Hope against hopelessness

I was appalled to hear a woman politician from Uttar Pradesh's Samajwadi Party say that there have been cases of rape in UP, too, but not as ghastly as the one in Delhi.

I write this not with the hope that the person in question will get to read it or change his ways if he happens to read it. I write this because rape is an outrage, no matter where it happens and to whom it happens. I write this with the hope that this time, it is time to change the factors that allow men to rape. And, cliched as it may sound, change begins at home; change begins with the way we educate our children.

Dear Mr Randy-in-Delhi,

I understand that your hormones have taken over your limited capability to think beyond your testicular appendage. I understand that for you, being born with a penis is a matter of such fundamental mighty pride that none shall stand in the way of what your revered phallic tool wants. I understand that you must satisfy your carnal cravings in any which way you can, or please. I understand that for you, everything is on offer, and that you must grab it, without having to feel the need to ask. For you know not the meaning of refusal. And even if you do, you do not wish to take no for an answer. You are not one to back off. For you, grace is not in backing off, but in violating that denial because it deigns to defy your aforementioned penile pride.

I understand that you must at least ogle at a woman, regardless of her dress, and at least pass a remark, a slur. And given a chance, grope, touch, feel as you please. I understand that you are given to believe that a woman is always ready to get laid by you and only you. I understand that you have taken upon yourself the highly sacrosanct mission dictated by your dick to deflower a virgin, violate a non-virgin, and shatter any ideas a woman might have of her being human. I understand that violence is an extension of your might. That you must use it when faced with resistance. I understand that you wish to obliterate non-acceptance from women's conscience altogether.

I understand that you have the support of those who blame everything on Earth and beyond but you for your macho desire for flesh. I understand that somewhere, you've also had the support of your parents who brought you up to believe you are god's gift to the universe and god forbid anything or anyone that tells you otherwise.

I understand that you believe law is there only to protect your interests. I believe you have kin in high places who will bail you out in the rare instance that you are caught with your pants down. I understand that you bank on collective amnesia; you believe others will forget, media will move on to the next breaking news, people to protests about other matters, police to newer cases and governments to debate on quotas and FDI.

Mr Randy, I want you to now understand that your misplaced sense of machismo, your false masculinity, your smugness reek of your rotten self. Mr Randy, I want you to know that you are scum. You are the shit that this country needs to flush out, and believe you me, we will flush you out - one changed mindset at a time.

Yours sincerely
A new Delhi.

Thank you for the laughs, Bhattiji

Yesterday was bleak. Word of Jaspal Bhatti's death trickled in, and took a while to sink in. Soon enough, that sinking feeling surfaced yet again.

A particular slice of hilarity is no longer part of our lives. The news brought back those evenings when we, as a family then, sat worshiping the idiot box as Flop Show came on. Back then, TV entertainment was showing early signs of decay. But here was a programme that strove, and succeeded, in taking the drab out and giving us what we needed the most at that time -- a reason to laugh at the world around us and laugh at ourselves.

When Flop Show days were over, Jaspal Bhatti could be seen in odd news, spoofing government policies, berating inflationary trends, and that was that. There were a few largely forgettable Hindi movies, but blame Bollywood for roping in a talent just for the name and then killing it. Somehow, Jaspal Bhatti never seemed to let this set him back. His humour, when independent of constraint from producers and filmmakers, remained undiluted.

Today, the route comedy takes on popular TV channels is far removed from Jaspal Bhatti's. His was never below-the-belt humour. It was cerebral, never personal. It never needed a double entendre as a tool to rouse a few sniggers. What he has left behind is a very tough act to follow.

Who else could take a jibe at the political and bureaucratic practices of those times without inviting charges of libel, sedition? Perhaps he was not an activist, all he wanted to do was kindle among people that spark to fight, to be activists at a personal level. It was not a rebellion, but a laugh riot. It did not require anyone to be manhandled and paraded in streets, face blackened and all. The way he poked fun would secretly put to shame the ones he aimed his humour at. 

I don't know if that changed any lives, but it certainly did leave an imprint. Why else, after so many years then, would his death have affected many of us?

