can buy for NRI dollars today.

Enjoy.

What Happened To That Guy?

2007-07-18T18:38:00.000+05:30

Picture a 20 something guy,
duffel bag slung on his shoulder,
walking through customs.

Clear of eye. Fit as a fiddle.
To borrow a phrase from Pratchett,
the world, is his mollusc.

He figures he'll work, for a while.
He figures he'll save, for a while.
And then, he figures, he'll give it a shot.

He'll learn to sail. He'll learn to fish.
Then take a loan, buy a boat.
And float a deep-sea charter fishing business,
somewhere off the West Coast of India.

He'll cater to the rich and shameless, the fat cats,
while the work ensures he stays thin and sun baked.

He doesn't plan on being rich.
He just plans on being happy.

What happened to that guy?

And who is this slob, balancing a laptop on the beginnings of a belly, keying in stories of faded glory that never were?

Ode to Friday, the 13th of July, 2007

2007-07-14T14:34:00.000+05:30

Fuck-a-di-doo-dah,
Fuck-a-de-day.

My, oh my,
it was a fucked up day.

Profane. But so painstakingly accurate.

Some days you fee like you shouldn't have gotten out of bed.
This one, raised existential questions about beds in general.

Now, since I'm not going to crib about what happened, this is all going to seem quite cryptic. And pointless. It is, however, actually quite cathartic, and much more acceptable than my original plan - heading to the terrace with a drink and a smoke, and berating whatever powers may be, with all the lung power at my disposal.

(The neighbours - though ignorant of Plan A - will, I'm sure, enjoy a moment of profound, sub-conscious gratitude.)

Worth Watching

2007-07-12T01:19:00.000+05:30

The Fountain (2006)

The History Boys (2006)

Crime Spree (2003)

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Author

2007-07-08T23:57:00.000+05:30

Some people compare well written books, to fine wine.

They sputter on about vintage and bouquet and a lot of other stuff that, if personified, would be wrapped in a turtleneck, with a 4 figure haircut, loads of sensitivity and the sort of lisp that the word "fetching" was invented to describe.

I know nothing about wine. I know even less about fetching lisps.

I do know that I've read and re-read the George Smiley novels by John le Carré a number of times. And I'd like to think I've enjoyed them every single time, more due to my geo-political view maturing, than the accumulation of oxidisation on these valued, but aged paperbacks.

For me, it was in le Carré's novels, that Fleming's theatrics died. Quickly. Painlessly. A demise that had nothing to do with better guns, girls and gadgets. A death wrought solely by the magnificent interplay of words and the creation of eerily human characters.

Something that remains, to this day, le Carré's genius. Borne out by The Constant Gardener, amongst others.

But whenever I'm in between bouts of bookstore induced bankruptcy, and feel the need for a good, light read of the le Carré stamp, it's to the world of 'The Circus' and Smiley & Co., that I turn.

Where knot, upon twisted knot, is undone by Smiley himself, whilst wiping his glasses upon the fat end of his tie. Where the brief, but vivid introductions to those who populate this world, keep one coming back for more.

The cameos by assorted, derelict East Europeans. The evergreen references to crass American materialism. The constant stench of decaying British imperialism. The nepotism of the "Old Boy" network - that ever present affliction of so many of the former possessions of Perfidious Albion. And, of course, the unfaithful Ann. The tasteful, murmurred allusions to her numerous infidelitites and indiscretions.

Most of all though, le Carré writes so very well about the disillusioned man, that it makes me rather comfortble about retaining the few I have left.

She

2007-06-26T18:14:00.000+05:30

She wept,
as she took his parents.

She chuckled, conspiratorially,
as she introduced him
to his bride.

She sang softly,
to lull his children to sleep.

She raged, with jealousy,
and made him, all hers again.

Her every twist, reflected,
in the lines on his face.

Every shifting sandbank,
a vein on his gnarled hands.

The river. His mistress.

Written, for the photograph. Because of the photograph.
Shot by Sujith. See more of his stuff here.

