Is there a cure for being nice?
I am sick of being nice.
The next time somebody calls me a nice person, I will wring their neck.
I want to go back and live my life all over again.
I want to flirt shamelessly.
Beginning, preferably, when I am in the 5th standard.
I will rain my rascally charm on all the girls in my school.
Seduce those hot aunties who haunted my childhood.
I will either be a laughing stock or a Casanova.
But I won’t straddle the middle ground.
I won’t settle for being nice.
I will pilfer my favourite books from the library.
I will collar the next auto driver who overcharges me.
I will say no to people, just for the vicarious pleasure of saying it.
I will mercilessly disparage those who disagree with me.
I will forever live in sin, bless me lord.
I will be an asshole personified.
But I will never ever be a ‘nice person’.
Give me 'bad guy', any day.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Some Old Guinness Stuff
More power to women. Who drink. Moderately.
I flunked my Engineering Graphics exam 6 times in a row. I might have passed it in flying colours, if my Professor had explained terms like plan and elevation with help of the poster below.
I flunked my Engineering Graphics exam 6 times in a row. I might have passed it in flying colours, if my Professor had explained terms like plan and elevation with help of the poster below.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Monday, September 17, 2007
Food for Thought
My hyperactive, 5 year old niece has an interesting routine these days.
She tears the front pages of Hindu and Times of India into small bits. Puts it into a small brass pot (a living room showpiece that looks like a sauce pan).
She uses a pencil as a ladle and stirs the mixture. Makes the sound of steam whistles to indicate that cooking is in progress.
Finally, she brings it to me and says, “Chicken Curry.”
To humour her, I pretend to eat the morning news.
She is happy.
She tears the front pages of Hindu and Times of India into small bits. Puts it into a small brass pot (a living room showpiece that looks like a sauce pan).
She uses a pencil as a ladle and stirs the mixture. Makes the sound of steam whistles to indicate that cooking is in progress.
Finally, she brings it to me and says, “Chicken Curry.”
To humour her, I pretend to eat the morning news.
She is happy.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
If you’re going to try
Bukowski was a committed alcoholic. He was also dead serious about his writing. He wrote at night, with booze in one hand, smokes in the other, classical music on the radio, typing away to escape from what he termed the horror show called life.
Watch 'Factotum'. It ends with this nice little epitaph from him.
If you’re going to try, go all the way. Otherwise don’t even start.
This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives, jobs, and maybe your own mind.
It could mean not eating for three or four days.
It could mean freezing on a park bench.
It could mean jail.
It could mean derision.
It could mean mockery. Isolation.
Isolation is the gift. All the others are tests of your endurance.
Of how much you really want to do it.
And you’ll do it, despite rejection in the worst odds. And it’ll be better than anything else you can imagine.
If you’re going to try, go all the way.
There’s no other feeling like that.
You will be alone with the gods and the nights will flame with fire.
You’ll ride life straight to perfect laughter.
It’s the only good fight there is.
Watch 'Factotum'. It ends with this nice little epitaph from him.
If you’re going to try, go all the way. Otherwise don’t even start.
This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives, jobs, and maybe your own mind.
It could mean not eating for three or four days.
It could mean freezing on a park bench.
It could mean jail.
It could mean derision.
It could mean mockery. Isolation.
Isolation is the gift. All the others are tests of your endurance.
Of how much you really want to do it.
And you’ll do it, despite rejection in the worst odds. And it’ll be better than anything else you can imagine.
If you’re going to try, go all the way.
There’s no other feeling like that.
You will be alone with the gods and the nights will flame with fire.
You’ll ride life straight to perfect laughter.
It’s the only good fight there is.
Friday, September 07, 2007
Smell
Quaffed some whisky yesterday. The label said 8 PM but my gut told me it was adulterated.
When I get up in the morning the sour smell of the whisky is still on me.
My breath reeks of whisky.
I am belching whisky fumes.
Even my piss stinks of bad whisky.
I must stick to my preferred poison. My neat, fragrance-free, tipple of choice: Vodka.
When I get up in the morning the sour smell of the whisky is still on me.
My breath reeks of whisky.
I am belching whisky fumes.
Even my piss stinks of bad whisky.
I must stick to my preferred poison. My neat, fragrance-free, tipple of choice: Vodka.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Eat Drink Man Woman
I was searching for clips from Ang Lee's new movie 'Lust, Caution', when I came across this opening sequence from one of his earlier works. This is the most delicious opener I have ever seen. Forget the fish and chicken, even the frogs look appetising.
