Benetton and the ad controversy

The Benetton ads get better by the day. The latest 'Unhate' campaign shows world leaders making out to promote world peace.

Brilliant, but controversial. The picture of the Pope going at it with the Imam required a lot of balls to create. It got the desired effect and was taken down a day after. Nobody gave a rat's ass about the Supreme leader of North Korea kissing the President of South Korea or the fact that the Israeli Prime Minister snogging the Palestinian leader.
Benetton didn't have Manmohan Singh and Gilani going at it, which, perhaps, could have created more controversy than the Pope and the Imam.

But I don't know why people are complaining. Benetton's ad campaigns have always raised eyebrows. They got into trouble when they had a picture of a priest kissing a nun. They pissed off a lot of people when they did the death row segment where they took photographs of people facing the death penalty and even sent apologies to the victims of the killers.
The ad has been taken off and apologies have been issued. But where Benetton stands out in its ad campaigns is to have an extreme reaction to their ads. And for any ad, that impact always works.

The tale of the nail

Blogging using a mobile phone looks cool. If I didn't have a damaged right thumb, I would have enjoyed it. But that is the price you pay for biting your nails.

I have been biting my nails as far as I can remember. I have peeled skin, drawn blood and done other disgusting, unbloggable things to myself. Thankfully, I have never been caught by my family or else I'd have been tested to see whether my parents and I carry similar DNA strands.

Biting nails is like any other addiction. It is as bad as being a chain smoker, an alcoholic or drug addict. Yet since it is just you eating a part of your own body, nobody gives a fuck. They would had you been eating someone else's nails, however.

Right now, I stare at my missing nail on my right thumb, along with some missing skin and say that I will never bite my nails again.

Hopefully one day, after my time, there will be a nail biting anonymous.

Published with Blogger-droid v2.0

Smelly Goat, your time is coming

Smelly Cat, Smelly Cat,
What are they feeding you?
Smelly Cat, Smelly Cat
It's not your fault

-Phoebe Buffay

I will never eat mutton again, I promise. 

Actually, I don't have to promise that anymore. My doctor has instructed me not to eat mutton.

Why will I not eat mutton?

It's because I have two goats sitting outside my office. 

Bakri Eid is around the corner and it's tradition to stuff a goat kept at home with food and then slaughter it on the day of Eid. 

At least the guys who live in the room next to my office purchased the goats yesterday. There are families that raise goats since they are kids and then slaughter them after they have become family pets. 

But that is another story.

Coming back to our goats: they smell. They spend their entire day headbutting each other, drinking each other's piss (I swear that I am not making this up). Shitting while eating and smelling like barf mixed with shit. 

But then, you get used to the smell.

It's one of the various smells in Bombay that you get used to. Some of them include smog at Saki Naka, Mahim Creek, garbage dumps and shit mixing with sea water while you drive near the beach. Now a welcome addition is the goat during Bakri Eid.

Another thing that amuses me is that the kids want to play with the goat. A part of me wonders what they will think after it is slaughtered next Monday. Knowing a child, it will just be another memory. For the adult, it's part of tradition, so this tradition will be taught to the child as he grows older. 

What has it taught me? Given that I have a Gurudwara blasting loudspeakers outside my place and the fact that my neighbours sing hymns and bhajans on festive occasions, the smelly goats are another test of my religious tolerance. 

And funnily, despite the fact that I am anti-religion, I am fairly tolerant.

And that is a lesson smelly goats have taught me.

Oh yes, it's also taught me that I will never eat biryani again 

Loudspeakers and religion

There is a Gurudwara a few meters away from my place.
Every morning, at around 5 am, there is a sound that comes out of it.
A religious Sikh or someone who is hard of hearing may call it music.
To me, it sounds like a gang-bang session with people faking orgasms because the sex is so bad.
Now, people reading this blog will go after my throat. They will call me communal because I've made comments like this that could offend religious sentiments of a minority.
Well, here's news for you: I have issues with loudspeakers on the whole. I have problems with loudspeakers during Ganesh Chaturthi or Durga Puja. I have issues with the loudspeaker coming out of mosques. I have problems when the Catholics of my society - a predominantly Catholic one - come together to sing hyms outside my room, which is followed by The Macarena or The Birdie Dance.
You may argue that India is secular and you have the right to practice your religion.
I say this: India is secular. And I have the right to tell you to shut the fuck up.
And yes, my 70-year-old dad, who is getting into the world of blogging himself, shares this sentiment.

The Sniper

I wrote this piece a long time ago. It's part of my Google document list, but I think it's one of the better things that I've written when it comes to fiction.
Take a look and review:

I work alone and am best at the job. I work for everyone and everyone comes to me. They know that I am the best in the business. They pay me well. Money doesn’t interest me. I give most of it to the people who give me information. They get 80 per cent of what I make. I live well off the 20 per cent I make. Like I said, money isn’t what matters. It’s more the secondary aspect to my job. What I love doing is shooting someone’s head off. The sight of a single bullet going through someone’s forehead gives me immense pleasure. I know it’s a job well done because I’ve either killed my victim or made them a vegetable for life. I feel no remorse. I’ve grown up surviving so I’m always cautious, to the extent of being paranoid. I feel that everyone should be a survivor. Nobody should take anything for granted, especially your life. You never know what will happen next second. You could be dead. It’s as simple as that. But people take their lives for granted. I particularly hate those rich brats, who are born with a silver spoon in their mouth. They feel protected all their life. They feel they can do whatever they want. So when I am told to take them out, it gives me some sort of vindictive pleasure. It’s the only time I have some sort of job satisfaction. There is justice after all, I feel

I sit waiting in a room for another victim to arrive. I’m given an assignment to kill a member of the underworld. I’ve done underworld killings in the past, but since I work as a freelancer, I’m not affiliated to any gang.

This underworld member plans to stand in his area as the local government representative. I laugh at the thought, but it also gives me insight. If he wins, he would have been voted by the people. That’s the beauty of a democracy. It gives everyone a chance. It’s given me a chance to live my life. I think that if I were born and brought up in a totalitarian state, I’d be dead by now. I would be tracked, traced, tortured and murdered before I had a chance to take up any sort of arms. Then again since I’m such a good shooter, I’d be a soldier for some army in the state officially taking lives of intruders. It’s a thought that I have considered several times: joining the armed forces. Redeem myself. Officially blow off someone’s head. But then I love the sense of anonymity that I have as a contracted killer. Nobody has seen my face. Nobody knows what I look like. I come and go as I please. The money, despite me taking so little, is good. Plus, the secrecy excites me. It gives me a perverted sense of power knowing that I’m an urban legend. My sources, barring one, do not know me at all by face. The one, who did, died of natural causes and he was the closest I had to a friend. After that, my sources usually leave a note under a stone at several parts of the city that had been told to them by my late friend. I pick up the note, agree to do the job and get paid. My sources are happy to pass on the information, knowing that they get a cut from it. However, my sources are not like the police and underworld informers. They’re usually the guys at the top of the food chain. They’re the masterminds behind the plot and they’re very happy making good money. That’s the thing. The poor man isn’t greedy. He needs the money to feed his family and ensure that his children have basic education. The rich man doesn’t want any of these. Even without making the extra cash, he can give his family of all these, but the extra money will make way for that ugly crystal horse that is prancing near his front door. I guess dirty money invariably lands up bringing dirty purchases.

