Stuck in Transit - 2

The following is purely fictional. Was trying my hand at satire.

"Desperately trying to peek into the future, I realise... But I'm still stuck in transit!"

I always presume, that I'm done with stupid unintended symapthy-seeking blog posts where I crib about my daily life which grinds the emotions outta me. But trust me, I am not. I cannot stop. Maybe because I think this blog decreases the burden on me. Because it helps me out with a lot of things. For starters, it makes my mind clear. 

Its been 6 months since I've landed in America. The same amount of time I've been seeking a permanent accomodation. The same amount of time, I've been searching for a source of income. Almost the same amount of time, I've been waiting to stick my heart out on the walls of  'my room'. Which right now, looks like a distant dream. Speaking of dreams, a night hasn't passed without me waking up atleast once. Not for peeing. Sleeping bags are overcrowded with bugs of the size of Sri Lanka. The worst part about Hurricanes is that apart from all the damage they create, they never kill a darned bug!

No memories from back home. Except for the occasional snapshot of Captain Lee flashing before my eyes, whenever I need to get myself away from everyone. The lazy drizzle outside, with spine chilling winds, beckons me more than the rooms scattered with food that was thrown on the carpet before the 1st world war even began. The same food that was declared a leftover, which adorned the dust bin 5 weeks ago. The smell of burning tobacco is more soothing than the stink from the very room I sleep in. Well, look at the bright side - I atleast have a place to sleep at. Or wait, what am I complaining about? When I went to Mississippi, I slept on a bed! For two consecutive nights! OMG. Now that, is what I call awesome!

Show me the job! Because the last time I checked, being a money grubbing parasite was not a pitstop on the road to redemption. But its not like I am Donald Trump! Or wait, because I am not Ronald McDonald.

Hey, I am not alone in this. I've got a bunch of people here who are neck deep in this shit themselves. The only difference between them and me is, no no no, not the job, NOT THE JOB! I have a blog to crib, they don't. 

Its not like I want to go to NYC. Its because I trust I'd be a tad bit happier being with someone who knows exactly what I was and can estimate what I can turn out to be. Or maybe VA. But thats just where I loose it. Too damn confused. Will I go? Won't I go? Will I stay or not? I've got an asshole back in Florida. But he's too busy playing with the goddamn Zippo I gifted him on his birthday. So, that is totally out of question.

'Life is weary', that phrase is so darn an understatement. 

I don't expect anyone to understand this post. Nor do I want anyone to read it. Maybe this was supposed to go in my diary. But my goddamn diary is misplaced you son of a bitch! Where the fuck should I search for it? Which god forsaken room? Don't come to me with. "Everything will be alright". Because if there is anyone in this world who knows it'll be alright, its me! And also don't send me messages on facebook acting like its my fault! Because its not! The conscience is a big looser. Only loosers talk about Karma! 

Karma is not 'someone dumps you = you repent', its 'someone dumps you = they repent'. Screw it! Once this shit is over, I am gonna post more merrier stuff. More Santa Claus threw an 8GB iPod in my Christmas sock. More Marilyn Monroe kissed me under the mistletoe. More the flying deer wagon was issued a speeding ticket by the most honest Texas State Trooper. More Santa throwing shoes at George Bush upon a client's wish after what happened at the White House some days back. Or maybe some fantasy shit like Mumbai Police catching the terrorists behind the Mumbai Massacre. And the Indian judiciary actually punishing them. Oh wait, even if I have to post, don't I need a keyboard, a monitor, a working CPU and some electric supply for that? Of course, a shuffle between 5 rooms at 5 different times should give me enough to brood over political satires or racism and post it on my blog. Piece of cake.

At this point of time, if there is anything more soothing than ni'coke'tine then its the little thumbnail of Wolverine saying 'Cerveza' to a bartender in Mexico that is my current display picture on one of the social networking websites. 

JUDGE MEASSHOLES!

AMEN.

Funny forward

I never post random stuff on my blog but this shit was really really funny. It had to had to go on my blog! So here it is.


How to tick people off

• 
• Specify that your drive-through order is "TO-GO."
• If you have a glass eye, tap on it occasionally with your pen while talking to others.
• Stomp on little plastic ketchup packets.
• Insist on keeping your car windshield wipers running in all weather conditions "to keep them tuned up."
• Reply to everything someone says with "that's what you think."
• Practice making fax and modem noises.
• Highlight irrelevant information in scientific papers and "cc" them to your boss.
• Make beeping noises when a large person backs up.
• Finish all your sentences with the words "in accordance with prophesy."
• Signal that a conversation is over by clamping your hands over your ears and grimacing.
• Disassemble your pen and "accidentally" flip the ink cartridge across the room.
• Holler random numbers while someone is counting.
• Adjust the tint on your TV so that all the people are green, and insist to others that you "like it that way."
• Staple pages in the middle of the page.
• Publicly investigate just how slowly you can make a croaking noise.
• Honk and wave to strangers.
• Decline to be seated at a restaurant, and simply eat their complimentary mints at the cash register.
• TYPE IN UPPERCASE.
• type only in lowercase.
• dont use any punctuation either
• Buy a large quantity of orange traffic cones and reroute whole streets.
• Repeat the following conversation a dozen times.
  "DO YOU HEAR THAT?"
  "What?"
  "Never mind, it's gone now."
• As much as possible, skip rather than walk.
• Try playing the William Tell Overture by tapping on the bottom of your chin. When nearly done, announce "No, wait, I messed it up," and repeat.
• Ask people what gender they are.
• While making presentations, occasionally bob your head like a parakeet.
• Sit in your front yard pointing a hair dryer at passing cars to see if they slow down.
• Sing along at the opera.
• Go to a poetry recital and ask why each poem doesn't rhyme.
• Ask your co-workers mysterious questions and then scribble their answers in a notebook. Mutter something about "psychological profiles."

Repercussions of the bollocks of an intimidated mind

"You think you won't become one of them. You are sure, 5 years from the day you land in America, you will actually still be Indian. Walk, talk, shout and behave like an Indian. You tell everyone back home that you love your country and you don't want to get adapted to the American culture. And that you are the Indian you always were, back in India."

