Monday, December 14, 2009

December 15, 2009.

... today was good. (Tuhi re by Hariharan plays as I type). had lunch at majnu ka tila after many months. you never realize how much you miss a place unless you're far away from it at all other times. same with people i guess. Pori was here. She has lost her appetite, but she's nice and funny. The butter tea she ordered wasn't nice. And that was funny. It's amazing how a simple place can pull me towards it. I please easy too. Beef and mashed potatoes, i loved my lunch. we talked, I ate, she nibbled. I tried to act cool at random parts. she saw through most of the time. she's clever. she knows too much. Should I, or should I not.... kill her? I'll get back to that in a while.

Nikhila joined us later. She has a pup called Gulab Jamun. Life was discussed. Naturally, grass too. (the track changes to Pardesi from Dev low volume). We missed Amartya. Pori called him up. She tried to be cool. He didn't get it he says, cause he stuck in the limbo of loglike sleep and waking life. I thought he wouldn't respond. we love to sleep. he might've been cursing us at that moment. But hash was mentioned. picture a happily dazed bug moving towards a nightlamp. We were all bugs. Arts faculty was the table holding up the lamp.

30 mins, and we were all there, lucky enough to find a good spot. Naina joined us. I met her yesterday. Once earlier too, but then i was ...errr...brain dead. everything was ready. by everything, i mean the joint. we decided to wait for Amartya to show up. We were nice people. Between you and me, I wanted to light it. kept my mouth from cooperating with my mind when i found we didn't have matches. Yes, let's wait. He came. He sat. We smoked and had a good time, lots of good laughs. (Rabbi Shergill screams out Gill Te Guitaar...volume is lowered, for it to not drown out the sound of the drizzling rain). We passed two joints, and two momos too. Don't ask. Later, everyone left. I head to Amartya's where more friends wait. Good times, and good laughs.

Not a filmy or exciting post, I know. But I'm happy...and i want to read this fifty years from now. Pori would call me a loser. (The Moldy Peaches - Anyone else but you). But she'll probably be long gone by then, one way or the other. ;)

Thursday, November 26, 2009

Fall/Winter 2010

Dead is the new unambiguous. Bipolar is the new undecided. Heavily armed is the new born again. Bald is the new head .... and the new crotch. Hairy is the new face. Sheepishly admitting to having an STD is the new flirting. Finding the time that is right for you, is the new impotence. The smiley face emoticon is the new "sincerely yours". Smoking is the new outdoorsy lifestyle. Looking forward to insanely expensive private schooling is the new yuppie birth control. Veganism is the new "tastes like chicken". Texting is the new talking. Talking is the new singing. Singing is the new SOP. Graduation is the new "be careful what you wish for". Anti-depressants are the new crowd control. Misinformed is the new patriotic.

Monday, November 16, 2009

Scoring. (it doesn't seem right, no wonder it doesn't rhyme)

Feigning an innocence
i walk out of the slum
creases on forehead
give me away.
I try
to justify
the cynic, the observer
my life is shit too
i remember her.

Turn. Walk back.
i can, i won't.
the kid, needs help, needs a lot
more than i do
this dirty brown bag of pot.
does he cry out
for company, for love?
glad, I'll never know.
sad, I'll never ask.

Mirrors are more fun
than Television.
Broken Frames, mine.
Shattered dreams, his.
these green glares i seek
they masquerade my guilt.
I'll do what i can.
I'll provide
by dropping in.
Buy some, and more later.
Irani, Pahaari, or
maybe Malana cream.
And find my way
to him
Gladly, Sadly, Madly
like a salmon swimming upstream.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

On tuesday, i fell in love again.

