Monday, December 5, 2011

Purely hypothetical...

So I ran into ‘her’.
And like all women who’ve ever worn that particular pronoun in the history of written literature… I almost wished I hadn’t.
And like every time I’ve “almost” wished I hadn’t… Well, there’s a story here too.

There she is… sitting across the table not five feet away. Less than three strides for the average disciple. Two if you’re as tall as me.
There are people talking. Every now and then she smiles; and it feels another ripple has passed over the surface of eternity. And as much as I think they messed up the darn punch line, it seems I can’t help but smile too. I wish they get the next one right... I do so hate it when she stops with that smile.

My heart craves what is only the caress of her gaze, but I now look away. I’m much too afraid she’ll catch me staring. Leaving me too embarrassed ever to be able to tell her that now that I had found her, I knew everything was going to be alright.
The sun would rise again tomorrow. The dang sunflowers would point in just the right direction. And that maybe, just maybe, one day as the sunlight would be streaming in through half open windows, I’d brush aside the stray hair that crept onto her face and wake her up with a kiss on her cheek that half spelt “I love you” and half “I love how you yawn”.

She glances my way once, as if to thank me for my words. I keep looking away. Seems I have not the mind to accept such thanks. I only gave her what was hers in the first place. And then she smiles again. It begins in her eyes, like all smiles worth telling someone about.
Seems they were working on their punch lines, after all.

I think about getting up and talking to her. It can’t be that difficult. In spite of what they say, it is a good sign if your legs turn to jelly and your mind turns to pudding. If she understands me the right way (and there is no other way), she’ll know she herself is my poetry made manifest. The “ba-ba-black-sheep” that I’ll end up doing such a spirited rendition of can probably just be written off to... creative differences.

I hesitate. I would need something to start a conversation with. Women have not been known to take kindly to opening lines about the annual sugar production of Cuba.

Perhaps something to do with how she embodies that which is beauty… serenity one could spend a lifetime trying to describe and yet words would not suffice.
No. Too long.
Perhaps a simple “Hi” would do. Maybe that’s all that is needed to open doors.
No. Too simplistic.
Maybe I simply recite the alphabet in my baritone. Let pheromones and good intentions take care of the rest.
No. Too clich├ęd.

So, well, I simply walk up to her and say…

…and we haven’t stopped talking since.
(Most of it about things like the coffee output of Brazil. Told you Cuba doesn't work).

Monday, October 31, 2011

Eff one...

I’m a big fan of the sport. I have this 2002 Michael Schumacher – World Champion jacket that I’ll probably start wearing again in the next 15-20 years to my kids’ parent teacher conferences.
So it goes without saying that I was nigh excited yesterday. I shaved against the grain, put on the requisite 2 coats of aftershave (‘Harassment’ by Calvin Klein) as well as enough deodorant to tide over my natural pheromonal advantage. Cloth selection was done using a scientific algorithm known among laypersons as ‘The 80s are coming back’.

The getting there
If you can get past the traffic jams and the cruel irony of the fact that you’re going to see what people do on empty roads, it’s pretty grand. Everything’s real slick and well labelled. There’re signboards with celebrities and famous people pointing the way. There’s also a few with Siddharth Mallya on them.
The UP police seemed to be pointing somewhere other than the sky and at each other. I understand some goats had to be sacrificed over copper bowls for this to happen.

The place
Massive is an understatement. The track could have its own pincode, timezone and ‘Yo’
Mayawati so fat’ joke. That said, you can actually hear the cars from the parking. I can’t hope to explain how loud they are from 40 feet away. Imagine an airplane engine talking down to an incompetent daughter in law.
You can actually go on quoting Marcus Aurelius to people around you. They'll nod and agree. I can tell you this doesn't happen very often otherwise.

The seating
Spending 36K on a ticket is something I don’t see myself doing unless they include an option to be fed peeled grapes and having your teeth flossed gently by comely women. But I digress.
From where I sat, I saw, in increasing order of visibility:
1. The TV Screen
Was about a 100 feet away. Imagine watching a movie through an out of focus sniper scope with someone playing loud Himmesh music in the background.
2. The Cars
Turns out you can’t tell Sebastian Vettel from Mark Webber without the help of the big pointy arrow in the sky. All you can do is make “Here’s a Red Bull car again. OMG they’re so fast. Must be drinking… Red Bull!” jokes to the person next to you. And hope they don’t carry sharp things.
3. The Butt
If your BMI exceeds 35, you wear tight clothing to a public gathering and you insist on standing up everytime a car passes in front of you (very often), please know that the people behind you are left incapable of seeing… anything. The shade helps a bit. Maybe.

