Temazcal

Allow me to introduce you to the anti-resolutions.

It's something like French beer. Sure it exists, but do you really want to try it? And then like the wise kid said "there's only one way to find out...".

So why not? Why not a year full of indulgences, excesses and beating the nagging, creeping desire of improvements to a pulp. And then drinking that pulp while eating bacon and sausages. Caviar on the side. After all what's breakfast without tiny fish eggs, eh?

I'm assuming you're going to try and lose some weight...why not, the world and his wife's doing it. And perhaps eat more vegetables, be nicer to people, do something or the other for society.

But that's sooo 2009.

The coming year is all about change. The crazy kind. The wild thing kind. So come join us if you don't want to miss out on the caviar. Ok so caviar tastes horrid and is only a fad. But the bacon. Oh the bacon.

And the baskin icecream, the nirula HCF, the clothes, the splurging on unnecessary but yet essential things, the many different alcohols you haven't tried. We're guessing french beer couldn't be all that bad. Your body is crying out for them. Screaming for them. If only you could hear it.

Don't worry about the beer belly or the cholestrol or the hangovers. We'll get rid of them in 2011 (man, that'll be a boring year).

Oh and Conor Oberst's back. Fuck, things are looking excessive already. I'm soaking it all in. One caviar egg at a time.

Mr. Pitiful

There's a story that the old men of the Sahara tell. But they tell it very rarely. For they believe that repeating the story diminishes the message it carries.

But tell they must. At least once in their lives. That apparently is their burden and that is how it has been for ages past.

They're not sure what the message it carries really means. Most reckon that it's been repeated so many times, it's already diminished in its essence. While some think it's something that man wasn't meant to understand anyway. A few think it's worth starting a religion for (thankfully they've always been a minority).

It's a story nonetheless. An ancient one but a story at the end of it all. And you can only read so much into it. Cause it's a story after all.

But because of the storys' myth or perhaps because of the words it says, the eldest in the tribe is held in the utmost respect. He gets the choicest morsel of food, the first look at the new sun, water whenever he desires and an ear whenever he speaks.

The eldest after all heard the story in it's least diminished form. And he knows more than they ever will.

There's a story that the old men of the Sahara tell...and there are still places where the old don't get shunted to nursing homes.

Thnks fr th Mmrs

It's cold.
Shivering cold.
Is there any other kind? Yes, you fool. There are a gahzillion kinds. And it's all those kinds right now. Like a communion of colds. Fuckers!

The shivering cold is the loudest though. For the moment. I hate loud colds (I'm ambivalent towards loud people).

But they tell me it's going to get colder still. The communion is going to reproduce and do communion dances around my shivering body. They also tell me bitter cold will find her voice and be the loudest then.

I'm a tropical person. Tropical climate oriented that is.

So when my tropical brain - clad in its penguin swimsuit, whilst surfing waves and slurping smoothies - cause brains can do that, reads the papers, it can't help but put on a smirking smile. The devious kinds.

I can't wait for global warming to hit.

War

There is something in the air in Delhi. I know it's mostly bad, but whatever it is, it always stopped me from having a hangover the next day. Maybe pollution does have a good side. Now only if I could get it bottled, with attractive packaging, at a store near me.

I realise I'm coming out as overly alcoholic. Last post, this post. But I'm really not...or maybe I am. Or not. Whatever.

But what's worse is this Obama character. He's waging war after safely tucking the nobel peace price in his pocket. Shrewd no?

Now now, I do admire the man. I would have voted for him if I was of this land, but that doesn't mean he's right in everything he does, now does it? He doesn't get my "yay" to his every action.

And to be fair to him, even he's stopped trying to win everyone over, if you notice the changed tone and words in his speeches. Politics does that to you. You start up being a suckup, and then when you win the election you...stop sucking up.

But if he'd still want to listen, I'd perhaps shoutout..."War. What is it good for? Absolutely nothing. Ho!"

City Of Electric Light

Somethings are hard to change. Like every now and again when I go to a store or the like, I ask for a 'polythene' bag, instead of a 'plastic' bag.

Sometimes, like last night, I get a funny right back at me.

Store clerk: "That's a lot of alcohol. Big Party tonight?"
Me: "No, just me."
Store clerk: "hmm ok"
Me: "Can I have a Polythene bag to take that?"
Store clerk: "A who?"
Me: "A Polythene bag".
Store clerk: "Wow, sure fella, but why do you have to get all chemical on me"

But then again, when I almost start to get used to calling things the 'plastic' bag way, I make a trip back to the mothership.

