The Otherside

It was a bad day for Ria. She wouldn’t quite agree with me though, for in her own terms, bad was an understatement and she would not be entirely wrong.

The alarm in her phone had not gone off in the morning and she got up a whole one hour late. From that moment on, it had been a series of disasters.

It was a very important day for her career. She was on the verge of a major sign off with a client and today’s meeting, for which she was now running late, was the last stage in a carefully worked out process that had spanned and consumed the last six months of her life.

A lot more than her job, the financial benefits and the promotion, which she was sure to get if the deal came through, depended on this one meeting.  This sign off was her answer to everybody who had chided her for her independence and had patronizingly told her she could never make it without a man’s support. It was a long list of people, on top of which was her mother and two sisters who had married into money.

This was her chance to prove it to them that she can lead a better life than them. There had been too many failures before and she was not sure her ego could handle another one. And thus, she was almost crying when she was stuck in the traffic on the way to her office. She prayed like she had never prayed before and she had actually never prayed before.

Her prayers were not answered. The clients were not happy. And the deal did not come through. So when her car wheel got punctured that evening as she was coming home, she broke down sobbing. After about ten minutes, she composed herself and headed to the railway station contemplating her lonely life.

Nitya had had enough that day. She had been suffering in silence for so long now, but not anymore.

The problem was her husband. He had come home drunk once again. He had promised so many times to kick the habit. But it kept coming back and he spent almost all the money he earned on alcohol. She had to do petty household jobs to make ends meet and to top it all, they had a two year old daughter to take care of.

That day was especially bad. He had never hit her before and today he had. Physical abuse on top of the mental agony was too much for her to take. She smacked his head back with the dosa-pan and he, already in his drunken stupor fell down unconscious.

She made sure she had not killed him. She left him a note saying she was going away. Leaving him for good and that she was taking the child with her. And she took the girl, some food to last the overnight journey to her mother’s house.

She knew she had to fight her parents who would send her back to her husband. She must not go back to him for as long as possible. She had made up her mind to give him one last chance, hoping that he might miss her and get rid of the habit. She was scared for herself. She was scared for her daughter and her future. She was scared of the world itself in general.

But the thing that scared her the most was the thought that her husband might not miss her. That he might enjoy the freedom, get another woman and forget about her. ‘I must not have hit him’, she thought over and over again.

These two women were sitting opposite each other in the train. Each lost in their own worlds, each unaware of the other’s presence. Their eyes met for a moment and they sized each other up. The other’s life seemed so much better and tempting.

All Ria saw was a beautiful child and a settled family life while Nitya saw independence, freedom and happiness.The thought “Oh how I wished my life was more like her’s” echoed simultaneously in both their minds.

What’s your excuse?

I am a bag.

If you’ve got enough time to wonder how a bag can think and articulate it’s feelings through a blog-post it means you’ve got time to waste and it wouldn’t do you any harm if you go on reading this.

I belong to the owner of this site. Yes that same retard who thought beginning every post with “Hello random reader” and ending it with “So till I write again, ciao ciao..” was cool. This one fact alone should give you an idea of how sad my life has been since I was brought by him on that fateful day.

You see, when I was made, the hundreds of people who were involved in my making gave their best to make sure I was a top notch product with great beauty and quality. You wouldn’t know that about me if you saw me in the corner now, all soiled and worn out. They say everything has a purpose. If this were my intended purpose, it is some cruel joke.

I had high hopes as regards to who should own me. Some hot chick with a great sense of fashion who wears clothes, shoes and even underwear that complements me. Some woman who hugs me tightly to her bosom and gently rests her head on me as she is thinking distant thoughts while riding a chauffeured car. Sigh..I could go on and on.

But what did I get? A sweaty smelly fuck who takes a crowded bus for the first third of his journey. Then from there I am  mercilessly dragged along into the second class compartment of a train for the second one-third and finally a share auto all filled with other disgusting shits like the owner himself. Life is so middle class and I hate it.