On tuesday, i fell in love again. With my bag. It was an epiphany. I had just climbed four storeys carrying a bag full of beer, vodka and whiskey...i placed the bag gently on the floor. One of the would-be-drunk people commented something about me being too delicate with my bag, as if it were my partner. i justified my passionate desterity with a speech about the importance of booze in a loser's life and walked away. couldn't stop thinking about the comment though. I mean i did put the bag down gently, but my bigger concern for some reason was the bag getting wet in case of a boozocide, not the boozocide itself. I love these subconscious regression therapy moments. Grass had nothing to do with it. it was pure unadulterated subconscious. and it told me that i loved my bag.
Gradually i picked up the pieces of that missing puzzle. i always thought, or so i was told zillions of times by other people, that i loved myself the most. True. I am selfish. Sue me. but now it dawned, that it wasn't me, that i loved - it's my daily stuff i love. and having lived out of home for a long time now, my bag, my ever faithful black bag, is the shining star in the night sky of my life.
small incidents in the past came to my mind. everytime, i didn't finish my syllabus two hours before an exam, i packed 3-4 fat books in the bag, and surprisingly read almost each one of them in the final metro ride. Everytime i went to score grass, i stored seemingly worthless documents in my bag to back my claims of being a student researching on slums, in case i got busted. The grass itself used to travel through the nooks and corners of delhi in the secret pouch inside the bag, passing undetected through all metro stations. Sita did not have as much spare jewellery with her while getting air lifted by Ravan, as the amount of spare change i have with me at any point in time. My bag jangles with memories of useless transactions. when i collect these memories and put them on the payment counter in a KFC, i enjoy the ghastly look on the cashier's face. i enjoy it more as i say with a smile holding up my darling bag, "there's more where it came from." And i don't need to mention a black bag's importance in a kleptomaniac's life, do i? let me clarify one little thing - i did "buy" the bag though. An investment. a good one.
My bag helps me hide things which if carried in the open, would render me a "bad boy" in this oh-so-perfect-and-decent-society. i shall not go into details of those objects. people who know me, know them. I'm too drunk right now to compose a song for my beloved adidas bag. I love by bag, i love people too - but my bag loves me back.

Saturday, September 26, 2009

Full course meal : Shuffle mode

Not being religious is fun. If you don’t want to, then you don’t have to dress up weird for all those festivals, and you can have all kinds of meat on all days, including weekdays and public holidays. Shallow reasons, I know. But it beats mobilizing mobilizees and panditzees to march towards wonders of architecture, just because it’s not the building where your god lives in. It also beats planning for world domination by ostracizing the good ‘ol condom and proclaiming that it’s the devil’s creation. For real? Birth control and Rock music must be siblings then.
So last Friday, I decided to take one of the siblings with me as I went to the kabaab wali gali, near Jama Masjid in Old Delhi. Before conclusions are drawn, allow me to add that this one involves putting something into your ears. Mystery solved, for most people I hope. Yes, I was referring to earphones. A starving belly, a walk through one of the best yet cheap gourmet lanes in town at a time of the day when the locals had just broken their fast, coupled with some of my favourite music arranged in an arcane playlist, and the best bit – shuffle mode. This, I tell you, is the life. So when The Shins started strumming their way into simplistic glory on New Slang, I found myself walking just like the guy in the video, clueless about what to dig into as an appetizer. (The next time someone says soup I’m gonna souperkick his derriere to Manchuria). Like a true Bengali, I start with a sweet dish – pretty sure I’m gonna end my feast with another. The Shaahi Tukda is made from specially baked sweet bread, mixed with all kinds of dry fruits topped with a not-too-sweet-but-fat layer of dry cream and plate costs you ten bucks. I was happy. ‘Twas short lived as the track changed to Phil Collins’ Another day in paradise. I was suddenly conscious of the three street urchins staring at me from the other side of the narrow lane. Always had this argument with myself whether I should give in to the pleas of street dwellers, or walk on out to discourage the culture of begging for alms. Pressed NEXT and walked on. Mohammed by Dandy Warhols helps me forcefully distract myself from such random arguments. My shallow heart aligns its beats with the haunting bass intro of this beautiful song...”I only wanna do the right thing, but all these demons pass my side...” So I find this entrance to a dargah, and sit out the remainder of the song. Listen to it, and you’ll kind of have an idea why.
The track changes to Seven Seas by Antix. As much as I love their work, I couldn’t help noticing after two minutes, that my steps were matching up with the exact beat of the song. And that’s when I realised, it’s about time I changed the track. It’s physically impossible to keep up steps while walking with the beat of a trance number. You’ll eventually end up running like they do in the Roadrunner Show. Classic rock in the form of The Doors comes to my rescue. I was literally shadow singing to the beef kabaabs and tikkis as they were being roasted on the grill. What else can you do with a song like Light My Fire? Do not answer, it was rhetorical. The kabaabs and tikkis complimented each other like the drums and keyboards did in that amazing instrumental break. The plan of taking my own sweet time while eating food of such great quality takes no time to fail. Picture Homer Simpson gobbling a beef stake. I was as dedicated. That’s it, appetizers were over. Not that I had enough space for a full meal from here on, but hey, I do not loiter around in Old Delhi every other day, do I?
Stepping into a small restaurant called Sultan Hotel, I head straight for the small table upstairs under a small but strong wall fan. I look for someone to help me place my order. Abdul, a boy of about fourteen bounces up the stairs. I ask for two tandoori rotis, a beef korma, and nehari. He seems more intrigued by the shape of my head, as if he’s planning a PhD, on the dents up there in my skull. I repeat my order. He jumps out and back in exactly in a minute with the food. The Doors give way to Chet baker, although I doubt if, while writing My Funny Valentine he had the same look in his eyes, as I did while drooling over the juicy meat pieces. As if I cared... One slow track follows another, and this time it’s Radiohead with Talk show host. This is a true testament to the greatness of food over here in this part of Delhi – even my favourite band in the world cannot distract me from my mission. Two more rotis and Pearl Jam’s Nothingman have passed, and I’m suppressing burps trying to convince myself and there’s more space left. Some other day maybe - No, not maybe - some other day for sure.
And now I’m thirsty. It’s sort of hard to spot your favourite lassi shop in a crowded market, but frankly, Smashing Pumpkins’ 1979 animated my experience of bumps and grunts and anglicized Urdu apologies. I finally find it, order a big glass of sweet lassi and end it with a very satiated “Aaaahhh” as if I was the third band member Wham! never had. Bob Marley sings Coming in from the cold. Ok, this might not mean a lot to most people, but to me, some of my close friends and lots of people I’ve met in Kasol, Himachal Pradesh, Mr. Marley is Lord Almighty. The night was ending quite well. I was in two minds whether to take a rickshaw back to the subway, or just walk. I decide to walk as the track changes to Born Slippy by Underworld made famous by the closing scenes in Trainspotting. I smile and wonder if my music phone has a mind of its own. I’m sure it does when I enter the train. Radiohead is back again with Fake Plastic Trees.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Burn it !!! it's a brand....

