Where I relive the memories and wonder whether it will always be so easy

I have forgotten so many things in the last six months. How cold the winters can be. How there is an undeniable high in being all north-indian macho. How rules can be disregarded with massive dollops of impunity. How it feels to be high and in the backseat of a car as it wriggles and jiggles its way through the middle of the night. Music blaring and neon lights shining off the roof of the car.

I find it odd that I have forgotten so much so easily. And I find it even odder just how easily it all comes back.

…………..

I saw a group of kids/men break into a fight last night. One chap grabbed a pint and smashed the bottle on another chap’s head. The glass splattering onto the floor along with the blood. The punches were fairly ill-aimed but that bottle-smashing move was absolutely spot-on.

…………………

Last night I received what could be called a validation of a few, stressed-out hours of hard work. It felt good and I realised that I had forgotten what that felt like as well. How odd.

…………………………

I wish I would receive normal injuries like everyone else. The only fracture I had was when I hit a wall and the chickenpox evaded me. Measles came and went and I don’t think I have  ever suffered from jaundice. The only scar I have is due to my moronic abilities involving a horse-whip, a horse and further dollops of my moronic ability.

Which brings me to the half-marathon that I ran at the SCMM last week. This time there were no bleeding nipples (only cracked ones, equally painful but less obvious) but there was a new addition to my fucked up injury list.

You see when people of my girth walk/jog for long periods of time, their thighs rub against each other. Given enough rubbing, the skin will rub itself off, revealing freshly-pink flesh. This will eventually turn into scabs which will keep falling off every time you walk. Also, every “normal” step is painful since the exposed flesh is now rubbed some more.

The only option to avoid this pain is to keep walking “like a retard” (the term used by my extremely learned friend) making sure that Left Thigh and Right Thigh don’t really get to know each other too well.

I have been walking like a retard for quite some time now.

 

Wait a minute. Do I LOOK like Shiney Ahuja

Super Bai to me: “Arre bhaiya, actually meine usse baat ki….par kya hai…..woh aane ko taiyyar nahi…aap akele hain na…..”

Fuck. And I thought discrimination only worked in one direction.

Fukin hell.

………………………..

I learn a fair bit from the taxi drivers of this city. Actually I don’t take a cab that often (local zindabaad) and the BEST conductors are too busy chanting “chala aage chala” to have time to speak to me.

So, when I find a talkative cabbie I normally ask him as much as I can. The best one thus far has been a beautiful morning drive from the race course to matunga. The sun was just out and it was a beautiful day and we spoke about Marathi manoos and the Indo-Iran gas pipeline and Banaras and a lot many things. His hindi was so pure it was a delight to hear.

Today, I heard something which I thought was beautiful in its own way too. I normally start the conversation discussing the weather and the leather-skinned cabbie looks back and tells me “Thandi ki bhi zaroorat hain”

Fukin brilliant I thought. Just so fucking brilliant.

………………..

I received one of the funniest e-mails I have ever read in me delightful life. Funnnay funnay funnay. Oh it was so funny I had to clean the computer screen later.

……………

I shall be taking a train ride soon. I can’t wait. It has been too long, my friend. It has been too long. Nearly three months in fact.

Oh those hard, hard beds and the gentle swinging and the beautifully satisfied little stations on the way.

 

 

Chitrahaar

I think that means movie hall. Or movie. Or it could just be made up.

My French is not very good I am afraid.

I was reading this poem called blue bird and its written by this bukowski and I liked it a lot.

I suppose the beauty in words lies in the different reactions they can cause. Fear and loathing and revulsion and love and happiness and anger and all those things whose magic would disappear if we were to assign them names.

Apparently the medium/method used to write affect what is written. The long, flowing words of ink which flow onto a piece of paper are very different from the cold and impersonal words that are shoved down a keyboard.  They are different not only in shape and size and smell but in actual content as well.

It is a bit disconcerting to realise that the words which come out of your veins and through your hands are guided by things which you may not have even been aware of.