The people
Maybe I was just unlucky here. But a randomly polled sample of the people in my immediate vicinity revealed:
1. Irritating Douchebags
And I quote, “My daddy has 3 BM-dabloos. I crashed one the other day. LOL”. If someone says this loudly and their friends insist on laughing and making congratulatory hand gestures afterwards, you’re entitled by law to stab you slowly with everything that comes in a geometry box. Even the eraser.
2. 5-10 year olds
There aren’t too many sounds that can drown out an F1 engine going full tilt. Not even the benign pomposity of a Marcus Aurelius quote. So you’ll understand me when I say this… “That's one loud failure of contraception”.
3. The Floozies
Pretty young things. Present in much greater preponderance around said douches. I would elaborate, but that’s another rant for another day. Bring beer and Sprite. We’ll talk. Yes, I know she broke your heart.

The race
Turns out, with all the above going on simultaneously, you can’t understand much. What also doesn’t help is the insatiable need to get on Twitter during said race and retweet people with pretty DPs. I’m told this is an evolutionary thing.
Herr Derr some white dude won.
There were some accidents. I guess the drivers finally realized they were driving in Noida.
Also, “lap dances” is clearly misleading advertising.

Am I going next year? I don’t know. The security people looked a little perturbed by my repeated “So what happens if something goes wrong? Do you hit F1?” questions. I don't think they're prepared enough. Plus, it helps if you know what's happening without having to look into the neighboring pretty girl's blackberry.
If you weren't there, you didn't miss much. If you were and you enjoyed it, well, go easy on the anti depressants.

I understand your experience may have been better. You may have gotten laid, sold your Metallica tickets on Twitter and/or your daddy might own 3 BM-dabloos. Let me know. I burn voices of reason for warmth.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Bhaiyya... Palika Bazaar ka kitna?

You will excuse me if this comes across as coarse, crude or even unintelligible. As is usual caveman practice, I carved out the rough draft on a stone tablet with a blunt animal bone. And my fellow cave dwellers kept on distracting me with something about “fire”. New age nonsense.
So well, let’s set the record straight.
I’m a Delhi ‘Boy’. And I’m not a rapist. Or an oppressor of women. I can drive pretty well, and yes, I do appreciate my Rajma Chawal… preferably with sweetened curd. But I’m weird like that.
Whenever I talk to someone south of the Vindhyas (This is a stretch… I don’t even know where the damn mountains are on a map), I’m expected to conform to stuff “we people do in the North”. From what I’m given to understand, there’s apparently a large conspiracy afoot to find people ugly, make fun of their cultural/religious leanings and drive my SUV over people on pavements.
And you know, I resent this. Most of all because I can’t afford an SUV right now.

But I also resent this because I grew up with the idea of a consolidated, united India. For the most part, I took that “all Indians are my brothers and sisters” nonsense a little too seriously and ended up being pretty awkward whenever I was asked out for coffee. But that’s not the point.
I’ve never thought that the people of any part of this nation would behave any differently just because they were from that part of the nation. So to be labeled a “Pig” because I know a higher number of Vickys and Rockys than the national average is somewhat unfair.
Yes, I will grant you that Delhi per se doesn’t seem to have a stellar track record of safety as far as women are concerned… But assholes are assholes. Blaming “mindsets” might be the right way to go only insofar as you don’t start blaming entire geographical areas and start writing about it on your Stereotypewriters.
As far as oppression of women goes… is it bad? Yes. It’s pathetic and it takes a coward to make someone who loves you go through with something like that. But is it a sole patent pending trademark of us in the North? No. And just so you know, my ex oppressed me more than what is allowed by most UN charters. Most of my jokes these days are as a result of that trauma.
Be that as it may, would you at least pay heed to what little difference of preference that is “allowed”? I’m allowed to dislike South Indian food. Or North Indian food. Or those stupid Dhoklas those Gujjus keep churning out by the kiloton. (LOLJK, I would probably drive a 4 door sedan over people on pavements for a decent Masala Dosa).
Anyway, would any of this make me a racist? No.