Why am I affected? Having heard and read the likes of Shail Chaturvedi, Kaka Hathrasi, Shreelal Shukl, I'd often wanted to be able to express humour in similar vein. Jaspal Bhatti perhaps taught me that one needn't necessarily go the hasya kavi way. In my teens, I aspired to be a satirist, but in those days writers, let alone humorists, were considered an abomination -- it was not a "profession" for your kin to be proud of, for it did not guarantee money, security and marriage. The dream is still alive. Somewhere in my mind, Jaspal Bhatti's laugh riot still trounces the dreary day-to-day tedium. Someday, perhaps, it will be.

Here's to Ulta Pulta. Here's to Flop Show.
Here's to the Laugh Out Loud moment that is now gone.

A shaadi rant

This neighbour of mine, a grandmother of teeny tiny itty bitty kids, intercepted me the other day as I stepped out to do that ghastly chore - grocery shopping. As all good mothers, mine had taught me to greet thy neighbours with a polite, "Namaste/Hello, how are you?" And so I did, knowing little of the consequences that would follow, the consequences, which for me are inconsequential, but perhaps meant the world to the person who stood in front of me.

"I'm all right. Par aap ek se do kab ho rahe ho," asked the neighbourhood auntyji. Literally translated, it means when are you becoming two from one, which means she meant to know when I was getting married. She quickly added, "Then we can come over to your house, chat with your better half."

As she said it, I began to picture her as the keeper of righteousness and virtue, acceptable social behaviour, out on a mission to convert anyone who dares defy convention, anyone who does not fall in 'their concept of the line'. Complete with a spear or a sword, and any religious text that she considers her foutainhead of bigotry. Brrr. I shook off the thought as soon as it got to the religious text.

Really? Is that all that neighbours do? Chat with your better halves? As if chatting with just you (as a single man, no family in sight) is an abomination of all kinds. Will she speak to my better half is she knew he is going to be of the same sex? I suppose not.

"No aunty, that's not happening. I am happy with my billi (cat)," I said, restraining myself from calling the cat pussy. I was surprised at the amused smile I could muster. But it seemed to have done the trick.

"Oh, you are impossible," she pshawed, rolled her eyes and muttered quick goodbyes (OK tata not been nice to meet ya and all that implied).

With this auntyji dispatched, I moved on to the chore at hand, but this conversation again brought me to this society versus you debate.

Another example that comes to mind, a very recent one at that, is when my own kin said it in as many words. The thing is, I was invited to visit Switzerland, but on one condition. That I get married and the honeymoon trip will be sponsored by them. Oh, right, I thought. You will be surprised when I do get married and bring my partner over for honeymoon. I would love to see how that goes down in their straight and narrow lives.

It's different with me, but for so many straight friends I have who do not believe getting married is the be all and end all, the questions that pop up all around them are the same. What, perhaps, is even more flustering is that when the people, who apparently should know you better, toss these questions as if they met you for the first time and had little clue of what to talk about.

Perhaps the concept of shaadi, or marriage, is so strongly ingrained today (thanks to the films, soap, commercials, fashion shows that focus on the bridal lehengas and groomal sherwanis) that getting married is considered the only logical thing to do in life. But let that decision rest with the two who wish to walk the aisle and let those, who do not, be.

I wonder when the concept of a big, fat wedding as a precursor to a happy life together started congealing in the cultural context. Your kin, your neighbours that advocate marriage are more often than not only interested to that extent. For after the wedding, they will disappear, leaving the two of you to fend for yourself, grapple with your own issues (which would have been the case even if you were single - they have the excuse that you don't have a better half with whom they can talk to and sort out your life. Not that you would want them to).

I also wonder if a slight difference in one's way of life throws the society's perception of homogeneity out of gear. Anyone who does not fit the slots created by the society must be considered odd, someone the others dare not have a conversation with, unless s/he got themselves a better half and then all seemed right with the world.

For me, I am happy not to be part of that homogenous mixture if that is all it gets you. I love the space outside the milieu, where this bunch of 'like-minded' individuals celebrates the differences we share, better halves notwithstanding.

A little whine shopping snit

Sometimes, you are forced to act the snob, not because you enjoy it but because someone will corner you with either his/her stupidity or try to impress upon you that you possibly cannot know better and do not know what you are looking for. The following happened at a 'Wine & Beer Shop' in Delhi. I am yet to come to terms with it.

So, this afternoon, I thought I would shop for things that I have been postponing for quite a while now. Anyway, off I hopped to the nearest shopping mall, bought all I needed and was headed out when out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the board, 'Wine & Beer Shop'. All right, just what one needed for the hot summer afternoon. I thought I'd stock up some Wine & Beer, and entered the deserted store.