I'm beaming there this tuesday and yes, I'm planning to go all chemical.

Where's The Pleasure

And open orchestra.

I saw a drink and travel show. Sunday actually. And apart from being jealous, I learnt things. Jealous of the host. Learnt of the alcohol (Poetic license for you grammarians).

The show claimed there are 150 master sommeliers in the world. Only 150 they said. More people have gone to space than there are master sommeliers. I think.
Will verify later, will philosophise now.

But more importantly, people everywhere drink alcohol. Everywhere. Even in places where religion hasn’t grabbed. And they almost always clink their glasses, say a word and drink some more.
Cheers, Prost, Salut, Sante, Kampai...

Isn’t that a wonderful thing. Although there's nothing to equal that in Hindi. No word to say before a drink.
I'm going to invent one.
Soon.

And close orchestra.

You know, I think bonus season’s started. People, at least in my office, have got the scent. They’re out there, behind corners, near coffee machines, in the alley near the loo, waiting, ready to pounce on any one of the big bosses.

It’s shameful really the length they go to. Sucking up was an art form. Now with everyone doing it, at this time of the year, you’re bound to get some amateur work.

I’d tell you stories about it, but it’s nothing new. The usual bores me.

A friend asked me "How're you doing?"
I replied "I'm doing mundane". And then I realised I loved what I said. So I smiled. Which threw him off. He winced. Mundane and smiles don't mix.

I'd talk more about normal people, but there's nothing new. The normal also, it appears, bores me.

So feed me a waltz of your abnormal.

And open rock symphony.

Raincoat Song

I do not understand the legacy thing.
Ambition also I don’t. Nor the need to break one’s back to prove to the world that you’re worth the salt.

I’m not saying that since everything boils to nothing at the end and that you’re always invariably going to be forgotten, why bother with life.

No, that’s not what I’m saying.

Even if it does all boil down to nothing, and no one will care about you or what you did after a while (which they really won’t), you’ve still got this time to fill right?
Between the cradle and the grave.

I’d rather fill it with something fun than existential angst. We live very short temporal lives. Relative to a butterfly we might live long, but not relative to much else. So chill I say. And chill well.

I mean if you’re doing it for recognition in this lifetime and pure adulation or the comforts that the money buys, then you’re thinking like me. But morals and virtues. And you’re fooling with it all then.

It’s not a selfish thing.

The comforts, are after all subjective. You could be comforted by helping others and that’s all good. Or comforted with a new golf set that only you use. That’s all good too.

Why should altruism get more than it’s worth?

Yankee Bayonet

Now I really want to do them justice. So I’ll try and do this well.

This weekend I get an email from a friend saying he’s going to see a band play and since I’m of the musically inclined variety, would I be interested?

And if I was constrained to use but one sentence, that is probably how I would let you know I came about to see a band that goes with the name of “The Decemberists”. Live ofcourse.

That was the first I’d seen or heard of them (I know, it hurt me to realise I was so out of it. Especially in the music side of life. Celebrity gossip, TV serial knowledge, movies etc I don’t give fuck all about. But this hit where it hurt. Sigh.)

Now I’m in love with them. The unconditional variety. They’re mindblowingly good live. And that just might be me making an understatement.

You know, they didn’t have a set prepared. The first words the lead singer uttered was “this time we’re leaving it to fate”. Then they brought out this master-of-ceremony guy who rolled a big lottery drum and choose songs out of it. He did have a strangely put on british accent, but the Decemberists obliged every time. No set. Just fate apparently, albeit through the mouth of a fake british accent.

It was such a different experience. And New York laps different. Hell even I lapped it up.

On one particular roll, the master of ceremony said “Fuckin 'ell. All this ball here says, is that Colin is to make up a song right now." So Colin, got up to the mic and sang a song - about new york city and how when he’d come here the first time he stole something from the empire state building's gift shop. And he’s not returning it back.

Oh and you know what else he did. During the song “Culling of the fold”, he jumped into the crowd, while doing the hand touching thing with the front row he took someone’s cell phone, went up to the stage, dialed a number from the phonebook and kept singing loudly into the phone. If you know the lyrics to that song, you'll know that that someone on the other side of the phone lived through a lot.

