Me: Hey God dude!
God: Hey.
Me: What’s up? What are you doing on a Sunday morning at the beach?
God: Taking a stroll. Apart from the fact that this is one of the only places left which is free.
Me: Wow. Cool. So, tell me.
God: What?
Me: A lot of things, like…err…how does it feel being a God and all that?
God: Can’t describe it. They just told me that I was the project manager. Sounded like fun at that time.
Me: You are the project manager for this universe, wow. So what’s this project all about?
God: Well, we bid for a project to provide man power for another project called something, but let’s call it the universe for now. Supposedly, it was on BOOT (Build, Operate, Own, Transfer) basis till the UAT (User Acceptance Test), and then it would run on a BPO model.
Me: Awesome. So we are supposed to be the manpower?
God: Yeah, that’s why you are called mankind.
Me: Oh, yeah. So why are some of us black, some brown and some white?
God: Blame it on the shipping company. When we were getting you to this planet, we dint really know how to ship you, so the shipping company just put some of you in the freezer, some of you in the oven and the rest of you were just left like that. Eventually, as is obvious, all of you survived.
Me: Oh, that explains a lot of things. What was the name of the shipping company?
God: Titanic Inter – galactic Shipping Conglomerate Limited.
Me: Now THAT really explains a lot of things. So what are you here for now?
God: Project review.
Me: Great. So what is your religion?
God: What is that?
Me: Well, you know, the thing where you distinguish between people… are you a Hindu, a Muslim, a Jew, a Nazi? What are you?
God: This is what really freaks me out. We just send you here with all that investment and you come here, destroy everything that you see, invent really useless crap like war, standing in a line, marriage, and now you got religion? Oh wow. Great.
Me: Okay, relax. Chill out mate. You got friends?
God: Yeah. Elvis.
Me: But he was supposed to be kidnapped by some alien dudes or something, right?
God: He was, he got bored of being famous and being kidnapped all the time. So we hang out together nowadays.
Me: Cool. Any others?
God: Yeah, I keep talking to Douglas and Page. I actually gave Douglas a guitar and Page a pen.
Me: But, but…they are….
God: Yeah, I know, Douglas wrote a book with the guitar and Page played stairway to heaven with a pen.
Me: No wonder.
God: I know.
Me: Phew. It’s a long walk….
God: It’s a long beach.
Me: But Longbeach is in California…
God: Oh, so now they got a long beach which is called longbeach. Awesome.
Me: Yeah, I know. Care to join me for a swig?
God: Sure. I’d like some Heineken. Its one of your inventions I like.
Me: Cheers then, eh? To life, the universe and everything…
God: Chee…uh, oh…ah…whatever….
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Redbull Vodka
Veni, Vidi, Vico
I came, I saw, I conked.
Sir Arthur Charles Clarke is dead. So is Naren. Heaven is currently undergoing its biggest identity crisis because the best science fiction author has just met the best science fiction.
Finished one successful month of blogging. (Applause, bow, applause, wave hands)
A big "Thank you" to everyone who has visited this blog. Specially to the commentators. Couch Potato, Ramkiran, Big Fat Man, billy_beetle_dilly, thanks dudes & brothers. Thank you to all the other friends who have somehow managed to get the profile views to 67 in just one month. (I am lying, I myself must have visited the page about 60 times, just to check, you know.) And if you are a regular passive reader, please do let me know by leaving a comment on what you don't think about my blog. Also, I met a wonderful person called N.S, who called me all the way from where she is, which is a long way. Its a pity she realised too soon how boring I am in real life and real time. Well, you get the message, please leave a message. Beep.
- The most obnoxiously self centered gloriously mind boggling mistake of nature A.K.A Pigment / Figment of your imagination, based on which school of science you belong to.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Unchained monologue
The real proof that intelligent life exists in the universe is that they have not yet contacted us.
- Anonymous.
The realer proof that intelligent life doesn’t exist in the universe is that maybe they already have.
- Me.