When I was bought, I overheard him saying to the shopkeeper, a sleek bag with lots of capacity and space even for a laptop. Even though I hated him, I thought that he might at least use me to my maximum potential. I envisaged myself as a lifesaver. Something that could hold anything and everything a person would need. Laptop he said…hahaha…

All I am used to carry now though is a tupperware lunch box and an empty notepad. The ones they used to make back in the day, with good old paper and cardboard. I guess it would hurt his ego to just carry the lunch box alone you see.

The saddest and in someways the scariest fact though is that it has been 3 months since this pathetic excuse for an existence of mine began and I am getting used to this. It wouldn’t be too far off the mark if I were to say that I am mildly beginning to enjoy it even.

Where the fuck has the inspiration gone? And when that question struck me, I needed to rant it out to someone. Am I destined to spend the rest of my days until I am torn and thrown away chained to this kind of life? Where are those visions of greatness with which in mind I was created.

Sigh…And to those of you who expected some logic or purpose or sense in this post, first search for it your life. Also, I am a fucking bag. What’s your excuse?

Multithreading…

Hello random reader,

A letter arrived at my house today morning. It was an invitation to one of my relative’s upanayanam. To those of you who haven’t heard the word before, it is the sacred thread ceremony in my community. Now there are two important sacred threads in this country. One, which men contrive not to tie around a woman, that is yellow in colour and the other one which men gather in groups and adorn on other younger men, that is white in colour. This one deals with the latter.

This person to whose upanayanam our august presence with friends and family has been requested is a very distant relative. So distant that a few light-years of travel in our family tree is required to establish the exact relationship between us. You have got to believe me when I say that I tried to write it down and explain. I gave up midway realising the futility of it. The timing of this invitation though couldn’t have been more “what’s-the-word-for-it” precise.

The day 21st of May is of paramount importance to me. It could not have been mere coincidence that the end of the world has been predicted today. In my case though it almost happened exactly seven years back. 21st May 2004 was the day I had my upanayanam and this fact settled it. I had to blog about this.

An upanayanam ceremony holds great significance and to be completely honest I lack the knowledge or the interest to delve into it’s meaning and philosophical implications. To surmise though one could loosely associate it with the Spartan tradition of casting away the young into the wild for training. “The boy returned a man” or something of that kind. While there one has got to brave nature and the obstacles she casts upon your path, here one has to manage thronging relatives and trust me the former is way easier.

The first hurdle…no wait. Let me call it the zeroth hurdle. The zeroth hurdle is the matter of waking up at 3 am. It is a time when even ghosts, murderers, rapists and politicians take rest. The only people awake are drug dealers, beggars, prostitutes and college students living in hostels. The reason for waking up at this unholy hour is because the muhurtham was at around 6 am in the morning and preparations needed to be made. A muhurtham is an auspicious hour of the day and all these auspicious hours invariably occur from 5am to 7am and last only for some 15 minutes. It is like catching a last bus from one place to another.

The first hurdle is the garb thrust on you for the day. It is no dress at all. You are supposed to go topless with a dhoti and a garland, sit on a raised platform with 7-8 such men and be subjected to the gaze of everybody present. I was no Aamir Khan mind you and it was pretty embarrassing. The only fact which gave me solace was that the men sitting around me and chanting hymns were fatter than me. In fact they were fatter than I’ll ever be. But these guys never wear shirts and were used to it. After a while I began to feel extremely self conscious and began speculating that everybody at that time were discussing about me. It was a horrible experience and the next time I am going to do it, it is going to be worse for in all probability, there might be a girl sitting right next to me.

The next hurdle is the fire they have going in front of you. Everything that is done must apparently be done with agni –  the God of fire as witness. What a troublesome witness he was. The smoke entered my eyes, ears, nose and all other possible orifices and I was in tears and coughing like a lung cancer patient. The amount of smoke was unbearable and the amount of ghee they made me add to the fire was even more unbearable. In a recent UN meeting it has been established that these fires, or homams as they are called, are one of the major causes of pollution. The main reason for this is that any occasion which does not require a homam is not an occasion at all or rather every conceivable occasion has one of these fires going on in the middle.

