Saturday, July 28, 2012

Who steals my Newspaper?

The green boil on my frozen wrist looked funny, but not the nurse who stared at me lustfully. I divided my attention between the purple tube light, my green boil and the nurse. It was a blue night, I thought, then looked at my ‘greeny’ and giggled. Confused with so many colours, I decided to focus on the nurse. Why does this hospital have purple tube lights? My boil would have looked sexy if it was purple too. Oh yeah, the nurse, there was something wrong with her appearance. She had the right proportion of mass at the right places, but why didn’t she have a human head? She was like ‘picture-in-picture’ of National Geographic and Doordarshan. Neck and above she was a blown up owl face, below she was Mumtaz Begum. A sudden gush of rotten colourful odour filled the air, and I turned around to see my father-in-law. He looked like an overgrown version of Mowgli in a faulty television set. I guess the green boil on my wrist could smell the red stench too, it turned red. I burst out laughing. The father in law, walked closer and poisoned me with good news- “Congrats. You are a father of twin zebras.”

Now you know why I wake up confused? These dreams, sometimes are such distractions that I tend to concentrate, focus and work on these distractions so much that distractions are no more distractions; daily chores become a distraction, and somebody stealing my newspaper becomes a distraction to my distractions that it is no more a distraction but a daily chore, until it fucked up my mind and became a daily whore. Right? Anyway, who steals my newspaper from my door? When I asked my newspaper guy about this, he made a ‘Barbie’ out of his face, and asked with leaking innocence – “ Why would a newspaper guy steal a newspaper, sir?” Though that didn’t make any sense, I thought I should give him the benefit of doubt. So, then, who? I had to strike out Sreesanth from the top of the list because I must confess, with age I have become wiser and I realize that it only makes sense that my next door neighbour seemed more likely.

Being a bachelour neighbour to a family is never easy. I mean, I’m not a rapist, I was’t attending any of Osama’s board meetings, I wasn’t the Joker in ‘Dark Knight ’ either, yet they treat me like that. I walk out of the door, the ladies of the house grab their children and run indoors and the man of the house stares at me like Officer Pradyuman. So, in that case, how do I gain the courage and actually open my mouth to ask them- “Did you steal my newspaper?” For all I know, an army of commandoes might land up, surround the apartment with one guy screaming his lungs out to the speaker- “Where's Osama, Arjun? ” and me screaming out- "He's dead bastard" before a bullet enters private property. So, can’t gather my balls together; hence I refrain. It must be Sreesanth only.

Well, thinking hard, I come up with another lady contender; the lady who picks up garbage, more sweetly known as the ‘Garbage lady’. The very first day in this flat, she almost kicked me out of sleep with a long press on the door bell. I opened the door to her, and I suddenly got an eerie feeling that I’ve seen her crying on Star Plus. Anyway, she asked me, as if politeness just bungee jumped out of her head and went for a stroll – “Naya hai kya?” I gave her a dumb ‘Yes’, by that I turned the key to her ‘dadagiri’. She informed that the dry waste and the liquid waste should be kept separate, else she will bring a group of ten and stuff my broken pieces into gunny bags. Not really, she threatened me with a Rs. 200 fine. Since then, every time I bump into her, I give her that sheepish ‘See-I-kept-it-separate-na’ look. So, basically I can’t think of questioning her if she is stealing my newspaper. It’s definitely Sreesanth.

Well, like the nurse, I must maybe stop being an owl, wake up early, maybe paint myself like zebras and keep a secret vigil. Nah! I’m pretty sure it’s Sreesanth!