I for one, believe in hope. In faith. In human service and I fear God. Sometimes my senses don't. But that is totally a different topic. I do almost everything a sane human does. I try to socialize, try to give in, try to get some love and some money outta the little things I can do with Adobe Photoshop. Sometimes, I telling people that death metal doesn't intrigue me nor does it interest me. And that, Classic Rock rhymes with Rehman. Try spreading the quantum of miniscule energy that Pink Floyd provided me since 6 years now. Also try explaining the BFF on the phone of what the British Invasion was. Beg the Fairy Godmother, the Western version of the Goddesses that dwell in the tiny cement temples we find on the streets of Hyderabad by the foot pavements, to throw me into that point, where the Indian Cult was being idolised. When the riffs on the bass guitar of a song performed in some garage in the downtrodden areas of Seattle were being tabbed, which later became an anthem of a generation. When grunge was born. When having the hairstyle ala Satya Sai Baba was the latest fad. Live the life of a tramp. Hitchhike my way to the Himalayas, and maybe run into God. Have a cup of tea with Him and not realising who He is, bid farewell.

The moment I stepped in America, I had begun fantasizing something entirely different. I wanted to take classes in poetry and literature like a friend of mine had suggested. Take guitar classes and perform alongside Chris Cornell while he was performing on stage wearing the Fruit & Loom almost see through vests that he bought from WalMart.

The moment I stepped at Kingsville, a place overcrowded with underdogs ala me, I realised, if there is anything I can possibly do, then its just buying the almost see-through vests that Chris Cornell bought from WalMart.

Now, that I actually own the see-through vest, and not just one, but several of them, I think that to expect anything more than this, is a joke.

We aren't just underdogs. We are a society of desis, living away from home, trying to rub our superiority over the fellow desis. We cannot speak up unless we are drunk. We act according to the company around us. Also, we 'act'. We won't speak straightforward. We have the same weaknesses that we had when we were in India. We cannot speak in English and whenever a boy and a girl are seen around a lot together, either the boy has proposed the girl or the boy has a crush over the girl. They are not to be considered as friends. We assume things, believe in second hand information, gossip, chat and crib. Also, did I mention? We NEVER speak straightforward.

I remember, last year at this point of time, I was cribbing about how the world hates an underdog. Of course, the blog got deleted. The post surely remains in google cached pages. Anyway, I now realise why the society hates underdogs. Because they never try to be anything more than an underdog.


Let there be Floyd, Metallica and Led Zepp.

P.S: As I am writing this post, some people are talking about who is greater. Balakrishna or Chiranjeevi. I leave the place immediately.

Bollocks of an intimidated mind

America! The land of the hottest chics, coolest cars and the ultimate freedom. PDA, down to earth movie (porn) stars, great money(1$=50Rs), cheap oil($1.69/gallon), cheaper alcohol(JD 750ml = 20$+tax), cheapest beer (1 beer = nothing+NON TAX, no one buys it, but I still find it in my refrigirator everyday), the fastest internet, amicable people and to top it all, a black President! The land of Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix, the place where you'll find the real cowboys. The land where jeans was invented. Where chinky chics look at you over public computers. Where you can find the cheapest airfares. The land where you can never smell the pollutants, that an overloaded Bajaj Scooter with a family of 5 sitting on it, would emit. No one dies of hunger here. There are no cyclones, maybe there are but at least they are not called cyclones. Where no one can play cricket, hence when you actually play it, people think you are great at it.

But you are not.

Where people speak only in English or Spanish. Where every girl who looks at you, smiles at you. Hot and non-hot alike. The coolest of the clubs. Rock and Roll concerts every saturday night, across the roads. Electric guitars are sold by the roads. You come here with the notion that everybody loves the Indians. Our culture is deeply respected and worshipped. That once here, you're treated with great humility.

But you're not.

And in Texas, yeah Texas, you expect some cowboy action. Guys with dusty jeans, riding on a horseback yeeeee-haawing all the way and feeding on the cows of the size of Canada. You expect to see tumbleweed rolling on the sandy streets. And then an awesome real time Mexican standup on the roads. You are drooling through the salon while the bad guy is shot by some tall and lanky man with the eyes of an eagle, his skin charred under the summer sun and the smoke coming out of a fat cigar in his mouth, slowly rising into the air like the vestige of a spirit that leaves the body. You think after you come here, you grow out of being an Indian. You think you won't become one of them. You are sure, 5 years from the day you land in America, you will actually still be Indian. Walk, talk, shout and behave like an Indian. You tell everyone back home that you love your country and you don't want to get adapted to the American culture. And that you are the Indian you always were, back in India.

Bang on! Finally you got that right.

The biggest problem with the herd here, is that they are a herd. The Indians stay with the Indians, the Chinese and the Koreans hang around together. The Mexican guys are always seen with Caucasian chics and the Mexican girls always have a black boyfriend. Forget about the Americans. The Indians here, always hang around in groups. They won't talk to the Americans nor do the Americans talk to the Indians. No one makes an effort. Because the Americans are fed up of the Desi junta. Why?

Well ok. Let me tell you. Did you ever work in an American Strip Club(the Desi version of an obscene bar, but only that its legal in the US)? Where the customers pay like crazy if they like a dancer? You know what the desis would do? They'd go to the club, they'd enjoy the dance, relish on one or two drinks and when the dancer would come up to them for money, they'd throw four quarters at her feet like the Maharajas would throw gold coins to the court jesters in for entertaining them. Now, if you had self respect of at least the size of a microbe, you wouldn't take that money. Just because a woman is a stripper doesn't mean you treat her like a beggar. This, our desi junta wouldn't understand. What do they get? The stripper would take a 10$ note and throw it on the face of the desi guy and get him kicked out of the club.

And why don't the Indians make an effort to talk to the Americans? It is simple. Because they can't speak in English.

They might've scored 99% in their high school in English exam but they can't speak it. That is definitely not so bad because English is not their mother tongue, but what is really annoying is :

1) They don't make an effort to talk better than they actually can.

2)They hate you because you can talk better English than them.