I wait patiently. It’s part of my job. The heat is unbearable. It’s something I’ve realized about Mumbai. Every year, summer gets worse. Two years ago, it was dry. Last year, it was humid. This year it is humid, but the temperature has gone up by 2 degrees Celsius. I smell rain somewhere and hope that it is the beginning of the monsoons, as crowds slowly gather to hear what their would-be leader is going to tell them. He is scheduled to arrive in half and hour, so there is a small crowd at the moment. Suddenly, there is a cloud cover coming. I can sense the rain. The rains are always special to me. Monsoons are the only time I feel free. The sound of thunder gives me a sense of competition. It’s like the heavens are taking aim to shoot. Every year, I hear of people dying because they’ve been struck by lightning. The lightning bolt is like a celestial bullet, I reason. If the heavens are okay with killing people, then I have every right to do the same. Like the heavens, I hold no personal grudge against my victim. It’s just something that has to be done. It’s my 9 to 5 job. As I sit back and wait, I ponder about what brought me to this job profile.

I was born to survive. My parents abandoned me when I was an infant outside an orphanage where I was raised. I would often cry myself to sleep as a child, questioning the empty space around me why I’ve been dealt with so unjustly. The children around me are bigger and stronger. I was always the runt in the group, which made me the easiest target. The favorite playing game would involve assaulting me. Initially, I did not know how to retaliate. I’d run, but they’d be faster than me. They would catch me, pull my hair, slap me, throw in a few punches until I started coughing out blood and then go away when they felt satisfied. The staff at the orphanage wasn’t helpful to my cause, either. They’d accuse me of doing something to provoke the bigger boys. If I tried defending myself, I’d be hit on the posterior with a cane. One of the physical education teachers made it a point to strip me down and continuously lash my back with a leather belt. It made him feel powerful, he’d say, as he’d grab my face and pinch my chest. If I attempted to scream, he’d gag me up and threaten to kill me. By now, I had run out of tears and I was in my seventh year at the orphanage. My prayers were never answered and so I lost faith in everyone around me. I lost faith in God and was beginning to lose faith in myself. The only thing that I have realized about me is that I’ve lost, along with the tears, my sense of pain. I no longer feel any pain – physical or mental. I’ve become as cold as stone and there is nothing that can stop me. As part of venting out my frustration, I would resort to exercise. There was a ground in our premises and I would run around everyday to increase my stamina. I’d also do a lot of basic calisthenics and pull-ups

We were shown movies at the orphanage, the only thing I looked forward too. Most of them were not meant for children, as the wardens and teachers would usually watch movies to amuse themselves. One of the movies (I don’t remember the name) was about a prison break and it inspired me a great deal to know that I could do this at some point of my life.

The opportunity came to me six years later, when I had just turned 13. My birthday coincides with the beginning of the rains. I’m sitting on the grounds, as the rain begins to fall on me. The other kids are playing and they leave me alone. I’m no longer the runt that I was and they think that I am freakishly strong for someone my age. The teasing had stopped a couple of years ago when one of the boys tried punching me and ended up with his shoulder dislocated in the process. The people around him saw the calculating way in which I snapped the bone out of the socket leaving him to howl. The staff never found out that it was me. The boys were too scared to tell, in case I killed one of them. They see the look in my eyes and get scared. They see no emotion in my eyes. They just see coldness and death. They’re not worth my attention actually, but I enjoy the fact that they are afraid of me. That way, I let them mind their own business and they let me mind mine.

My physical education instructor comes before me. He is a big man with a moustache and a large stomach. He has abused me sexually several times and I have hated every minute of it. However, today things are going to be different. He tells me that he knows that it is my birthday and he wants to give me a birthday gift. I politely decline to which he slaps me and tells me to follow him into the basement or die. I slowly get up and look into his eyes. He doesn’t seem disturbed by the look of absolute loathing that I give him. In fact, he seems to like it. He tells me that if I repeat what he does to me to the other teachers, then he will torture me. He describes his torture as administering electric shocks on my genitals.

The basement is dimly lit. It is a small room with a few sport’s equipments and old answer sheets. There is an old music system that is playing music that Bollywood starlet Helen used to dance to. He asks me to start dancing to the music, which I refuse to do. He attempts to punch me. I move out of the way. He smiles, accepting the challenge and attempts to lunge at me. I move out of the way again and look at him. He is not smiling anymore. I am defying him. He threatens me with death, but I’m not scared anymore. He grabs my face and puts his hand over my mouth, but I am ready now and I bite his finger as hard as I can. He howls, but the music is too loud for anyone to hear him. I lift my let and hit him down below. I know that I’ve stuck gold because he is on his knees screaming in pain. I know that this is my chance to escape, but I have other ideas. I see a hockey stick on the side and pick it up. There is 10 years of anger inside me. I owe this to myself and I know that this will bring my self-confidence back. I strike his head repeatedly. The aim finds its mark. I feel no emotion. This is cold-blooded murder. I feel strong; I feel powerful; I feel an adrenaline rush going through me. I also know that it is time to escape.

I come out of the basement and by now it is pouring. The boys are a distance away and nobody saw me go in with the instructor. The rain hits my face hard and the blood that is on me is washed off. I see the security guard off duty. He’s probably gone to take a piss, but I don’t care. I look at it as an opportunity to escape, which I manage to do.

However, once I am out, I don’t know which way to run. There is open space and I can run in any direction to safety. I rely on gut instinct and head to the direction of a train that I see in a distance. I have no money. I didn’t think these things over and I don’t want to go back. I run towards the station.

The station is massively crowded, which I am grateful for. I am wearing a pair of short and a white tee shirt that is slightly torn, but right now I don’t care. I see a train moving and look at the sign. It says that it is going to Delhi. The only thing I know about Delhi is that it is the nation’s capital city and it’s not a place I want to be right now. I’d rather be lost in a smaller town, but right now, I have no option. I run into one of the compartments and escape.