About That Time Again...

2007-06-26T14:11:00.000+05:30

The signs, are all there.

A mind that's constantly wandering.
Feeling boxed-in, even with the windows open.

4 a.m. and half-remembered-half-imagined scents
carried on the breeze, whisper tales of past adventures,
as I stand out in the balcony, with a cigarette for company.

Paring down the stuff in my backpack.
Sub-consciously taking the longer way, everywhere.
Looking at rough stretches of road,
with inexplicable fondness.

Reading the little words that roadrash
has inscribed upon my battered hide.

'Ole Hoss', the beast that carries my burden,
seems restless.

It's been a year since we hit the road.
And that one didn't end too well.

Hoss is going into the shop this evening.
Some oil here, a tweak there.

The weekend draws closer.
Time to go riding again.

Way past time.

Of Cabbages And Kings

2007-06-21T13:30:00.000+05:30

The last few days have seen a perptual parade of populist pedants posing as potential presidents on pg. 1.

So inexorably intrusive has the process become, that even my calloused consciousness has been goaded into awareness. Which has naturally resulted in a question.

Is the appointment of an individual to the most pointless political office in the country, really worth so much front page real estate?

And what individuals.

Bhairon Singh Shekhawat, who has the dubious distinction of having been a "proper" politician.

Pratibha Patil, who has the dubious distinction of having performed an equally pointless function, at the State level.

A.P.J. Abdul Kalam, who has the dubious distinction of already having performed effectively as head PR man for the masses.

Of Shekhawat, nothing more need be said, other than that he was Vice President. (A post who's importance is well understood throughout the corporate world, the political world and even that funny little world inhabited by cultists.)

It seems hardly credible that the nomination (and possible appointment) of Madame Patil, to this pedantic, powerless post, can be considered a great step for womens' rights.

Kalam has discharged his duties with photogenic panache, enduring elan and a trademark flowing, silver mane. However, while he has gained tremendous popularity by sending bills he doesn't agree with, back to the House, they have eventually been passed. (Obviously he didn't feel strongly enough about them, to give up the presidential perks, in protest.)

I don't see how the decision as to which of these people will enjoy a rent free mansion, landscaped gardens, etc., will really make such a difference to the state of the nation. Instead, I propose that our superlative scribes and cereberal columnists devote their time to matters of real import.

Such as speculating when Guinness draught, will be available in India.

Thou Shalt Not Die

2007-06-20T09:11:00.000+05:30

Users of Vatican 2.0 [a Second Coming compliant programme] be warned. Spokespersons for the organisation have issued a statement saying: "Overtaking dangerously can be a sin."

Apparently, users who do not apply the recommended 10 step patch [derived from the 10 Commandments coded for V1.0] to their mobile environment suffer not only the risk of a fatal system crash, but also ETERNAL DAMNATION.

The Reserva Companion

2007-06-20T01:56:00.000+05:30

The rain clouds tease, as they have all day, without intimidating. In the meanwhile, JJ Cale is conducting a mildly torrid affair with a dark, long-legged Bacardi Reserva and Coke.

Says it all

2007-06-17T16:30:00.001+05:30

Watch This

2007-06-16T00:40:00.000+05:30

Quite apart from the antics of the world's most heavily guarded mammal and his two bit Timex, the G8 meet-n-greet has held my attention for a number of reasons.

I'd write about it, except for the simple fact that I couldn't do it with anything remotely like the erudition or stilleto-like sarcasm of George Monbiot, in this piece, originally published in The Guardian.

This Morning

2007-06-14T12:52:00.001+05:30

The shock of impending sobriety jarred me awake.

The Mild Wild West

2007-06-13T18:51:00.000+05:30

Always wanted to try my hand at a pulp western short. Since I was doing a piss poor job, I decided to play the fool instead.

You couldn't see much of the stranger's face, the day he rode into town.

Small dust devils rose up with every step his horse took. And chased themselves into oblivion, before the next hoof landed. The creaking of his saddle, seemed like the only sound for miles around.