I mean what the fuck? The seniors want you to be dependent on them, they want you to treat them with respect, they want you to add a 'bhayya' at the end of every sentence when you talk to them and they want you to owe to them for all the mental support(?) they give you. Reminds you of something? Bang on! Communism!

Anyway. I think I'll end this here. I have better things to write about but this was the one that was bugging me from a long long time. Had to use my awesome super power of cribbing on my blog and hence this post. Leave a comment, or act communist. Anything's fine with me. This shit ain't entertaining anyone buddy.

Stuck in Transit

Dodo said it first. Everyone else had it on the tip of their tongues. Tears welling up in their eyes at the awesomely built, poorly maintained Rajiv Gandhi International Airport in Hyderabad, people(friends and family and the wife to be) blurted out their emotions. They said, "Please don't bug us with the links to your blog after you go there". And someone in the group even said, "You know your vocabulary sucks right?" and some other mean stuff. But no. I am not going to give up. I'm not going to surrender. If there was anything I learnt from the movie 300, then its this. So, I am not going to stop blogging just because you think I flaunt too much of too little. And yeah baby! Terpsikure and Meso Spaciosa, Go Global!! Huah!

It started with a family-friend departure function at the airport in Hide(that is what I am going to call Hyderabad from now, beeteedoubloo I hold the IP copyrights for it). Got some stuff at the Duty free store for my brother in US and a Hard Rock cafe ka tee shirt. Said some good byes and a lot of miss yous while waiting for the flight at the terminal on the phone. Soon after, my charge was gone. The flight journey from Hide to Dubai was good. I got the window seat but was pitch dark when I boarded so couldn't see anything. Three hours later and after a Puri-chhole early breakfast, the view I got to see from the window just before I arrived at the Dubai airport was exhilarating. It was a calm desert and a single strand of a grey line cut through it which I later realised was a road. And let me just tell you this, someone told me that the airport at Dubai is good. Damn it! They were so wrong.. the airport is awesome! The Duty free shops made me thirsty after a long drool. They had a Harley-Davidson Chopper in the display man! I couldn't even spit the three letters out. WTF. No I could not. It was overwhelmingly BEE-EE-AAY-utiful. A silver body with a V-twin and the darkest of the darkest jet black tires adorned it. Not to forget the metalic HARLEY-DAVIDSON logo on the fuel tank. I had two hours of time to board the connecting flight so I started walking from one end to the other. If you ever are in the Dubai Airport, then you'll feel certainly at home(if you are a Hyderabadi that is). Because people who have loads and loads of time(2-12 hrs) before their connecting flight departs, sleep at the gates. Yes! Reminiscent of the Sec'bad Railway station and other busy railway stations of the two cities. So after an exhausting wait in the line, I board the flight in what was going to be my longest air jouney ever. 16 hours. It was excruciating. No vegetarian food, fat neighbour throwing his weight on an emaciated me, no window seat and 'sweet memories' from back home haunting me. Nevertheless, the personalised entertainment system came to my rescue. I watched movies I always wanted to watch like Kung Fu Panda and all which I couldn't squeeze in time to watch back home and they had TV shows ala FRIENDS and HIMYM too! A little red wine would've helped me probably but without food, I didn't want any of that. So I took lite.

Houston airport gave me a warm welcome. Good officers and a great port of entry I say. Went on smooth. While waiting for the connecting flight to St.Louis though, I really missed home. Friends, special friends, best friends, bros, parents of course and more friends. Strangely, it wasn't nostalgia. I just wished things didn't go the way they were going. I felt bad for not giving into a prospective LDR but also felt good for the same. And when I switched on my mp3 player, hoping AR Rehman would give me some strength, 'Lukka Chuppi' moistened my eyes and if it wasn't for the urge to see my brother's face at St.Louis, Missouri, I think I would've wept. Shit. Did I just say that? Ok you are never going to mention that to me. Ever. I also never got time to ask them to take care of themselves but I hope they will. I already got a huge list of stuff I need to take back home, failing which my arse will be as red as the Texas Tomato which I might add is blood red in color. So finally when it was time for me to board my last flight for another week, I was more than happy. I slogged for two hours in the very compact Continental flight Hou-St.L, and Hola! I was at St.Louis. An American man came up to me, helped me carry my luggage to the exit and even let me give my brother a call. Very soon, a green Honda Accord Coupe raced to the place where I was standing and a guy who I know for the past 21 years greeted me with a wide smile. Felt warm in the already hot and humid St.Louis Lambert International Airport. When we hugged, I knew. I was home.

But no. I was wrong. Now, there are some words I cannot use on this blog which is quite intimidating at times to know but it starts with a 'C'. I guess all you guys and Mokam got what I am saying. So thats what I felt like. Later that night I spent some time with Corona Extra with an added slice of lime. DV was right when he described Corona as the enlightening juice. Cheerio bro! Next morning, my brother left his phone with me and left for work suited-up and all. After a few home calls and a notably long call to Manipal, I felt home again. Bro took me out in the evening and I met his friends and we went to Buffalo Wings Grill and bar and man! You get good food there. I got my phone very soon thanks to the bro again. My man, sponsored my first phone in the US. We went shopping and I got a jeans I always wanted to wear and of course got my newest Aviators. Old school Vintage. Like in MGIT they say, 'Not Listening Baaaaap'.

But time flies by. A week at St.Louis and I realised it was time to leave. The following Wednesday, I got a Business Class ticket to Corpus Christi(Huah!) and started packing again. And finally it was time for me to leave. Wednesday morning ushered in a lot of rains. Brother dropped me at the Airport but none of us had time even for a good-bye. I checked in and a few calls with heavy voice to India were unavoidable. Then got into a flight to Dallas from where I had to catch a connecting flight to Corpus. The skyline at Dallas was a pleasant sight. Especially when the plane flew very very close to it. It was a nice sight. Waited an hour at Dalls before I boarded the flight to Corpus.