I will leave you with a reference from Wikipedia. "The title (of the movie) is an old expression elaborating two main desires in human nature - to eat and drink and to have sex".
PS: I don't think women will agree.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
I am back
I feel relatively good in the morning.
I shave and bathe after three days.
Washing away the grime and bad vibes.
Smiling again.
The cough monster is still lolling in my throat.
But I forget about him.
Because I've got plans.
First office.
Then to Chaitram for the Payasam mela.
To gulp down every variety of that hot, heavenly stuff.
Of course, I will scald my tongue.
And it will spike my blood sugar and make me drowsy.
But what the heck.
I live for sweet moments like this.
I shave and bathe after three days.
Washing away the grime and bad vibes.
Smiling again.
The cough monster is still lolling in my throat.
But I forget about him.
Because I've got plans.
First office.
Then to Chaitram for the Payasam mela.
To gulp down every variety of that hot, heavenly stuff.
Of course, I will scald my tongue.
And it will spike my blood sugar and make me drowsy.
But what the heck.
I live for sweet moments like this.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Fever
I have a raging fever on Saturday.
My body temperature shoots up.
I feel delirious.
Coughing spasms rack my body.
When I spit into the basin, the sputum is speckled with something red.
Is it blood?
Shit.
The atheist in me takes flight.
God, I pray, let this not be a tumour; or cancer; or anything terminal.
I will do anything.
I will give up smoking.
No more cigarettes for me.
Isn’t that a great sacrifice?
Will you spare me now?
God, are you fucking listening?
My body temperature shoots up.
I feel delirious.
Coughing spasms rack my body.
When I spit into the basin, the sputum is speckled with something red.
Is it blood?
Shit.
The atheist in me takes flight.
God, I pray, let this not be a tumour; or cancer; or anything terminal.
I will do anything.
I will give up smoking.
No more cigarettes for me.
Isn’t that a great sacrifice?
Will you spare me now?
God, are you fucking listening?
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
All time favourite Hindi Song 2
This is not a song. This is an acid trip. This is what you dream when you get stoned. Revolving porcupine balls. Neon light tunnels. Golden skin suit. I don’t know from which 80’s disco hit Bappi Lahiri ripped this tune, but it sounds good.
Interestingly, the film (in-between the songs) evokes a completely different response. I first watched Namak Halal when I was 8 years old. I still haven’t recovered from that tragic experience.
All time favourite Hindi Song 1
I love this Asha Bhonsale, Bappi Lahiri song.
There’s Parveen Babi looking like a million bucks in that shiny, tight black number. Playing the cool and enigmatic seductress. Check out her Clinic Plus Sunsilk hair. See the way she literally glides across the floor? She can’t dance at all, but who cares?
Then there’s the suspense. Will Shashi Kapoor fall through the trapdoor? (And save us the embarrassment of watching him dance) Will Amitabh save him? What about Parveen’s mummy who is being held hostage? What will those pantyhose villains do next? Will Ranjit die of emphysema? (Poor fellow is chain-smoking in all songs).
Tension. Tension.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Girls
For my return journey from Chengannur, I buy a ticket for Kerala Express. Dash to a nearby bar and imbibe just enough vodka to make me sober. Catch the train with just minutes to spare.
Surprise. It’s full of girls.
One sits opposite to me. Young, dark, petite, in a pinkish salwar. She is perspiring slightly, making her burnished skin glow. After a while, she puts her feet on my seat, close to my leg. When the train quivers, her toes rub the fabric of my pants.
Good.
Another college girl is sitting by my side. She talks a lot, with her friend. About software mostly. Peppers her conversation with English words. Whisks her hair from side to side. I can smell her sweat, her perfume, and that indefinable, stimulating odour that women have.
I sit quietly. I close my eyes and dream.
Surprise. It’s full of girls.
One sits opposite to me. Young, dark, petite, in a pinkish salwar. She is perspiring slightly, making her burnished skin glow. After a while, she puts her feet on my seat, close to my leg. When the train quivers, her toes rub the fabric of my pants.
Good.
Another college girl is sitting by my side. She talks a lot, with her friend. About software mostly. Peppers her conversation with English words. Whisks her hair from side to side. I can smell her sweat, her perfume, and that indefinable, stimulating odour that women have.
I sit quietly. I close my eyes and dream.
Surreal Nair Rituals
They take the charred bones from the cremation ground.
Wash it with water first.
Wash it with milk.
Wash it with tender coconut water.
Wash it with rosewater.
Finally, put it in an urn with a lighted wick. Top it with flowers. Pray.
Such loving care. The dead are truly lucky.