I sit in the room pondering my life. Do I have regrets? Did I do the right thing by escaping the orphanage? Was my killing of my teacher justified? I remember that the story had come in the news and there was a search for me, but nobody could find my whereabouts. According to the article that had been published, I was a deranged and dangerous 14-year-old. I was in need of psychiatric help. Today, I feel that the world is in need of psychiatric help. Everyone’s a nutcase. Everyone has issues to deal with. Some live in denial and some work on improving their lives. Me? I won’t call myself demented. I’m just doing my job. It’s the only thing that I know how to do. I’ve tried my hand at everything, but failed so I took the gun. I learnt to shoot and boy was I good.

The rain is falling down heavily. Rain gives me a feeling of retribution. It’s the time I freed myself. When I kill someone during the rain, I feel like I’m freeing them as well.

The people start gathering in larger numbers. Some of them are screaming and shouting with the arrival of the rains. I can see them dance. It’s synonymous with the firs rain. Irrespective of the dust, the pollution, the sulfur dioxide and the nitrogen dioxide, people don’t seem to care. They’ve borne the brunt of summer for more than four months (this year, it began in the first week of February) and most of them are baked. There has been water shortage and pipe bursts in the city. People are paying for water. Crowds gather near municipal taps for one hour everyday to collect their water for the day. The water isn’t enough. They fight; they hit each other; some even murder for water. Water riots are very common in the city today. It’s been this way for the last one year. The municipal corporation isn’t able to help upcoming societies. They say that they don’t have enough water for the existing ones and tell them to fend for themselves. Societies then bring in water tankers that are run by the water mafia in the city. They pay them on a monthly basis to get water into their buildings. Some opt for more environmentally friendly methods. They use groundwater management and rainwater harvesting techniques to ensure that they have water for the rest of the year. I don’t know what these techniques are, but I’ve heard about them being effective. My target tonight is going to stress on the importance of water management. Considering that he is an underworld member and a very strong ally of the water mafia, I think that I should hear what he says before I shoot him.

Although it’s raining, the sky isn’t grey. These aren’t nimbus clouds. This is more like a sepia-film like feel to the city. It’s been this way for the last two days. We’ve all hoped that the rains arrive soon, but it’s been playing truant. The weather was unbearable for the last two days. The stillness, the humidity, the heat wave and the absence of water left me wanting to kill myself. But now, God has decided that we’ve suffered enough and decides to do us a favour by giving us rain. It’s like his sadistic way of treating me when I was a child. They say that God helps those who help themselves. I tend to agree. I helped myself by killing my teacher and God helped me escape. Before that I had no faith in him. Now there is some faith. It’s not absolute, but there is some subconscious faith somewhere inside me.

Every time I’m about to kill someone, I wonder if I am doing the right thing. I question myself asking whether I have the right to take away someone else’s life. I feel that since there are so many deaths happening today due to natural disasters, people like me should retire and take up a normal 9 to 5 job. For 10 minutes, there is a battle in my mind between the angel and the devil trying to reason why I should or should not do what I do. Finally the devil reasons with me. He says that if I tried my hand at anything else, I would fail. I shrug my shoulders and load in a bullet.

One bullet. That’s all I need. I’ve never used more than one bullet since I started working as a sniper. I assure my clients that that’s all they need and say that if I use more than one bullet, I won’t charge them. They take my word for it and by the time the cops come to trace the direction of the bullet, I have escaped. It’s been the story of my life surviving and escaping and going back to do the job. My informers have not given me away, knowing that they will be in trouble if they do.

I hear a loud roar and know that my victim is coming soon. I set myself up for the kill. Thoughts of my childhood have, however, made me feel slightly nervous. My hand shakes slightly and I hope that I don’t have to use more than a single bullet. My reputation will diminish, I feel, but I know that I won’t accept money if I use the second bullet. My sources will be furious, so I’ll have to pay them off my own money. They need the money after all. For that weekend cruise with their family; materialistic bastards, I think.

I arrive tired and hungry. I haven’t eaten for two days. While I was focused on killing the bastard, I’ve been having nightmares through my train journey. The rain had stopped ages ago, but my clothes are still wet. I’m crushed between a family of six, who is on their way to Delhi. The mother offers me some food, which I accept gratefully. Although there is no salt in the vegetable that is served to me, I think that it is delicious. I’ve never eaten anything like this in all my life. The mess at the orphanage had two liquid-like things they’d serve us: one was pale yellow and the other was brown. I would call them shit and puke because it would taste like that. If we wasted, we’d be punished. They ask me where I am going and I don’t answer. They don’t bother prying anymore.

The train slows down. We’re approaching a small station that doesn’t look like it has any human habitation. I don’t know why the train is stopping here, but I take a chance. I look out. There is nobody there, not even a ticket collector. I jump off and try running out, but my feet are too tired. I slowly trudge towards the road. It is sometime in the day and suddenly very hot. The rain, which had cooled the ground only 24 hours ago, has stopped and the weather is hotter than normal.

It feels like eons since I ate that meal, although it’s not been over 15 minutes. The heat is getting to me…I am dehydrated and start feeling dizzy…I am about to collapse…I’m neither here nor there…I feel a pair of hands on my shoulders and heavy movement.

I don’t remember how I got here, but I remember the man, who looked after me. I will not specify much about him in case I say something that is an insult to his memory. All I can tell you is that he nursed me back to health, educated me and taught me how to shoot. He taught me the value of being detached and that my loyalties should lie with nobody, but myself. He gifted me my first gun and taught me how to use it. Over the years, with repeated practice, I became as good, if not better than him. He felt that I could become a sniper shooter. I didn’t even know what a sniper shooter was at that time. He explained to me. He explained the value of the eyepiece in several professions. The microbiologist needs it to see bacteria, the astronomer needs it to see starts, the photographer needs it to take pictures and the sniper needs it to aim at the head and shoot once. For my 21^st birthday, he gifted me a sniper rifle. Till date, I don’t know how he managed to. Acquiring a weapon license in India is a big deal. I wanted to ask him, but was too scared to in case he felt hurt. He sensed something was wrong and asked me. He smiled at my concern and told me that he has friends in places, who owe him favors. This happened to be one of them. He didn’t tell me who his friends were or what they did. Coincidentally, these friends became my informers.

I live with him for a few years more. During this time, he falls sick repeatedly and I nurse him back to health. I feel like a son nursing his father and he tells me one day that I’ve served him like the son he’s never had. I feel the tears fall down my face. It’s the first time I’ve cried in a long time and these are not tears of sorrow. I rub my eyes and look at him. He tells me that his time has come and that I need to find my way into the city. I tell him my apprehensions and he tells me not to worry. He has left me a small room in Mumbai. Another favour, I assume, but I don’t ask.

“One thing I wanted to ask you for a long time,” he says slowly.

“Yes?” I say.

“Why did you kill someone at such a young age?”