JNU is not my university. I'm more like the Neelgai that just hangs out there...oh, and has dinner as well. Going by the whole silver lining attitude towards life and its fuck ups, i can say that one of the advantages of not being a student here is that, no one asks you about your affiliations - political/dental...whatever. Having said that, this alienation does not however protect you from shrieking at some of the pamphlets that are out there in every empty 12" x 8" space around campus.

One such pamphlet screams out against the JNU administration for allowing Cafe Coffee Day to open up one of its tiny outlets in one of its schools. I think its the School of Languages. Frankly, i couldn't care less, cause School of Languages is too far for me to walk, just for a cup of coffee. But the stupid reasons for rising in rebellion over this outlet, demands a stupid blog post. Apparently, CCD is evil. Does Darth Vader serve you the coffee?? No, although it would've been fun...picture Mr.Vader asking you in his grave machine induced voice 'Would you like some more cream with that?'.. Apparently, a CCD outlet would desecrate the socially conscious atmosphere inside the campus. The same campus where people enjoy their Cokes and Pepsis (burps included) without looking towards the heaven to check whether good ol' Karl's frowning disapprovingly or not. They complain that the chai is too expensive at 10/- and a samosa at 8/-..."it's very elitist" they say."They" are also regulars at the nearest PVR Cinemas, where nachos are sold at hundred bucks. Go figure.

Recently, a so called "North East" Dhaba has opened up next to 24X7 Dhaba. The most popular drink over there is the Fruit Beer@15/-....Not a bad deal i say. Surprisingly, the comrades do not mind the fact that the soda used is McDowell's, and the guys behind the counter store them in a Coke Machine. well, not too hard to understand actually....i mean it says Beer, they call it Beer...and it's refreshing. JNU is secular. They say. they proved it by opening up the much awaited NE Dhaba. But seriously, a NE restaurant without pork or beef?!!! so much for being secular, eh? It's like one of those north indian momo places which says in bright red/yellow Chinese Food, and yet when you ask for a plate of momos, they wait for you to specify whether you want chicken, veg or (worst choice) paneer momos.