There are times when you are idle and your train of thought takes over you and you are lost in the sea of memories. On the flight to Corpus, it was one of those times for me. Through the window, I saw the most wonderful view and memories from back home plunged over each other and hit me. The clouds were sometimes disrtributed unevenly like God had thrown fistfuls of cotton in mid air and sometimes really huge clouds with puffy edges would stare at you like strong men stare at puny kids. Nimbus clouds would gather like it were a meeting of the upperclass. Entertainingly fast grey clouds would whizz past and suddenly the green land would be visible. The propeller of the airplane looked like it loved 'cloud milkshake' as it greedily absorbed the white stuff. Sometimes, the plane would be at a level where you could see the ground and not the sky because you are a part the sky and later you realise that the horizon has absorbed you and you feel like you have reached the oblivion. My heart felt faint. It pleaded me to get off the plane and start hitchhiking my way home. It left me with bittersweet memories of home. Of the place, amongst the children, where I found lost love. Of the place, where you get literally the best biryani in the world. Of the place, where kids with kurtas and pajamas and a religious topi on their head innocently ask their friends, "Pacchas dallaar ek lakh rupai kaise hothe re by?"(How can fifty dollars equal one lakh rupees?) or "Special Chai boletho kya re? usme Ice cream daalthe kya?"(What is Special tea? Is it topped with ice cream?). And of the place, it dwelled for 21 years, no questions asked. At one point before we landed at Houston for a 15 min haul, the plane jumped into clouds and all of a sudden I was in the past, dipping my nose in the mountain of soft curly hair of a girl and the sweet fragrance of her body was all around me. Then the faces of my parents, who gave me unbounded love for 21 years and all I was giving them in return was seperation.


Fifteen minutes or so before the plane landed in Corpus, I got to see the South-West cost of Texas. Exactly like it was in the map. The thin islands and fluorescent blue waters. Layers and layers of different shades of blue waters hitting the thin, snake-like body islands. As the plane started getting closer to the land, I started passing through a guilt-trip. I didn't know it was just the beginning of it. As soon as I landed in Corpus, the university shuttle picked me and dropped me at the university square apartments. I got into the room, made new friends, played cricket, learnt some basic curries and yada yada yada. Since the day after I landed here, I've been searching for a room and freshie room mates. No result yet. Still haven't unpacked my bags which I packed back in St.Louis. Need a permanent accomodation yet. So...

Desperately trying to peek into the future, I realise... But I'm still stuck in transit!

All about hate

A very eventful 18hr fundo with my friends, left me at this point. A point where I write about my feelings and call it a post on my blog. It all started with Pydi Mallu's lunch treat at one of my favorite restaurants in the city. Alex's Kitchen. Trust me, its one of its only kind of Chinese Restaurant in the city. Exquisite taste and original Chinese. So we are at this awesome restaurant ok where Chinese food tastes Legen-wait for it-ahaan-Dary; Its Legendary! and we finish our lunch and Pydi Mallu is burping orgasmically and then Mokam and Pupps hog on some icecreams and stuff while me and Vicky fag like real men. Yeah you got that right.. Bro! Faggers are real men. What did you say? Its not true you think? Last time I typed, I remember this blog was mine! So do me a favor. DO ME A FAVOR. Ha ha. Yeah I got that part man! I crack myself up. Yeah so do me a favor and go read something else! This is Meso Spaciosa! Not the ever tickling and blog-about-others-sling dirt on professors-blog called Terpsikure.

Haan, after that, we are wondering where the 5 of us should head next. Me, Pupps, Mokam, Vicky and Mallu Pydi. Or Pydi Mallu. Same Difference ya! And then all these guys want to go to Helix. No don't worry, its not a secret society ala Skull and Bones or the Free Masons. Its just a harmless(sometimes gay) gathering of people every sunday to have sessions of discussions formal and informal alike. They really wanted to go but they want me to come along. But why can't I go along with them? Hmmm.. its time for some rewind.

2006. A hyperactive girl who keeps getting hit on by every guy in the college, is introduced to me. At this point of time, I'm being a wannabe Romeo singing like a desperado under the balcony of a beloved girl(back then) and hence I hardly find the hyperactive girl attractive nevertheless I thought she was obnoxious. Then one day in the college bus out of nowhere, HP girl calls me gay because I'm wearing a lite Violet tee shirt with black horizontal stripes. Now clearly, in the 2nd year of under graduation, I was skinny and I sported what they called 'the Sania Mirza glasses' and since the crush of my life wasn't someone from my college, I hung around with other guys totally giving all the other good looking chics a miss. One could call me gay for that. But no! Miss HP had to had to call me gay because of the tee shirt I bought with my own money and wore the first time to college. So it really pisses me off ok and I play a prank on her. I hide her lab record and tell her while getting down the college bus, that I'm taking it home while I made sure she got her record by giving it to a common friend.

One week later, I'm texting this crush of mine from outside college sitting in the college cafeteria and bam! comes Miss HP. She has that quintessential smile that most girls have while looking at hot single guys. So she says hi and sits at my table. I put my phone down and greet her casually. In a min, her classmate comes and joins the table. He keeps getting touchy with her and I couldn't take it so I keep my head away. He leaves the table soon after and the next thing I know is that my cell phone is missing! I knew it was Miss HP's stupid wannbe-cute drama ok. So I take lite. One thing leads to another and she ends up taking my cell phone to her place. I'm super pissed ok. Never was I, trust me, never was I more pissed at anyone else. So you don't see the hate part yet? Ok. I call up a common friend after a long time and I hear from her that the day my cell phone was seperated from me, she gets a call from HP and HP doesn't just encroach my privacy but she spreads around my text inbox like how the American Soldiers spread in Afghanistan after the attack on WTC towers. Quick and mean. I never knew hate before this.

Cut to present, I had 4 kids forcing me to attend the routine sunday session where i will have to watch Miss HP and her infinitely unavoidable whoric idiosyncracies. They force and I say no. They force again and I say no again. They keep on forcing, I keep on saying no. After Pydi Mallu's brow gets dark(he was the fairest amongst the 5) under what the Hyderabadis call the bright skin scarring autumn sun, I decide to make a move.

"Indecisive Pricks!", I say.