I want to make a radio show with made up personalities and tons of stupid jokes and a cranky RJ who, instead of being all cheery and boisterous, sits in the dark and mumbles something completely indecipherable every couple of minutes or so. My radio show would also have a talking krow with some serious attitude and an invisible bear with a lisp.

And it would have a sexually-confused autorickshaw driver and a midget with a really deep voice who has run away from the circus.

I think it would be a super duper hit.

……………………………….

There is finally going to be an indian movie which is based in calcutta (kahani). Cannot wait to see it.

I am really missing Calcutta right now. Perhaps it is because of the sudden cravings for momos or the fact that someone mentioned Tibetan Delight to me the other day or because I want to walk on those pummeled roads with the tram tracks running right through them and I want to stare at the beautiful houses and I want to hear the conductor slapping the sides of the bus and I want to taste the perfect jhaal mudi and I want to see the yellow taxis coughing and shivering in the cool, evening breeze.

I don’t know.

Where I struggle to deal with incompetent assholes and wonder whether I should get some normal friends

But first.

The space bar is such a cruel key, don’t you think. Always creating these spaces in between the characters and never really letting them get together and live in that little jhopdi by the railway tracks.

Look I just sep arat ed a word into three! Like an incompetent magician with a very competent saw!

Or perhaps it is the moral police of our times, “Ok that’s it. No holding hands. Break it up. Break it up.”

I wonder if I could have my very own space bar. Create these spaces between people and things. I don’t know.

……………………

I cannot deal with incompetence. I simply cannot. Should I be calm and patient and remember that everyone can make a mistake or should I just tear the incompetent dumfuk apart and hope that what don’t kill him only make him stronger?

I don’t know.

……………………………………

M and M’s potential boyfriend and me went for a movie the other day. M and me have been Chuds & Buds for a while now which always surprises me since our tastes don’t really match up in any thing.

Anyway M orders this popcorn mix of cheese and caramel. Potential BF had (apparently) read somewhere that the way to a woman’s undies is through derision: women love to be put down (as opposed to going down).

“How can you eat that shit”, he asks her, “..its so disgusting!” he snorts. “Oh its nice” she replies, handing a couple of kernels to him. “Its sweet and cheesy…”, she explains munching so loudly that most of the dialogues escape my ears, “….you know….. like pussy.”

Potential BF’s expression……priceless.

.

Fox and me ambled into Indigo Deli the other night. And as we sat down on the comfortable chairs and placed our elbows on the polished table, Fox let out one of the most cunning farts I have ever heard in my life. This one was loud enough to be audible to me but not so loud that the entire restaurant would be put on high alert.

And as the nice, polite waiter asks us what we want, Fox looks at the menu card and then looks at ceiling so that he can decide what he wants and then looks at the waiter like he is about to place his order and then mumbles in a pitch which is barely audible, “But I just farted”

I choke on the water.

I am wondering if I should hang out with normal people for a while though I also wonder whether I can survive something like that.

I don’t know.

…………………….

This super delightful couple invited me to their new home the other day. It was so cute and so “newly married” and domestic yet with an aura of freshness and hope. It was nice sitting on the floor of their home, watching the new “Sherlock” serial as She and He took turns in bringing freshly made stuff from the kitchen.

It was nice raising the glass to a new beginning and a new path.

Cheers.

Well what did you expect?

A chinese grandmother skipping rope while balancing an AK-47 on her head?

Pretty sure you did not expect that. I don’t think you could ever expect that. I would like to know what you would have to go through to expect something like that. I really would.

If we put all the things we do not expect into this big, big pile on one side. And then put all the things we do expect on the other side. And then we set the expected side on fire…..Now that is a world which might be fun to live in.

I really wished I had written down what I expected from life when I was really small. And then again, when I was less small. And then one last time just before I started going all bonkers.

I am going to sleep now. Tiring day.

Toodles.

 

Where I stare at the sandwiches at the counter, drooling and making people feel rather uncomfortable

I have often wondered what a rat feels like when it is being swallowed by a snake. Cause I am pretty sure that the rat is alive while the snake opens its mouth. I think it is a bit resigned “Oh well, thanks for all the cheese” type mood going on. And then the warm stomach muscles clamp onto the rat and it goes all “Oooo this feels kinda comfortable” before the ribs are smashed and the rat is killed.