He did return the phone back. Most likely since it had nothing to do with the empire state building.

And he wore suspenders. Fuck I really want suspenders now.

Where The Wild Roses Grow

Well then, I survived the psychological experiment fine and ok. Boss didn't notice. Maybe I should be worried. bah...Although, please don't be trying this at wherever it is you call work. Only trained artists please.

On other fronts, this city has been besieged by rain clouds. They’re nice though. Just stick around, drizzle on you and make you happy. Well one person's version of happy at least. I love rain clouds man. They’re like the official flag of the hill stations in India. The light chill, the mist everywhere, the view from your window when rolled up in a blanket near the fireplace. I love hill stations man.

One side effect of the rain clouds though is that they’ve rendered me a hopeless romantic. It’s like a chemical reaction. And I just saw someone’s holiday pics on facebook, from Greece and Puerto Rico, and now I’m a jealous hopeless romantic. That’s not a chemical reaction. I hate facebook.

Talking about weekends, I did a house movie night where we saw Watchmen, followed by poker. I love that book man. Perhaps the only thing that stayed with me from the movie though, was that I’m definitely going to make out to the song hallelujah playing in the background. But the Leonard Cohen version. He does it so much better.

Went home and saw Wall Street, again. Now I really want to wear suspenders.

Fiction affecting reality. But ofcourse.

Stir It Up

So I did a naughty thing.

I did two days of golf in a golf resort this Friday and Saturday. 3 friends; 4 rounds of that old picturesque, beautiful and yet frustrating game; blissful dinner with tired hands that could barely lift the cutlery and a countryside that probably inspired poems and sketches (that most likely hang on banker walls).

This country has it easy man. The fertile soil, the sun tanned climate, the frolicking wildlife. My development economics teacher always touted the golden rule of these developed economies as “Location Location Location”. So he stole it, but he used it well he did.

And then as I hit Manhattan, the ugly smell of perfume, deodorant, high heels and concrete brought the dream crumbling down...

But wait, naughty thing. That being I bunked work for it. I just plain didn’t show up for work on friday. No leave, no notice. Something like this is very alien to the american psyche, what with their work worshipping way of life.

So what we’ve got here, is a psychological experiment. I’m assuming my boss, never having any experience in this kind of behaviour, either:

1. Renders me insane and doesn’t confront me.
2. Confronts me but stalls for words to form a respectable question regarding my behaviour.
3. Shrugs his shoulders at me when he sees me on Tuesday, sighs and gives me more work. Essentially ignoring the whole absence.

Really, I doubt if he has any other options. It’s that far removed from their way of thinking.

I’m rooting for option 1. I’ve never been labeled insane and it’s been a dream. Wish me luck.

Donna And Blitzen

I’ve just woken up from a dream filled sleep and it’s raining on the streets right below my window. I have Tiny Dancer streaming from the speakers in the room. It makes the rain drops dance.

There’s an old samurai saying “Rain is only a problem if you don’t want to get wet”. The Samurais and the Russians, for some reason, seem(ed) to have a way with aphorisms. But it's too early in the morning to wonder why.

I’d ideally have liked to put on the radio instead. Cause deep down inside, I feel music coming from a playlist or the like sounds, for lack of a better word, stale. Like in a bar or a club.
With no radio jockey talking between the songs, about the songs, about the band, filling you in with what little trivia he/she knows, the music doesn’t sound - how do I say it? - fun.
But they play shitty stuff these days on radio. Hip Hop is not conducive to anecdotal radio jockey stories. There is no story behind the lyrics anymore.

Video might have killed the radio star, but hip hop’s dancing on his grave.

The title song is from Badly Drawn Boy. Isn’t that a cool name? It's from a character in a children's show. If you had to choose a stage name, what would it be?

A friend of mine recently got married and she walked down the aisle to this song.

Badly Drawn Boy’s originally from the UK, came to america, stayed a while, played a while, got homesick and went back home. He claims to be happier now.

I feel like a homesick badly drawn boy.

Singing In The Rain

Hello. I’m back and I’ve got good news and bad news.

The good news is that recently, on a moonlit night, sitting on a Parisian bench, opposite the Louvre, I fell on one knee with a ring in open palm, facing the girl.

She smiled and said "Ofcourse yes". But not before she took her time.

