Secret of the Nagas - The Shiva Trilogy by Amish- A Crtical Review

So I read this book almost like 5 months back. When a friend of mine, Mega, an avid reader and a LoTR fan, told me that there was an Indian trilogy that was akin to his favorite book, I was pleasantly surprised and picked it up immediately.

The first book - The Immortals of Meluha, was an okay read. Although the plot was more predictable than Satish Kaushik's Hindi adaptions of south Indian films, it invoked questions on who "Shiva", the beloved deity my family named me after was and what he stood for. I enjoyed mulling on those questions and I read through the book in a couple of days and added it to my local library (a shelf with coffee stains, outdated electronics and termites) and forgot the heck about it.

The second book - The secret of the Nagas, unfortunately impressed the shit out of some people who "highly" recommended it to me. I couldn't hang to my male genitalia when I read some reviews about the book and gave Mega a quick call and asked him to send the book to me ASAP. We met for Thanksgiving and I started reading the book at the start of the Christmas vacation of 2011. I must say, those hours I put in reading this book, I will regret thoroughly. I even hate reminiscing the time I read this book and I am putting myself through this torture so that whoever thinks of reading it, should stop thinking and just move on to find a better book. Chicken soup for the soul is better than this book. Yes. It is that bad.


The book starts in the mediocrity of the periodic, fictional (read fake) environment it setup in its previous book. Shiva is a mere mortal with a blue throat, Veerabhadra is a pot-smoking, girl chasing sidekick and Daksha, is a sissy. (Hindu religious fanatics, forewarning, neither the words I just said nor the ones I am going to say in this post are my own and please do not burn effigies of my blog or assassinate my character. These are totally picked out from the book.) The book then spirals downward in its predictable plots and sub-plots. Here are some notes I put in my iPhone when I was reading this book  the first time (and the last time):


- Uses the word 'sprinting' twice in two pages. Almost feels like the author thinks he invented the word.

- This is like a boring Bollywood movie. Although you don't quite enjoy the movie, you watch it anyway either because you are a fan of the protagonist or because you like the songs in the movie.


- Uses the word 'marijuana' when he should be really using the word ganja. Why am I bothered by that, you ask me? Because 'marijuana' is a western word. The word for cannabis in all of India is "Ganja", mainly because the word is of Sanskrit origin. Veerabhadra calling it Marijuana makes him sound like a white teenager from California. Problem?


- He is now talking about Bhaghiratha. Very predictable move by Shiva, saves Bhaghiratha's life. Writing this before I even read the full thing.

- As expected. A very predictable move saves Bhagiratha's life. Veerabhadra says, "Damn, that was too close" like a corporate high school going, hookah smoking, wannabe kid from Bangalore. There should be a 'dude' somewhere in it, and I would've closed it at that very moment.

- He thinks he invented the word 'frown' because that is how many times he uses it. IDK what the editor was doing.

-  Suddenly he hears a noise, suddenly he leaps and blows with sword and suddenly he ignores a whole platoon! Wow, that's an incredible piece of storytelling right there!

- I am listening to Rangeela songs while reading this book. That's how bored I am.

- I got too bored. So I put the book down and heard the whole album instead. My playlist pleasantly surprised me by shifting to Bob Dylan's Forgetful Heart and took me away from the confusing world where Lord Shiva lands in Magadha and is a huge chic magnet and Veerabhadra is chillum wielding girl chaser. Again, not my words at all. Okay, my words but the author's meaning.


- 'Change is the only constant'. I wonder which Veda he picked that one up from. Perhaps from the same Veda where he read that Brihaspathi was blown into pieces by a suicide bomber or a terrorist.

- I am still reading this book hoping to find something interesting. I am not impressed. In fact, I am this close to calling it the Twilight of India.


Tripathi apparently told Mega that the Mahadev we all think assume to have been Shiva was just another tribal mortal and the actual Shiva was Lord Rudra who lived many eons before Shiva. Shiva is just a tribal who became a legend due to his actions. Another conspiracy theorist you heard from.


