The more I live, the more I realise that I am sum of other people’s experiences and tastes. My father gave me my love for well-made omlettes and fresh, crusty bread. My mother gave me my taste for besan ki chakki and tayeer sadam and drumsticks drenched in rasam. My mother’s father gave me my love for poha and sev and my dad’s mother gave me my love for gatte ki sabji.

Scoobs introduced me to the wonder that is a pork dumpling and Golu was the one who taught me how one appreciates a chilly chicken and biryani.

There are many more, too many to name. And so I think about them and I wonder what it is that has made me or you or you and I wonder some more. And the smell of a good gin fills my nose and I take a sniff and the spices hit me once again and I twirl the glass in my hand a couple of times before taking the first, delicate sip.

…………………….

I desperately hope that I shall never fail to be fascinated by words. They are all the more interesting when you see them being built right before you. Brick by brick. Its a pretty beautiful sight.

Which reminds me that buildings tend to sneak up on you. One minute, its just an empty lot and then all of a sudden you have this big, gleaming, glassy monster staring back at you. You would think that something so big would find it hard to sneak around but goddamit man, these building chaps have pretty much perfected the art.

………………….

The air is nicer here you know, the nights are more silent. The thoughts can be slowly mulled over, a nice scotch being rolled around in your mouth. Unlike the flaming shots of Bombay which need to be gulped quickly so that you can feel the fire running into your belly.

I suppose we learn who we are one day at a time. There is no point in going too fast, you might miss an entire page.

I met him a couple of weeks ago. They were celebrating 50 years of their friendship or something like that. It was kinda cool.

…………….

You know for all our cynicism, we are pretty gullible bastards. Something made me think about “egg less cake” and I was just wondering how the fuck would anyone know if there was any egg in it? Like all they do is modify the sign and that is all. Its even worse with these “diabetic” versions of mithais. What the fuck man. How the fuck does anyone know.

I think it is some sort of suggestive marketing technique where the customer is told what s/he wants to hear.

Sala sala.

…………………………

In my last two flights, my seat was conveniently grabbed by the better half of a fat bastard. Expectantly looking forward to a window seat to find some random bleddy fucker sitting there. And looking at me like its no big deal. And one fatty in the middle. So if I wanted to rightfully claim my allotted seat, the fatty would have to shift and there would be a whole lot of rustling and hustling.

What the fuck man. Sit in your fucking seat for the love of fuckin heyzoos.

Today’s fatty went to sleep. Snoring sleep. Right next to my ear. And the chutiya in front was shoving the back of his head into my nose. Saala upright your fuckin seat please sir.

And the mandatory baby was crying. And there was air turbulence. A lot of it. It got so bad for some time that I was actually telling myself that I don’t want to die.

I don’t want to die right now. I really don’t.

……………………………

Para para paraaaa dise. Para para paraaaaaa dise.

I wonder what the “graph” part of “paragraph” is supposed to signify.

Toodles.

This is a bit of break through moment for me, you know. So please pardon the dramatics.

I think it is necessary and rather fitting given the magnanimity of the situation involved. It really is. I hope you are holding onto something. Wait, that does not sound right.

Anyway. Are you ready?

Sure?

100% pukka na?

I am here to……

….

balance things out.

I am here to balance things out in the universe. For every immaculately dressed, three piece- wearing Greek god, I am HERE. With my finger up my nose and left hand adjusting the chaddie.

I am HERE. With egg-caked breath and sweaty pits.

I am HERE. With my ability to trip on air and lash wildly with my arms as I fall, more often than not grabbing things which ought not be grabbed.

I am HERE. With an ass that decides that it does want to stand up when the rest of me decidedly does.

I am HERE. With the ability to say the most incorrect things possible in as public a forum as possible.

I am HERE. With my spazoidal facial muscles making sure that I reflect the almost-exact opposite of what I am actually feeling.

I am HERE. With my (presumably) endearing ability to repeatedly go to people and say “Oh I remember you. I met you at…..” and keep on going, completely ignoring their blank look of “WHO THE FUCK” in their eyes.

In short, I am HERE so that you can go on living your perfect little lives where no one sweats, hardly anyone farts and the only inconvenience you ever face is that brief moment of sun while you walk from the Prada showroom into the back of your leather-seated beemer.

I am HERE so that you can take a glance at your handsome face as you walk into the hall of the manors and mansions and feel the admiring glances fall all over you.

I think.

……………………..

I finally went for the litfest in Jaipur and it was totally worth it. I mean I wish it was less crowded but some of the lesser-visited events were these intimate conversations where you could hear some really interesting people talk it out. I also got the feeling that a lot of people were simply there to be seen and for no other purpose whatsoever. Which is fine most of the times but when you are hogging a seat while BBM-ing away to glory while I have to stand and strain the neck in all directions….well then it gets a bit annoying.

Still. It was worth it cause I was surrounded by books (I did not buy a single one though) and it was nice and chilly and it was so different from anything I have ever done. I think that is what is the most important thing: you simply have to keep doing something which you do not normally do.

………………………………..

My personal guru has shifted to bombay which is an awesome thing cause she gives me honest (brutally honest) advice.

Today she told me “If you don’t become more tolerant, you are going to die alone.”

She might have something there.

…………

How to be annoying #4008234: Whenever anyone uses the word “man” after a sentence, for example “That is so far. Maaaan.”, you should respond by saying “Sofar Man, sofar man” and sing it to the tune of “spider man, spider man……”.

It gets really annoying really quickly.

………………………….

Another reason why I am going to miss the old Fiat cabs of bombay: they are probably the only ones who drive like the heroes of the ’70s. The steering wheel swinging all over the place even as the fake background only shows an arrow straight road.

…

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.