The bad news is that that apparently means I’m engaged.
Ok I lie, it’s all good news.

And then we went gallivanting across that food and wine flavoured land of the French and drank in it's "live the easy life" obsession. We had cognac in Cognac, crepes covered in nutella in Montmartre and more than is lawfully allowed of our share of croissants, pain au chocolate and coffee. We lived in a chateau inside a vineyard, hosted by a real Count and his Countess, one who's great grandfather commanded the Scindia's army in India.

And more, much more.

Now I'm back in my tiny Manhattan apartment, she's sipping her chai in her Delhi house and we're talking and laughing about the last 2 weeks.

It's raining here and as I call time out to step out and grab a cup of joe's almost french coffee, I can't help but sing.

Wake Up

If you cared, I’d say the last 3 weeks were like being inside a whirlwind.

But I’m guessing you don’t. I mean I understand, I wouldn’t care myself either.

I mean let’s be honest. You don’t reaaally care, do you now? It’s all well and ok to come here and read me out. But you’ve got your own real whirlwinds to deal with.

My breathings, sometimes lucid or well drawn out though they maybe, might be interesting, might be highly mundane, but at the end of it all, they’re just a chapter in a novel for you.

And so they should be.

Which is why I’m going to do this one just for myself. After all everyone needs a selfish every now and again.

So lets see CD, what did, we do?

There was that asshole of an exam for which you took a whole week off from work to study for and give. They had said study a minimum of 3 months for it. But no, what do they know. After all they’re not as intelligent as you. You laughed at them and said 3 months is one week for me, you tossers. Showed them 2 fingers and scowled at the same time.

When you finally sat down to it and saw what the syllabus entailed, you barely had time to shit. Now you’re praying the results, when they come out in 2 months time, show you some mercy. For they won’t.

Then there was the pool league. Now that was good news, wasn’t it. Your team reached the playoffs, won the finals and you were busy getting drunk in celebration. And then in the middle of his 9th drink, the captain of the team suddenly got out of his drunken stupor, all big eyed as if finally remembering something massive. He grabbed you by the collar and yelled “Shit! I forgot to tell you guys, for winning the finals, we get a free paid vacation to Vegas in August”.

It was only when you were brushing your teeth and looking at the bags under your eyes in the mirror the next day that you remembered what the madman was yelling.

Oh that toothpaste, it never tasted so fine.

Your memory fades you now. Everything’s becoming untangled from the timeline. But you know somewhere in those 3 weeks there was the first poker game you’ve ever won, the secret quest for a secret something that drove you near mad, friends over from India who needed to be drunk to, friends over from the east side who needed to be drunk to, friends over from the west side who needed to be drunk to, bad news, really bad news and really good news.

And despite all this, it always threatened to be just the tip of the iceberg.

There was the new role at work. They moved you to the buy side and you could finally yell at the sell side. Called brokers and yelled at them just for the heck of it. “Cause you could”. Learning experience your trader told you. Initiation rite. You told the private equity guys their funding was being frozen. When you heard the grown man at the other end of the line almost cry, you realized your power trip could drive you mad.

Then you remembered your favourite quote - “Work is an ends to a mean, not the end in itself”. And so you left work at the work place. Drank beer at the beer place. All was well with the world again.

You yelled back at your pool captain, while he was holding your collar and shouting some drunken gibberish - “Power trips are for ego maniacs and soulless bastards. I want hiking boots and undiscovered lands. A fishing rod, more than enough to drink and a girl with a sense of humour and a smile to make it alright”.

You wondered how his toothpaste tasted the next day.

And through it all, your spine’s been tingling. Yes, the same holiday tingle it loves to do whenever it gets the scent. You’ve been browsing travel websites about Paris while hungover almost every day at office. And after lunch you’d move to Bordeaux websites. Booking cars, hotels, insurance, visas.

Friday is almost here and that jet plane leaves with you on it. She’ll already be in Paris when you land. At the airport. It’ll have been 6 months. In most religions that’s blasphemous. But that tingle in your spine nags at you and lets you know it'll be all that much more worth it.

And you know, this one has the sense of humour you've been waiting for and the smile to make it alright.

The Blues Are Still Blue

I’m eating cholesterol free icrecream with diet coke poured liberally over it as we speak. Fat free America is slowly but deliberately creeping into my kitchen.