These authors with their fancy MBA degrees think they are writers when they are not just fooling a lot of naive Indian readers into thinking they are great writers but are also fooling themselves. Their writing is survey-based. Their target audience is the audience as suggested by surveys of a publisher or by their practical understanding of Indian readers of English fiction. I particularly despise the commercial interest, if any, behind this trilogy in invoking a religious genre of books while propagating unproven and sometimes nakedly false theories. If Tripathi hadn't called his lead character "Shiva" and based it on the actual deity, I would've enjoyed reading the misgivings of ancient Indians and the clumsiness of Veerabhadra. I even like the way he portrayed the classical caste system. Shiva is definitely a hero to look up to with his anti-caste remarks and actions. His war-turning skills and acts of valor. I would've still hated his excessive use of the word frown. Not to forget sprinting. And hated his slow paced predictable narrative style. Not to forget the weird obsession he has for making characters from Kashi, pot-smoking tribal people who couldn't protect their own asses in times of trouble.

It is obvious that a lot of research went into these two books as against a lot of creativity. I should curse Mega into getting me to read this book. Especially after saying it was better than Tolkien's LoTR. If the author likes researching so much, he should write non-fiction instead of wasting paper. It could be about how all these bull race loving Magadhans and about the great Ram Rajya. Of course, I wouldn't read it. So wouldn't you. It almost looks like he knew this all along which is why he made this Tomato soup of a story with rotten tomatoes.

I may come off a  bit harsh in my critical review here but it's only an honest opinion. The book irks me to an extent of calling it the Twilight of India. Another Chetan Bhagat in the making I suppose. I hope his next book makes me eat my words mainly because I believe any one can write. It is and should be, irrespective of what others think. It is like dancing on your prom. You know you look funny but you still dance because you want to have a good time. You don't stop speaking because someone hates your voice, do you? Not that I am saying the author will stop writing because of this review. Look at my blog, people have called it a lot of things. Including highly narcisstic, boring, lengthy and bull shitty. I haven't stopped writing, have I?

Just wish I read something else though. Anything at all that won't make me drool while I sleep reading the boring general having a boner looking at that hot princess from Chandravansh.


You guys, if you are really into mythologies, then you should read Ramesh Menon's version of the Mahabharatha. Trust me on this, if those two volumes don't give you gooesbumps twice in every page, I will shave my head... and my unmentionables (if you are into that sort of thing). Do not waste time/money on this book. I repeate, DO NOT waste time/money ON THIS BOOK.

P.S: This is my second book review, I wouldn't take myself seriously. So relax on the comments.

Dork - The incredible adventures of Robing "Einstein" Varghese - A small review

Note: I have never needed to publish my review of a book on my blog. This is something I am doing exceptionally. So book review critiques, shut it.


Dork, or D1 as Sidin Vadukut prefers calling it, is a great book. We have all read Five-Point someone, MBA, Stay Hungry, Stay foolish and all those books written out strategically for a certain group of young Indian readers. We have all liked them. We have only good words for them. What makes this book great is its simplicity in humor. A satire on freshly out of the college MBA grad's life, every page of this book eases its dry humor (and sometimes dark satire) on the reader. Although the book's tone is somewhat like Bridget Jones' Diary which is hardly appealing for Indian readers It didn't work out for me. What did work out though, was the easy flow from chapter to chapter. Doesn't look like a first time author's book. You know what you have to pick up from the local book store if we want more of that, don't you? The Immortals of Meluha (Chuckle).

I am an avid reader of the author's blog. It is funny, witty and classy. I have been following it since 2006. I could dive into the first pages of the book because of my familiarity with its flow of prose. Not sure if a first Sidin reader could ever speed through the initial chapters like I did. Every book lover will enjoy reading this book.

A mind that invaginates at the thought of thought

I have a pen and it has a mind of its own. It spends sleepless nights under moonlit skies wondering what it can generate. It thinks of writing a ballad, a sonnet, a novella or even a long email to someone on the other side of the world. But then it just settles for a blog post. It wants to paint another Mona Lisa but then settles just for making yet another cheap replica. I don't know why it does that. It is very annoying at times to sit with it and not get any results for very long. Why I really enjoy its company though is because when I confess to it with all my sins and all my actions, it jots down a beautiful letter filled with my idiosyncrasies and I take pleasure in reading that letter. I look at my own self with a sense of misplaced satisfaction in that letter. I like my pen that has a mind of its own. Because it takes me through hard times. It takes my despair and converts it into a comic to please me out of it. So what if it paints a cheap replica of Mona Lisa with its words? Not everyone is Davinci.

But there are times when I want my pen to do more than that. I want it to go beyond its limits. I want it to write stuff I haven't seen with my own eyes. I want it to compose a story that I haven't ever been a part of. Can it do so? I have my hopes pinned to it very badly. What do you think? Can it?