Saturday, June 25, 2011

Known Unknowns

A short film I directed. Please, do watch it. Sharp objects are adviced to be kept away from your immediate surroundings while or after watching it. ;


Sunday, April 17, 2011


I was 9 years old; old enough to have a crush on a girl, wise enough to not take it to the next level and stupid enough to play cricket with her later. That was when there was a devil in the form of a girl who used to sit beside me in my school van. Name will not be revealed citing my security concerns. Diving straight into the point, I ended up bashing her on the face, when something like a ketchup made its way out from her mouth. The incidents that followed, well, let’s say, ended up in something like lemon juice pouring outta my eyes. After all this drama, my mother, poor helpless lady, gave my ears some advice- “CONTROL your anger son. CONTROL.”

I was 15 years old; old enough to lie, wise enough to add wings to the lie and stupid enough to let them fly into wrong ears. That was when my mom thought I was in tuitions while my tuition teacher thought I was fighting an incurable disease. Fact remains that I was in a Cyber CafĂ© chatting with a Pakistani chick. Dad’s bike; I had it; dad wanted it; Kahani khatam. My tuition teacher gave him the sweet news that I hadn’t come to tuitions that day. My mom, on the other hand, was preparing herself for the war. All this while I was exchanging stupid smileys with the Paki chick. Then I went home and that marked the end of World Peace. Again, after all this drama, my mom said to me with hopeless hope- “Be in CONTROL son. Know your priorities. CONTROL.”

I was 20 years old; old enough to ride a bike, wise enough to keep a Driver’s license, stupid enough to prove that I don’t deserve one. That was when I found road dividers and footpaths to be ‘Divine’. I would frequently take blessings from them. Traffic Police, on the other hand, kept on pestering me for pocket money. It was once when my aunt asked me to take her to the temple, and I almost took her to God. But anyway it was all going okay, until one day I managed to do the impossible. I whacked a traffic police down and then went on to have a great fall taking blessings from the footpath. Supporting actors like dad and mom had to enter the drama and finally it cooled down. My mom took me to the side that day and said- “CONTROL son. CONTROL your speed.”

Now I’m 23; old enough for everything, wise enough for everything and stupid enough for everything. Until a couple of years back, the word CONTROL had become my mom’s anthem for me. Today I’m writing this here because, it had been two long years since she’d last reminded me to control myself. Last week, she was left with no other option. I mean, it was a nature’s call, an SOS call (read loose motions) that too. I’m sorry.

Thursday, March 3, 2011


I want to slap someone ya. I mean, I’ve watched so many slaps in Indian movies and IPL cricket that I badly want to slap someone and feel the feel. I don’t want Sreesanth’s image to pop into my head right now please. Oops, it just did. I mean, that fellow Sreesanth, let me explain. The day he made his first appearance in the International Stage, the street dog in my street went missing. My next door aunty kept on yelling at her son- “Take bath you dirty fellow, you look like Sreesanth.” Birds took inspiration and built nests like his hair style. Coir companies are dying for samples of his hair. Bitches got turned on every time he came on screen. And, finally, people like me were instigated with the urge to slap someone. When Harbhajan slapped him that day, I was happily sitting in the loo deducting something. Once I finished my duties I made the mistake of watching those clips of him, his eyes all red, weeping and blowing his nose. Ok, I’m exaggerating, but, you know, I suffered from a bad constipation problem for the next six weeks. With Sreesanth, it was like ‘hate at first sight’ for me.

Anyway, coming back to the ‘slapping-someone’ part, nowadays I’ve been busy identifying ‘slappable faces’. Having a nice round cheek is a god given gift. But, that fortunately or unfortunately has become Sreesanth’s USP. Someone please get him out of my head. So yeah, a nice round cheek is a requisite. I thought a while about Rakhi Sawant, but then finally concluded that she is more a punch-on-her-nose types. I then stared at myself hard through the mirror and gave myself the Benefit-of- Doubt. Then came the image of that ‘He-knows-everything-except-what-his-daughter-is-doing’ uncle. But since I know what she is doing, and since I know a little too much of what she’s doing, had to drop the idea. Then, for a fraction of a second the thoughts of Himesh Reshammia passed by. But I let it pass by. A small ricochet of the slap onto his nose would end his career that very day.