I’m also chatting with Australis as we speak. I tell her this. Her response “what kind of garbage is that?” makes me reach out for some Cheetos.

I’m easily influenced.

Oh, funny thing happened a while back...I was in a bar with one of my squash buddies. We were winding down after a game and I noticed a strange apparatus on the bar. It instantly brought back memories of one of the craziest nights I have ever had. In Prague. 3 people and 2 Absinthe shots each. That’s all it had taken.

I recounted said night to squash buddy.

He said “Wow, that is a crazy night, but more importantly what the fuck is Absinthe?”

You would be happy to know that I wacked him for his ignorance (I'm of the spare-the-rod-spoil-the-child side of life).

So I told him “Basically it’s rumoured to be a hallucinogenic”.

We ordered 2 shots. It was the american watered down version, so we ordered 1 more. I know, americans, plich!

Anyway, after those 3 shots, we hummed and hawed for a while and in one of those moments of silence that usually ensue in conversations, he proceeded to start texting. And for some reason he really seemed engrossed in the texting. Also, at the same time, a whole bevy of beautiful yet slut-ily dressed girls descended into the bar (The Lord, He Giveth every now and then).

Squash buddy looks up from his texting, looks around at all the girls and says “wow, this Absinthe shit really works!”.

I need smarter friends.

We did have another shot and he was highly disappointed that the "hallucinogenic" didn't make the girls take their clothes off.

Battle Of Evermore

In the olden days, in kingdom-ised India, a man was known by the amount of cows he had. A woman by the man she had. It was simple.

Evolution, along with bringing a multitude of choices in cars and washing machines, has also gone ahead and complicated the simple thing.

I've decided to propose a simple thing. Music.
(Now that man has developed a taste for cow meat, it would be torture to subject food as wealth. So we're leaving cows out of the mix for this one.)

So yeah, tell me your taste in music and I’ll tell you how many cows worth are you. I'm sure its a bit more complicated than that, but blame it on evolution.

I'm also proposing a take at this "evolution" thing. They’ve been telling me for a while now that we’ve become much advanced as a civilization. They throw moon landings, digital cameras, planes that fly faster than sound, disease curing antibodies, central heating at me.

All fair and well. But me, I won’t call us civilized till they throw a beer my way that doesn’t cause a hangover the next day. Now that's a daily useful evolution thing.

Call me a cynic. But know that my music cows outnumber your music cows anyday.

Oxford Comma

The Crime of the Broken Heart Rhyme

Good evening ladies and gentlemen
Good evening to your exalted selves
Gather round have you
Looking for someone to blame.

A broken heart I believe is the crime at hand.

A horrible way to go
And I understand there’s no emotion left to show.
I wasn’t there I tell you
I wasn’t even close.
Far from the battleground;
But I heard the broken pieces fall.

There must have been tears
Screams and maybe a few fears;
It must have been quite a sight
A fate I couldn’t wish on any of you.

A horrible way to go
Nothing but whispers left behind
Nothing but a new love to find;
And to convince oneself
That it was all perhaps a laugh.

But the question of the blame
Ah, the scrutiny, that old game
The him or her debate
I leave you to that
Let your roving fingers feed
And wish you luck ladies and gentlemen
May your blame be good
For the punishment sometimes don’t seem to fit the crime



*I think I wrote this 7 years back. I was also into aerosmith in those days and so the last line. Thankfully that's a thing of the past. Going through old documents is a mixed bag. Not as cathartic as I thought. I thought I'd share this one out.*

Paper Planes

The bastards in accounting took our coffee away. The good kind that is (they left the bad variety there). Something to do with cost cutting and the like.
Wankers.

It's surprising how much an average corporation survives on the daily cup of coffee. You come to my office and I'll show you zombies like the kind you nightmared about. Zombies with good taste mind you, cause we refuse to touch the bad coffee, even with a ten foot pole.

Also, our first kill is going to be an accountant.

I've got the flu. The seasonal flu that is. Not the swine kinds. But everytime I sneeze in the subway, people turn away and look at me as if they're about to report me to the CDC, in case I sneeze again. I always try and sneeze again. It's fun to play with people's fears. Paranoid people are the lowest in Darwin's hierarchy and need to be flushed out.

You think if I sneezed a third time they might have a stroke and die?

Played poker 2 weekends in a row. Lost in poker two weekends in a row. My phuphaji always said "unlucky in cards, lucky in love" after he'd thrash me in courtpiece. I repeated that to myself two weekends in a row. Nothings changed.