To tread the lands of unknown souls is very new to my pen. How do I ask it to go there when I myself haven't been there? Is it possible to create worlds unknown to me when I myself am incapable of doing so with the power of my imagination?

When you look into the history of literature of this world, you will find many stories and legends filled with the ideas of alternative versions of our actual human history that would shock Darwin out of his wits (assuming that all he ever knew was that the earth was created in 6 days and Adam and Eve just materialized into the garden of Eden). Right from the great Greek mythologies to present day series of Harry Potter.


"If you peep into it" my pen says, "you will see that all the alternatve versions of this world contain a common theme."

"What is it?", I ask.

"There is good which is often represented by strong characters like Gandalf the great, Albus Dumbledore always ready to sacrifice their lives for the benefit of a 'greater good' and also are good at taking others lives but know when/why to take them. Then there is evil , which also, has really strong character(s) representing it like Sauron and Voldemort. In the end, the good reigns over the evil and the story/legend/mythology ends."

I think about it and my pen seems right. Good, evil, love and triumph. It is easy to make a story with this formula. Just put new characters in the right spots and map out a plot, add some spicy details and that's it. You have a story. But not all stories pass off as great stories. It should come out at the right time in the right place. J.R.R.Tolkein's LOTR has a lot of history behind it. Wiki it out and you'll know that its occurrence was totally uncalled for but greatly welcomed. Imagine, when this world was passing through the worst phases ever, the II World War, Tolkein had come up with a fantasy like never before. I don't know if it gave hope to anyone. I personally think it shouldn't have given hope to anyone in particular. Why? Because there was no right or no wrong in that war. Japan, although looks like a skinny piece of land on the east, was actually raping the Chinese women by the dozens of hundres IN CHINA and killing its men and children. China never recuperated from these attacks and it eventually became on of the most uptight countries. Japan attacked America and poor America was devastated. It went over and nuked the shit out of the Japanese. The nuke attack was so bad that Japan still hasn't recovered from those attacks. Germany Blitzkrieg-ed the shit out of UK and UK broke Germany's spine later. Poland was attacked by Germany from one side and Russia from the other. America got annoyed by Russia and later started cold wars with it. Fucking Britain broke India and Pakistan up and there has never been even a moment of peace between them since then. So it is not the question of who won the war but who is good and who is evil. You can argue that America, Britain, France and China were just defending themselves. But every country had its own interests in this war. The world was in a huge confusion and even till today no average minded person knows which country is good and which is evil. Reality is so far from the fantasy worlds of great writers.

I hail their imagination, these writers'. The grey matter in their brain must be invaginating into itself all the time and expanding and making new space for more grey matter to form which later invaginates into itself and the process continues. I have hardest time figuring out the names half of my undergrad classmates. I supposedly refrigerated a box filled with turmeric powder and also left keys in there many times. Who am I kidding? I can't even write a good story about that time when Lapaki was picking his nose in front of the kids at Sphoorti and all the kids started imitating him.




My pen is not so talented itself. My pen even has a hard time getting its grammar correct half the fucking time and don't even get me started on the vocab. My pen is too raw for now to create great, captivating and wonderful new worlds that don't exist. My pen is too in-your-face and very frank. So frank, you would be afraid to ask its opinion if you knew it well.

But my pen thinks I am a writer. It urges me sometimes to write about freedom. Liberty as the west likes to call it. I just might write about freedom. Man understands the importance of freedom like no other creature in this world. Freedom is one thing even an infant bounded by his crib understands. I think it is easy to write about freedom and get away with it. I am not a guy who would take the road less traveled. Because the road that's less traveled these days is usually the road which use for nature calls. It would take great motivation for me to take a road like that and it has nothing to do with freedom.

See, I like my pen with a mind of its own for that. I love it for that. It makes me want to communicate so much more than my fancy iPhone or my landline at work. Pens are good. Pens are strong. Use them properly. (Note to self)

Shredded Cilantro and diluted yogurt

It is really very safe to say that my lame, dim-witted updates on social networks have disabled my ability to vent out my anger on my blog at large. And then there are those reports that the governments of some countries monitor your blogs and feeds I don't know for what weird reasons. Not to forget the desperate recruiters googling you up before/after they conduct your interview.

Fuck that. I am writing.