I’m taken aback. In all these years of looking after me, he had never asked me how I had ended up at his doorstep. I just considered it a stroke of luck and never bothered sharing it with him.

“How did you know?” I say weakly.

“Your nightmares,” he replies.

I don’t have to say anything. I look down ashamed. Not that I was a victim of child abuse, but because I didn’t share it with him for all these years.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier,” I tell him.

He nods and closes his eyes for the last time. I pay my final respects and go to the station, where I buy a ticket for Mumbai.

I return once every year on this day, to pay my respects. I stay for half an hour and go back home. People would think that it’s a waste of time, but it’s the only place where I found true happiness.

The prospective leader has arrived. He is surrounded by four bulletproof vehicles and cops. I find it ironic, considering that he’s wanted by the police in the first place. But these are elections. In the inquiry made by the election commission, thanks to the model code of conduct guidelines, my victim is guilty on several charges and there are suggestions that he will not get an election ticket. There are protests made by the party he is to represent. They try and pacify to the election commission, whose officials are not swayed by repeated attempts of bribe. The candidate is then asked to stand before court to be cleared of the charges that are placed before him. This is a moral victory for his party, which manages to bribe a few judges to clear him of all charges filed against him. He is now a prospective representative of the people.

He is in a white kurta and a dhoti. He has a thick beard, which is synonymous of several politicians in the state today. The look was originated by the late Shiv Sena leader Anand Dhige, who had and still has a large fan following in several parts of urban Maharashtra. He folds his arms at the public and starts addressing them about what he will do once he becomes a leader. He assures to solve their water problems, promises free education till Class 8 for both the girl and boy child. He assures jobs for locals and immigrants and promises no riots and communal harmony. He is cheered by the thousands of people, who have come to see him.

I am ready.

The eyepiece is truly magnificent. Although I’m nervous, the view through the lens targets my victim’s forehead and he’s talking and shaking his arms a lot. But his head remains the same.

I am about to pull the trigger, when I hear a scream. I watch as his body falls. The cops are looking around for suspects and the crowds have gone ballistic. Men and women, who are his followers, fall on the ground and bang their heads and are howling. There are people running and colliding against each other in this rain and it's a mixture of blood through cuts and the muck from the loose earth on the ground.

I am stunned because I haven't shot. I have failed in my mission. I've been fucked over, but the job has been done. I am supposed to be angry, but I think that since I was in two minds, it's better that someone else killed the guy. I admonish myself and say that I have to be more focused about my work. 

I pack up and leave.

I walk in the direction of the crowd running and make my way to the station. I am easily lost in the crowd and look like another frantic follower. I buy my ticket, board a train and get off two stations later.

I go into the nearest bar and grab a beer. It’s another job well done, although it's not by me. 

More importantly, the rains are here.

How to deal with relatives.

When I was a kid, I would take annual trips to Madras.
I'd spend time with cousins, abide by the law of the land, which was pretty feudal, and come back to Bombay.
My Class 10 vacation was the last long one that I had in Madras.
Since then, I've done four trips to Madras. And each of them has been touch and go.
I like it like this. Although I must admit that after last time's trip, I wished that I had spent a day longer, as opposed to a single day.
But then when I look back, one day seems perfect.
You talk to distant relatives you like over the phone. You can be nice to relatives because you're meeting them for a day.
There is no tamasha, no nastiness. All in all, everyone is happy and wish you came back again. Similarly, you want to go back as well.
Moral of the story: Visit relatives once every four years. Go for a day and enjoy it. They will think that you're nice and doing well. You will think the same about them. Life is good and you feel glad that you spent some time with them. It's totally worth it.

V for Vendetta; A for 'Anna'rchy

A former colleague of mine put my blog post headline.
I think that it's apt.
While I'm sure that Anna Hazare believes that what he is doing makes perfect sense,  what I've gauged from what India is today, a lot of people believe that he is doing the right thing as well. There are dharnas, candlelight vigils, messages, Tweetups, NRI gatherings - you name it, it's there.
But then, I think of what happened in Egypt and Libya earlier this year. So far, the protests in India have been non-violent, but it can take a snap of a finger to instigate a mob. We have seen riots in India in the past. While riots in general are not pretty, they can get quite gruesome here because the mob is huge.
We have peaceful mobs wanting the government to go, corruption to come to an end and let ultimate power remain with the people. If we look at it, we are the ones voting for the government in the first place. If the current government falls, who will they vote for? People are going to say the NDA and it's an obvious answer, given that there is nobody else. The Congress and BJP can never individually come to power for a while, unless there is someone who will change the face of either party.
The protest has also been an irony. From whatever I remember, people have always told me that Mahatma Gandhi was the worst thing that happened to India. They attribute that he was one of the principal people who got the British to leave us, but then he was blamed for playing what many have called 'dirty politics.' Suddenly Hazare, who claims to be Gandhian, is a national hero.
Hazare will be remembered most for his work in his native village. However, reports of his team assaulting villagers who did not abide by the rules have also come up. If the Jan Lokpal is passed, will we meet the same fate? Will it be the perfect case of 'Annar'chy? Only time will tell.