Well, at the end of the week, the CCD outlet is forced shut. No one gives a rat's ass about the guy who was supposed to work there...most likely a student in some private college, who needed some extra money. No one cares about Pami's friend who said screw the shitty coffee, i love the pastries they serve. What every one seems to care about is 'My party was the first one to come up with the CCD condemning pamphlet'. Liberal my arse. Ask them to name one person whose life would've changed for the worse had the outlet been allowed to run, and they return your question with another one 'which party do you support?'.....Holy Molly, the coffee-pastry-loving-i-can-afford-it-if-i-cut-down-on-four-branded-cigarettes-a-day you fucknuts!!!!

Seriously, the advertising firm handling Cafe Coffee Day got this one right - a lot CAN happen over coffee.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Once upon a time..

You can see a lot of happy faces when a movie has a happy ending. And the expressions more or less look the same. This makes the audience look the same, as if everyone’s from the same family. Scary Brady Bunch shit, I say. It’s not that I hate happy endings. But quite simply put, I’m tired of the conventional, predictable ones. Movies need to be more than that. Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to find differences between a movie and nice meal in Old Delhi, ...well, anyways, like I was saying, a movie is not supposed to just make you happy, and it definitely should stop trying to do so with some lame ass ending where it defies logic, chemistry, and at times even physics (don’t believe me, huh? Go see “Wanted” or “G.I. Joe – Rise of the Cobra”...where apparently, ice sinks). Even worse are the romantic comedies that pop out of Hollywood like shit pellets pop out from a goat’s arse.

People have tried to help me out by telling me things like leave your brain outside with the pack of cigarettes when you watch this one, or use the lameness of the lead guy to point out to your date what a unique find you are, although you are broke, ugly, and have no knowledge of kick-boxing. Tried. Yes, both. Nope. Doesn’t work. Come to think of it, maybe I shouldn’t have tried both at the same time. But then again, when you least expect it, a movie is made by some obscure genius and it hits you big time, in an interesting way. I watched this Dublin based movie called Once by John Carney. Had never heard of him. Will keep an eye out for his work from now on. A masterpiece in Irish Cinema, this one was shot in well under two weeks and with just one handy cam, with a one hundred grand budget. A simple and realistic story, full of quirky genuine moments and real people, backed up by one of the best acoustic guitar playlists consisting only of original compositions. The story is nothing more than a week in the lives to two strangers who happen to hang out together sharing their music with each other. And the romance portrayed between them is magical yet so believable... After the movie ended, I felt the movie did not give the viewers what they wanted, but what they needed. Call me corny, but that’s that.

Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova, who play the leads, are not professional actors, but musicians. In fact, the only other time you’d have seen Mr.Hansard would have been in another Irish gem called The Commitments where he plays a bassist in the most hardworking band in the world. He also fronts the band The Frames, one of the many brilliant, but brilliantly obscured bands in the Irish indie music scene. And when Marketa Irglova mentioned in her Oscar Speech, that this movie was an attempt by a handful of individuals to make these talented but unsigned musicians get a bigger audience, I almost felt like giving her a hug. The fact that she is a hot East European, same age as I am, who sings like an angel and plays anything and everything on the piano from Mendelssohn to Bob Dylan had nothing to do with it. Yes, this duo won an Oscar for the Best Original Song in a Movie in 2007 for the duet Falling Slowly. Listen to it, and you’ll know why.

Do not miss this one my dear friends, downloaders and countrymen. A movie such as this, totally stripped off of the Hollywood formulae, big names, bigger budgets, single-handedly manages to prove that less is more.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Perfect Love Gone Wrong...

2009 A.D....Delhi metro so far knows three colours – red, yellow and blue. Good. Cause they say, that by 2015, the trains are gonna run in so many different routes each represented by a different colour, that even VIBGYOR-ing your way through the metro maze would be next to impossible. Great! Just when I had decided to give up trying to figure out DTC bus routes and move on to greener (read easier-with-lots-of-air-conditioning) pastures, I am back to square one. Well, not exactly square one. I mean, if you look at a map of the proposed route, then I would call it going back to an intangible mess of discarded guitar strings in a polybag one. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not bitching about the existence of these beautifully made modern marvels of public transport, I mean, my lazy, fast travel loving, sweat hating self loves it. It’s just that when something you love, grows bigger, things get complicated.

Me: DMRC, are you listening?