Pydi Mallu: "Abbah? Occhindayya pedda.."(Dad? Here comes the big...)
Mokam:"What re?"
Pups: "He he he he"
Vicky: I dint notice what he was doing.
Varun Chenna: " " (blank)

Pydi Mallu:"Why can't you come re?Apart from the fact that she is coming?"
Me: "Have you ever genuinely hated a person?"
PM: "No."
Me: "Then you wouldn't understand why."


So we hit the nearest Cafe Coffee day. Only to get pissed off by some school kids who seemed to over crowd the place thinking of it to be some kind of a picnic spot. So we go to Sarovar Coffee shop. And then we play the most dreaded game there was. Its called 'the game'. Yes the game. Drop in by sometime at my place(before the 29th of this month of course) we'll play it. And we were having a lot of fun. Then, Rajan drops in. With his golden framed Aviators and says hi and puts them glasses in his pocket and we join him in the game.

Everything is smooth and fun for sometime, but then it happens. You know common cold? You can never get rid of it wherever you go. Its always in the air and its unavoidable. Just like that, Miss HP drops in too! Yes. With a gang of guys(Obviously!) she gets the whole Helix team to Sarovar and goes all chirpy-wirpy and Rajan and Me sit down properly and we don't move while the others go and greet the ladies. yes, ladies. There is a lot of commotion in the coffee shop and I ask Rajan why he didn't say hi to Miss HP and he tells me a short story as to how he pissed her off when she asked him to find out what her name was as a part of ragging and he did not. Then Rajan says,

Rajan: "Why didn't you go and talk to her?"
Me: "Tell me, have you ever genuinely hated a person? "
Raj: "No"
Me: "Then you wouldn't know why."

So me and Rajan slip out of the commotion and come out. Vicky comes out running.

Vicky:"How can you hate someone so badly re?"
Me: "In the presence of the person you hate, its not hate anymore re. Its disgust!"



So kids, that is how I met your uncle Rajan.




Oh shit. Too much HIMYM. I'm sorry. So after this, we guys sans Mokam and Rajan, go watch 'Wanted' at Sensation Insomnnia. And man! I was not wrong about the movie. It was AWE-fuckin'-SOME! And to end the day, we went to PM's place to sleep. Where he made us some dosas which were LEGEN-wait for it-I know it gets boring if you wait too long so here comes the second syllable -DARY! LEGENDARY!


So, that is how we had a fun time. I'll end it at that. More to come, only on MESO SPACIOSA. Which is Awesome.

The mexican, the sax and the code

Ennio Morricone is God. His music has this distinctive Mexican flavor. A bit of ruthlessness, a pinch of gore, a spoon of blood, a jar of gold, a whole lot of grease(Mexican flavor, remember?), a handful of Banjo and slap of advice for the jobless cowboys-there's more to life.. Like people do crazy stuff while listening to his music ok. People were reportedly jumping off the buildings and killing each other in Mexican Standoffs after they heard the theme from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Who composed it? Ennio Morricone did! What about the theme from the unforgettable movie Melana? Where the young boy does..Ahem..bad stuff? Ya ya.. Exactly that movie with all that. Yes. Damn! Its hard to blog without letting bad words cum out. You get it right? Haan? Cum on!

What about Kill Bill? The second part. Before the titles. There is a bit of piano when the screen shows "MIRAMAX". The music shimmers on your dark inners. I mean your inner body parts. What in the world would take to make music like that? There are other good soundtracks in the movie too. Not to forget Nancy Sinatra's Bang Bang. Makes so much sense.

But then, there are songs and solos, that'll make you scream, "Hallelujah!" or "Lailaaaaa" or "Blistering Barnacles" or whatever it is that your religion doesn't consider profane, which is technically nothing.

Muscular mountaineering mug heads, miniscule microbes that help you loose weight when you consume them, mosquito molesters and the likes might be the swear words of the future. But his music will never fade away.

And don't even get me started on A.R.Rehman. Listen to his new movie album, Jaane Tu..Ya Jaane Na. A certain song titled "Tu bolen.." is inexpressibly captivating. Especially the jazz tunes. The best use of the sax ever by any Indian Musician. World Class I say. Well, I'll keep this one short because I love his music more than just a dedicated full length post on my blog.


So, got this one wrapped now. Will come back with some more stuff. Till then, you guys can waste your precious time on Barney's Blog (The Barney Stinson guy from How I met your Mother-HIMYM)). Lips showed me the blog first and man the blog is good.

Oh, you guys can drop in some comments with corollaries to the famous Bro Code.

Here is mine.


Article#999
A Bro must necessarily respect everything that his Bro loves, how much ever weird, creepy, pretentious or gay he considers it.


So I'm off to work now. I just spilled tea on my desk and now my hands stick to the table whenever I try to reach for the mouse.

Dated till: WhenFingering shall no longer be a bad word and would only refer to the movement of fingers on the fretboard of a guitar.


P.S: Neither Morricone nor Rehman paid or contacted me in anyway asking me to post this blog.

The noxious silhouette of the hanging Flower Pot

A nut in the head, a water jar on the bed; What's the difference? Before I start off with a wacky definition for life, you need to know that work is fun. Especially when you have unlimited internet download, at speeds that would make even a fat lightning on a hurricane night smirk with shame.

Loss of consciousness till the point where you feel sleepy and active at the same time is nothing but getting high. Commuters step out on a rainy day for their own reasons like loss of pay, loss of good company, loss of a nice cup of a tea and a fag at break hours in the evening. Loss. What is its role? Void? Empty space? Scarlet sunset in Somalia? Maybe Mozambique. Hang on, my humming bird is buzzing.

I love the smell of fiber chairs and airconditioned computer cubicles in the morning. Because not only do I have to love my job but also I have to stay put at the cubicle for the following 9 hours with 4 unconditional breaks for the day.

Office would be unbearable without a bit of humor. With Lips taking that burden, work(if there is any) becomes liter. Nice na.

Blogging is a great option, as I just discovered, when you are at office and when there is too much work. Ditch it all and blog it off!

