How Sardar Montek Singh Boob got his Kirpan zipped, sealed and Fedexed.

Yes. I finally got it. Cooking, that is, and yes. The title is 'inspired' by the book 'How Opal Mehta got her gujju back', or something like that.

Anyway, coming to the cooking part, the secret of cooking, like everything else in this nonsensical parody called life, is not to give a damn and throw things into the frying pan with gusto. I made sambar and delicious puliogare on Sunday. Having said that, I think the basic difference between men and women is that men are mathematical and analytical while women don't give a damn when it comes to the kitchen. Or maybe it’s true everywhere else too.
So, QED.

I was actually planning to discuss something but I have forgotten about it now. Oh yes, I remember. Yeah, I wanted to tell you that I am planning to go for a hair transplant. You see, I was born with a rather large forehead which was mistaken for my pate during my formative years. You might think nothing of it but imagine if you and Brad Pitt were being made the same day, you and Brad are given two different nationalities so that people on earth don't get confused, and then, it happens. God forgets to give you enough hair.

Brad Pitt ends up being famous and is voted as the sexiest man alive, while you spend your days brooding in a desolate, lonely place, with just one car and some JD and some job. How would you feel? I mean, think about it from the shopkeepers point of view.

Now, for those of you who are about to argue about me and Brad not being created the same day, remember Roark.

"My dear boy, who would let you build these loony structures?"

"That's not the point sir, the point is, who wouldn't?"

(Or something like that.)

Anyway, I just realised that one year is up. Yup, it was July 25th, 2007. If in case that someone reads this, I am alive. I cant forget five years of my life. So I do tend to think of those years sometimes.

Backing up to the business of life, I recently also realised that I feel claustrophobic in open spaces and very lonely in crowds. Does that mean I am an alien or all the rest of you are hiding something from me?

Lastly, proof that Satan exists - MONDAY.

Bhagwad Guitar

I've been reading Rudyard Kipling's poem "If".

'If' you've not read it, you should.

Also, there is a slight change in plan. The song for the video is not going to be "Tashan mein", its going to be made by us. Big fat man and billy beetle dilly would do the vocals, I would be doing the guitars, couch potato would be doing the flute, the rhythm guitars. BFM. BBD, CP, 'if' in case you dint know you'd be doing these things, now you know. We now need a percussionist. BBD, you also have to write the song. Heh heh.

I thought the video would be the major thing, now it looks like the song is also the major thing. And BFM, thanks mate. It means a lot to me. Its equivalent to Artie Traum saying the same. Thanks for making my day. As long as you think I am awesome, its OK. Just don't call me a guitarist, though. I am not one.

Which brings me to the point of discussion, the Bhagwad guitar.

A guitar is an instrument with a hole, six (or twelve) strings, and it produces musical notes.

Wrong.

A guitar is a vent to your innermost feelings. Its not an instrument, its a feeling. You don't play the guitar, you express yourself. I am sure other connoisseurs of good music would agree that its the same with other instruments, but I am crazy about guitars. Here is some advice to all those 'guitarists' out there:

1. Pray to Jimmy Page everyday.

2. Ego comes free with the guitar. DON'T take freebies and make yourself a cheap ass.

3. If you have six fingers out of ten, you are a guitarist.

4. It doesn't matter how fast you can play or how good you think you are, but if you can play one note with dignity, you are a guitarist in my book - Artie traum.

5. Never compare, and NEVER EVER, imitate.

Teach yourself to play the guitar, and the guitar will teach you a lot in return. And remember, 'if' the guitar sounds awful, you need to change yourself, not the other way round.

Enough crap. Time to start a band. Boys, get ready. NOT Sameera.

Field Marshal Sam Hormusji Framji "Sam Bahadur" Jamshedji Manekshaw

They don't make Generals like you anymore sir.

May your soul rest in peace Sam Bahadur.

Adios.

Big fat man, I hope you've finally decided on which dimension you belong to. The 9th is cool, though the 8th is OK. And I enjoyed the conversation about those Idli truths and Sambar lies.

Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker - Ogden Nash.

Sitting here in the "Pad", which is the name of my home, listening to Orbit rock on worldspace and drinking Gentleman Jack, the lazy Sunday afternoon, the fresh breeze of the sea hidden behind the concrete jungle outside my window. I just realised a truth. Never ask women on directions to cook. They make it sound so very simple. Starting from your mom, to all of your friends. I always held the opinion (remember the show "Yan can cook") that all you had to do to cook is wear an apron, put something in the pan, let it sizzle, sip some whiskey, and say "Voila!" and do one "Ummm.....that's so strong and earthy!" and you'd get something amazing to eat.

Single men, all you'll get after doing this procedure is ordering a pizza or a burger from the nearest joint. I have friends, who are men, who can cook. I don't understand it, why can't I?

I need to work on this. The other day, I called my mom and asked her directions for making sambar, she explained for about 45 minutes on how to make the 'perfect' sambar powder and then, as an afterthought, said "...or you could just go to the nearest shop and buy MTR sambar powder, that's actually better." Damn, now why dint I think of that before?

I hope I get better.

P.S: I just made puliogare with MTR sambar powder. Call me for this mouth-watering recipe.

P.P.S: I won't give it.