People's Republic of Bandra

There was once an empire called Bombay.
Bombay was then changed to Mumbai and its citizens, barring a few rebels, started calling it Mumbai.
Nothing happened to the rebels. They continued calling it Bombay and since Bombay believes in the system of democracy, barring a few protests, nothing happened.
Then came the characterizations of the Mumbaikar or Bombayite.
People living in town were called the people of South Bombay or SoBo. Geographically, South Bombay begins at Peddar Road and goes all the way up to Navy Nagar.
However, people living in Dadar and Sewri that fall in Central Bombay thought that they should be considered as residents of South Bombay.
The rest of the city laughed at these people.
Then there are the suburban people, who live from Khar Road to wherever Bombay ends.
And then there is the People's Republic of Bandra.
Bandra is like Harlem. I say this not because crowds are similar (although there are a select group of people living in Bandra who believe that they are black hip hop artistes and are seen sporting baggy jeans that start at their knees and end after their feet), but because for the resident of the People's Republic of Bandra, there is Bandra and the rest of the world.
When I say People's Republic of Bandra, I specify Bandra West. For the citizens consider Bandra East an area outside civilization.
I work at the People's Republic of Bandra. It has apartments, branded department stores, roadside stalls, fancy and expensive restaurants, expensive roadside food, street markets, two colleges, several schools, a few police stations and a huge fire stations - everything that is necessary for a city. There are mosques, churches and temples showing that everyone is equally tolerant of each other's religion. Yay for secularity.
Another thing where Bandra stands out is the fact that the main language spoken here is English. While the rest of India has Hindi, Marathi, Tamil, Telugu, Malayalam, Kannada, Bengali, Assamese, Oriya, Bhojpuri, Punjabi, Rajasthani, Sindhi and Sanskrit listed as some of the official languages of the country, Bandra's official language is English. The police speak in English, rickshaw drivers speak in English (I remember one of them telling me, "Sir, why do people say fuck off? Why can't they say fuck on?"), shopkeepers speak in English, hawkers speak in English. The best bit is that even if they speak one or two words, they think that Shakespeare was their ancestor. As a result, they speak to you in English.
The People's Republic of Bandra is an emerged economy. People who own homes here are the rich and famous, that is if they are not the earliest generation of Catholic settlers, who moved here. Because Bandra is an emerged economy, things are 200 times costlier than the rest of the city. One pomegranate costs Rs 50 in Bandra, while two cost the same price in the rest of the city. What makes this convenient for the store owners is that people come to buy because there is no life outside Bandra.
Despite all its idiosyncrasies, there is still a charm about Bandra. It has the only dingy bar where you can drink and smoke at the same time, while listening to crime branch officials discussing their latest case; you have an overcrowded 'garage' that makes the best vodka chilly, despite the fact that it is really expensive; you also have a place called Boat Club, which used to have a cheap beer deal until alcohol prices shot up.
The best thing about it is the craziness you can see. Where else in India will you see a woman, who looks 60, sporting bubblegum pink hair and wearing a leather skirt? Where else in India will you see a toothless old man, walking barefoot and wearing a t-shirt that says 'Good looks can kill too."? Where else would you see people not giving a fuck, while the rest of the country is raising slogans against corruption, but doing their own work to ensure that their area is the best in the city? That's The People's Republic of Bandra for you.

Shadows: What will we be without them?

My friend, Shaili wrote a brilliant piece on shadows.
Like she has said, we take advantage of the fact that we have shadows.
Unlike mirror images, shadows follow us everywhere.
Mirror images come close as we come closer and move away as we disappear.

Now look at the image above and imagine your shadow doing something like that to you.
Imagine your shape saying, "Ah fuck you. I want to have some fun and destroy you."
If you've played the original Prince of Persia, you'll know what happens. The shadow comes and takes out his sword. You have to put your sword back into your sheath for your shadow to do the same thing. If you choose to fight, you die as soon as you kill your shadow.
If you haven't read the link that I posted at the beginning of the blog, it says that our shadow defines us. It is an extension of us.

I remember one time, my sister and I went to the Gateway of India at night to shoot. I was having a lot of fun playing with the light and decided to take a picture of my sister and I as shadows. It's one of my favourite pictures because despite the simplicity, it says a lot.
Indian mythology told us about shadows. According to legend, the Devas did not have shadows, while the Asuras did. The sun and the moon notice this when the Asura Rahu disguises himself like a Deva, so that he can drink the Ambrosia of immortality. Lord Vishnu cuts off his head and they chase the sun and moon, which is why they 'hide' during a solar and lunar eclipse.
Shadows are a mystery, which will never be solved. They follow us in an almost creepy-like way, yet we feel comforted when we're walking down a dark alley knowing that they are around. We can sense someone is following us because of shadows, but yet despite all of this, we take advantage of them.
I don't know whether things would be different if we took them seriously, but think of this simple thought: what if you woke up one day knowing that you don't have one? What will you do then?

RIP Shammi Kapoor

If there was anybody I would have considered 'cool' in the 1950s and 1960s era of Hindi cinema, it would be Shammi Kapoor.
My earliest memories of him was on this show called Movie Mahal that would be aired on Channel 4 in the United Kingdom.
The show opened with a creepy old man wearing a dark blue kurta and beads talking about something. And then it would move to this guy dancing and sliding down the snow, screaming 'Yahoo!'
When my brother and sister tried explaining that the two people were the same person, I refused to believe them.
But that was Shammi Kapoor's life.
From the cool dude, he became the reclusive hermit after Geeta Bali's death. He made rare public appearances , but still became the first Indian to have an Internet connection in 1996 when there were options of TCP/IP and Shell Accounts. He had several followers on Twitter and despite staying in most of the time, he kept himself occupied and connected with the outside world.
When I heard about his death this morning, I was happy. The man had suffered from acute renal failure and was suffering.
He will, for me, be the true Junglee
Below are some of my favourite Shammi Kapoor songs.

Main Chali from Professor

Taarif Karoon

Yahoo!

Notice one thing in each of these songs. Shammi Kapoor has an expression for each word. And that was his genius.

Doggie Days

Some recent study said that man's new best friend is the gadget.
I think that the survey is full of shit.
If you own a dog, you'll know what I'm talking about.
Books come a close second, but that is for another blog post.
I've had two dogs in my life. They've been part of my life for the last nine years.
Nothing can beat a dog's company.
You can tell them about your day, knowing that sit in judgment of you if you fucked up.
They sense when you're down. They come to you and comfort you.
They give you an ego boost.
They give you unconditional love.
Sure there are the downsides: they snarl at you when they're sleeping and you try and wake them up. They snarl at you when you mention the word 'bath' or 'walk'. They piss you off when they want attention. It's like they burn you with their look.
But despite all that, it's good to have a dog.
Rani, my dog turns 8 on Monday. If I made her life into a movie, it would be a comedy. My sister and I make jokes about her weight and the number of necks she has. Rani gives us a look to shut us up and it usually works.
She understands us. She swears at us. And unfortunately, we don't understand her at all, except for the swear words.

Colours

Colours are strange things.
They are there all the time and we take them for granted.
When we go about our daily chores, we don't acknowledge the blue drinking bottle, the white plastic cup that contains shit brown froth that was machine coffee. We don't notice that a pink transparent bottle, with enough light on it can actually form a pink shadow on the white wall, thanks to the light around.
Colour is beautiful.
I never appreciated it so much, until I took up painting as a fun hobby last week. I've always been decent at drawing, but in school, I was appalling at painting.
Surprisingly that has improved and I have a little something here to show my improvement.
It's the banquet scene from Asterix and the Black Gold:

We think and appreciate black and white and sepia images, but imagine waking up to a black and white world.
Whenever I think of that, I always think of this Calvin and Hobbes comic strip where he and his father discuss a world in black and white.

And I'd love to follow Hobbes' philosophy :). Click on the image and enlarge the strip, if you believe it too.