The last task as always is the most difficult. If you have seen Chandramukhi, you will remember that in the flashback, one female will be made to fall at the feet of all the villagers as a punishment for her sins and she dies mid-way due to shame. I too was made to prostrate before everybody present, one by one, and if I had died then, the reason wouldn’t have been shame or anything. These people were blessing me after all! The reason would have been heart failure due to over exertion or something like that. People standing in a line waiting for me to fall at their feet. I had lost about 10 kg at the end of the day and muscles had sprung up all over my body. (Hope this makes the comparison to Sparta a bit more relevant.)

Ultimately though, the thing that pissed me off the most was that when I looked at the photos taken, not a single one was good. All of them portrayed me like an adult-film poster gone bad. And yeah, as far as I am concerned, it was a completely pointless ceremony. “Waste of money and time” as my father keeps saying from time to time.

PS: I know. I feel it too. It’s getting heavily autobigraphical…sigh! Also, the title has got nothing to do with the post. It is just there to show the world that I too am a Computer Science Engineer.

So till I write again…ciao ciao.

Pocket Money!

Hello random reader,

I think it all started when they started giving cricket cards  free with every Big Babool bubble gum. I was in class 4…maybe 5. These cards were the craze back in the day. Each card consisted of a cricketer’s picture and on the backside, his profile. The more number of cards you had, the cooler you were considered to be. And also, they played certain games with these cards, exchanged them, always talked about them and did other things to piss off the generally uninterested people like me.

One day, my friend bought with him 10 chewing gums and 10 cards. You must understand that around that time, for a 9-year-old, ten rupees was a huge amount of money and seeing it squandered on bubble gums was almost a physical pain. I asked him how his parents allowed him to spend the money in such a reckless manner and the answer he gave me on that day, changed my life for good.

He looked at me like he would at a lower creature and with condescending patience explained to me the concept of pocket money. I was as shocked as Columbus learning that he had not landed in India. I had never heard of such a concept before. Parents giving money on a weekly basis to children and letting them spend it however they want? “The earth was flat” seemed a better theory in comparison.

I believed this retarded fuck and attempted asking my father for pocket money. What I did not know back then was all this pocket money dealings were restricted to “peter families”. I must take a moment here to explain to the uninitiated, the concept of a peter family.

It is a family where parents and kids talk only in English. Wives and husbands, brothers and sisters, fathers/mothers and children, all of them, even though they could speak another common regional language, would talk only in English. If they run out of stationery, they go to shops that were like Odyssey back in the day. Their Faber-Castell pencils and erasers, Adidas shoes, Nike water bottles (I know!) and branded clothes would shine in comparison to my Natraj pencil and eraser, Bata shoes, Bisleri bottle and clothes stitched by Krishna Tailors 2 streets away from my house.

They will watch only Star Movies and in those days, I cannot imagine watching it with my parents. English movies were indecent. There was no other word for it. Man and woman touching and kissing each other. Chee. In fact sometime before all this happened, I watched Titanic with my family. In the theater. There was so much squirming by the masses that I had to ask my mother whether everyone there was sick. I was blissfully(!?) ignorant of what was happening.

I could go on and on but you get the idea right? These were the kind of people who gave their kids pocket money while I didn’t even have pockets in most of my clothes. I decided to confront my father and ask him for pocket money. Twenty rupees a week I had decided. 80 rupees a month and 960 rupees a year my mind raced. I was so confident I was going to get the money that I rounded it off to a nice beautiful 1000.

Me: Appa, I want pocket money. 20 rupees a week.

Father: I don’t know. Ask your amma.

I run to the kitchen.

Me: Amma, I want pocket money. 20 rupees a week.

Mother: Ask your father.

Me: I did. He referred me to you.

Mother: Go and ask him again. I am cooking. Don’t disturb me.

I was beginning to lose hope slightly. The good (or bad) thing about being a kid is that you never know when to give up. The world is a rosy place and everything you want can be achieved by throwing a little tantrum. I go to my father again.

Me: Appa, amma sent me to you. She says you have to decide.

Father: Why do you want pocket money?

Me: Everyone in my class gets it! (A lie!)

Father: Yeah? Who?