DMRC: Yes my lover, what is it?

Me:’ve grown too big for my comfort... We need to talk.

DMRC: *sob sob* ...B-b-but, why? ... How could you? After all this time we’ve spend togeth...*sob sob*....Oh Fuck You Raj, deep down inside I always knew you were a shallow pig!!!

Something along those lines, you know what I mean? ... while you’re reading this, do not give me that look that you’re giving right now. It isn’t all my fault. The metro is one confusing ride, which is if you have the time to be confused while travelling. All you need to do is just open up your mind and just listen to the automated alternating male and female voice on the intercom. I shall present a couple of questionable rules laid out, regarding metro etiquette. Exhibit A, Do not play loud music inside the train. What?!! Nayan agrees to my disagreement, his logic being, that it is all a great ploy to keep us restrained to ourselves and moreover, if everyone enjoys their own music through their earphones, it fuels consumerism. My thoughts are, let’s just say, slightly different. There’s a good chance of people breaking into a twist, or bhangra (yeh dilli hai meri jaan) or in my case, as a close friend would add, even a little tap dance recital when they listen to good music. This effects the moving train’s balance. Very hard for the driver to run the train. Did you ever think that he could be dancing too?? Exhibit B, Always check under your seat, there could be a bomb. Imagine the scene if everyone starts obeying that rule religiously... it would look like a group session for self help oral sex to a perverted mind. People could even improvise and break into the Mexican wave version of this odd ritual. Vivid Picture.

Exhibit C (my favourite), Do not talk to strangers. Yeah right, so we should all continue talking to people we already know, and ....and nothing actually, that’s it. Combine Exhibits B and C. It’s freakin dangerous, I’ll tell you how. So you board a train. And say, you’re kind of a selfless being in this modern world, where you look under not only your seat, but also the seat of the other guy sitting opposite to you. Now you see a teddy bear/thermos/transistor under it (things which the DMRC thinks could be bombs...i frankly thought the bad guys had moved on from Mr.India, the movie) how do you tell the other guy Dude, your ass is about to land on the moon... I mean, he’s a stranger, right? Can’t talk signs flashing in your head!!!! The metro doesn’t only warn you about terrorists, but also pickpockets. Hmmm...ever imagined the catastrophic results of both being on the same train same time? So the terrorist places a Winnie the Pooh teddy under a seat and is almost about to detonate it using the Chinese mobile he’s carrying....or is he? Is the mobile still with him...or has Captain Pickpocket attacked and it’s already on it’s way to Pallika bazaar? Gripping tension, drama and panic.....throw in an item song and you have your own Bollywood version of Speed, the movie. Something like Ramesh Sippy presents Raftaar, the speed. Exhibit D, Do not sit on the floor of the train. Why not? Am I asking for too much if I just wanna enjoy the AC under the connecting space between two compartments? ....the interesting folks are always found at those places anyways....and I’m definitely not asking CM Sheila Dixit to wash my denims.

The Delhi metro can be a funny experience. Weird, but funny. It was fun while it lasted my love.

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

MJ - Momos and Jelly.

Funny things happen. No, this is not Cpt. Obvious speaking. But yea, funny-weird-diabolical-sad things do happen. About three days back, as i woke up, ideally just minutes before lunch hour*, my roomie suggested momos. So downstairs i trod to "go get some" in a very "stay-give-some" stage of body and mind. The momo walla spiked hair dude was not to be found - yeah man, we got momo wallas with gelled hair humming to classic rock tunes, whatchYOU got bitch?! Huh? Anyway, he was nowhere. Bread Omlette it is then. Again. Fine, so no hummed version of "Light my fire" today. I can live.

Right when i'm done paying the bread omlette dude, for the royal half hour dish he cooked, i hear humming. Not 'The Doors'. Even better. It's Michael Jackson's 'Black or White'...i turn around and there he was. Carrying the steam cooker type of thing on his shoulder and nodding at me. 'Mar gaya na woh? So Bad, man, So bad.' he says...i can do nothing but smile, and acknowledge the passing of our dearly departed King. The humming continues. I chat with this guy for about ten minutes, while he heats up the momos. The topic of conversation ranges from Michael Jackson to......well, just MJ actually. Oh wait, there was a bit about grass, but i guess that would fall under MJ as well. Suddenly all those celebrity interviews on Larry King Live about Jackson's death..and life, seemed fake. Here was this guy, many thousand miles from California, heating up momos, and telling me with a sad smile on his face, how he bunked school back in his village and danced to 'Thriller' and the rest, songs he had on this duplicate cassette he says. Surreal, that's how i felt. Oh wait, roomie's hungry and i too. Packed two plates of hot steaming chicken momos
and hurried upstairs. As we enjoy the food, i couldn't stop thinking about a kid in a hillly nepali village having the time of his life, in that very exact moment, trying moonwalks and being aloof to this crazy hazy world...i was literally there. watching, smiling, trip.