You couldn't see much of his face. But you could tell he didn't seem to think too highly of the town.

Truth to tell, Rickman's Ford wasn't much of a town. But then it didn't have much of a creek to ford either.

It was just a handful of ramshackle houses; a large, rambling saloon built by a man who used to be an optimist; a livery fit only for the crowbait it housed; trading post; and the usual leavenings of defunct commercial enterprises found in most any defunct town west of the Big Muddy.

Every structure, a conglomeration of wood and rusty nails, seemed held together only by an agglomeration of dust. The buildings had long since been browbeaten into submission by the merciless sun, stripped of the last vestiges of painted pride by the hot winds and casually raped by the occassional passing tornado.

Main St., was a shameful misnomer. There were alleys back East, that had it beat hands-down for grandiosity. Cowboys from the outlying ranches rode 20 miles through Apache territory, to Bentworth, when they were looking for a night on the town. (Because even the West's famous hookers-with-hearts-of-gold, had real stomachs to fill.)

The barbershop, had just one chair. And most times, a body hankering after a shave and cut had to shake Toomes - the barber - out of it first.

Hell. Even the bandidos didn't raid around Rickman's Ford. Nobody here had anything worth stealing. All in all, a miserable, sorry excuse for a town. Where nothing ever happened. Until today. The day the stranger picked, to ride into town.

The denizens of Rickman's Ford were about to be treated to a social event. The social event.

Old Man Rickworth's daughter, Shannon, was getting hitched.

The girl was the only redeeming factor in the whole damn town. A figure that could make a buck Apache swear off killing the white man. (At least until he'd got his way with Shannon.) A permanent blush on her cheeks, like the first bloom after a desert storm. Long, golden tresses, that any self-respecting bedbug would pay New York hotel rates for.

And she was marrying young Tom Pickett. Heir to the uncounted acres of the Tumbling 'P'. He'd swung a wide loop around the country. But since heifers and lambs just weren't cutting it for him anymore, he settled for Shannon.

The saloon had stopped serving liquor for the duration of the ceremony. The circuit preacher had been shanghaied away from his usual beat, by the promise of an open bar. And everyone was in their Sunday go-to-meetin' best, for all the good that did them.

The stranger's horse found its way, seemingly unguided, to the scrawny limb that served as a hitching post outside the saloon. With a muffled grunt, the stranger slid off.

Inside, the service commenced.

The stranger patted his horse. And then his pockets, looking for the makings.

The preacher's parched voice, was scurrying on through the words, leaping eagerly towards that promised land of rye.

With one effortless, almost languid move, the stranger flipped his pistol out of the holster, it's well-worn grips coming to rest with easy familiarity in his hand. Just like it had, a million times before.

Smith & Wesson had always made a good lookin', straight shootin' gun and the .44 Russian, was no exception. He flipped open the chamber, spun it to check the action and deftly flipped it shut again. The gun, was slipped back into its holster. For now.

The stranger, headed into the saloon.

Inside, the preacher had got to the part where audience participation, while hardly expected, had to be paid its dues. With a pause, and a longing look at the bar, he squawked on:

"And if any man here knows why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony, let him speak now, or forever hold his peace."

The stranger's broad shoulders sent the batwing doors flying open with a resounding crash. Voice tight with tension, he said "Ah reckon ah've got me somethin' tuh say about this here shindig."

Tom Pickett was getting married. He'd bought a new hat. A new suit. And new boots. But he kept his old reliable Colt .44 Pecemaker. And marriage or no, like any man who grew up in those parts and those times, he kept it on during the ceremony.

The stranger glared at Tom.

Tom, said "Draw."

The stranger's hand swept down.

The millionth time, plus one.

The stranger's gun, slipping from his grasp, skittered along the dusty floor.

When they buried him, he was still looking surprised.

As young Tom Pickett, and his newly acquired better half, rode past Boot Hill, he stopped the buggy. Mumbling an excuse to the starry eyed Shannon, he walked over, had a word with the undertaker, and then carried on with his missus to the Tumbling 'P.'