Now I tell him a random name of one of my friends.

Father: That fellow? He got third rank in the 2nd mid-term-test no? No wonder he gets pocket money. Your rank was what? 43? Come in the top 3 and I’ll think about it.

Me: Appa, there are only 34 students in my class and I got 7th rank. This is so not fair. Okay! This one guy who failed in maths, he is also getting pocket money. What do you say to that? (This was a bad move!)

Father: No wonder he failed in maths. Parents should know not to give money to these kids. I am sure you will also sink lower if you get money.

My young mind could not comprehend what had happened and was at a loss for words. I did what almost everyone would have done. I opened my mouth two or three times and began crying. It didn’t work. No fuck was given and I was left to myself running from the hall to kitchen and back again trying to get my parents’ attention. That night, father took us to Saravana Bhavan and in a surprising gesture, got me whatever I asked for. That shut me up for good for the next month or so.

After that though, I realized what had happened and I felt cheated. I decided that if asking didn’t work, one must take. I began flicking money from my mother’s purse. Not much. Two or three rupees a day. As is obvious, one day I was caught. A lot of items like slippers, broom-sticks etc., were thrown at me. I managed to dodge most of them but the pain from the few that hit me still lingers. The only other time I had seen my mother so angry was when she found out I eat beef. But this is a story for another day.

The reason I wrote this was this: Yesterday I took 500 rupees from my father’s purse without telling him and blew it on a few things. Afterwards when he found out, not a single word was asked. He just let it go and it suddenly reminded me of my struggle for twenty rupees a week once upon a time.

So till I write again…ciao ciao!

Carpe Diem Ladies!

Hello random reader,

It is with great pleasure and unrestricted joy I’m writing this to inform you that I have completed my engineering. Fuck what a ride that was. Now I’m so happy that if I go on writing about my engineering experiences, I might actually say good things about it. So we will talk about it at some other time when I am ultra depressed and feeling suicidal.

Right now, I am going to tell you what I intend to do with the rest of my life. Unlike the previous times I was at a crossroads, like at the end of 10th or 12th, this time I’ve got it completely figured out. No more rat races. No more working hard. And very importantly, no more staying single.

My father believes that all my life’s troubles can be solved if I work my ass off for the next 6 months, take a dig at CAT (again) and crack it. I on the other hand have become somewhat of a romantic these past few days. Maybe because one of the worst periods of my life has come to an end? I don’t know. What I know though, is that all I need to do now is find a girl. A girl with a rich father, who if I’m lucky enough is dead, and has left her with all his wealth. Also no siblings please.

Ok! I guess I misled you with the word romantic. But what’s wrong? All of you want intelligent, witty, humorous partners while I’m willing to ignore all these and other qualities if the female is rich enough. So if you know any such girl, direct her here. And, below you will find a Bharatmatrimony style profile for me. Interested women mail me anytime with your father’s income statistics or if you are one of those independent female chauvinist types, this is your chance. I am giving you the opportunity to feed a man for the rest of your life and prove to the society that a woman is in no way inferior to men.

Profile: 21 Yrs, male, Unmarried, 5 Ft10  In / 178 Cms , 76 Kgs / (convert it yourselves) lbs , Hindu, (CasteNoBar), Tamil, BE/B Tech, Not working (to change soon, but want it to remain this way), Tamil Nadu, Chennai

PERSONAL

Name: J Abhinav

Body Type / Complexion : Average (will hit the gym if you say so!) / fair

Age: 21 Years

Physical Status :Normal

Mother Tongue : Tamil

Religious Information: I don’t care and neither should you!

Lifestyle:
Eating Habits: Non Vegetarian; Drinking: Occasionally. But hey, you’re the boss. So it’s upto you really. Smoking: Duh! Look at the blog’s name. But yeah, liable to change again.

Family:
You better not have any and I am willing to ditch mine.

Few words about myself:
I hate blowing my own trumpet but the 2 people I asked to write some good things about me told me they wouldn’t do it even if their lives depended on it. So it is with great humility I inform you that I am an excellent individual of average tastes and easily satisfied as long as I have food 3 times a day and a bed to sleep at night. I guess that’s all there is to it.
And yeah, if interested, comment below. We shall discuss further. I almost forgot…I also cook really well.