As we shared the last piece, suddenly i was pulled back to real life. No, it wasn't the momos running out but the packet the nepali MJ had packed them in.. the packet was probably one of many unused ones from some drug company. Nothing to worry about, right?..well, not if the label says "Parson's Lubricating Jelly". 'Unused' was and has never been a more important criteria ever.

*lunch hour is any time i wake up.

Saturday, June 20, 2009

On Lalgarh...

very amusing that the media is suddenly interested in lalgarh when it's liberated from the WB administration and the tribal locals were finally moving towards self-governance and ultimately, happiness...where was the media when these locals were being brutally killed and beaten by CPM goons and WB police all these years?...i'm not ending this comment by saying 'Lal salaam' cause frankly, it's losing it's meaning more as we speak...but please pause and look around. and question whatever you don't comprehend.

Sunday, April 12, 2009

Pulp Fact-ion

Scene 1
: Was walking out of the Vishwavidyalaya Metro station, when a glowsign neon ad made me pause. It showed a bunch of young we-were-the-original-cast-for-RANG DE BASANTI type of fellows jumping high in the air. they had smiles on their faces, smiles that remind you of horny uncles that lure you towards them with candy or lollipops. The ad said - Study in Australia!!! enroll today and win tickets for the next musical at the Sydney Opera House!!! The people behind me, who obviously were not jobless like i was, didn't find my sudden halt amusing as they grunted while colliding with me. "Arrey BehnChod!!" one of them said under his breath. I wasn't allowed to follow the stop-stare-think routine once again (story of my life). I walked on. U2 forever!!

Scene 2 : The token checking machine( i'm sure there's a word for it..just not in my vocab) and the queue that led to it, saw me standing next to the same BC obsessed guy, only this time he was right in front of me, rummaging through his pocket for the token and holding the line. Should've retaliated, now that i think of it, but i was too busy thinking about the Ad i had just seen. The guy turned behind and smiled. A smile that we men generally use for moments like when someone points out to you, in public, that your fly's open. the index finger that points towards the exact co-ordinates of your crotch doesn't help either. pathetic as i am, i return a smile as if losing the token was the sweetest thing he had ever done. U2 rocks!!

Scene 3 : The Brotherhood of Richshaw pullers waiting outside the metro station had definitely pimped up their style, if not the ride. Spanking the empty seats, they say in perfect rhythm, "Ajao, meri wali pe chadh jao!!"....which translates into,"Come, climb onto the one thats mine!!". The nostalgic memories of the millions of times i've shared a rickshaw with friends, suddenly nauseates me. So avoiding the main exit, i take a detour through the parking lot. the sight of dogs making out is way better than Rickshaw Spank Inferno. Surprisingly, the dogs were absent that afternoon. The post lunch humping hadn't begun yet. Instead i see a Baba with a chillum. He smiles at me. Finally a genuine smile, phew!!. what if he was high as a Kite? U2 should be paying me for this.

Scene 4 : Waiting for a friend, who likes pork and beef as much as i do. The problem of being a guy sitting outside the back gate of a girls hostel, is that every freakin living creature hovering around, will stare at you and give you the "Look". i try to duck/look away/meditate...doesn't help. i run out of options. i look up. An Ad for a computer institute ideally named "Dics" catches my attention. This time people aren't jumping around. just smiling at you. i can actually picture them calling out to whoever bothers to listen - "Come to us, we shall bestow upon you the magic of Dics...Dics....Dics ver1.2". Creepy. The smiling creeps in the Ad have gelled hair, whitened teeth, and extra ironed shirts. i could sense the pride in their Dics....i mean Pics. Bono and The Edge loiter inside my head.