Would judging someone based on the color of their skin make me one? Yes. Do I think Fairness cream advertisements (or demographic specific matrimony sites) display a stupid bias? Yes. But seriously, do I think this way (or not think this way) because I’m from Delhi? Nope. It’s common friggin’ sense.
So if I find a way to bring down the servers, it’s because I think it’s a fundamentally bad idea. And not because I want to facilitate the eventual invasion and takeover of the South by thinning down the population over there.
And yes, my English sucks. I can barely read or write. I forward a lot of text messages where “the” is abbreviated to “d”. Hell, most of my tweets are stolen Rajnikanth jokes. Again, I ask you, does this make me truly horrible as a person?
I’m sure there are plenty of rhetorical questions to be asked still, but as it stands, is ANYTHING grounds for thinking two people are the same?
Why would you paint me and my neighbours in the same brush? The Sharmas won’t hurt a fly. Neither would the Guptas or the Malhotras. But the Varmas three houses down are getting really irritating with their torture of small woodland mammals.
All racism is essentially a bad idea. As are most generalizations. As it stands, I’m getting progressively more tired of telling people that I am, in fact, a North Korean Jailor in an effort to get them to like me better. I wish you’d help me and my kin get rid of this habit. Adopt a Delhi-ite if you have to. But please remember, “My” culture, is in fact, “our” culture.

So… I repeat. I’m a Delhi Boy.
And I’m not any of those things you mentioned.
I do pirate the occasional 720p movie, but that’s about it.
P.s. I’m a vegetarian. Or I would’ve indeed mentioned Chicken in some form or the other. Modulate outrage as necessary.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

One step back, two steps forward...

A friend just broke up with someone she’d been with for 11 years. I don’t mind telling you that’s a significant multiple of the total amount of time I’ve spent with anyone (while suppressing genocidal tendencies or otherwise). Not that the guy was any good, mind you. The first time I met him he started making fun of her in front of me. And he cheated on her. And he was going bald. And I think she always laughed a little too much at the token “I bet he was terrible in bed too” jokes.
Still, when I talked to her last, she was in tears. She’d been that way for the last month.
Of course, it’s not surprising. I mean, 11 years? Most people don’t get 11 good days between them, try as they will. (At this point, kindly insert your condescension about my maturity in relationships into an orifice of your choice)

When I started this, it was going to be about exes. Those people you can invoke in every single prayer; be it to the God you like best (available at leading pantheons everywhere); or the forces of death and destruction that populate the blog of a 13 year old these days.

However, in doing my research (Facebook quizzes), I thought it’d have a little more meaning if I made it about that person who everyone hates and still wants to be. While I know you’d simply love to read a little bit more about Daler Mehendi, I’d like to make this about the person who moves on. Or perhaps, moving on. The sense and maybe the blasphemy of it.

Moving on, not just from the relationships that didn’t work out, but from all those other things too. Things that have made you cry and wish that you hadn’t thrown out that last soft toy. Big things that nobody else seemed to get. And the little things that just added up.

So, between you and me, I know that it must hurt.
I know it must feel like you’ve walked barefoot on gravel for miles on end; leaving behind footprints deep and bloody enough that one knows you must’ve been walking on your toes the entire distance.
I know that sometimes all that remains feasible is to just tell yourself to stop feeling anything at all.
Finally, I know that what hurts more is the question of what “could’ve been”. The question of finding destinations down paths not taken, of paths that now lay broken. (I’ve read your blog. You know what I mean.)

But I also know that underneath all the stifled laughter and the self applied “Cynic” tags, there’s still the idealist of 10, maybe 15 years ago. Someone who just didn’t know any better, and ironically enough, was better off for it.
Someone who was made happy by looking at kids who smiled, who danced when he didn’t know how to, who looked forward to finishing the box of chocolates so that he could buy another one.
In fact, if this someone was anything like me, I’m fairly certain all he wanted was to walk into a garden of Cherry Blossoms and watch shadows get longer.

As it stands, your pain is your own. It always has been. But it doesn’t have to be. Not for much longer.
Reach out if you can. There are always people willing to listen. Sometimes, there’re even people willing to help. If statistics are anything to go by, someone has effed’ up just like you in the past. And that nobody should let Sreesanth bowl.
Make bad jokes. It keeps you on the right side of sane. Plus, it gives the people around you the benefit of the Temporary Insanity plea at their murder trial.
Give someone a hug. I'm sure you know lots of intensely huggable people. The fact that some of them carry pepper spray really shouldn’t stop you.
Most importantly, remind yourself of the people you want to be happy for. And of those who’d rather share cheesecake than see you happy. (I find the latter helped a lot more. But I’ve led something of a sheltered existence)

Whatever you do, just keep in mind that you stand as a warrior. And as this warrior you fight demons. Demons that will not relent. Demons that will bleed a river before they yield an inch.

The warrior thinks of the times of peace. He wishes he didn’t have to fight. He is tempted by the prospect of going back to glowing mornings when the dew has not yet left. Of closing his eyes in the middle of battle to think of Cherry Blossoms shedding in a shower of pink and white. In an autumn of browns and yellows, punctuated by greens.