All said and done, my ego isn’t allowing me to publish this as such. So to retain face in society I am going to go on and say that all of this is a joke and I have a job which I’m greatly looking forward to begin this July. But deep down, I know and so do you, that I meant every word of this.

So till I write again…ciao ciao.

One could call it a regrettable tale…

Hello random reader,

Seetha was on her death-bed.

It is not as bad as it sounds though. She is a frail, 75-year-old woman who had already had two major heart-attacks and was not recovering from her third. One could say that she had lived her life and had her moments, if one were allowed to say such things when a person is about to die. One could also say that she had no regrets. Of course one would be lying then.

In fact, Seetha did have regrets, a lot of them. For starters, she was not happy with her husband right from day one and had lived her entire life wishing she had married someone else. A richer, kinder and most of all, a more caring individual. Although, one could not use this fact to claim that she didn’t love him. She cried the hardest when he died 12 years ago. Her children were actually surprised to witness this spectacle for she had always made clear her disdain for that man.

One could only venture a guess as to why she did cry that day and whatever the guess is it would be as far away from the real reason as it was close to it. Later on she did confess to her son that she had absolutely no idea why she cried that day. Her son, who had a Master’s in Philosophy and talked in riddles at every opportunity he got, attributed it to some kind of a void she felt in her life when her companion of almost half-a-century suddenly abandoned her. The son rarely made sense, even to himself. ‘Pretty much like the father’, she thought.

The answer didn’t satisfy her in the least and she had never been able to figure out her own reasons for the tears. During these last moments however, she even felt kind of happy that she was going to join him in his heavenly abode. (She believed in these kinds of things. Although throughout her life, she had maintained that he was going to go to hell for the way he had treated her). All she wanted to know was why? This is, if one is allowed to call it that, her first regret.

Seetha’s mother-in-law Janaki (through some weird irony, they were named after the same deity, Rama’s consort), according to Seetha, was a tyrant. One would be wrong to believe this. In fact one would be wrong to believe any woman’s take on her mother-in-law. Janaki could be a kind person when she wanted to and for once, one could rightly say that she just didn’t want to be that person when she was around Seetha.

Seetha didn’t lie down and take a beating either. One could say that their quarrels were some of the loudest and most remembered in their area, if anyone was still living there or alive and old enough to remember it. Of course one would be exaggerating. Indian households during Seetha’s prime were renowned for their in-law altercations and this pair did nothing more or nothing less.

The average Indian male, during that era, was often the centre of his wife’s and mother’s quarrels and the only way he could appease both women was by remaining silent throughout the incident. One could compare him to a pampered brat who enjoyed all the attention he was getting. One would be wrong of course for all these men, during such times, wanted only to disappear into oblivion and never return. The apathetic silence did nothing to help how Seetha felt towards her husband and she only fought harder.

She was most ecstatic on the day her mother-in-law passed away and didn’t need any Philosopher to explain to her, in riddles, the reason for her jubilation. Her regret now, was the fact that by some odd chance and great stroke of luck, Janaki might be in heaven, waiting. (She stoutly believes no sane God would ever allow her into heaven though.)

Then there was her son, the Philosopher. Seetha had wanted him to become an engineer or a doctor like everybody else. But Ramu (that’s his name) had always been lazy and never shown commitment towards any of his endeavors. One could say that this is exactly why he studied philosophy. One would be wrong again. Ramu like everyone before and after him has no idea why he took up Philosophy.

Apart from all this, Seetha wanted only one thing from Ramu. She wanted him to marry and raise a family like a decent man should. One could argue that marriage and familial bonds are not the only criteria to certify an individual as a decent man and yes, one would be right. But one should remember that for people like Seetha, the last remnants of a dying generation, the words decent and man hold very different meanings from what you are used to. It will be as difficult for you to comprehend her definitions as it would be for her to understand and come to terms with yours.