Sita: Daughter of the Earth: A review

This is the second Ramayana-related graphic novel that I have read and it doesn't disappoint.
Saraswati Nagpal's story tells the tale of The Ramayana in Sita's perspective. I liked the perspective. The artwork by Manikandan is really good. And you can finish reading 92 pages in 10-15 minutes.
The story starts differently. It begins in King Janaka's court, where he and his wife pray for a child, are asked to pray to the Earth Goddess, who blesses them with a child. She grows up to be Sita, a girl who is beautiful, wise and strong, as she demonstrates when she moves Lord Shiva's bow. The rest of the story is pretty much where the Ramayana takes off after Lord Rama weds Sita. The search for Sita, however, is done like a back story that is narrated by Hanuman.
Nagpal has taken some liberties. In my grandmother's tale and the ACK that I read as a child, Rama banishes Sita after a citizen tells him that he overheard someone throw out his wife, stating that he wasn't like Rama, who took his wife back after living in the home of another. In Nagpal's version, Rama never says anything to Sita and Sita finds out herself and leaves Ayodhya.
Another thing that is different from the original story that I read is that Rama learns of Luv and Kush being his sons, only after they nearly defeat him in battle. Nagpal's story, which has probably been inspired by Tulsidas' Ramayana rather than Valmiki's tells how the boys go to Ayodhya and play music and reveal themselves to Rama, following which Sita comes and asks Mother Earth to take her back home.
Nagpal's narrative is really good. She brings Sita to life and the gentle touches like 'bhaiya', 'didi' and 'bhabhi' are added, which was not there in the original ACK.
For parents who want to introduce their kids to Indian mythology, I strongly recommend that they get this for their kid. You can buy it here.

A promising start

The Ramayana has always been a story of Good Vs Evil. Grandmothers love Rama and say that he is the epitome of goodness and it was only his dharma as a king that prompted him to banish Sita from Ayodhya.
Personally, I always liked the Mahabharata better. It always felt real. All the characters, including Krishna had shades of grey. It was and still is, in my opinion, the greatest story ever told.

Cover of Issue 1

However, one character that always remained a mystery in the Ramayana is Ravana. The Lord of Lanka was a brilliant man, a scholar, a great king, loved his wife (or wives) and family. Yet, we've all been raised with tales that Ravana was the epitome of evil because he kidnapped Sita and challenged Rama to a fight.
Funnily, Ravana is the only grey character in the Ramayana. Come to think of it, so were Sugreeva and Vali, but then this is more about Ravana, given that I've just finished reading Vijayendra Mohanty's 10-part series, Ravanayan.
I finished the first part yesterday and thought that it was really good. The artwork is superb, as is the narrative. I love the way it opens with Ratnakar (later to become Valmiki), meets Ravana for the first time. The characters look complex and I sincerely hope that Mohanty has the same consistency as the series progresses. For those who want to order their copy, you can buy it here.
Happy reading.

A general ramble

We sit.
It's lunchtime at work and all of us sit in our fixed spots.
There's a lot in our minds, but the silence is enough communication. Funnily, it's comfortable silence because we're all in the same frame of mind. The only consolation is the food that we've brought. There is homemade bread, rice, chappattis, different varieties of potatoes (currently, it's six), some meat and some dessert. We smile at each other and silently eat. In the middle, we complement what we have brought and insist on writing out a list of what food items to bring the following day. We discuss meals on Sunday and wish we were part of each other's house to sample out the Sunday spread for a day. While some of us are more generous with our invitation, others are very possessive about their food and say that sharing food will mean taking portions out of their labeled food. We then decide that we'll salivate over what was made on Sunday the following Monday.
We dream of vacations. Of tropical islands, of golden sand, of high mountains, of deep valleys, of the idea that there could be no cellular network. This makes us happy. None of us are in the mood to communicate right now, especially using mobile phones. We think that physical presence is more important. We don't even feel like logging into Facebook. We talk about Google+. I think its a waste of time having one more social networking site, given that it looks similar to Facebook. I suggest that we go to Hatebook instead. That would give us more people to add.
Work off late is not the best place to be. Sure the office is nice-looking, but we're fed up with the job profile. We feel disillusioned that what we came here for is not what we want to do in the long run. I don't see myself writing 400 character recipes for the rest of my life. You don't see yourself editing mobile content for the rest of your life. You don't see yourself writing health and fitness stories for the rest of your life. You don't see yourself listing out mobile phone prices. You're smart. And so are you. You got better offers and fucked off. That leaves us, wondering what to do next.
If only there was a vacation to look forward. Oh yeah, you and you are going on one. Grrr. While I know that you deserve it, I can't help but feel jealous.
If it's not your vacation we're discussing, it's a huge t-shirt that speaks of a Canadian city.
I'd rather speak about your vacation and feel depressed. At least none of you will have to wear that t-shirt.

Calm before the storm

I'm unable to sleep. It's monsoon, my favourite time of the year, but there is no rain. My bed is a distance from the fan, which doesn't make my life too easy. The air is still. It is humid. I feel sweat trickling down my back onto a heat boil that was formed during summer and never healed. I curse my parents for never investing in an air-conditioner, but then I remember that I'm the one who pays the electricity bill at home.
The only sounds I can hear are that of my grandmother snoring and the gentle whirring of the fan in my room. My grandmother is 86. She feels cold with the fan on. She is covered up. I am sweating and want to lie on a floor of ice. I thank the stars that there aren't mosquitoes in my room.
Then the lights go off.
My room, which is black as the night, gets darker because of the blackout. I toss and turn, trying to figure out how my grandmother sleeps so soundly, while I'm dying here. I wonder whether I'll sleep soundly when I'm 86. I then wonder whether I'll ever turn 86. I think of modern-day illnesses and what the future could hold. I think that 2012 could be cataclysm. I think that 2029 could be the year machine takes over and rules mankind. I think of horror movies.
Suddenly I'm wide awake. There is silence and I feel alone. My grandmother, who has had an exhausting day, is fast asleep. I feel as if I'm being watched. I argue with myself and curse myself for being illogical. I close my eyes and try and sleep. A mosquito comes from somewhere and buzzes into my ear. I slap it and end up slapping my ear instead. The fucker has escaped. I decide to take a newspaper and fan myself to sleep. It's a technique my cousin taught me when I went to Madras several years ago. "Fan yourself for five minutes and sleep for another five," she would tell me. I decide to follow this advice. It works. I'm just about to go to sleep when my dog barks the house down.
I curse and wake up with a start. My head is pounding because I've been woken up with a start. My dog is staring into my face. She's in trouble, I can sense. She is panting heavily and wants to go out for a walk. I get up and put her on the leash.
We walk out. Surprisingly the night is pleasant. It's cool despite the stillness in air. I envy the street-dwellers for a moment, thinking that they don't have to deal with a room that has no cross-ventilation, but take back my thoughts immediately.
My dog relieves herself. She realizes that it's cooler outside than inside and decides to walk some more. The night is dark. She likes it like this. She hates stepping outside during the day. But at night, there is nobody. The world is asleep and it is hers to explore. She sniffs at the plants and the car tires. She moves daintily from one point to another. I'm tired, but allow her to go and explore. I want to sleep, but I know that I won't because of the heat and the mosquitoes. I also know that I'll start thinking of horror movies and evil sinister plots and thunderstorms.
And then, when I least expect it, I feel a drop of water on me.
I look up at the sky. The sky that was a brilliant mixture of purple and gold a few hours ago has suddenly been enveloped by a thick layer of purple clouds. I smile, knowing that the rains are here. The rains that will bring cool relief to my room. The rains that will remove the rashes out of my body. The rains that will wash away the sweat and grime out of my body. The rains that will give my dog a much-needed bath.
Suddenly, the night looks good. I walk back home. 