There was hardly any customer, and it seemed I'd sauntered into the wrong place at the wrong time. Yet, the draw of beer was too alluring to rush out of this ominous trap now. So quickly, I picked up some beer, and then stopped at their wines section.

Duh! Wine.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, someone yelled, "Sir, ye wine hai (Sir, these are wines)."

To which I replied, as politely as I could manage, "Pata hai, isi liye dekh rahe hain. (I know. Hence, I am browsing this section)."

The man's tone changed, and he started yelling instructions to his store boys, "Sir ko wines batao. (Show sir some wines)."

And almost immediately, a pimply bhai saheb parked himself next to me, to 'show' me their wine selection.

I tried to resist, but then gave in, and asked him, "Zinfandel?"

His eyes went wide, and he retorted, "Gin? Wo to udhar hai. (It's on the other shelf)."

"No, no," I was a little exasperated now, "ZINFANDEL. Or Rosé?"

"Hain (huh)?" He went even more quizzical.

"Rose?" I said, making sure the sneer is obvious.

"Oh, rose wine hai na (Oh, we have rose wine.)," pat came the response. He then handed me a bottle.

I took it, turned it around a couple of times, and asked, "What year?"

"Sir only XYZ rupees."

"I didn't ask for the price, I asked what year... how old is this wine?"

"Sir year toh whiskey mein hota hai. Ye toh ekdum nayi wine hai. (Sir, years are applicable to whiskeys, this is the latest wine," the man said, with such pride that his chest was about to burst out of his shirt. That would have been the ugliest sight in the world.

At this, I beamed, pricking his big bubble and showed him where the year was printed on the label. "You see, here it is." I had a nagging urge to tell them - next time, don't assume all your customers are ignoramuses like yourself - but stopped short.

I picked up what I wanted, paid and stepped out of the shop, nothing achieved really.

The Fat 'Contagion'... why some research sounds blah.

First, they said you get fat if your partner/lover/roommate/dog/cat/turtle/lizard/whatever-lives-with-you tends to attract adipose. Today, there's a report saying that to lose weight, you must work in teams. Hang on a minute. So, if you start losing weight, will your whatever-lives-with-you will too, or will let you? Fat chance!

What if you were working out in a team that is industrially trying to lose weight, and after a hard day's blood, sweat and tears, you come home to your live-with-you, who is unabashedly soliciting the fat monster? I suppose you will have to get your live-with-you to join your weight loss programme, perhaps it would work then. You two can lose and gain and lose and gain in an eternal cycle, like your relationship — up and down.

Adipose, as defined by science (all right, by Wiki), is a tissue that acts as a "fat depot (I just love the sound of this)" and is composed of 80% fat. Basically, this tissue is supposed to store fat. The more fat you eat, the happier your adipose is, and it shows in your waist line. Also, an excess of certain nutrients is converted into this food stock for emergencies your body might face.

Adipose constitutes your internal make-up. Some have more of it, some less; some say it runs in the family. If your ancestors were generously endowed with adipose, chances are you will inherit that lipid legacy. So, to avoid that legacy from manifesting itself and ruining your chances of sporting a six-pack, you will avoid partners who could spell trouble with big FAT. You will discriminate, and you will limit your chances at having a life.

What if you were just living with yourself, you enrolled with dedicated teammates to shed extra pounds? You came home, looked yourself in the mirror and voila! Adipose was back into your life, pumping your lipido? Over time, you will lose your teammates, who will accuse you of slacking while they are doing their best. In such a situation, team dynamics don't look very healthy.

I think fat is just that... fat. You have it, you lose it, it comes back, you lose it again. Why bother if external factors sound contradictory. You can love yourself and love your fat, too. Just don't pamper it too much, that's all. Weight loss teams, weight gain partners... researchers will not let you live in peace with your lipid love.

Chaat wala presents: TIKKILEAKS

Julienned Lasagne, the fugitive owner of the whistle-blowing website TikkiLeaks, has created quite a chutney around the world with his leaking diplomatic tikkis.