Actually, I take that back. A lot has changed. Maybe it's the peekaboo of summer or the possibility of a brilliant holiday in France in June. Or just that I had an ice cream cone with hot chocolate sauce dribbled liberally over it. Regardless.

So fuck them accountants. I'm buying my own coffee.

Burn ( by Ray LaMontagne)

Why do people say " Don't worry about it, It won't happen in a million years"... It's not like we’ll ever have a million years to test that shit out.

Yeah, I know, it's ridiculous. Like people saying "I have no regrets. If I had a choice I wouldn't change a thing"... I mean do they even sit down and consider the alternatives.

What if the alternative was being born as rich as a king, the body of a god and superpowers like flying and shit. Make any man or woman fall in love with you and do whatever you want where you want.

How the fuck is that absurd thing an alternative.

Ok I went a bit overboard. But there are always alternatives to consider.

True. But sometimes you’ve just got to realise that you’re all alternativ-ed out.

This conversation isn’t going anywhere.

Why do people say that? Why the intent to always get everything somewhere. Something even as everyday as conversations.

Jamaica Farewell

Jamaica did something bad yesterday. I know that because I live in the west village in Manhattan.

For you see, the west village is also where the best known gay bar in the city claims residence (this is ofcourse purely coincidental).

Now yesterday, after what was a grueling day at work, I got out of the subway stop and made my way home. I passed said bar and noticed a fair crowd gathered outside the bar, complete with a camera crew from some TV station, like some buzzing irritating fly.

Movie crews are always shooting in Manhattan, and the west village in particular, so after a while it becomes part of the background very soon. Glamour and the movies are enchanting only as long as they’re not easily accessible.

But this was different. There was black liquid flowing down the streets.

Bear with me.

Apparently the Jamaicans had pissed off the Gay and Lesbian community somehow. I’m not sure how those hippy liberal buggers managed that, but they did. And the gay bar, in a show of reproach, had decided never to serve Jamaican rum ever again. Fair enough. But...but they went as far as to actually empty their whole stock of Jamaican rum on the streets.

Now then…
Allow me to catch my breath.

Now, it’s a universal truth that it takes a lot for a man to throw or waste alcohol away. But to throw what is probably a years supply is just plain ridiculous. I mean c'mon, there are so many other options. Resort to violence, sing hip hop songs to jamaicans (they hate that), do a protest rally, don't go to jamaica ever (99.99% of their GDP is from tourism. That should hurt).

This though, is just pushing things way too far.

I felt like Captain Jack Sparrow felt when that numbnut of a woman burned his cache of rum on that island.

And I’m still seething.

If anyone suggests burning away jamaican grown marijuana, I'm going to resort to violence. While singing hip hop songs.

Another Brick In The Wall

Been hiding.
Firstly there was the birthday recovering. Then there were other birthdays and recovering from them. Then there was random merry making. I think I'm turning into an alcoholic. I'd quit, but it's so much fun, and the alternative sounds like something me and my friends would laugh at.

Which reminds me...isn't Apple the new Microsoft? In the evil empire way. It's everywhere. In the coffee shops, in the offices, on the tele, in hollywood, on that hot girls ear, in my ear. There's just so much peer pressure.

My next laptop is going to be a windows based one.
Ok I lie.

Anyway.

Oh and this was bound to happen. It was waiting to. Like a tick ticking timebomb.

"Ineligible Bachelors: Indian Men Living in U.S. Strike Out"
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB123896998996190775.html

But really? "Wife hunting trips"... wtf is that? What cereal are these journalists eating? Should I be responding with "Anyone know a good hunting-jacket shop?"

Although, my office is going to have a field day with that article. Sigh.

Oh Darling

I never had a traumatic childhood. Well, the usual trauma stuff, you know. Not enough to write a book about or blame everything wrong in my current life on.
But I sure as hell am having a traumatic workhood. No not the much publicised recession and the like. This is on a whole different plane altogether.

Let me give you a glimpse into what I mean.

A friend wanted to order a surprise birthday gift for his fiance but didn't want it delivered to his home, lest she saw it and ruined said surprise. So I volunteered my office address (I'm nice that way). With a warning though, that as long as it wasn't anything kinky, adult-ish, or anything to do with cute pink teddy bears. They're all really the same things.