Wash it with water first.
Wash it with milk.
Wash it with tender coconut water.
Wash it with rosewater.
Finally, put it in an urn with a lighted wick. Top it with flowers. Pray.
Such loving care. The dead are truly lucky.
The Autumn of a Matriarch
My grandmother died last week.
She was over 92 years old, so I guess time took its toll.
But the real killer was indifference. From the people she loved. Me included.
Aging gracefully is a myth. The moment your existence becomes a terminal burden to your family, the recriminations will start. Day by day they will strip away your dignity, till you huddle in the some dark corner of the house, wasted to bare bones, waiting for death.
When you reach this stage, you can be stoic. Swallow everything - insults, pity, contempt.
Or you could slash your throat.
That's when you wonder. What do you need more - the courage to die or the determination to live?
She was over 92 years old, so I guess time took its toll.
But the real killer was indifference. From the people she loved. Me included.
Aging gracefully is a myth. The moment your existence becomes a terminal burden to your family, the recriminations will start. Day by day they will strip away your dignity, till you huddle in the some dark corner of the house, wasted to bare bones, waiting for death.
When you reach this stage, you can be stoic. Swallow everything - insults, pity, contempt.
Or you could slash your throat.
That's when you wonder. What do you need more - the courage to die or the determination to live?
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Four reasons to like or dislike JKR
A small Q by Q rejoinder to those who say that I am green with envy. Of course not. I am red with irritation.
Popularity
Q. The whole world is reading JK Rowling. Why don’t you? Who the fuck do you think you are?
Someone who doesn't march to the beat of the mob. Someone with the power to make choices. Someone wary about everyone and everything that’s unreasonably popular: Titanic, Hrithik Roshan, Harold Robbins, Shilpa Shetty, Spice Girls, Michael Jackson, Indian Idol. Am I a cynic? Yes, if it helps me steer clear of the media overkill and discover things and people who really make a difference. And I don’t give a damn if the world doesn’t love them. Clear?
Wealth
Q. JK Rowling is richer than the Queen. That makes her an incredible person and a great writer. How come you are not singing her praises?
I don’t know how to frame a coherent reply to this.
Ever heard of Carlos Slim? Li Ka-Shing? Karl Albrecht? Ingvar Kamprad? They are richer than JKR and Queen combined and don't get their mugs flashed in newspapers everyday. You don’t need to be a writer, to make tons of money. You just need that uncommon common sense.
Output
Q. Look at the number of huge books she has churned out!
Never read Agatha Christie? Enid Blyton?
Writing Skills
Q. What imagination! The plot twists! How beautifully she writes!
I prefer Philip Pullman. I rest my case.
Saturday, August 04, 2007
Puberty
She looks at my naked torso intently.
Her eyes glance over my wild thatch of chest hair, forlorn nipples, protruding ribs.
She gets up and comes near.
Cups my chin in her hand and twists my face for a better view.
Then she run her fingers through the rough hair on my head, probing for something.
Her fingers play a cool concerto on my skin.
Satisfied, she prescribes a dosage of antibiotics, Clindamycin gel and Vitamin E capsules.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Farewell Auteur
I return home, close to midnight.
I log on to Guardian online.
On the home page, there is a picture from the Seventh Seal; Grim Reaper is standing on the rocks. There is a caption: Ingmar Bergman, 1918-2007.
I stare at the picture. Then my synapses fire and it hits me. Bergman is dead. The auteur of gloom is no more.
I remember the only time I watched a Bergman movie. When my heart took a leap at the haunting ‘dance of death’. And afterwards, even as my knees shook, I understood that Seventh Seal was not a parable of dark pessimism. It was about hope. About losing faith and finding it again. About stumbling on the meaning of life.
So I guess, the joke was on Death. He didn’t win. Not even today.
I log on to Guardian online.
On the home page, there is a picture from the Seventh Seal; Grim Reaper is standing on the rocks. There is a caption: Ingmar Bergman, 1918-2007.
I stare at the picture. Then my synapses fire and it hits me. Bergman is dead. The auteur of gloom is no more.
I remember the only time I watched a Bergman movie. When my heart took a leap at the haunting ‘dance of death’. And afterwards, even as my knees shook, I understood that Seventh Seal was not a parable of dark pessimism. It was about hope. About losing faith and finding it again. About stumbling on the meaning of life.
So I guess, the joke was on Death. He didn’t win. Not even today.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Bullshit by Bing
Came across an ‘inspiring’ book in library yesterday.
‘100 bullshit jobs and how to get them’ by Stanley Bing.