Ramu didn’t marry. He was completely against the concept of marriage itself and considered a family to be nothing but a burden. One could say that he was deeply affected by the way his father spent his entire life in frustration unable to have or realize any dreams for himself. One could also say that his lack of commitment had manifested itself in the form of this weird notion and allowed him to justify leading a life of solitude. There is no right or wrong here. If you ask Seetha though, she would say that some woman somewhere has been saved of all the misery she had to endure had she married Ramu. But still she felt bad about it.

The story of the daughter is more interesting. Seetha’s daughter Shoba was the kind of woman Seetha and her friends used to gossip about back in the day. She was currently in her third marriage which in her own words was “breaking apart”.  She was a very pompous woman who had delusions of grandeur and associated happiness with the bank balance of her current husband plus her own alimony from the previous two.

On e could say that had Seetha been exposed to her daughter’s society at her youth and educated in the same manner, she would have turned out no different. Of course one has no idea what might have actually happened when one says such things. It is but natural to blame the mother when the life of a daughter goes wayward and since there was nothing to blame Seetha about directly, one has to hypothesize such things by putting her in her daughter’s shoes.

Seetha, as is natural with almost all mothers, gave up trying to understand her daughter when she was in her teens and began blindly trusting her. One could say that Shoba’s education and her natural contempt for the middle-class (which at that point included her own family), made her a more formidable opponent (if Seetha ever wanted to take her on) than Janaki. Of course one would be stupid to jump to such conclusions. Seetha was very proud of her daughter and actually wished she had been more like her. Until the first divorce that is. After that, she only cursed herself for giving Shoba too much freedom.

These and a myriad of other thoughts were running in her head. As her chronicler it was my duty to share with the world what seemed to me the top-rated regrets. One could say I have done a commendable job. Sadly what happens next would make that statement completely groundless.

Seetha had a vision. It was her mother-in-law. She appeared out of nowhere and for a full five minutes stood there staring at her simply. One could say that she had a vicious smile playing at her lips. This one though would be the director of a mega-serial which stereotypes women. Janaki in fact was just standing there waiting for Seetha to realize her presence.

Once Seetha noticed Janaki standing there, for some reason which eluded even me, who was privy to all her thoughts, she gave her a dazzling smile. She was never more beautiful than at that moment. And at that moment exactly she died. One could say that through some unfathomable way, the two women communicated with each other and perhaps Janaki managed to ease her passing. One could also say that Seetha were hallucinating during her final moments and had gone crazy.

If it was the second case, take it from me, all her regrets would have disappeared. The one regret she would still have, which would overpower all these others and make them seem insignificant, was that of all the people she could have hallucinated about, why did it have to be her?

One could say that I’m wrong and as senile as Seetha herself. Maybe. Maybe not.

So till I write again…ciao ciao.

Pornography – An Art?

Hello random reader,

Pornography is an art.

In most of the porn which I have seen, the thing that is more fucked than the people acting in it is the concept of sex itself. It is violated, defiled and raped. The process of intercourse is made monotonous and it’s almost as if there is an unwritten set of rules about how to make a porno. Especially American porn like Naughty America, BangBros and all the other nonsense out there.

It usually starts with the male or female actor completely pissed for some reason or the other and the partner doing certain things to relieve them of the stress and calm them down. It is almost like a joke. There is an opening, and then the narrative (which here is the sex) and finally the punch-line during the climax.

For instance, the dude maybe a drug-dealer who is busted by a lady cop during one of her raids. The attire of the cop and her attitude would have “whore” written in capitals all over her. The opening is the most hilarious part in any porn flick and sadly most people don’t watch it.

Drug Dealer Dude (in a husky hunk voice): Well I’ve been caught. I’m going to get into a lot of trouble aren’t I?

(It doesn’t take an Einstein to figure that out dick-face. Stop stating the obvious).

Slut Cop (in a horny, sex depraved voice): You sure got that right. You’ve been a bad, bad boy.

(She almost fucking moans here.  Also, this like ASCII, is the American Standard for a Cunt Initiating Intercourse. This line could be used in any scenario. A student doing detention to improve grades. A secretary about to be fired. A person caught taking a bribe or somebody trying to escape punishment. You can replace the boy with a girl and you’d have the scenario for a bad,bad girl.)