Release date: January 15, 2011
The US Secretary of State for Loose Change, Loose Tongue and Looser Motion, Chillari Clinton, is said to have called Mooli Wasabi, the Japanese Minister of Pungent Affairs, a radical radish who cannot carry himself off without raising a stink. Clinton was even said to be contemplating a sting operation to expose Wasabi's malodorous dinner table diplomacy. She did carry out one, which was partially successful, she told her colleagues later, after recovering from a rather unpleasant bout of bowel disruption.

Screen grabs of Clinton's sting operation:

Mr Wasabi makes a statement in public before he arrives for the dinner with Chillari Clinton

Mr Wasabi's spoke to his guests about this amazing 'liqueur' he was going to serve them. The guests had little idea of what was in store for them.

(Above) Mr Wasabi unveiled what he called tear jerk pornography (TeJePor) as a weapon of mass disgust. Unfortunately, Ms Clinton regurgitated all that she had managed to eat—on the bag that had the hidden cam, thus bringing the sting operation to an abrupt end. (Below) Mr Wasabi's dinner spread, which was served as soon as he began his presentation on TeJePor.

A Very Veritable Breakthrough

Recommended by International Truth Serum Foundation and the makers of True Lies.

The Compulsive Liars Coterie says this does not work... oh well! 

I've been farmed!

India is an agrarian society, where farming is not just a means of earning a livelihood, but also a culture that transcends the biological boundaries. We have all been taught in school that India is a land rich in resources. Well, chief among them are humans. And by virtue of inherent randiness, human resources are quite renewable. Given that, it seems as if India was meant to be a big human farm, for none other than our dear friends from the microscopophere - viruses, bacteria, or now the extra-smart Mr Superbug. For them, there is no dearth of crops (humans are among the few organisms that are in heat throughout the year). India presents to our unicellular (sometimes not even that) entities this Petri dish, where they have all the humans they can experiment on and then fashion themselves in the latest microbial haute couture.

Viruses, or the fence sitters (we are yet to figure out which side of the living-non-living divide they fall on), have found fertile grounds here, in the tropics. It's as if they were offered on a platter an opportunity to go out, multiply and fill the world. The strategy, divide and rule, was spelt out for them. The other day, while reading up about Dengue, my colleague and I discovered that it's a virus that loves to travel business class on their exclusive carrier - Aedes airlines. And with a fancy name like flavivirus, who can doubt they belong to the uber-chic movers and shakers of bug fashion. It even deceives you into thinking it's a fancy food flavouring, as a friend rightly remarked.

Speaking of haute couture, our ramp scorching microbes love to change with seasons. For example, Mr P Falciparum and his first cousin twice removed, Mr P Vivax (he's quite a vivacious creature, but can be a little vexatious at times), have now teamed up with Jaundice Bug Inc. in Mumbai. They could be seen all over the town, jumping from one human to another, thanks to the sponsorship of their hardy hardline vector, Lady Anopheles of Buzznia. In fact, doctors here claimed that rigors, which used to be malarial de rigueur in the days of yore, are now passe. Instead, M/s P are now more influenced by influenzal leanings.

That Indian humans are of great nutritional value to the bug fraternity can be seen in the meteoric rise of Superbug, who once used to hide behind the thick microscope lenses in a quite corner of the serumaholics anonymous. While the world wondered and awed, hemmed and hawed, Superbug grew and grew in power. It proved to everyone that human crops in India are the best for rapidly multiplying little bug babies, especially if they are being nurtured in intensive human farms like hospitals and clinics.

Human crops have a dodoesque tendency to indiscriminately infuse themselves with weak antibiotics, irrigate themselves with extra-useless multivitamins and so on and so forth. This invariably works to the advantage of aspiring bug farmers, who too dream of zipping around the globe in their own rubber suits and red underwear. They practically have a party on the farm with such humans welcoming them with open arms and every open pore of their bodies.

India indeed is an agrarian society, where every human is crop, a pastoral delight for the germane germ gestapo.

 

When neighbours have a thieving for newspapers

It's a curse. A curse that would want to make you wish that your neighbours either have ants in their pants or are forever inflicted with haemorrhoids. Why would I say that? Well, have you ever woken up, all groggy eyed, and gone to the door to fetch the newspaper (out of habit, because you want to sit and read with your morning cuppa, lest you will never feel that you are awake) and realised that it's not there? You search for it frantically, wishing that it's hiding somewhere down that staircase, or has blown in the wind, or simply hope for serendipity. When you've run out of options, you settle down thinking that the newspaper guy was lazy again, today. Disappointed to no end, you have your tea in a very very grumpy mood, and have trouble passing your daily motion (may not be the case always). You feel lost, disconnected. But if you are courageous enough, you go out and buy your copy and come home. I, for one, could murder anyone who crossed my path at such times. Anyway, much later in the day, as you step out to go to work, you see that your newspaper is lying there. Somebody felt generous enough to put it back. And you feel like murdering some more.