Felt reassured to find that advertising still tops the list of bullshit jobs.
Followed by other fulfilling vocations like Ayurvedic Healer, Motivational Speaker, Critic, Book Editor, Investment Banker, among others.
PS: Though the content is all bullshit, Bing wraps it up with a catchy book title (a previous one was called ‘Sun Tzu was a Sissy’). He would have made it big in advertising. Pity.
‘100 bullshit jobs and how to get them’ by Stanley Bing.
Felt reassured to find that advertising still tops the list of bullshit jobs.
Followed by other fulfilling vocations like Ayurvedic Healer, Motivational Speaker, Critic, Book Editor, Investment Banker, among others.
PS: Though the content is all bullshit, Bing wraps it up with a catchy book title (a previous one was called ‘Sun Tzu was a Sissy’). He would have made it big in advertising. Pity.
The hits just keep on coming
Life hit a new low this weekend.
First that Harry Potter thing. Another skin-crawling spectacle of hype and hysteria. The ‘universally ecstatic’ reviews. Kids and grown-up idiots scrambling towards bookstores. People who don’t even read a newspaper, devouring the 759 pages in one day. And claiming to be terrified, devastated and overjoyed after finishing the book. It's as if everyone is in the throes of a collective orgasm.
It riles me, because I tried to read those tomes and found that they strained my patience and common sense. How can anyone find the energy to read this babel of spells and witchcraft? Why not profitably employ that stamina to read 'War and Peace', 'Ulysses', 'Finnegan's Wake' or some equally mind-numbing classic?
Second, to add insult to injury, some goddamn Brit university conferred an honorary doctorate on Shilpa Shetty. For her glorious contribution towards promoting cultural diversity.
Somebody give me a long, thick rope.
First that Harry Potter thing. Another skin-crawling spectacle of hype and hysteria. The ‘universally ecstatic’ reviews. Kids and grown-up idiots scrambling towards bookstores. People who don’t even read a newspaper, devouring the 759 pages in one day. And claiming to be terrified, devastated and overjoyed after finishing the book. It's as if everyone is in the throes of a collective orgasm.
It riles me, because I tried to read those tomes and found that they strained my patience and common sense. How can anyone find the energy to read this babel of spells and witchcraft? Why not profitably employ that stamina to read 'War and Peace', 'Ulysses', 'Finnegan's Wake' or some equally mind-numbing classic?
Second, to add insult to injury, some goddamn Brit university conferred an honorary doctorate on Shilpa Shetty. For her glorious contribution towards promoting cultural diversity.
Somebody give me a long, thick rope.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Another day for me in paradise
Yesterday was interesting.
Reached Kochi by bus at the witching hour. Watched awful Tamil movie songs on the hotel TV for the rest of the night.
Made an hour long presentation in the morning. Put on my best smile and slurred my way through the PowerPoint. Wound up, shook hands and exited.
Went straight to a joint near the office. It’s high noon. Had a big serving of chicken biriyani first. Then downed three vodka & soda in quick succession. When the alcohol hit the stomach, it actually sizzled.
Hit the road again. Came across a colleague. Went to another joint with him. Knocked back two pegs. Light as a butterfly but still standing on two feet.
Got on Janshatabdi in the evening. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t read. It was like sitting inside a blender. A vibrator. For some strange reason dead mosquitoes were falling on our heads.
Got off the train at Trivandrum. Walked straight to Kirthi. Guzzled three more vodka & Pepsi’s. Fit.
Slunk into home without attracting attention. Browsed internet till sleep finally overwhelmed the mind. Had a great sense of well-being before I passed out. ZZZZZ...
Reached Kochi by bus at the witching hour. Watched awful Tamil movie songs on the hotel TV for the rest of the night.
Made an hour long presentation in the morning. Put on my best smile and slurred my way through the PowerPoint. Wound up, shook hands and exited.
Went straight to a joint near the office. It’s high noon. Had a big serving of chicken biriyani first. Then downed three vodka & soda in quick succession. When the alcohol hit the stomach, it actually sizzled.
Hit the road again. Came across a colleague. Went to another joint with him. Knocked back two pegs. Light as a butterfly but still standing on two feet.
Got on Janshatabdi in the evening. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t read. It was like sitting inside a blender. A vibrator. For some strange reason dead mosquitoes were falling on our heads.
Got off the train at Trivandrum. Walked straight to Kirthi. Guzzled three more vodka & Pepsi’s. Fit.
Slunk into home without attracting attention. Browsed internet till sleep finally overwhelmed the mind. Had a great sense of well-being before I passed out. ZZZZZ...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