When me and Lapaki used to meet at bus stops in and around Mehdipatnam, we used to act like we didn't know each other. Don't ask me why. Apart from frigidly avoiding to look at his leaking nose or the dripping oil from his head, I hated the fact he ignored me right back. We all remember our tween years don't we? Well, I do. It was a really awkward period of life for me. If you hung out with Lapaki at bus stops in Mehdipatnam, you'd know what exactly I am talking about. But we shared similar interests. Like our love for Mustangs, Enfields and Emma Watson. You can't say no to a guy who comes talking to you about his dream of Emma Watson. And then we jammed to Roxanne in our living room watching VH1 while my parents were at work.


We screamed together,"PUT ON THE RED LIGHT! PUT ON THE RED LIGHT"

Although we both meant it in a completely different way.

We all are at some point in our lives, embarrassed of our friends. I for one, have only been embarrassed of Lapaki. He setup a standard of embarrassing me that none of the people I made friends with after that, have ever been remotely close to. And that is not a rhetoric. I will give you an example of what happened on a Saturday evening, while we were walking back from the bus stop to our homes. He saw a blind beggar near the signal post begging for money. He threw so much weight in his description of how blind beggars are ignored compared to other socially/physically challenged people and he said he always did his part for them. So boasting of his generosity, and completely ignoring the on coming vehicles at the busy Mehdipatnam signal post, he tried to put 25 paise into a blind beggar's palm when a speeding scooter cut through right in front of a passenger filled bus and the bus driver honked like it was the fucking apocalypse. Which ended up scaring Lapaki so badly out of his guts that he clenched his fists in the old man's open palm which already had some coins in it from earlier donors and scooped a fistful of coins out of it in an involuntary act and stumbled onto a nearby pavement.

The shock filled blind man, raised his voice in a hurried, siren like noise and started cursing and yelling in a language that my ancestors wouldn't recognize and the dumb person that Lapaki is, wouldn't go back and apologize, instead he starts running like the fucking Scotland Yard was chasing him. I am bewildered and am observing all this from a little distance. A bystander looks at Lapaki running away and turns back at me with this disgusting look that I would never, ever forget in my life! I excuse myself and act like I never have seen such a heinous crime myself and walk away from there.

Raging in anger, I am prepared to scream my fucking lungs out at Lapaki when I see him for leaving me in a situation like that. Making me feel like a complete criminal in front of strangers. I listen to some death metal songs and growl some pain away but still can't digest what had happened to me earlier that day. So I text Lapaki to meet up at our regular spot, Moon Rock cafe at Tolichowki.

I wait for him there while he roughly drives into the parking lot on his weathered Scooty and and comes into the cafe whistling like nothing ever happened. He seats himself and orders two tea. Still whistling and looking around the cafe. Then he turns his head towards me and notices me staring at him. He says, "Kya hua yaaron?". Normally, I would beat the shit out of him, but all that death metal jamming sobered me down and I just said, "Kuch nai re by.. accha parsoom Emma Watson neend me aayi, wohi khoobsurat chehra..."


That evening I realised, that there issues could stay issues and eat a little bit of you every moment or you could trivial them off like how Lapaki did. And not let them take control of you, instead you take control of them. Easier said than done but we all need to be reminded of these everyday fortune cookie moral lessons. It sobers us all down.

Inexactitude

If I wrote for a living, I would've been dead by now.

Today, it rained outside my workplace. It usually rains frequently where I live. By the bay of the Gulf of Mexico. But today,the rain was accompanied by beautiful, shimmering and bright, late-afternoon sun. I could feel the earth's warmth rising slowly from my feet till my chest and then till my chin and when the warmth reached my nostrils, it brought with it, a special fragrance. A fragrance that reminds you at the corners of your mind, that this was where you came from and this was where you would eventually be laid, the soil. Your toys, your paper pride called money and your vanity. They all would eventually turn into dust. This reckoning is a great reality check. Sticks your feet to the ground. And all of it, very subconsciously. Like the fucking secret agencies change the course of the world without letting the world know.



And then I traveled to do a personal chore from one city to an other with a friend of mine. I got on the freeway that connected both these cities. Distantly, I saw a grey curtain spread over half of the sky with the evening sun in the backdrop. Then I wondered, sitting in that car and gazing through that sunroof, "What the fuck am I doing here?". Then I kinda left that sudden usher of a fast train of thought, to be mulled upon later.

Right now, I am at the point of time called later. Sitting in a rocky chair and sipping some scotch and listening to "Sympathy for the devil". I am thinking, how did I ever get here? What should I have ever been? I am almost 25 and I don't remember much of my life to have been spectacular or mind blowing. Could I have chosen another field and excelled in it? How would that have been? Better or worse? Is it right that I am drinking and writing? Rather than just writing.