Some years ago, I was living in a dead-end corner in Chembur. It was here that I witnessed the worst newspaper steal-o-mania ever. Every other day I found that my daily fix was missing when I needed it the most. It would mysteriously appear later, a little crumpled, and obviously read through. This went on for a while. Then one day, I decided I'd not sleep the night. When the time came for my newspaper wala to arrive, I planted myself to the spy hole. And watched. Minutes after the paper guy left the paper on my doorstep, I saw something that surprised me to no end. My neighbour's door opened, out came the man of the house and picked up the paper. At that precise moment, I opened the door. He was transfixed, but regained his composure almost as quickly as a fly winks.

"And what exactly is happening here?" I said, trying my best to get my stern tone right at that time of the morning.

"Oh, the newspaper guy left your newspaper at my doorstep, so I was only putting it back."

!!!!!

What in the world! I thought, but said, "If you need the paper, why don't you just ask for it. I've never said no to lending it, provided you ask?" 

My neighbour says, "Uh, I think you are mistaken. I was NOT stealing it." I let it go at that. No point in arguing with this one.

It wasn't as if they were the poorest of the poor who could not afford a newspaper. On the contrary, they seemed quite prosperous, materially. A husband, a wife and a little girl - a happy family one could say. But this was a totally different matter altogether.

And recently, a similar situation cropped up. But this time, it seemed reading the newspaper was not the aim. Last Sunday, my thick wad (I have to subscribe to a lot, my profession demands so) of newspapers all vanished. I was too tired to take it up, so I went back to sleep. When I got up around 11 again, the papers were back. As I took them in, I realised a fragrance was following me. I dismissed it as mere crankiness for not having seen the paper when I needed to and sat down to scour through the supplements.

It was then that I found out what the matter was. One of the supplements had something soapy all over it. And that soapy thing had a very shampooey smell. A quick flipping of the pages, I found one free sample of a shampoo sachet, tucked hurriedly back. Just that it was devoid of any shampoo. Someone had taken the pains to steal the newspaper, tear out the sachet, take out the shampoo, and put the sachet back, smearing all that was left over on to the otherwise perfectly fine supplement.

I never found out who did that. But the extent one went to, just to wash their hair with L'Oreal's colour protect-or-some-fancy-sounding shampoo for free?

We desperately need charity.

Signs that you suck in the social milieu

Have you ever had the feeling that you are being told off by the whole social circle concept that you are, er, not fitting in? For one thing, they said that the body is the clothing, and that your soul keeps changing it every life time. I suppose this social circle takes it to a higher plane all together. When you are the bane of the people around you (who'd rather not be around you), you are the undergarment that they'd like to change as frequently as possible (full marks to them for at least getting this hygiene idea right). Anyway, here are some tell-tale signs that could help you self-diagnose if you are suffering from the social anathema-enema:

1. Your so-called friends only call you before a party. They tell you they are running short of potted plants and ask you if you could plant yourself in a corner of their living room for the evening.

2. You get forwards in the email that ask you not to forward it to anyone you know, or will have the chance of knowing, or will never know. They also tell you that an eternity of bad luck will befall you if you so much as click Forward.

3. You rarely receive text messages. The ones you do receive are promotions that don't want your participation, but only need to wheedle your friends' references out of you.

4. The online lottery scams declare that you are a winner and that you've won squat. And they ask you NOT to reply to their mail or follow any link.

5. In bed, your girlfriend/boyfriend/plastic doll friend tells you, "Not tonight dear! You give me a headache." Or "Not tonight dear, or else I'll give you a black eye/herpes/fatal-scrotal-squeeze."

6. You are denied a promotion no matter how much cleavage you've shown/licked ugly rears at the workplace.

7. A hot chick digs you on a dating site. And tells you she's writing a book titled "What's a girl like you doing with a loser like that?"