DDD: I am in a dark place in my life right now. I need one chance to change things. Please..

SC: I don’t know. Narco is a major offense you know. And the amount you have here is not just possession. It’s intent to distribute..There sure seems to be a lot of paperwork.

(So the guy basically throws some sentimental shit and generally concludes by saying he wants to change. The lady buys it and starts explaining to him the gravity of the situation and how much trouble she’d be in if she were to set him free.

These movies are inspiring in a way you know. They make us believe that no shit is too deep if you have the right lines and a huge cock. I might even enjoy it if it came up in like 2 of every 10 videos I see. Unfortunately, these kinds of things happen in 9 out of 10 movies in the American porniverse.)

DDD: Is there any way I could make it up to you. Please..

SC: Hmm..I am not sure about this…(at this point she stops whatever she was doing before (which generally involves walking around the guy, bending down and putting her ass on display ) and begins toying with him.)

DDD: Hmm…so that’s how you want it…

And there. They start doing it. There is absolutely no idea where that came from right? I mean, for a few moments there I really thought the poor guy was a lost cause. He somehow managed to save himself.

Bullshit! That’s what all this is. The sex? I don’t even want to talk about it. And after they do it, there’s the punchline.

DDD: From today, I am officially a new man..sigh…

SC: You better be… (and the credits roll)

This is the reason I always feel that insipid pornography is going to be the end of the world. So next time any of you guys watch a porn movie, do not skip the opening. Listen to the dialogues. They are most probably the one thing worth taking away from it.

One of the more serious and scarier things to ponder over is that this is the sex-education most of the people these days have. Especially in urban areas. Looking at the state of things as they are, I’d prefer ignorance any day!  In fact, in Indian villages, I don’t think many men have seen even their wives completely naked. It is funny imagining how the sex is initiated there. Especially in single room houses with 2 or 3 kids already present. But there sure will be some passion there…

This post might not be suitable for everybody. tRead with caution. What? You already read it and are disgusted? Then go listen to some Beiber or see Twilight to cheer yourself up..

So till I write again…ciao ciao.

 

Going Crazy!

Hello random reader,

It was a dream. Or maybe not.

I heard the keys of my keyboard talking yesterday night. From the tone of their voice, I guessed that they were complaining. One particular voice was the loudest. It was the backspace key. It went about cursing me saying how I overworked it the most.

The other keys seemed to take offence. Especially the vowel keys. After a vehement ten-minute diatribe against me, they calmed down a bit. I thought they knew I was awake. I thought they knew I was listening. I thought they were going to stop.

I thought wrong. Once the keys made sure I was awake and listening, they started scolding me even more. Especially the keys ‘c’, ‘e’, ‘f’, ‘k’, ‘r’ and ‘u’. I heard insults ranging from personal abuses to doubts regarding my conception. It seemed funny. I knew I was hallucinating and yet, I wanted it to go on. I wanted to listen to them and some part of me told me I deserved it.  I didn’t want to intervene.

The reason? That was the one thing that was eluding me and they came to that soon enough.

The delete and backspace keys began attacking me again with a renewed frenzy. They said how I typed pages and pages of nonsense everyday and in the end completely erased them without any second thought. Delete went on to say about how it felt violated and how I didn’t have the courtesy to write something decent, worth posting at least once a month.

And thus it dawned on me that the keys too were pissed about me writing draft after draft without any substance and erasing them in the end. I thanked the stars that they didn’t have a union or something. I decided to put an end to it today.

How I know which key was saying what remains a mystery even to me. I decided to put all this crap behind me and write something.

my keyboard

I wrote it too and curse the devil, it sucked. There was nothing surprising about that. But this time I was careful. I didn’t use either the delete or backspace key. I selected it all with the mouse  clicked the cut button and closed the file without saving it.

(I just hope I don’t piss off the other keyboards…)

other keyboard

So till I write again…ciao ciao.

She’s just not that into us!