Rain

It's here. You know it. You're at work, but you know it. The messages start swarming in. You resist the urge not to succumb, but you know you can't. You try and fight it, but fail within five seconds. You rush out - all dignity forgotten. You run downstairs, past your boss' cabin and open the door.
And there it is.
You see it kiss the hot ground. You see it patter on the surface. You see the dry mud breathe in the water. It's probably like an orgasm for the mud when it feels the water. The effect is spectacular. The smell of wet mud fills the air and you inhale it and sigh in happiness. You then look around. You know that you're going to be crazy doing this, but you do it nonetheless. You slowly walk out and spread your arms in joy. You feel yourself slowly getting wet. You see drops gathering on your clothes, but you don't care. Your hair gets wet and you love it. You look at me and smile. You call me to join you. I'm a little hesitant at first, but give in knowing that this makes me happy as well. We close our eyes and spread our arms and feel the water droplets hitting our face. Suddenly there is a rumble and we open our eyes. We laugh. We think that Indira and Jupiter are probably having a spat somewhere. We look up and stare. Somewhere there is a flash and one more rumble. We then talk about how light is faster than sound. We then look at our friends and tell them to join us in our craziness.
We all take a walk in the rain. Mumbai is still not ready. The roads are already full of traffic jams and some areas are water-logged. We laugh and talk about how things will never change. We discuss how the rain is necessary. You give me a knowing look. We know that this love for the rains isn't going to last too long.
But the first rain is always welcome.

Despite progress, things remain the same.

My family moved back to our house in Andheri in October 1991. At that time, the building in which I live in was the last building on the road. There was a dead end and there was an open drain that you would have to cross. On the other side, there was a Gurudwara built on the middle of the road.
The nearest shop on that road belonged to a pan-bidi seller. The shop was called Mama Pan Bidi Shop. Along with pan and cigarettes, Mama would sell cold drinks, bread and eggs. His shop would be open by 6.30, so that his boys could help deliver the milk. He would make some good money through this trade.
Mama was always indecently dressed. He would wear the Indian-style sleeved vest and a pair of striped boxer shorts. I had never seen him wear anything else for the 17 years that I saw him run the shop. Sometimes I would wonder whether he has a lifetime supply of that particular clothing. What would he wear for a family outing? What did he wear at his wedding? What did he wear when his first kid was born? What would he wear if he scaled Mount Everest? Another question that kept arising was whether I would recognize him if he wore something else.
In 2007, redevelopment started on our road. This meant that several buildings in our area were demolished and families relocated to newer properties in the city. It also meant that the roads were being widened, which also meant that Mama Pan Bidi Shop was going to be razed down.
It was weird for a while, but then I forgot about him. The only time that I would remember was when my brother, who moved to the states in 1998, would ask me what he was up to. He stopped asking as well.
This morning, while walking towards the highway, I decided to take an old route I would take when I was in school. When I turned and began walking down that road, I saw an old man in a sleeved vest and striped boxers. I looked at him and said, "Mama! Aap Yahan Pe Abhi." He laughed and said, "Paanch saal ho gaya, baba."
Mama is one of those people who reminds me of those Doordarshan news readers. Whether you see them in 1983 or 2029, they will always look the same. In that period, a lot in our lives change.

The river will always flow

I’ve been called many things. I’m sure that most of them are true. One, however, that I don’t agree with is accusations that I’m someone who takes people for granted.

I’m not sure what happened there. People have apologized to me for taking me for granted. Not once. Not twice. But several times. So when this accusation comes to me, I am surprised. Hurt even.

A friend told me that I’m like a flowing river. I have the rocks, but I choose to break my pace at weaker stones. Maybe I’ve been doing that all my life. Maybe it’s necessary to find the rocks that will halt my flow. Maybe it’s time that I go by what I feel about myself and not what others feel about me. And the best thing is that the river will always flow.

Great entertainment, I must admit.

So my favourite form of entertainment isn't any television show or some bad Bollywood song.
It is watching a conversation between my tone-deaf grandmother and my equally tone-deaf aunt.
In their defence, they've lived in Madras all their life. If you are a citizen of Madras, one of the credentials you need is to be tone deaf.
My grandmother and aunt, bless their souls, want to be part of every conversation. Sometimes it can get irritating, but most times it's hilarious.
So today, at lunch, this is how the conversation goes.
Aunt to me: I hear Rajinikanth is in hospital
Me: Yes, it was a short thing. He's out I guess.
Aunt: He had a drinking problem
My sister (with a wtf look): He never drank
Aunt: He's in the films. Everyone there drinks. He stopped three months ago
My grandmother: Whose heart stopped beating three months ago?
Aunt: What?
Grandmother: Whose heart stopped beating three months ago.
Me (looking at my father sitting quietly in the background and watching the entertainment on his rocking chair, but still having a look of exasperation on his face): Hahaha
My mother gives me a dirty look, while my aunt starts laughing as well
Grandmother: Why are you laughing
My mother (clearly pissed off): Who lives when their heart stops beating for three months?
Grandmother: I don't know.
My mother: Then why did you ask that question?
Grandmother: I said what she said.
Aunt: I said drinking three months ago.
Grandmother: Who drank three months ago?
Aunt: Rajinikanth.

I wish my work ended really early, so that I could hear conversations like this everyday.