8. At school, your teachers never saw you raise your hand when you were dying to answer a question, but somehow always managed to catch the guy/girl next to you. And on occasion if you did answer, their reaction was, "Ok, who's next?"

9. They tell you that they want to tell you a joke, and scream, "It's YOU!" and follow it up with hyena-like hysterical cackling.

10. Your neighbours redirect their spam to your address. And tell you they did it out of concern and they think these mailers will have something useful for you.

 

The Sad Demise of The School's Music Teacher?

There's a school next to my apartment complex. Often, you hear the squeaks and squawks of bachhalog, much reminiscent of how we used to be as kids outside (and most of the time, inside) the classroom. When I had moved into the flat, the first few days, I'd look out my window overlooking the school premises and all the memories of school days would come flooding back. But such nostalgia was short lived.

One not-so-fine morning, after a hard night's sleep, I was rudely awakened by nauseating refrains from (with due apologies to MJ - may his Soul, R&B, Pop, Rap And The Rest rest in peace) Heal The World. At first I thought someone had overdosed on Jackson mania to be playing the tune over and over again, and that too from top. As soon as my mind cleared the dreamy clutter of a bad morning, I heard chorus. It was the school children singing. Along with Mr Jackson.If that was not enough, the incessant "make it a better place..." was replaced by "Jay Ho! Whatchamacallit Jay Ho! Baila Baila... Alooo Aloooo".

"What in the-name-of-global-warming-hell is this?" I wondered. It took me a while to realign the scenario. It was this school. And it was some sort of rehearsal. The minute realisation dawned on me as sullenly as the day had broken, I wanted to go hide in the farthest corner of the world.

Wait a minute. Did I miss out on some centuries ever since I left my school days behind? Or was it scholarly devolution that I was omitted out of, in the scheme of things? Darling Darwin, if ever there was an anomaly in your views on evolution, it was here.Or maybe, I have passed into the annals of paleontology as an extinct sub-species of Neanderthals that never coped with the need to chant Jay Ho at the least provocation, lest the Joneses thought you were quite an Indo-Rahman-And-Slumdog-phobe.

In my time (at school, i.e.) icons of such pop culture were systematically held in disdain. School functions would never (barring an odd or some casual event) feature music or imagery of pop non-sense. The assembly halls would echo with sounds of prayers, songs, and words that seem to be lost in today's time. When the synth sounds of a cheap Casio scrapes your ear drums, you wonder whatever happened to the music teacher's harmonium and tabla?

Some might call it progress, moving with the times, and whatever it is in the name of looking ahead. But, somewhere down the line, aren't we losing a treasure trove that one would remember school times by? I mean, you can always listen to your MJs and Celine Dions and Britneys and Lady Gagas on your iPod. On the other hand, where else but in school would you have found another "Wo Shakti Humein Do Dayanidhe, Kartavya Marg Par Tar Jaayen..." playing? Not that you'd be inclined to listen to it again, but may be one day, you'd recall it with a little fondness, just for the sake of remembering the time.

PS: Even as I finish writing this, A R Rahman is back with a boom on the school's loudspeaker.

To, Your Uncertain Royal Highness

Hello uncertainty. I understand you and I have become shadows of each other? From the time I wake up, you greet me with questions, and the day goes by with more question marks than the toughest interviewer I ever faced in life posed. And if that was not enough, you pop up at every single turn I take and (at the cost of stinging Mr Gordon Sumner) every move I make.

I trust that I can no longer trust myself, with you being my falter ego. Did you somewhere put those invisible tripwires that I seem to stumble over nowadays? Maybe the answer's yes, but then again, it's uncertain. And does it please you to see one humbled so, when one did not have lofty ambition to begin with?

So much for a little peace of mind. I heard it was your bane, your arch enemy. And that you'd fight tooth and nail, AND win, in this unsettling, never-ending battle. They tell me, you're what makes life worth living. I'd agree, but what about those who haven't yet quite come to terms with having you around, and give up on themselves, purely because you wouldn't give up being what you are?

Our ancestors spoke about a remedy: Conformity. Conform, and all your troubles will disappear like a lonely raindrop on the hot sands of a desert. Yay! But conformity is too high a price to pay. I'm sorry, at least I'm certain I can't give you that pleasure. And even if I did, would you really guarantee that I'd be rid of you? I'm sure you'd pop up in some other conformist avatar.