Anyway, stupid office LAN beckons. Need to download 3 movies and 4 TV shows before I leave the office this evening and dump them in my stupid pendrive with a rubber cover. BTW, yesterday was a great day. Went to Sphoorthi. I almost forgot, I'm one blog due to write about Sphoothi. I'll finish it off ASAP. Before stupid Lips sings that sad, depressing Hindi song again which I believe is the reason why I'm sick.


And, did I flatter myself today? No right? Ok I'm not really in a mood for it but I'd definitely post a pic which "I" took at Kodai. Which reminds me of yet another blog I'm due to write.

Embryono Cheerio.

So what happened after that?

Good that you brought it up. After that, I realised that uncle cock was just too jobless and he was just kiddin' around with the blog. But everyone knows how serious an issue it is when someone snatches your personal space as their purge space. If you don't then you should go to the Nicobar Islands. I heard its the worst there. Thereafter, I never heard from Cock again. Nor from hotcockburns who added me on Gtalk.


So, I think I'm back now. I think I want to blog more often, like always only. But its the stupid sself-induced opium and the computer table looks to me like the perfect way to spend a holiday. If you still didn't get it, then I want to add that I am feeling very sleepy. So Geronimoh!

The Nicks
The chics
Australia
Benji
Mari
Weedy
Tambakku.

The Penultimate Point

Awwwwwwe! You wanted to read something on my blog and you found nothing new? Don't worry sweetheart, I've got something just for you.

Here it is.

Woah!

Ok Mr. Cock! You brought in good news from me. Scorsese is not my only favorite director. Mani Ratnam is too. Among many many many others. And in Guru, Abhishek Bachchan says, 'Jab log tumhare khilaf baat karte hey, tho samjho tarakki kar rahe ho..'. Now I understand just because you call yourself cock, it doesn't mean you totally are one or that you don't understand hindi. So I am guessing you got my point.

Next time, make sure you put your name. If your cock comes along with a set of balls that is.

And to all of ya' all, my next post if goin to be out soon. Cocks' or Pussies' don't intimidate me. Comments that are critical don't intimidate me either. If there is anything that intimidates me, then its the fact that you read my blog. Yes, my blogs are only for intellectuals.

P.S: So, cock. Are you the one who stole my password and compromised my account? And can I call you dick?

The Renegade - 2

Long Post. I think you need to give the person you are chatting with online a break and read this one. Oh, if you want to read the first part(which has got a minor relation with this one, then you know where you gotta go)







(Somewhere in Brighton, Pre-Indian Independence)

The 42nd street lay quiet in the moonlit night. The time was 2 A.M. The uniqueness of the street lay in its ability to contrast two different strata of the society from one point. When a man stood there, he could view the Davenport Mansion where the aristocratic guests belonging to the Davenport family were often ushered in and on the opposite side was the fruit and vegetable market situated across the 41st street. At this damned hour of the day, neither of the streets were buzzing with cacophony as they would have been, if it were the daytime. The silence was undisturbed. Until...

Footsteps. Crisp and loud were heard. They neared the 42nd street. A tall and athletic silhouette was drawn up against the moonlight. The silhouette faced the Davenport Mansion. The ground floor of the mansion had its lights turned on. The figure glanced at the mansion one last time and slowly turned towards the street. His walk was composed and determined in every step. He walked along the length of the road and had held a bottle of Wine in his hand which had its cork taken out a mysterious liquid ran down the bottle because of the angle at which the stranger had held it. He then stepped on to the cobblestone pavement and rested his back to a wall. The liquid still flowing down freely. He seemed totally alright with it. The bottle was soon empty, as the stranger gazed into the darker parts of the streets. He then dropped the bottle down. Put his hand inside his waistcoat and drew a shiny box on which were embossed the words "GOLD FLAKES". He opens up a box and pulls out a cigar before he reached for the matchbox. He lights up a match and puts it close to his cigar and puffs two or three times before he puts out the match. He slowly raises his head.




The moonlight hits his, tall dark face. His cheekbones were significant and his nose was pretty straight except for the nose bone which was predominantly huge. His lower jaw, converged into a sharp, wedge like object. His lips were exceptionally pink and thin. But the most attractive part were his eyes. Solid yet beautiful. Artistically curvy but definitely male. A slight amount of light fell on his left eye pupil and it shimmered brightly. He kept smoking the cigar. He looked intense.

The silence befell upon the street once again. Except for the occasional burning of tobacco and heavy breathing, nothing could be heard. The stranger now was lost in some train of thought. A summer's day flashed in front of his mind's eye. A beautiful woman smiling at him. Then a new born baby in her arms. The neck tie was getting too uncomfortable. He removed it and placed it in his pockets. He unbuttoned his waist coat and knelt on one leg and rested his arm on the other. Once again, he got lost in thoughts. He had a sudden urge to grab the woman and to caress the baby in her arms. After a while, the stench of the liquid brought him back to the dark streets of Brighton and the Davenport Mansion. He stood up. He took one deep, long puff of the cigar. He stopped the smoke in his lungs. Then, almost in a surrealistic manner, with perfect precision, tossed the lighted cigar on the liquid. Suddenly, the cobblestone pavement was ablaze. Must have been an inflammable liquid that. Within a moment's gap, the fire spread from the pavement to the street and then it followed a path into the Mansion. At this point of time, the stranger was looking straight at the Mansion. In slow motion, the fire crawled into the Mansion and there was a huge blast. The stranger's eye pupils contracted, but his eyes remained steady and they kept gazing at the Mansion, unaffected. Then he breathed out the smoke he held in his lungs. Moments later, debris started falling on the ground. A foot long piece of wood fell on the street where he was standing. He slowly walked towards the mansion. He smiled and then he turned back. A multitude of footsteps were heard running towards the Mansion. The stranger turned back and walked slowly into the streets. The darkness, absorbed him.

(Queens, NY, 7 or maybe 8 decades later. Yes, India is Independent now)

"Dood. You remember the artificial neurons I created last week in my research lab? They passed away last night."
"What? But how? They seemed alright when you conceived them. He he he. OK sorry. Maybe its the Jews."

"Shut up 'Jiggle-o-doodle-dick', the stray currents that circulated in the incubation box might have formed a minor electromagnetic field which might've come in contact with the neuron's EMF and eventually damaged them. But that is just a case."

