When I want to get myself depressed, I just think of what would happen if Calvin grew up. Calvin from Calvin & Hobbes you dumbo.
Thought I would share this completely useful piece of information with you.
That and the fact that I dont think I will ever, ever ever EVER learn how to spell words like “receive” and “piece” etc etc. You know, the ones which have an “i”, an “e” and a “c” in some combination or the other. I vaguely remember my English teacher giving me some gyan in a musical formula, “An i before an e, except with a C” or something like that. I was too busy staring at her stockings.
I don’t quite see the point of stockings, other than their aesthetic purpose. Not sure whether I would want to wear something which is so close to my skin. I like it loose, if you know what I mean.
It truly is a pity that there is not even a single super hero who wears a lungi. You simply cannot imagine how intimidating the whole “tuck the lungi up and get ready for some ACTION” process can be made to look.
He could have his own background music. When he is tucking it in or whatever. Or maybe he does it real fast, kung fu style.
In fact the inside of the lungi could be this super awesome colour, so when he tucks it in, he becomes LUNGI MAAAN.
With a killer moustache and coconut-oil in his hair. Fighting crime, one deadly dialogue at a time. “Yenna, rascal.” Shooting down bad guys with his sheer wit and ability to break into pelvic thrust at the slightest provocation.
But the focus should ideally be on the lungi. That is the SOURCE of the power. The true source. Maybe the lungi can even have a voice. Though then everytime Lungi Man wants to have a chat, the camera will have to pan down to his crotch area.
Lungi Man having a chat with his penis.
Wonder is Lungi Man would fly. Or maybe he would just swing his lungi, use it as a lasso and hitch rides from passing airplanes. Or perhaps you could combine Lungi Man with Spider Man. So there would be reams of lungi-material coming out from LM’s hands, which would stick onto buildings and then he would swing from sky scraper to sky scraper.
This is what happens when you watch a “south indian” film all of a sudden. Awakens the porkeee inside you and reminds you that no matter how perfect your “maadarchod” is, you cannot escape your dosa-idli roots.
Ooooooooooooo dude. Major fuking news.
You know Parsi Diary right? Dude, the one near the marine drive flyover. Ya so just before the flyover starts on the left hand side. Dude, that small shop which says (surprise surprise) Parsi Diary on it?
Ya, the one which serves its kulfi in that circular size? And that chap with a HUGE moustache (Lungi Man’s friend I believe) who would always call you “chikna” and make fun of you?
Well anyway, the chaps at Parsi Diary have started exporting their stuff all over the country. Well, at least to Delhi.
If you find the Malai Kulfi one, just BUY IT. Its 135 bucks for 3 slices and roughly double that for 6 slices. Totally worth it. Trust me.
You used to get pretty decent kulfi up at that chap near bowring institute, and then of course the one in Frazer Town (off MM road I think) is not too bad either.
Again (fuck man I sound like a bloody stuck recorder at times), the beauty of kulfi is the manner in which it is served. You can have it on a stick, or you can have it in a mutka – where you scrape the inside or you can have it on a plate (Parsi Diary style) with the circular piece cut into smaller pieces.
And you feel the cold, cold ice like thing in your mouth. Numbs your tongue a little bit but then the sweetness hits the tongue and you bite into it, and your teeth feel a little angry at you but then its okay. Ooooooo. yummy.
Occasionally, some of the kulfi would run down onto your hands so you lick it off your skin before it gets too sticky.
I want to go to bombay all of a sudden. Just this completely irrational desire to see that city one more time.
Speaking of which, I accidentally bumped into Mr. Moinuddin, world famous in delhi for his super kebabs. Oh, my goood lord.
See, there are countless “perfect” kebabs. They can be the creamy ones, like you get at Tunde’s in Lucknow. These just melt into this gorgeous paste and should, ideally, be lapped up with some thin rotis.
There are thick, juicy kebabs. Like the ones you get at Imps in Bangalore. Thick, fried skin with tender, steaming meat inside. These can be chomped off independently although I personally recommend a quarter brain fry just to change the pace of things.
There are also kebabs which are delicately spiced, like this one place in Lokhandwala (or some such suburb) which my friend took me too. This “shack” served kebabs which had ginger ground into the marination. It might sound a bit odd but it tasted fantastic.
And then there are the unique kekbas, the one with something different. Like ole Adaams in Calcutta whose kebabs are so soft that they are tied onto the skewer. And when the string is removed, the pieces gently fall off and puts them in a little plate and squeezes some lime over it and dresses it with some onions………FUCK. I should also go to Cal.
Where was I? Oh yeah Moinuddin. The brilliance of this man is that the kebab is just so fuckin juicy. It’s 5 bucks a pop now (goddam inflation) but what you get for those 5 bucks is a piece of heaven. Seriously. Firm enough to hold in your hand, yet tender and oh so juicy that you can bite into it and savour each bite. You know what I mean right, with every bite you can feel some of the meat ka juice being squeezed into your mouth.
Pretty, bloody good.
I had been trying to find him for quite some time.
Old dilli, for me, is a lot like bombay in the sense that whenever I am feeling particularly lost, I go there for some time and things just seem so much more better again. I don’t know how it happens but both of those places act like a re-charge point for my soul (okay cheesy line. Shoot me).
Bombay has this park called Priyadarshani Park (PDP) which is by the sea and you can go and sit on the benches and feel the wind gently run her hands over your face. For a park, it is not that crowded in the evenings and it is a pretty quiet place (for bombay standards). The benches are placed near these palm trees and, if you are lucky, you will have the mild evening sun in your face with the trees sharing just a little bit of their shade. And, unlike other sea-points in the city, it does not smell too bad either though this might be due to the over-enthu use of perfume by the power-walking aunties.
I would follow my dreams gladly
but all I seem to have are nightmares.