The undertaker scratched his head, but then figured if anyone had the right, Tom did. He got to work with an old branding iron, and a couple of slats of wood. Puzzled or not, he did a mighty fine job.

To this day, the marker up on Boot Hill reads:
Stranger
Died August 7, 1869.
"He couldn't hold his piece."

The Alms Race

2007-06-06T13:22:00.000+05:30

"Now remember..."

"?"

"...if they pull a gun, you pull a knife."

"!"

"Yes. Now, if they pull a knife, you use a chain."

"Are you sure about this?"

"Yes. And, if they pull a chain, you grab a lathi."

"I'm a little confused."

"Just listen. If they bring lathis, you use your fists."

"But Dad, what if they're unarmed too?"

"Hmmm... Then wheel out the handicapped."

"The handicapped? But... But... in a fight?"

"Of course.
We've got to show everyone we're more backward than they are.
Right?"

"Ah!"

[A tribute to Sir Sean Connery, in The Untouchables; recent events in Rajasthan; and Nehruvian socialism.]

Lords of the Dance

2007-05-28T23:38:00.000+05:30

For all those of you worried about the degenerative effects of the BPO boom on our precious cultural heritage, a few words to warm the cockles of your hearts. The economic renaissance notwithstanding, the idiosyncracies of our heritage are being well preserved by none other than our nimble netas.

It's true. Take my word for it. Or, if you're part of that world-wide conspiracy that doesn't ajudge me the authority on just about anything, just drop by the morgue of your local news rag. Flip through the back issues of the past couple of months, and you'll soon see what I mean.

With dubious dexterity and reprehensible rhythm, our geriatric gents in parliament continue, day after day, to uphold that most ancient of Indian traditions - dance.

Except, of course, in keeping with the zeitgeist of "India Poised", they've adapted their routines to include some of the more popular dances from around the world.

For example, the Bengaluru Boogie:
A hip-swivelling Vidhana Soudha step, that sashays wildly between appeasing the increasingly Americanised technocrats, and renaming the city bangalore.com, and appeasing the increasingly important voters in Karnataka's heartland, by renaming the city Bengaluru.

Again, from Bangalore, but without the violent gyrations of the Boogie, we have the Bangalore Backstep:
More classical in nature, this genteel form is largely a solo performance. Shuffling out of the shadowed corridors for a brief stint under the spots, one of our perspiring politicos gently inserts his foot in his mouth. This is usually accompanied by some garbled incantation, for instance a chant about banning women from working the night shift. The taste of shoe leather being largely unpleasant, thanks to bovine blessings on our roads, the politico then retreats completely from his assumed position, with little grace and veiled face.

Casting our eyes to the North, we have the Singh Shimmy:
This little number has the distinction of having none other than our Prime Hypocrite for a choreographer. Deeply inspired by the waltz form, it requires the performer to grab hold of Uncle Sam's coat tails, and twirl all the way to the far end of the room. Here are exchanged promises of nuclear technology and radiation poisoning for us all. The next step, is to slide all the way back to position one, on a thick layer of phantom crude and LPG, from Iran. Where one is refreshed with vows of asphyxiation through fossil fuel, for all.

Gaining popularity these days, is the Mumbai Mamba:
After decades of being the playground of a curmudgeonly caricaturist and a dastardly don, Mumbai has shaken off its slumber. Snaking its way through the pitfalls and pratfalls of its politicos, this dance is a celebration of the fact that the biggest threat to our nation has been disposed off, with the ban on beer bars. It is accompanied by the sweet sounds of scams, conducted with great elan, by the denizens of Dalal Street.

And last, but not least, we have the Chennai Cha Cha:
Essentially a variant of an ancient, almost forgotten tribal ritual, this is conducted with complete impunity around the burning embers and charred remains of what was once a newspaper.

So rest easy. And let the sound of the shuffling slippers of our flexible, fleet-footed friends in Parliament lull you into a soothing trance.