Hello random reader,

This is a truly random piece of poetry I wrote that makes no sense whatsoever. The boredom finally caught up I guess!

Once upon a time, in a land far away,

There lived a girl who had no say.

 

People picked on her when they were bored,

Otherwise, she was just ignored.

 

She yearned for the love of her life,

But it was all just woe and strife.

 

It seemed she’d never find her man,

Who had just the right tan.

 

Once she woke up in the dead of night,

Her entire body trembling in fright.

 

She told herself it was just a dream,

So vivid and scary to evoke a scream.

 

She replayed it again in her head,

And when asked, this is what she said.

 

I was transported to a magical land,

Where hundreds of men were vying for my hand.

Even though it was all so grand,

For some weird reason, it seemed very bland.

 

Some were warriors and others were bards,

And some who did tricks with cards.

There were others walking on glass shards,

But everyone seemed to be total retards.

 

Why this attention and a change so sudden?

Because of the make-up with which I was laden?

Then there was a thought which made me madden,

But after sometime, I did gladden.

 

Beauty, I realized was only skin deep,

Then all the make-up I had fell down in a heap.

It’s not men, my mind told me in a beep,

That was when I woke up from my sleep.

 

From that time on, she had her say,

And all the men were in her sway.

But that just was not her preferred way,

For by then she was happily gay!

 

So till I write again…ciao ciao!

The last train ride…for a while at least!

Hello random reader,

2011 seems to be a year filled with great hope and promise. At about 12 am on January 1st, I was drunk like hell and making out with a completely random female on the Chennai-Mangalore express! What better start to a year can one ask for?

This is exactly how I wanted to begin my first post for this year. Sadly, I was neither drunk nor making out at that time. In fact, if I remember right, I was stuck in a side-lower berth unable to sleep, wishing I were shorter. A very bad start to a new year. Even worse was the fact that I was going home to write an exam which was the toughest motherfucker I’d ever seen in my long and not-so-glorious career of writing exams.

I have come to hate train journeys over these 4 years. Every train journey is the same. I begin with great enthusiasm, partly influenced by romance novels/movies and partly by the desperation locked inside of me. This time there will definitely be a hot girl next to me, I say to myself every time. Unfortunately, that has not happened till date. Rather, if you were to see my companions on train journeys, you’d think fate had a very fucked up sense of humor.

For instance, this time it was a mother and 2 daughters. For those of you who went “wow 2 girls”, even for a second, don’t even think about it. You will be branded as pedophiles and become social outcasts. But this is one of my better experiences to be honest with you.

Towards the end of October last year, I had gone home to write another exam, and that time, it was a drunk guy. He was drinking in front of me, was hungry apparently and shouting like a rampant rhinoceros. The main cause of his misery, I later found out, was the lack of edible food on the train. The most pissing off part about this certain experience though, was not the lack of girls. It was the lack of courtesy. The pig didn’t offer me booze!

It has always been the same with train journeys. I have lost all hope right now. In fact, even if there was a hot girl, where’s the guarantee that I will muster up the courage to talk to her right? And even if I do, how can I be sure that she’ll fall in love with me? It’s all pointless I tell you. (This entire paragraph was written with the hope that fate reads this and decides to seat me next to a hot girl the next time. Reverse Psychology people. This is also written with the hope that whenever fate reads, it ignores the part in italics.)

The good thing though is that there will be no more exams for a while and no more train journeys for this semester( I hope). These journeys, they screw up your biological clock. One day you are sleeping mornings and staying up nights and suddenly the next day, you are supposed to change your routine. Adapting is horrible ( not really if you are in computer science. You could just bunk the whole day and sleep), especially if you have class immediately once you get back.

And parents are so inconsiderate. They don’t let you stay up during nights and sleep in the mornings. The only conclusion I draw from this is that they are jealous of us adapting to the American clock while in India itself. If I don’t go to the US, you know whom to blame now! (Also, you might think I believe in fate and all after reading this. I’d like to quote V here: ” I like God, do not play with dice or believe in coincidences”. And the exams were XAT and CAT. I am so not getting into a B-School..)

So till I write again…ciao ciao!