Many a times, men and women are compelled to do things they'd rather not do. Hormonal effects, drug side affects or whatever minuscule/magnanimous reasons/excuses they have had for loosing their usual self and slipping into profane acts are normally portrayed to you or whoever throws a listening ear. Why do we do that?

I sometimes think I ask too many questions. I think that I think it intrigues my readers to read a lot of questions. But it is a bad practice. I am less of a story teller and more of a question-thrower. Maybe I would've been a great investigative journo or I would've been a great Quiz show hos. And if someone like me would've been born a 1000 years ago, then apart from being a fossil buried some 6ft down in the earth, I would've been a great philosopher.

I feel like my nascent writing days coming back to me all over again. I used to jot down whatever came to my mind and I used to post it. After a couple of months when I would go back to read what I had written, I used to feel really awkward reading it. I think this post is not going to be any dissimilar from those posts. But I think all writing is good writing. Whatever you write is ok. I mean why not?

Let us think for a moment that you went swimming. How long do you think you can hold you breath? Maybe 2 minutes at tops. Then you swim a couple of laps and do some backstrokes and try to open your eyes in the pool and see what is in there. You come out of the pool, dry all the water on you, rub the towel under your arms profusely like all other Indians and fat people who sweat a lot and then you come take a shower or whatever and then take a fresh towel and rub profusely again under your arms and change your clothes and undergarments or you go commando. Then you sit back and relax on your couch while your instant food is microwaving and then you feel a tad bit different. You know why? Because you were in a different medium altogether for sometime than the medium you are in right now. Humans evolved from weird sea creatures but we are not so in touch with the medium of water anymore. We 'moved on' So much that there are lot of people who die because they do not know how to swim.

Writing is like that. It is a form of communication too but only, in a different method. A different "medium" if I may say. Just as swimming is good for your health, writing too, is good for your communication. Some people make a lot of money by swimming well and swimming in Olympics and shit and then a lot of people write and make money. See, they both are very similar. Aren't they?

Perspective is a good word. I would define the world with just that one word. Christians look at the world in the perspective of God creating the world in 6 days. Biologists, look at the same world and think we evolved from apes. Scientology preaches that an Alien created this earth. The little farm kid, helping his soon to commit suicide father in his drought struck paddy field by drinking a bottle of pesticide, doesn't give a shit about how this world was created but where is his family is going to get his next meal from.

Making your perspective, the perspective of the world is maybe the most ambitious task there could ever be. Maybe unattainable. Human beings do not realize this. And even if they do realize it, it is not quite easy to settle with it for our race. That is why we want to build a small domain where we can force our perspective on the entirety of that small domain. Thereby, satiating our human needs. Atleast just a little bit. And maybe this is how each religion was formed.


Oh wait, but this is just my perspective.


Thanks.

A wave

Today. I want to discuss about music. Again. I want to know what music leaves you with. Think of your favorite song and your favorite place. Imagine being present in that place listening to your favorite song. If that doesn't make you feel blissful, then you are listening to the wrong music. If you are as old as 18 and you aren't feeling blissful about this scenario then you need a new perspective. There is good music out there. Melodic metal or plain violin progressions. It is there. That music will make you want to live. Live longer and live better. You don't need to own a loft in a NYC downtown. All you need is good music. Bad music leaves a bad affect on your mind. Like how bad coffee you get at cheap gas stations leaves a depressing taste in your mouth. Even cough syrup tastes better than that shit right? That's exactly how bad music makes your mind. Life is too short to listen to bad music.

Even a ukulele can make you feel good when hit on the right notes. An idea can only be useful when it hits you at the right time in the right place. I still don't know what is that feeling I have when I listen to good music. It is the same kind of feeling when I was in love for the first time. Gives me the comfort I can only find in my friends' company. Just sitting back and relaxingly sipping beer. Its so awesome.


When I listen to really long guitar solos and/or any other instrumentals, slow waves uprise in my heart. Isn't that how good music is? Pt. Ravi Shankar's sitar and Dave Mustaine's guitar. Forget the tempo, remember the feeling. Isn't it like sitting in the sand and watching the waves? The high pitched notes and the bends and the hammers. They just are like the rising and falling of waves. Let me go grab my drink while Russia on Ice keeps playing on my laptop.

Ok, that took a while. Now its Santana's Oye Como Va bouncing off the walls in my room. God awesome 2.1 Altec Lansings.