I suppose.

………………………………………………

Some dumb fucking bastard kept ringing the doorbell today. Who the fuck does that man. If no one fucking answers the door that means no one is fucking in the fucking house. Fucking moron.

I gave him one of my most dangerous glares after I opened the door. I think he found it funny.

Bastard.

………………………..

What I find particularly exhilarating about reading an autobiography is the wanton, deliberate embrace of the ego. There is no need for modesty or shyness, no space for the idea that there could be things/people of far greater importance than the “I”. There is no need for an apology or that self-deprecation that has become the most acceptable norm these days.

I loves it.

Its like walking around all nunga-poonga.

………………………………

I made myself a particularly awesome sandwich today. Warmly toasted bread with some cheddar and stuffed with runny re-fried beans and freshly grilled tomatoes, sauteed onions & garlic and just a dash of olive oil.  Followed by the most delightful cup of filter coffee the good Lord hath ever madeth.

Yummy.

Hell but in a funny way

Against all the sage advice (given by me), the Mother has proceeded to get herself a touch-screen phone. Android pancake version 4.9 it seems. I think it is going to take a while for her to learn the finer nuances, like taking a call for instance.

Location: Living Room of Family House

Mom sitting on right, Dad reading paper on left. Me sitting in the middle.

Mom gets a call on the new phone. Full disco dance ringtone. Tries to pick it up. First tries tapping the red button on the right. Then the green button on the left. Then tries to trace finger from right to left. Then left to right but can’t do it completely.

By this time the caller has given up.

Mom shows me the phone. I call back.

The caller wanted to speak to Dad so Mom hands the phone over. He mistakenly (I still haven’t figured out how he did this) turns on the speaker function and then continues with the conversation as if nothing has happened. Call ends.

Dad turns to me and says “Why is there so much echo?”

I continue typing away.

Hell….but in a funny way.

………..

My ability to offend people is beginning to worry me. Actually, its not the ability (that is something I am proud of) but the fact that the ability is becoming this uncontrollable super-power.

Hi, I have already offended you.

Where my mind is a ball of wool in a cats paws, all twisted and notty

For all my affinity for the letter “k”, I certainly do not think it belongs in the word “knot” and DEFINITELY not in “knotty”. For sure.

I went to a “church wedding” the other day and it was one of the sweetest things I have ever been to. I had been warned that it would be boring and stretched out but I thought it was fairly simple and straightforward. Plus the priest spoke in English and this other fellow gave a sermon and everyone was so nicely dressed and the church ceiling was so high above me. It was all very nice actually.

I also got myself drunk silly after a long, long time. Thankfully I kept my mouth shut most of the time though perhaps I was a little too profuse when it came to thanking the hosts and some of the hosts’ family members. Oh well, I suppose everyone needs something to remember. Might as well be a bevda saying “Kang-raaa-tula-shun unkaal”.

That song “We found love” by Rihanna is doing the non-stop round in my head right now. Its like my brain is an elevator and thats the only song they have. Its a lot worse than radiohead: the volume is not high enough to distract me but low enough to allow me to realise that it is there.

Its like when you talk real softly in class and then when the teacher asks you to shut the fuck up you go “but I was n…..” real softly and the teacher gets her confused-face on and says “Eh. What you said?” and you whisper your answer but look like you are talking normally and the teacher’s face gets even more confused.

Fuck.

I had one of the most fucked up dreams I have ever had. And I do mean fucked up. It was all just so real. And then there was these moments when my brain was telling me it was a dream so I would wake up but I hadn’t really woken up. Just woken up in my dream. Ya ya so you have fucking watched inception. I can’t fuckin help it if they make a movie out of my life.

What the fuck.

Originality is becoming such a precious commodity. And the worst part is that there are degrees of originality. So if you are tooooo original then people are like “wtf” and they just walk away. If you are only little-little original then they are like “Oh I have seen that before”. You have to be medium-medium original only.

Cheh.