So anyway, I'm working from home on Friday and my colleague calls me asking for some help. I say I'm busy and make a great excuse(I'm always learning from Dilbert).

Colleague resorts to threats and then blackmail. Says, she'll tell everyone that she's holding a package from Anthropologie for me. I quickly google anthropologie and realise it's a womans only store, that sells lingerie and pretty pink dresses.

Bloody hell. The fool sent women's clothing to my office with my name on it.

I say it's for my girl friend.
She says your girl friend is in India.
I say you know too much, stop stalking me.
She says she'll sell the story to office folks, which will involve me cross dressing. It'll catch on like wild fire.
I say no one will believe you. They love me too much.
She says do you want to test that out.
I say no.
She says you changed your mind about helping me yet.
I say yes.

After I've sweated for an hour over a dumb model she wants, I get an instant message on my laptop from my boss.

Boss: "I have your dress."
CD: "Come again."
Boss: " *Insert colleague's name* dropped it over to my office for safekeeping."

*CD swears under his breath*

CD: " It's for my girl friend."
Boss: "She's in India."
CD: "Why does every one know that?"
Boss: "Don't worry, I'll keep it over the weekend in my office. I won't tell anyone, unless they ask me."
CD: " Sure you won't."
Boss: " I promise."

On Monday, I enter office, and see this right outside my boss's office.



The post it says "Ask Me What This Is."

Obviously everyone's been asking why I'm wearing pants today? How come no flannel jeans or a yellow polka dot dress? Is the silk lingerie tickling me?

You think I'm ready to write that book now?

Move Along

I think every profession should date outside their own. Date, marry, make out etc...
Make out? Actually, I take that back. How does it matter who you make out with, but the dating and marrying bit stands. Fair?

It just makes it more exciting and entertaining. You last longer. And the more far removed the professions the better. Upto a certain extent ofcourse.

On a different tangent, I read something somewhere recently and it’s been bothering me.

Some economists had been crying hoarse about the average person living beyond his means, before the crisis as we know it happened.

But almost every scientist has been crying hoarse about us living beyond our environmental means and destroying the world, with our way of living.

And unfortunately, mother nature doesn’t do bailouts.

Isn't that a bothersome concept now?

Coming Home

Suddenly I realise that there are a ton of movies releasing this year that I can't wait to watch.

- X-men
- GI Joe
- Inglourious Basterds
- Harry Potter
- Angels and Demons
- 2012
- Star Trek
- Ice Age 3
- Crank 2 (sounds horrible but I love Jason Statham, man)
- Gomorroah
- 9
- Watchmen. Ah Watchmen. You know, if the movie industry fucks this one up (again), I will lose faith in hollywood forever. I will send a dead horse’s head to the director, I will.

It somehow makes even the apocalyptically inclined news that's been showering on us off late, bearable now.
It's all good.

Redemption Song

NYC, Feb 15, 2009

A coffee shop - a generic name for a place where for centuries a tradition of soul stirring conversations and life changing decisions have often been made.

One such conversation between a wise grandmother and her about-to-take-on-the-world granddaughters.


“....and if you have to choose between looks, money and a man who can make you laugh, choose the latter. The other two often lose their charm very fast...”


She also went on to complain a lot (as is the nature of the old) and said something to the effect that you young people will ignore this advice and go on to make the mistakes my generation made all over again (and while you're at it, some new ones). But at least you’ll learn faster (although harder) that way.

After all, dear grandmother, initiation by fire is the best advice.

Common People

I always knew it. Felt it in my blood...literally...hehe. (Yes, if you'll excuse me, I am in fact laughing at my own joke, but don't worry, you'll hopefully get it once you've read the post).

So, on a recent trip to the Mothership, my grandmother told me this tale of yore, about us (the family that is) being of royal descent. Yes I know, I did a double take as well. But dear reader, for better or worse, true blue I am. Lets just accept that and move on.

For as you know, grandmothers can't lie.
So here's the truth then.

Apparently, my great grandfather was the king of this small (or was it medium) kingdom in North India. The great behind the grandfather lends him enough ancestory to have been around the Mutiny of 1857. Although he did win a medal in British India, I am not sure what else happened...whether he fought or sipped chai all day long...for this part of the story was left vague by said grandmother (If I remember correctly, at that time in the story telling, someone had got Rasmalai and as you know, grandmothers can't resist Rasmalai).