So how are you all doing? All good in your pathetic lives? Oh no? Ah... Money issues huh? Darling, we all have them. Actually I don't. Cause I am awesome. No seriously, I am awesome.


Some bass hitting me hard, making me want to jam. So I am jamming. What the fuck are you upto again?

Echoes of the psyche

Questions. The back of my mind, if not playing a song, is asking questions. They haven't stopped from the past couple years. I can give you a few questions as examples but that would be too mediocre. Really normal Hindu youth too exposed to the western culture questions. Ya know, the guy who has Christianity all figured out but has no clue what his religion is about? That guy, exemplifies me. At times, when I am listening to music or when I am pissing after holding it for a really really long time, it almost feels like God exists. But when I do stuff I really dislike, like waking up too early in the morning to go to work, I feel like God has unjustified my life's purposes. Screw you, guy-reading-this, I don't give a rat's ass of what your religious beliefs are but I can tell you this if there is any religion that is more fortifying in nature and is the most liberal, it is Hinduism. Of course Led Zeppelin is an immediate second.

LED ZEPP liberates me! It makes my soul fly. It is pure MUSIC. Food for my weary soul and an inspiration for my body polluted by the 22nd Century's consumerism. A friend who sticks by me during tough times, answers my calls in any case, a true and trustworthy friend. A real bro. Not one of those fake bastards who you cannot connect with. I turn to LZ whenever I need some inspiration and a fire on my bum when I need to run in situations I am only allowed to walk.

God, if any, bless this holy band of soul-emancipation and pure mind-fuck. And please don't mind but I am going to scar this beautiful body you gifted me with my fav. English Rock Band's lead guitarist's sigil.

Oh that doesn't mean Amit Trivedi is any less in my eyes but I need this inked on my left shouder. I could as well get Pink Floyd on there but I didn't want any part of my body to read a black scar that says "Pink". Too homo, don't you think so?

Dear Homie, my sweet Hyderabadi.

This post starts on the streets of Hyderabad. On the uneven and unpleasant yet unimaginably inspiring streets of Hyderabad. It might not be the city of melting pot of cultures. It might not be the city that never sleeps. It might neither be the city of angels and sweetheart, it definitely is not drug capital of the world.

But it is my Home, homie.
The land of the most awesome Biryani.


For me, no day started without my mom's tea and no day ended without calling my friends and planning for the next day.


And when I wake up early on some chilled morning, I notice people wearing monkey-caps and shawls and walking or cycling their way to work. I see bouts of smog relaxingly settling in dense tree areas. The beautiful yellow morning sun, chasing out the cold twilight and starting the day or others. At sunsets, when I drive alongside Shaikpet Nala, I see the reflection of strip of houses in Filmnagar that lie above the small hill in such stillness, that I wonder why no painter had laid his eyes on that beautiful pond(Of course he'd have to have his nostrils blocked to catch the beauty of it on a portrait).

So one fine day, on a Telangana-bandh in late december, while my beautiful brothers and sisters were fighting for the promised land and facing opposition of the highest order both politically and financially, I gave up my plans of hitting Hard Rock Cafe with Jay, Kalli, Tripathi and instead went to Moon Rock Cafe right in the middle of Tolichowki.

Amidst awful lot of traffic, I squeeze myself, turn into narrow lanes where cyclists and motorists perform circus tricks to reach their everyday destinations and find myself in an Irani cafe. I sit down at a booth with a top-side cracked wooden table and you don't say, it stank. I order for a cuppa tea and while wondering where the fuck I should rest my elbows on the sticky table I step on something slippery. I look below the table to find some spilled tea. Swearing under my breath, I lift my head.

You would totally buy it if I told you I had fatter chances of running into the devil Himself because I happened to run into the most unexpected man to be there at that point of time. There he was, standing and staring firmly into his cell phone while profusely hitting its keyboard with both his thumbs. He did put on some weight, and his locks were longer than ever. I am not exaggerating it if I told you I thought I caught a glimpse of the hair in his nose. I sit there in total awe, while the waiter gets me my short-awaited tea with an extra cup. I jerk in excitement and call for the man I was staring at.

"Lapaki"

He wasn't paying attention. So I scream this time.