Yet he knows he must kill, but knows not the weight of the sword he must lift. And as it happens, the sword is heavy. It’s easier to drop than to lift. And the fight is easier to run away from than to actually stay and fight.

It seems that even when the solution is by far, the easiest thing about the whole problem, it’s the sticking to it that remains the most difficult. But then again, it also is the most important thing in the world. The warrior did plant the Cherry blossoms himself.

So lift up the sword and try it on for size. They tell me it was made for you. And they’re usually right, even when they aren’t.

The past is right there in your head. Come back to it when you feel like it (or knock yourself hard enough on your head that you don’t have to). When you do, I recommend you stand at a window and give long meaningful glances to the world outside with a glass of Sprite in your hand. But in the meantime, look at the present.
It wants you to look at it too. And give it a compliment or two. It’s a little insecure like that. But take my word for it, it makes for a great date.

Monday, March 28, 2011

Twittard. No, that’s a word. It really is…

If you're reading this, chances are you're not one of the 6 people without a Twitter, Facebook or LinkedIn account. Of course, you could also be one of the 100 million or so people with all of these services (plus a regularly updated MySpace page) and belong to a group some people like to call "The virgins". But I find that unnecessarily racist.

In case you don't know what Twitter is, you've probably been living under a rock. Or having sex. I'm going to assume it's the former, being statistically more likely.
But for the purposes of this discussion, I'm going to assume you know what Twitter is, have an account on said service and think using words like Anthropomorphology in a sentence is about the coolest thing since Oscar Wilde.

I've been on Twitter for sometime now. I mostly see it as an extension of a traumatic period in my life that left me wanting a little more support than was offered by way of overdosing myself on Sprite; or tying up people in the basement and telling them jokes.
And by way of having been there, I've realized a few things. You may agree with some of these. You may want to blow me for the others. You may hate the spacepod that brought me safely to this planet for the remaining. Please remember that I hold veto rights to whichever option you may choose.

Now, the people on Twitter. I find it safe to summarily categorize them into the following on the basis of their most predominant characteristic.
Keep in mind that categories may easily overlap, and then call after a week calling it a mistake because they were drunk.

  1. The Pricey Fucks
    You know these people from their inflated follower count and their Photoshopped DPs. While most people will simply wonder why someone who's discussing their morning transit and the color of their evening poo has roughly a bajillion people willing to listen, you'll take it a step further.
    You will @ to everything they say. But they won't reply. You will retweet the bejeezus out of them. But they won't follow. You'll offer to show up to clean their garage. They'll tell you the city takes good care of the bridge under which they live.

  2. The Emo Bastards
    I feel it is my utmost duty to remind these people of the following:
    1. She/He didn't care.
    2. You're so confused about who you are because you're gay.
    3. I know there's a hole in your soul somewhere, but there are other orifices that need your attention too.
    4. Most people have access to the Self help material you're plagiarizing off. And the remainder have access to HD porn.

  3. The Wise Asses
    The people who dare ask you the eternal question… "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to be consistently funny, harbor self-critical tendencies AND low self esteem all at once?" And in case your answer is "No", you're quite naturally expected to go back to tweeting about the song you're listening to. Because people really do give a fuck. No really. Have one. Yes, here's a good fuck.
    You will be reviled if you fail to consider Favstar an alternate God/deity. You will be pricked with chopsticks if you're in the news for whatever reason. And may God have mercy on you should you ever become a trending topic.
    And oh, Boobs is a funny word. You can't go wrong with boobs.

  4. The Bulbs
    You know these virile gentlemen as the guys who ask for your pics. You company for coffee. And wonder out aloud how "Your so beautyful" (sic). ALSO THE HUMAN PSYCHE CONDITION HAS FORETOLD THE COMING OF THE… (crap) Writer's blok has happened.

  5. The Mutual Admiration Society
    You mostly see these exalted members of #TeamFucktard and #TeamJackass on tweets detailing 34 people on a Friday. Fun Fun Fun Fun it is. And unless you're a. b. or d. above, you have to wonder how you're going to send across your firstborn so you can get into one of them tweets. No. I don't get your 18 consecutive Tamil/Bong/Punjabi/Mumbaiya/Australian/Uninhabited-Pacific-Atoll references or your frolicking with your friends on a mountaintop with koala bears and unicorn poop.

So that's it. And this had better get me some followers. You think I'm doing this for the science? Really?
There really are more people out there, I guess, but I sleep well not having met them yet. Also, Boobs!