Now after the Rasmalai, it transpired that my king ancestor had 2 daughters from one wife and one daughter from another and no son. But as was the nature of the disease that afflicted most royals in those days, he went and adopted a son. The rest as they say is history. That thankless bastard, on great grandpa's death, threw the 3 daughters out and took over the kingdom.

One of those wives was my great grandmother. God bless her. Hope she's throwing rotten tomatoes from heaven into hell at the bugger.

So there ends my sad but true tale. I should have been born in a palace with glittering chandeliers under royal guard protection and the watchful eye of a scheming minister, but instead was born in a private hospital in a dusty town called Gurgaon. I am what is commonly called, in exile.

Some say it was obvious to the eye after meeting me, the royalty bit that is, but why dwell on that. Although, I do hope my maths teacher somehow gets to know off this and realises I was right all along. Doing Maths homework is no way to spend a prince's school life.

To make up for my Maths teachers ignorance I recited this story to my boss. His response - "So, now you want to be addressed as Your Highness?".

Sigh, everyone's got a funny bone here.

I said "Well, I was really looking for a raise, but yes, I'll settle for your highness".
At which he guffawed.

Bloody Common People!

Brimful Of Asha

I've been working for a decent number of years now. And there's that feeling every now and again that I could have done so much more.

I don't mean work-wise, no. I never intended out ever to do more at the 9 to 5. Work's for the working class. I'm a bit of the dreaming class. We rarely attach much to what happens at the desk.

I mean otherwise.

For you see, I've always believed that ambition should be a negative word.
Hobbyist, explorer, adventurer and their derivatives on the other hand, should be words worth more than their weight in gold.

For you see, I've also always believed that I was born in the wrong century. A few centuries earlier and I'd be discovering new lands, fighting off people discovering my land, sailing on ships amid tumultuous seas, courting women I shouldn't be courting, a Romeo to your Juliet and if a girl, a Viola to your Duke. And yes probably dying very young. Can't win em all can you.

....

As you've well imagined, this is me having resorted to dreaming at work, for I've had enough of this fucking spreadsheet.

Where Is My Mind?

It snowed the whole weekend here. I swear. I saw it with my own eyes. I wonder if the novelty of it will ever wear off. Perhaps if I lived in Canada or Finland. Doubt it though - all that snow, I’d be like Calvin, building suicidal snowmen all day long.

This year, I finally got over the novelty of resolutions though.

Tried Twitter yet? I did. It was intriguing in the beginning and then the, ahem, novelty of it, nosedived without warning. And I thought narcissism would be fun. We’ll just stick to the blog now shall we.

Also, this damn recession is getting a bit much. With all the hulla bulla, I feel suddenly broke and poorer. Despite any change in finances. This just confirms I’m a sucker for marketing.

So today I asked my boss - “Umm, will we get a bonus?”. He turned around real slow, smiled and said “ *CrazyDiamond’s indian name*, you ask such difficult questions” and then promptly zoned off. I even wistfully looked at a picture of a 42inch HDTV and willed my eyes to well up, hoping I’d appeal to some soft crumbly emotion of his, perhaps he'd hint with a nod of his head if I could buy it or a shake if I couldn't (yes, drama runs in my family). But no. That man’s a stone I tell you, a stone.

Throwing a house warming party this friday. So if you’re in Manhattan and passing by a small apartment with dimmed lights and great music but louder voices, yell my name. I might look out the window and watch you walk by.

But if you have a bottle of alcohol on you, we’ll lasso you inside. Anything except mulled wine. That’s too pretentious for our blood.

Red Right Hand

You know what it is.
I haven’t bought a book in ages!

There’s been something missing for a while. A tiny nagging something, a tiny something that’s very good at hiding itself but like a little child playing hide and seek can’t stop giggling from behind it’s hiding place.

That giggling finally gave it away, cause only yesterday I crossed a book shop and it hit me. I hadn’t bought a book in 2-3 months or more. Why? I don’t know. I don’t usually do this. I’ve often felt books are my shoes (that’s the closest to an obsession analogy I can come up with from my hearings of women lore).

The right side of my brain wants to come back with a vengeance and buy a shitload. But the left side gasps at that thought and suggests a methodical approach. Since the left side is obviously the high maintenance one, it wins.

Any suggestions?

oh and a happier new year and all that.