"What are you going to do now?"

"I don't know JODD. I should've used a non-ferrous material for the inner coatings. Damn! The prof is going to cancel my fee waiver or RA now."

"Fuck that's bad."

"Yeah."

"Its time for a Bud."

"You bet."

The two teens went into "the Urban Manor", there favorite hangout in all of Queens. Jodd was drooling over a single girl at the bar while the other guy was searching for someone anxiously. House music was playing loud.

"Hey genius, check out the girl with the healthy lungs across the hall.", screamed Jodd.

"Will you keep your voice down Jodd head, my girl is gonna be here any moment now."

"Relax hero. She won't be here for another.."

Just then, a girl arrives. "Hey baby! I was searching for you from 10min. Heard Jodd's voice and found you."

"Hey!", exclaims the guy.

"Hey babe.", says Jodd.

"Manners Jodd."

"Yeah right. Anyway, I'm gonna go fishing now, the lady over there just smiled at me."

"Fishing?"

"Forget it. You lot never grow up."

"Get lost JodDICK."

Jodd was off. While the guy and the girl were, err.. what can I say? Puckering their lips? Perhaps. The guy's cell phone then rings. The display reads "Mom-India". He shows his girlfriend the display of his cell phone and puts a finger on his mouth indicating her to stop talking and both of them walk out of the bar, holding hands. After they are out, he picks up the call.

"Ma! 'Sup? Yeah. I'm ok. Me? I'm in the campus, with some of my friends working on the science project. Yeah will call up when I'm done. Bye."

"Science project", said the girl.

"Yeah. I was noting down the amount of calories being burnt while we were making out."

"Geek-o. Where is your bike?", asks the girl while she is adjusting her hair.

"Its in the garage. Making a few changes to the base engine. So what say? A ride to San Diego next week?"

"No bey. I need to go to India. Granny is unwell."

"Awwwwwe. C'mon!"

"Seriously? What you are feeling bad now? Remember last week? You were supposed to take me to Vegas and you said you were conceiving micro-electro-biological babies ??"

"I actually was making something. Ok listen. I don't want to start all over again. When are you returning from India?"

"Indefinite."

"Fine"

"FINE!!"

They turn their backs to each other. They were burning with anger. 10 seconds pass. Then they turn back and start making out against a lamp post. After sometime, the guy gets another call.

His eye pupil's contract. Suddenly, his love-fed face becomes intense. He answers the call.

"Yeah.", his voice heavy and his eyes sharp.

A long silence. The girl keeps staring at the guy. The guy hangs up without another word. He catches the girl's hand and says,"C'mon baby. We need to rush".

"What happened? Where was the call from??"

"The Davenport Mansion."

Both of them start running. Darkness absorbs them.

Boozing/Fagging/Doping=cool??????

“Tell me what your friends are and ill tell what you are”. A philosopher once said so. But today the philosopher can be re quoted as, “You are what your friends are”Nevertheless can we suppose he’s totally right? Most of the boozers of today were boastful teetotallers yesterday. What then drove them over the brink?It is the company or bad company to put it better in most cases."

This, and some more paragraphs, adorn the 'about me' part of a very dear friend of mine, on one of the social networking websites(where I never waste my time).

Though I'd like to put the whole of it, I didn't. Because this is my resurrected space. I cannot put the whole thing and make you believe he is a better writer than I am. Which he totally might be. But no. I am not the one who is going to tell you that. And decrease my site traffic. No!

Well, the reason I actually put this thing here is, that I've been having too many complaints. That I told them some stuff is bad and I started doing it myself. But may I tell you, the word 'hypocrite' is thrown around a lot these days when people take my name. What irks me, is that you get to use that amazing word, and still ask me questions. If you call me a hypocrite, you cannot ask me why I am not a teetotaller anymore. If you ask me a question before you call me a hypocrite, then I think you are an asshole.

So, who is this friend and what is he indicating at?

Ok, hang on. Stop reading my post so fast. I hate it when you do that. In this post, I'm dealing with serious issues like alcohol abuse at a young age. You cannot read or scan through my post like you would look at half naked poster of Rakhi Sawant. You cannot drink it like its water. You have to taste it slowly. Like red wine. Let it wet your mouth at every corner.Let it tickle your jaws and strum the veins on your tongue like whiskey. And before you digest it, it needs to make its presence felt in your thoracic cavity and burn down your aesophagus(hope its not an intestine) and enter your bellylike rum . Then, only then have you read my post.

You didn't answer my question.
Of course I have not. Can't you hang to your unmentionables?

No. Anyway, whats your point? I need to go take a shower.
Fine go take a shower. Its not like I am stopping you. But wait. The point is, my friend says..

I know what your friend says. Tell me what is your answer?
Ok. In the past, I swore, that till I graduate, I wouldn't bamboozle my senses with stuff that lesser mortals are used to. Although, I knew I was gonna eventually try it out. Just because I don't discuss books, doesn't mean I don't read them. I mean yeah I don't read them now. But I was a kid too. I hated Nancy Drew since grade 3 (because her first name matched with the girl in my class whose nose always leaked and she always wept). So when I was in grade 6, I happened to read Mahatma Gandhi's autobio. Now I think that the book is a catastrophe. But back then, I read it over and over. I realised, that even people regarded as the greatest souls to ever dwell on earth, also initially served for dry leaves rolled into a paper with a light on end and a fool on the other. The way Gandhi described his attraction to 'blow rings of smoke into the air' caught my attention. Mind you, in grade 6. At that point of time, I cried at his weakness. Ten years later, it doesn't even matter me. I have my own reasons to 'fag'. Trust me, its a little more than the love for the cinema. More than the love fro Scorsese's immortal characters which are hardly seen without a fag.

I'm not supporting myself. Definitely not saying its not injurious to health. Keeping in my mind the fact that I have asthama. But just because I do it, doesn't mean I am a bad guy or a guy gone bad. It doesn't mean, my life has lost its meaning or I lost the right path to be what I wanted to be. Which is a writer. And writers smoke a lot. Which means I am means I am on the right track. Try out this random thing. Ok? Tell me, who is your idol? Think before you read. Ok now put that image of your role model/idol in your head. Does he/she fag or booze? There you go. There is your answer. Most of them do.