"Lapakaaaaaayeee"

The horror he held in his face at that moment totally made my short vacation in Hyderabad all the more worthy, when he heard someone take out his name with that kind of verve and vigour shook the daylights out of that guy. He knew there was only person who could shout his embarrassing name out loud and add music to it in public like that. It was like a reflex. The moment when he waited at the bus stop in Mehdipatnam besides Rythu Bazaar where we often met, with his hair tightly pressed to his skull that stank of the rotten coconut oil he applied the week before, flashed before his eyes so hardly that it almost slapped him out of the deep conversation he was having via the sms on his phone.

He flashed a broad smile at me and we shook hands like men do when they agree for a ceasefire on disputed lands.

"How are you Lapaksss..? You seem to have put on a lot of weight"

"My dear Shaikpet Shiva, you aren't the same anyway. You look more charming now. I am actually wondering why I ever didn't like you, in that sense"

"Hehe.. thanks. Wait! What?"

"Er.. Nothing.. nothing... I need some chai man, its been a stressful morning."

"Sure"

I asked him to accompany me and join my broken table for some hi-tea and he pleasantly agreed. No matter all the differences we ever had, on who was hotter - Ruqsana Begum of the Tum to tahere Pardesi fame or Pakeezah of pichuk pichuk picchamma fame. His drool always inundated when I took Paakezah's name and I liked pulling his leg. But apart from all that, I was thoroughly enjoying his company and I guess it was on our third order of an Irani Chai that he was telling me how he hated the bandhs and everything in the city, how it was disturbing his daily chores(working at Satyam Technologies).

Then I asked Lapaki to stop by at my place for some lunch. He was more than willing to. In fact he was waiting for me to ask him that. I think he drooled a bit as soon as I said 'lunch'. So we got back to my place and as all of you know, Lapaki is quite infamous to say the most awkward usher-in line. I ask him to shut up till he checks into my room and not say more than a HI to my mother. So he walks in, completely forgets what I had told him 30 seconds ago and yells at the top of his voice, "Dude you got some beer? It is so hot outside...", and walks towards the fridge and I am dumbstruck, wide-eyed staring at the fridge. He opens the fridge digs through the food and turns back to look at me with a distorted face. Before he could show any dissatisfaction about the lack of my hosting abilities in atleast stocking up a pack of beers in the refrigerator, he notices my mother standing with her hands folded and giving him a look of disgust. He says "Hi" and walks straight into my room. I follow him and the close the door behind me.

"Dood WTF was that?", I scream.

"Hey I am living a bachelor life I just got used to looking up my friends rooms and their fridges for some beer", he retorts.

"I don't know what she is going to say about all that now."

"Don't worry dude just tell her it was some stupid joke"

"And what makes you think she will buy that from me?"

"Ok try telling her that it was some scene from Seinfeld I was trying to enact. I was trying to act like Kramer. Or that weird guy from That 70's Show"

"I don't watch that show."

"That 70's Show dude. Not That Show".

"o_O"

"What???"

"Lapaki just sit your butt right over there and don't move or don't touch anything. Just sit. While I risk my life by going out there in front of my mom and getting you some, I mean a lot, of food."

"Ok."

"Are we clear on you not moving form your chair part?"

"Yep"

So I get out of my room trying to move slowly towards the kitchen all the while knowing my mom might pound on me any moment and grill me with questions about the beer incident.

I reached the dining table and in pin drop silence, I tried to serve some food in two plates and take it inside. Suddenly, something was smelling like it was on fire. My mom was in her room and the door was closed. So I filled the two plates with whatever food was on the table and started jogging towards my room and just before I jumped into my room and closed the door behind me, I was pretty sure I heard my mom's door open. I put the plates on my table and was bolting the door from the inside but I took a moment before I identified where the bolt was because my visibility was hindered with all that smoke.

Wait. Why is there smoke in my bedroom!?!?!

I turned back and was shocked to see my not-so-dear friend Lapaki had his two legs stretched across the coffee table in front of him and his left hand was holding his phone into which he was staring but what really sent shock waves through my spine was his right hand which held a burning cigarette and the smoke had filled up my room. Any moment now, my mom could walk in asking us if we needed anything. Even if I shouted I didn't need anything she would come inside to serve us with some water.


At that moment I gave Lapaki the look that I am sure shriveled his testicles. In the fear of getting himself r*ped in the back, he stood up in an instant and was looking out for something to put out the cigarette. He noticed a flower vase and he grabbed it and pointed it down and jerked off the flowers out of it but there was no water in it. He was looking at me in disbelief and I stared at him with 'testicle shriveling' look and this continued for five seconds or so when my mom knocked on our door.