Epilogue : My friend doesn't make me wait a lot. We head off to the land of Beef. Funny how when you're in good company, you stop thinking about Sexually motivated Education Fair Ads and famous Irish rock bands.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Seven. The number of joints you need to smoke using pure RK puram grass to “lose it” and, as entertaining as it may sound to your friends, open up. For amateur smokers out there, “chhoti” gold flake tobacco, for the mixture, gives you a better high than Navy cut. The topic of conversation can range from kids in Darfur to ‘how groovy the plane looks’ as it zooms overhead like a Mothership that doesn’t exactly know where you are. Previous relationships also add variety to the ‘talk’ but personally i find that dangerous although in public i would rather say its boring. Escapist? You might add. Pink Floyd has become a cliché. Times have changed. Its the age of the Dandy Warhols now. And please don’t spend any money on “decking” up the room to create the perfect ambience. The whole idea of smoking up is to let go of those worries. If you really have extra moolah, get more grass.

Coming back to the number seven, yes, make sure that you have all the necessary material needed for that perfect high – Rolling paper, unused wedding invitation cards for weddings of people who don’t give a fuck about you( the feeling needs to be mutual) – they make excellent roach, cheap quality fried stuff – chips, potatoes, chilly pork/beef, and yes, people who smoke up – i call them grasshoppers. So, are we ready now? Almost. I almost forgot the main ingredient – an acoustic guitar. Floyd plays better on a guitar than on winamp. So there you go, a perfect night awaits you. And yes, please comment if you think we can make improvements. Its open source ;)

Tuesday, March 31, 2009

My somethin-somethin on the whole media hyped good/bad muslim idea

Why must a Muslim ( Indian or otherwise) be put through the task of justifying himself, not time and time again, but even once? If X is a Muslim, and Y is a terrorist, why must X have to prove the X is not equal to Y? The major goof-up in this issue, is not 'people trying to come to terms with the fact that there ARE good Muslims who need to be heard' but people from all backgrounds and faiths failing to see that the more the justifications are encouraged (read demanded), the more alienation it creates. Alienation - the alleged grand reason, for 'local goodie Muslims' to just 'cross the line' it that hard to see that while trying to unite a nation, all these justifications are rather widening the cracks? The Cracks, which the majority has taken upon itself to exploit. and yet, it doesn't have to explain itself. Funny, i think.

The current social scene in India is not really helping. Look at the support that Varun Gandhi is getting after he proclaims that 'he shall set the Hindus free' of this minority appeasing politics. Hasn't he fit the perfect bill of the Hindu-Terrorist yet?? The Batla House incident where Jamia students were apparently harbouring terrorists (proof? none.), was seen as a success of delhi police. Same delhi police that also managed to create a martyr out of Inspector Mohan Chand Sharma, who according to eye-witnesses, was seen walking out of the locality after suffering a 'minor wound'. The Establishment will NOT help us. Clearly.

In this short time-frame( most of 2008 actually), we have also welcomed a wave of so-called well made movies that raise the questions of communal tension in this country. 'A wednesday' where Muslim terrorists are the cause of the problems of the AAM AADMI who has been forced to take action against it. Very conveniently, the writers HAD to include a "good Muslim" in the Mumbai police too, who by the way, had to hide his 'tabeez' when speaking to the terrorists and his Hindu colleague coming to the rescue...Utter Crap!!! if i may be allowed to say so. Well made movie? may be. but the message its sending across, knowingly or otherwise, is a very dangerous one. "Shaurya" - muslim army officer has to face the music this time around because he knew a thing or two about human rights violation and respected human life. Throughout the movie, the officer is resigned to giving it up to the laws of the Indian Armed Forces. Again, it is upto good'ol Hindu military lawyer to come to his rescue, and tell the world what exactly happened. "Aamir" - common man (read, Good muslim) sacrifices his life for a greater cause - upholding the moral duty of the good muslim of justifying his faith. Bollocks!!!!! all of these might be good movies, technically. but we can't be naive enough to not see past the message that these movies are trying to propagate - some muslims are good, it is upon the ever-so-good hindus to acknowledge, understand, and help them.

something, somewhere is seriously wrong. Please try not to be blinded by the sense of this brotherhood on one hand, while totally ignoring the fact that some of us, albeit unknowingly, are fanning the flames by these justifications.

Organized Religion is bad.