Winston Churchill for instance. He was a great man. Diplomatic and very powerful. Played a key role in the second world war. But not many people know he was also an unrepantant smoker. Did it make any difference to this world? Wasn't he married? Didn't he have any kids? Did any telugu girl look at him in disgust? No. Maybe she did but who cares? He was a mastermind behind the 2nd world war. A stupid telugu girl's opinion on how faggers should be hung to death is looked down up on, even by a dwarf/lilliput/leprechaun/Sachin Tendulkar.

But you have lung problems. Churchill didn't.
Yeah you are right. I am such an asshole. I am a disgust. I am like patch of dark spot on the white makrana marble. I should quit it.
Gotcha!
Ha ha. Screw Churchill. Ever heard of Che Guevara? I read his bio when I was in 10th. Do you know he had asthama right from the time he was born? He would refuse to take medicine when he had an attack. He would go pale blue and faint before he was rushed to the nearest hospital and given a proper medication. Smoking never stopped Che from being the ultimate rebel.

What about drinking?
Trust me, I am so glad I took a break and started boozing. Besides, in the last 6 months, I came all the way from being an underweight to growing a paunch. My mum couldn't be happier. (I swear to God I am going to kill you if she knows this).

So you say its not wrong?
I say lets all do it! Lets gets drunk and kick some cop-ass. No no. I am being sarcastic there. If you can keep it under control, then I definitely say its not wrong. Some of my female friends had really bad time dealing with over-the-top drunk guys. Seriously, I hate them too. But when its under control, then it aint bad. because baby, never underestimate, the taste.

And doping?
B'uh.

Ok question for you. Why do you think Telugu audience like senseless movies?

P.S: The title is a direct lift off from a junior friend of mine's article heading. Just to prove that at Meso Spaciosa, wine is never the same. Baby.

No I'm ok.. Yeah.. Totally.

Yeah yeah. Shove it in my face. You have a clean life, knives that are not steak, you have a lakeview bedroom, a bathroom with rustic tiles and the best toilet seat on the face of the earth. But do you know how it feels when your Yahoo! mail says "Incorrect Password"? That password which you have been using since 2 years now? You don't know? Then you have no right to despise my life. You haven't despised my life yet? Then why don't you throw in some rope and pull me out of this?

The afteramath, has been terrible. Especially with people asking me, "Why don't you come online these days?" and "Hey, why did you delete the testimonial you wrote for me? I swear I'm straight!". I don't want to go into too many details, but I think its a shit I wish not even for my enemy.

The worst part is you need to add those 350 odd friends on Orkut, 150 odd friends on yahoo! and 60 odd on facebook. But I gave it a skip. This time, I added those only who would accept my friend request(Not that I added everyone myself the last time). Don't want to take anymore risk with my self respect, which got battered badly after some disturbing 'I can't let you see my pics with others' albums, 'looking down upon' privacy settings and non-replying message inundating. Confusing? Save your breath and jump off the building.

If you've come this far then you're either swearing at me or cursing me. Or branding me as an anti-social, cribbing tragic heroic underdogishly sympathy seeking fool. But does that strike a chord? You're still reading it. Love me, hate me, hack my accounts or delete my blog. You still have an affinity towards me. Which is why you are reading all this crap. But I think I should be fair enough to entertain you, since you've come so far.

So folks! Entertainment starts, next post(Not this post because its already too long and the night has fallen upon with a dull, rainy thud). Keep reading terpsikure or shivakarukonda or the likes of it. Keep swearing/cursing/hacking or whatever you're good at with my blog, which managed to piss someone off so badly that he/she/3rdgender deleted my blog. And also, expect to see more forward slash symbols in the posts to come.

Till then, let there be light in public toilets and let yahoo! have enough brains to recruit intelligent people for account security.

Embryono Cheerio.

P.S: Nothing actually. Just that I like adding P.S at the end of every post. Reminds me of letters that Tom and Jerry shows usually have.

Resurrection thy name

I am exactly 10 days away from celebrating the 2nd anniversary of my blog, which was killed just yesterday. True. It was killed. I am the victim of somebody's ego. I don't know who that somebody is. I don't want to know his sane intentions behind this. But , this has been a merciless killing. My blog was my brainchild. This bastard, killed it. For reasons unknown, as of now.

But, like they say, when the going gets tough, the tough get going. The world cannot stop a writer, especially when his readership belongs to the same class, as the writer's. I'd like to say, that at this moment, I am at point zero. My memories, my insanity, my ideologies and my thinking, which made quite a few good impressions, have been erased. I am right now, the most misinterpreted guy.

This is the most painful time for me. So painful, that I cannot digest the fact, that there is someone out there who hates me and my writings so much that he deleted my blog. I never knew I propel hate amongst others. But, I am a writer. I need/have/love to write. My posts, "The Renegade", "Me and Captain Lee" and a lot others have been very well appreciated. And it seems like they have been despised and hated too. The number of posts were 49. I was just going to hit a half century, when...

What makes this point of time even more difficult is the fact, that the selfless reasons with which I have been restraining myself of worldy pleasures(the worst being not able to eat pastries because they have egg), are being misunderstood to be selfish reasons. "how I had wasted many precious moments running after the wrong things in life" "I couldn't care less","I don't believe in destiny anymore", "Best guy" and others are still mongering in my head. They make me wanna write more. They make me wanna pray more. They reiterate my idea of not to let my love turn to hate and to keep the faith. I will.. and I still... If two and half fucking months of time cannot help me out of it, then I don't see what will.

She claimed and claimed.
She promised and broke.
She slapped my love away.
She disgusted my existence.
She threw upon me, the sweetness I poured
She knew.
She always, knew.
Anthony Blood spoke; This too, shall pass.

All that is left behind, is my faded photographic memory. The footprints on the sand, the trail of the ants, the blood and the bloody. Resurrection thy name, is Fawkes.

P.S: Misunderstandings, are welcome.
P.P.S: Do not comment without including "Tragic hero" in the statement.