Uncertainty, in no uncertain terms I tell you. It's not always nice to have you around. So would you mind while I keep aside my thoughts awhile and figure out a way to put you in place?

I hear you grinning. Oh, right! There you go again.

FREE TIT SHOW!

Saath Saath, Hum Dono, Etc... Part 1

Out of the corner of my crooked eye, I spotted that. That was this obscure, but rotund orange blob... at first I thought Nagpur had presented the world's biggest santara, but then i focussed. The blob transformed into a semblance of the missing link between Neandethals and Homo sapiens sapiens. The thought was brushed aside, as work overpowered me.

And then, close enounters. Hello Sweetness, I mumbled to myself, as a beaming perfect 32 came across, and sat down beside me.

"You know, you can lean on my broad, more than macho shoulders. " He seemed to exude.

"Icky", i seemed to feel.

"Sooooo," he breathed out.

"Wellllll", I craned away... just a little, trying not to be obvious and match up to the syrup all around.

"Good to know you work here," he grinned.

"Good that I work," I echoed the grin.

"What have you been doing?" Ahhhh. Here it was. The first in a series of inquisitive blitzkreig.

"Where Do I Begin...." Andy Williams was welling up inside of me. The bolus was building up. It was right up the oesophagus, when I composed myself. A stitch in time, lest our man of equatorial vastness be covered with the detritus of my ill-disposition.

"Oh, just work," I managed to blurt.

Another beaming, "I can see that, but what exactly is your profile here?" He clarified the brief.

"My profile? I write."

"Oh, and what is it that you write?"

"Ummm..." a tough one that was. What exactly did I write? "Uh, I do the ideas, and whatever follows that," I said, trying not to look addled.

He sensed that, which is credit worthy. "Oh tell me what have you been working as before this?"

Easier, I thought. "A copywriter."

"Oh, do you copy and write?" I should have seen this coming. Wasn't it clear, the way people found ways to stab you with obtuse wit? But this one was very commonplace - the average joe's rubber lancet.

It didn't bother me. I had heard this one to its death.

"Yes, I copy and then I write, it's the perfect way to find satchitanand. Remember Sri Sri Ravishankar? He once visited me in my dream. He was dressed in white... I could see the glow of his aura, and it wrapped me like a warm mitten on a dark, wet, wintry night. He hugged me, and kissed my forehead. And, holding my chin with his benign thumbs and thin, nimble fingers, spoke to me in a voice as gentle and as serenading as an evening in Paris. He told me the Truth. Truth about working to achieve moksha. He said, Beta, why are you bothered so? Look at me, into my eyes. And I am sure there was this divine sparkle, which kindled a spark. But that's besides the point. He told me that Nirvana, is in my own hands - my own fist. The fist that holds a pen is the fist that holds Brahma's essence. Unto your fist, you have the power to move the universe. Write beta write. But do not write what you think of. Write of what they think of. Write what they want you to write, and they shall be happy. When they are happy, you will be happy. And with happiness around you, you will feel one with the fist.

"This is what Baba told me, and you know what he told me next in my transcendental dream?"

Silence.

"You know?"

Silence.

I opened my eyes. Blob, aka terror on the wheels, for some mysterious reason I still cannot figure out till date, had vanished.

He'll be back... a voice whispered. I looked around. It was another copier paster. Like me. Eternal sufferers sailing on a Titanic with Celine played live as "entertainment". We exchanged glances, and pasted onto our respective documents whatever it was we had Ctrl+Ced.

Against laziness

So here we are, after months and months of deliberation! Finally a blog of my own. All this while I only heard from all corners - blog this blog that etc. So I decided to blog me. And this is how joining the bandwagon feels like!

A burst of trumpets, and some singing and dancing folks! This sounds like I am not a virgin anymore. I have been deflowered by this thing called blog. Bloggone it! Now I am infected, I might as well behave like a blogger, show the symptoms - no, not frothing at the mouth... but first tell all the friends that here it is.

What do I do now? Create something bubblegummily teenybopper? Or write a rabid critique of whatshisname? Or muse over the niceties in life... sigh... or simply rant on like this forever? I don't really know. Guess random ramblings are the best. People often don't get what I say. Not even after 1239845 repetitions. So, till the next rambling session, let's all be the Lunatix on the Turf (;-) if you know what I mean)? Ciao, and light up the peace pipe.