Now the testicle shriveling was within me, and it was some kind of a mexican stand off with mom behind the door and me and Lapaki arch enemies (from now), were searching desperately to put out the cigarette. My mom knocks again. A bit harder. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I switch on my ceiling fan, in full swing mode and snatch Lapaki's cigg and put it out in the cup of sambhar I picked up from the dining table and then grab some magazines and start waving them with both hands around the room and kick Lapaki on the ass in that lameguy-imitates-Michael-Jackson of a dance and ask him to do the same. And he tries to do the same. Lapaki had the worst gestures in the world.

At that fraction of a second, his face was as distorted as a rotten banana skin thrown in a garbage 5 years old. And his swinging of the magazines reminded me of Archimedes shouting "Eureka, Eureka!!" and running naked on the streets of Syracuse.


After a five minute adventure in my bedroom while "The Ecstasy of Gold" was playing in the background, I opened the door. My mom seemed to have gotten over the beer incident and smiling, comes inside to give us some kheer. And some remote stink catches her nose and the look of disgust transfers right into her face. She throws the two cups on the coffee table and walks right out.

Lapaki leaps on to the coffee table and consumes the kheer like a lion consumes the blood of a spotted buck. After he finishes it, he goes to the mirror and takes my comb and presses it against his oily hair and throws it away after use.

The next scene is too obscene and cannot be described on this blog. All I can say that the look that Lapaki had, had paid off on him. I am never ever bringing that bugger back to my place again.

Thanks to him, my mom thinks I smoke and drink beer in the mid afternoons (When I don't even start till late in the evening).

Before Lapaki was kicked out of my house Lapaki did give me 5 free couple passes to a top notch New Year party and half-off coupons for Hard Rock Cafe-Hyderabad. God save the silver linings.




Dedicated to all my friends in Hyd. Especially to the one who was in that auto with me when I clicked that pic.

Such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous

I write. It emancipates the shit outta me. It gives me rope to the other world. The world where I live freely. Emancipating the shit outta the souls that love to read what I write.

Lately, I haven't been writing. It indicates -> I can't write.

Hrithik Roshan, Deve Gouda, Hank Moody and the likes have experienced shit very close to what I am feeling right now. Lack of creative genius.


I can tell you where I've been, what I've been doing, what I've learnt and what I've got close to. But no man does anything till he feels he's been challenged. Yours truly just was. Times are hard. They get harder in anticipation of separation of beautiful and illuminating company of fellow humans. I've realized its got nothing to do with not blogging.

Been there, wrecked that:

I wreck. I distort the beautiful sounds of an acoustic guitar so badly, it turns into instant death metal and yes you can EAT mys hit. Fry mys hit, boil it, add salt and water to it. It still stays death. M-E-T-A-L. Ringin' my head.

Jumping from the 5th fret on the 3rd string to the 12th fret on the 1st string I'd like to say FUCK Y-O-U!


Not such a great post to start blogging again but whatever. I'm done polishing my writing in bulk to put it up on the web cause too many posts are stuck in the pipeline because of that. SO.

Piece of news: going for a vacation to India for two months. Plan to blog a lot from there, as usual.

From the totalitarian desk of a...

"You get my messages General?", like speaking across the line of intermittent midwifery, the rider talks to his homie.

"Aye."

"Marquee ye Jolly Rogers".

Shaking vigorously, the pair ride along vast fields of uninhabited land. Reminding each other of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Not so often, when they'd stop for re-fueling, they'd treat themselves to a nice hot cup of French Vanilla with extra sugar and cream. And on its sweetness, they'd mull till they'd cross another 500 mi or so. Many a time, they didn't know why they treated themselves to a coffee made of synthetic flavors, manufactured by machines not cleaned for half a year and more or less, it'd anyway leave a bad taste in their mouth. When he asked his ride, his ride told him it was because sipping coffee together was a way of reminiscing on the fact that maybe the world condemns the shit out of them, but they had each other.

"What is life?"
The rider would ask his ride, as if two post-renaissance philosophers would infuse in a random casual discussion, every late afternoon, under the almond tree while sipping on Jasmine tea.

"Life, as opposed to death, is a force that allows you to live. Living, my friend is an independent thought. When an individual doesn't define his life, the living is nothing but living. When he does define it, he calls it religion. But an individual's living is defined by how much love or hate he has brought upon himself. Thereby, acknowledging what he stands for. Thus eventually, defining life."

The ride continued,