So basically, I’m confused. The search is still on. Let me know if you have that perfect cheek. Take Care. Irony.

“My life’s been like Sreesanth’s hair. He needs a hair cut; I need a Drink.”

Saturday, January 22, 2011

In The Name Of Updating My Blog..!!

My life is like Vodka. Looks like water, but its fuckin ‘Vodka’.

Well, if I rewind my life by six months, I was that- ‘One-for-the-little-guy-who-lives-down-the-lane.’ The scene is different now- ‘Yes sir, yes sir, three bottles full.’ Life has changed, from Bangalore to Pune, Dosa to Vodka. It hit me last night when I entered the chicken to eat some kitchen, that the secret to all my mental powers is a South Indian dish called ‘Dosa’. The day I left Bangalore, my brain left for window shopping and my hands have developed lung cancer. Hence, blogging came tumbling after. Anyway, coming back to ‘Dosa’, the dosas we get in Pune are like, wait, let me explain. Have you ever seen a chicken suffering from a Polio attack? Figure it out.

So, in my six months of stay in Pune, I’ve met a lot of people, one better than another. A couple of psychos fell for me, I felt like a senior ‘Psychologist’. Then made some long trips (not with the psychos of course), drove like a maniac, people officially called me a ‘Night Driver’ (Note to all the dirty fellows- I’m not a ‘Night Driver’.) They devised an outrageously stupid way to wake me up from sleep- ‘The-Hairy-Potter-formula’ (I’ll explain that some other time.) My heart-felt hatred towards Rakhi Sawant hasn’t died down one bit, and my love for Rajnikanth is still intact. (Take them as famous personalities and not by their gender. Hope you got it.) (Too many things inside the brackets I know, but it’s okay.) I’ve made enemies with the pigeons in my balcony. And then, made the quote- “Shit happens” as the wallpaper on my lappy. So summing it all up, amidst so much of Vodka, I miss my Dosa.

Since, this is my first post on this stupid blog and I need to pee urgently, I’ll just put up a few of my shitty quotes, and I will get back to serious writing next time. (By the way, ‘next-time’ is my favourite phrase in English.)

“Onion prices are high. If you send a farmville request now, i might actually consider it.”

“We went to a restaurant. He made a fuss when he found a small ant in his plate. I still cant understand, I mean I had a whole dead chicken on mine.”

“Exams coming up. That means you can call me for a drink and i would not say no. Do u call it combined studies nowadays?”

“My Principal once said he had three Principles in his life. The dirty minded I am, it took me four days to understand what he meant.”

“Successful people wake up early. So I have been thinking all night how they do it.”

“What makes the stupid dog next door think I’m his dentist?”

“I have a female friend who ate an apple everyday and ended up marrying a doctor. Who ever came up with such silly quotes.”

“Dear Monday you suck. Your colleagues Mr Saturday and Mrs Sunday are so much better. Dont take it personally but I hate you.”

“How about flocking FB with my status messages today? I ll maybe earn an appointment with Mr. Suckerbag ... Correct the spelling pls ...”

“There are worse things in life than dying. Have you ever heard me singing?”

“Ma heart is like an open highway!! So people stop anywhere they like and pee.”

“On a beautiful sunday evening, the orange sun peeking through my window on its downward journey, I was sleeping carelessly. A husky, sexy female voice came to my room and said- "I'm the girl you were waiting for all these years baby." Oops no, it actually said- "Your Avast antivirus has been updated.”

“If my spam mails meant anything in my life, I would have been a billionaire, married a widow and a model, won a hundred lotteries and had the best leather jacket in town by now. And yes, I would be thinking about another marriage by now.”

“One more Rajnikanth message in my inbox, i'll either break my phone or break your jaw.”

“I don’t drink Vodka.”

Well, anyway, I really need to pee now. See ya ‘Next-Time’.