I spit. I like spitting. Its very invigorating. Sometimes, the phlem gets stuck on the side of my lips and does not fall out properly. Its a tad embarrassing.

I had these delicious chicken wings the other day. Good lord man, this stuff was fuckin brilliant. All spicy with a tang of sweet and hot and fried and just COVERED with hot sauce and all yummy and chewy and crunchy and I could bite the flesh off the bone while the sauce went all over my face.

Oh god. Whoever invented food is a genius.

Hmmm….makes you really wonder about the world. Inventions.

The family car is showing its age. If I ever feel like listening to trance, I just switch off the stereo, roll down the windows and the let the squeaky suspension do its magic.

Dhinki-chika dhinki-chica. hai hai hai.

 

Waka waka aye aye

samina samina..this time for afrika.

Hope that song gets stuck in your head now.

……………

I realised the other day that I have never gone toilet shopping. Like you know, a commode and all that. I suppose that is something which would make you feel all grown up. I wonder how one goes about it. Do the salespeople let you try them out? What are the things you look for? Comfort? Shape? Texture? Colour?

I don’t know but I think I would be way better at shopping for beds, lazy chairs and those nice, long chairs which you see hanging out near swimming pools.

Yup, those I could definitely shop for.

…………………………………………..

I tried wearing pants while walking up a flight of stairs. Was sorta disappointed by the end of it. Not as hard as I thought it would be but it was still slightly challenging. Next time, I am gonna throw in a couple of stunts along the way. Just to see what happens.

………………………….

Someone told me what their first food was. Or rather their earliest memory of food. I cannot remember mine. Am gonna sleep on this one cause I really want to know what mine was.

What’s yours? (See how I am making this more feedback oriented thereby encouraging greater number of hits?)

………………………

I live in the central part of bombay. When I was younger, this entire area was just mill after mill after mill. Lower parel, parel, elphinston. In fact there was a time when a fast local would stop at mahalakshmi at 5 or 5:30 just for the mill workers. I don’t know if this is still the case.

Anyway, its central bombay that I live in and that is a problem.

It is a problem because we ain’t got no identity. There are the townies who live in da south, and then there are the suburbs which is a whole different ball game. You have the bandra boys and the andheri peepz (who hang out at seepz yo). And you have the Thana Tamers (they tame anything) and the Matunga Madrasis (Chin uppa swameee).

But there is nothing for us  centralites. We ain’t south enough for the townies and we aint north enough for the ‘burbs. It kinda sucks.

Which is where I come in.

I hereby proclaim us the Mumbai Millboys.

Yo!

M to the I to the double LL boyz.

I have not yet come out with defining characteristics yet but I am pretty sure something will come through. Pretty bloody sure.

…………………………………..

I just finished reading a book that I think will change my life. Its called BFG.

Godswear.

 

Hey you! Ya you with all the hair

Let me make a couple of things clear.

FIRST: All bald men do not look alike. I don’t want to know how I look like your bald uncle or your bald teacher or bald friend. I don’t. Fact.

SECOND: All bald men do not look like homer simpson. So Fuck you and all your fucking “huh….doh!” jokes. Not fukin funny.

THIRD: You will never know what its like to have drops of water just run down your head and getting the towel all static-y after rubbing it on your head. So hah!

FOURTH: You will also never know what its like to rub your hand over your head and go back over your face without encountering more than a couple of mm of hair. So hah again!

FIFTH: Fuck you. Do I go around suggesting plastic surgery to you motherfucker? Why the fuck do you think I would be interested in Dr. Fucking Batra? huh? Do you really think I don’t know what hair weaving is? Do you motherfuka?

SIXTH: Piss of. Next “taklu” joke I hear, Im gonna yank out your pubes and stick it onto your eyebrows.

Mind it.

………………………………..

Due to the fact that my grandparents grew up in poverty, they place a really high value on not wasting things and this value is the greatest when it comes to food. We had always been taught never to waste food (not that I needed much prodding in that dept). Even now, when things are fairly comfortable, I make sure not to leave food on the plate when eating with them.Otherwise, there will be hell to pay.

Mind it.