The air conditioning factor

I consider myself fairly lucky.
The summer's bad, but thankfully I'm one of the few laptop users at office.
This analogy would not make sense to most of you, but my colleagues know exactly what I'm talking about.
Our office is a bungalow in Bandra that has a ground and first floor.
The air conditioners are not functioning on the first floor.
Thankfully, our bosses said that laptop owners can work downstairs where the air conditioner is fully functional.
Right now, myself and this other colleague of mine, who also happens to be a friend, are the most hated poople on the floor.
But that's okay. We have the AC.
***
That experience of sitting on the first floor made me realise what a government job feels like after lunch.
Your head feels heavy. You're eyes are drooping. There is this cooler that has been installed, but it doesn't have any effect because nobody feels cool. Yet the sound of a fan whirring at that pace becomes part of the room. It no longer feels like an external factor.
You're staring at your screen. Your head and neck feeling extremely sticky. Your mouth is dry. You ache for t that bottle of ice cold water, but it's not there because there aren't that many bottles in office. You make do with room temperature water, but you want ice. Ice. Cold ice to be part of you. You ache for it. Suddenly you realise that there is no drinking water available in office. Your mouth goes drier. You think, is this the end of me? Will I die because my body is going to melt? Is this what they call a slow and painful death? You feel your sweat trickle from your sides down your face. It's some form of water. You want it. You know you do. You stretch your tongue out to try and get that sweat on your tongue. You know it's salty, but right now, you don't care. You stretch your tongue as far as you can, but that drop seems far away. You sigh in disgust and walk down the stairs. All of a sudden, you feel this cool air blow on you and you realise that you're not in hell. The AC still works in office.
Suddenly, everything seems all right. And you even find a bottle of cold water in the fridge.

I'm pissed therefore I starve

Anna Hazare has created a trend.
When you want to protest, you fast until death.
Suddenly, everyone is doing it.
Teachers fast until death for salaries.
Farmers fast until death for compensation.
Hell, even car dealers are going hungry.
There are questions that I raise now?
1) If I don't get a good salary hike, will my colleagues and I get something if we decide not to eat for an hour? Hunger fast for an hour? For us, that is a fast until death.
2) When these guys break their fast, will the fast breaking moment be sponsored by 7UP Nimbooz like it was for Anna Hazare or will someone decide to do something desi and sponsor it with Nariyal Paani?
3) What the fuck are these people fasting proving anyway. Just because Hazare succeeded (and now people are laughing at him more), does it mean that they will.
Answer these three questions and if they make sense, I'm sure you'll not bother with a hunger strike anymore

Selfish is good

Life's funny.
You think things are going your way, but things don't.
You overcome obstacles to find a clear path. Another obstacle comes right in front of you. It's like a first person shootout. You cross a room and another bunch of bastards are there to blow your head off. Unfortunately in real life, you have no cheat code.
Dealing with obstacles is a daily ritual for all of us. We live, learn and pass it on. Others may not heed our advice unless they face it first-hand, but it's better when we learn it on our own.
The day we accept ourselves for who we are is the day that we've attained salvation. We're selfish in achieving it. We hurt friends and family in achieving it, but they'd do the same in achiving it for themselves. We do what we have for us and at the end of the day, if you're told that you're selfish, you might as well take it as a compliment because you're thinking about what's good for you at the end of the day.

What an Idea

So I was in Pune yesterday and I came across the most interesting sight that I have ever seen.
I was sitting in a rickshaw where my driver was savouring a kulfi. His cell phone rings and he answers it by putting on a pair of earmuffs in 35 degrees Celsius, attaching the phone and talking.
I call it ingenius.
Pity that I didn't have a cell phone on me.
Inventing ideas is brilliant. Executing them is genius. You just need the right platform and the right team leaders to get you going. I have that at my current workplace. Thank god for that.
Ideas are many. Democritus, the ancient Greek thinking thought of the concept of atoms and space before they were even discovered. He said, "By convention, there is sweetness. By convention, there is bitterness, but in reality, there only exists atoms and space."
A few centuries later, two men: one a chemist and the other a physicist sat in their university cafetaria to discuss how life can be found in one cell. James Watson and Francis Crick won the Nobel Prize for Chemistry a few years later.
The rickshaw driver's earmuff idea was brilliant, even though I laughed about it when I saw it for the first time. I hear and see ideas around me everyday. I have ideas everyday. They keep me going. I know that they may never win me a Nobel, but they're an idea nonetheless
I say get ideas, keep thinking and move on. It's better than assuming, getting mind fucked and staying back.

The Complexity of Simplicity

Growing up is an interesting procedure. Some of us are born old. Some of us learn as time goes by. Some of us never grow up. I'll say that I am somewhere between the second and the third.
A simple sentence was all I needed actually. A friend said, "If you want to see things change around you for the better, you change yourself." It's simple advice. Really, really fucking simple. Obama during his campaign said you need to be the change you want to see.
But you learn over a period of time that it is the simplest things that are the most complex to execute.
Changing yourself means a lot of introspection - something I've never done. It's easy to introspect what someone else is thinking, but it's a totally different thing when you look inside yourself and say, "Hey, I fucked up here and I need to change it." The procedure of accepting that you've fucked up is long, painful and tedious. It makes you go through two phases. The first phase is when you feel extremely sorry for yourself. I went through that and I hated it. I hated everyone. I hated everything. I was negative, cynical and not myself at all.
The second phase is channelising it into doing something. My bosses - God bless them - gave me a chance to do something for the cricket World Cup. I've been doing a daily column for Mumbai Mirror. While it's a spoof on the goings-on in the tournament, it's taught me the importance of spending a few minutes everyday and writing. So to make up for the lame jokes that I put in the newspaper, I blog about a game that I am very passionate about.
The best thing about working towards self-improvement is that you learn to know yourself better. I'm slowly learning that people who accept you for who you are, are your real friends. The rest are just people. It's funny when your list of close friends goes down from a really large number to a handful, but you know what? I'm glad that it's this way.
So for those guys, who have been there to hear out my rants: Thank you
For those who diverted my mind into doing something ridiculous: Thank you
For those who told me that I acted like a dick: Thank you
For those who told me that I shouldn't think of anything negative while eating food: Thank you.

Like I said, it's a road to normalcy. The road will never end, but it's the journey that counts.
 

Welcome aboard. I hope you like it here...

Hello, I hope that you're happy, people.
I've tried so keeping a random blog on so many occasions, but have always failed.
Thankfully, I already have two blogs that keep me going, so I thought: why not have one more.
While the first two are more subjective, this is more of a ramble or rant of random thoughts that go through my head.
My head, as you can see from the image on the side of the page is fairly big. Therefore, I'm under the assumption that while my brain my not be fully functional, there is a teensy-weensy chance that the number of thoughts that go through it is directly proportional to the size. Therefore - and I tend to use this word a lot due to a science background, which I have no use for - there are a lot of thoughts in my head.
My thoughts, like all homo sapiens, range from a variety of topics. However, having said that, I tend to obsess over some than the others. Which if I look at, is probably a good thing. It helps me talk more crap and get away with it using substantial proof.
So right now, it's midnight in Mumbai. I've just finished writing about a cricket match and I'm convincing myself to keep this blog as a regular aspect of my life.
Hopefully, I'll get to be politically incorect, call everyone a bunch of cunts (except people I'm genuinely fond of. You guys know who you are), nasty, rude and all in all someone whose blog is visited regularly.
Until then, adios!