The scene is this. It is a station called Eluru, in Andhra Pradesh. We (Me and colleague) had arrived at the much delayed flight from Bangalore to Vijayawada airport (if you can call it that. Its like, you get out of the plane, your luggage is thrown at you, you pass a door, and you are out. WOW). We had to travel a distance of about 42 kilometers to reach the said station to catch the train to Vizag. We had an Internet ticket. The cabbie was fast, I give him that. We reached a toll gate. There were three roads out of it. The one in the middle was the biggest, smoothest, bestest. Which, perhaps explained why it was blocked. And also had a guy for effect. The other two roads were blocked by huge monstrosities called trucks or trailers or something. It was so long that if in case the driver forgot his cell phone in the back of his truck or trailer or something, and his wife was carrying, he would have a three year old son or daughter by the time he gets out of the steering, walks down to the back of the truck, and finds his phone all dead and battery leaky. And yeah, I drink a lot of water during any flight from anywhere to anywhere because my ears are extra sensitive to any pressurized environment. So we start a woozer with this guy and try to explain the situation to him. He nods his head in total, utter, agreement to our 4 minute 32 second explanation about why it is imperative for him to let us go, and then says this masterpiece which I shall treasure. He says, “Yes. I understand. But rules are rules.” WOW. And I mean WOW. You got a road, which is clearly empty, where there is nothing going on for the next 40 kilometers (I am quite sure it must be so further up, but our sojourn ended after the said distance.), and you wont let us go because rules are rules. WOW. What, in the name of heaven, are those rules, my man, I ventured. The reply to this was even better, “Rules, Saar.” Experience has taught me that in southern India, when someone says “Saar” with that extra a in between, they usually don’t know shit and expect you to do what they tell you. In northern India, they just say, “aapka problem kya hai?” The end result of all this was that my bladder was full and I needed to relieve myself real bad. We reached the station twenty minutes late, but were before time. Here, I would like to add that if you thought this world was 3D, you are mistaken. The fourth dimension is the Indian government and anything connected to it. It works on the improbability theory, which means, just when you were expecting something to happen, it doesn’t. At the station, we still had about ten minutes for the train to arrive. There was something called “Upper class men’s waiting room”. Because of my self esteem or otherwise, I believe I am an upper – class man, and the fact that my ticket was for the AC chair car, helped in the reassertion. So the scene was this. My colleague was standing on platform No 2, I was on platform No 1, the ticket was with my colleague, and I wanted to go to the loo. And then it happened. Soon as I entered the “Upper class men’s waiting room”, there was this guy who stopped me from going any further because he wanted to see the ticket. I ran all the way back to the second platform and climbing over bridges with a full bladder is exactly not my idea of a fun life. So I got the ticket back and then showed it to him. He looked at it, looked at me, and said, “I want your ticket”. I said that was my ticket. He said the ticket is a small piece of paper and this was a complete A4 size sheet. I said it’s an Internet ticket and that’s how those things look. After a lot of he said and I said, he abruptly asked me for the PNR number, which I gave. He asked me my name, which I gave, he then asked for kilometers. What? Why, on earth or anywhere else, would I need to give a kilometer reading to go take a leak? I pushed him aside, went in, and just did what a man does in dire desperation. I pissed. Phew. But can somebody please help me with the question?
The scene is this. It is a station called Eluru, in Andhra Pradesh. We (Me and colleague) had arrived at the much delayed flight from Bangalore to Vijayawada airport (if you can call it that. Its like, you get out of the plane, your luggage is thrown at you, you pass a door, and you are out. WOW). We had to travel a distance of about 42 kilometers to reach the said station to catch the train to Vizag. We had an Internet ticket. The cabbie was fast, I give him that. We reached a toll gate. There were three roads out of it. The one in the middle was the biggest, smoothest, bestest. Which, perhaps explained why it was blocked. And also had a guy for effect. The other two roads were blocked by huge monstrosities called trucks or trailers or something. It was so long that if in case the driver forgot his cell phone in the back of his truck or trailer or something, and his wife was carrying, he would have a three year old son or daughter by the time he gets out of the steering, walks down to the back of the truck, and finds his phone all dead and battery leaky. And yeah, I drink a lot of water during any flight from anywhere to anywhere because my ears are extra sensitive to any pressurized environment. So we start a woozer with this guy and try to explain the situation to him. He nods his head in total, utter, agreement to our 4 minute 32 second explanation about why it is imperative for him to let us go, and then says this masterpiece which I shall treasure. He says, “Yes. I understand. But rules are rules.” WOW. And I mean WOW. You got a road, which is clearly empty, where there is nothing going on for the next 40 kilometers (I am quite sure it must be so further up, but our sojourn ended after the said distance.), and you wont let us go because rules are rules. WOW. What, in the name of heaven, are those rules, my man, I ventured. The reply to this was even better, “Rules, Saar.” Experience has taught me that in southern India, when someone says “Saar” with that extra a in between, they usually don’t know shit and expect you to do what they tell you. In northern India, they just say, “aapka problem kya hai?” The end result of all this was that my bladder was full and I needed to relieve myself real bad. We reached the station twenty minutes late, but were before time. Here, I would like to add that if you thought this world was 3D, you are mistaken. The fourth dimension is the Indian government and anything connected to it. It works on the improbability theory, which means, just when you were expecting something to happen, it doesn’t. At the station, we still had about ten minutes for the train to arrive. There was something called “Upper class men’s waiting room”. Because of my self esteem or otherwise, I believe I am an upper – class man, and the fact that my ticket was for the AC chair car, helped in the reassertion. So the scene was this. My colleague was standing on platform No 2, I was on platform No 1, the ticket was with my colleague, and I wanted to go to the loo. And then it happened. Soon as I entered the “Upper class men’s waiting room”, there was this guy who stopped me from going any further because he wanted to see the ticket. I ran all the way back to the second platform and climbing over bridges with a full bladder is exactly not my idea of a fun life. So I got the ticket back and then showed it to him. He looked at it, looked at me, and said, “I want your ticket”. I said that was my ticket. He said the ticket is a small piece of paper and this was a complete A4 size sheet. I said it’s an Internet ticket and that’s how those things look. After a lot of he said and I said, he abruptly asked me for the PNR number, which I gave. He asked me my name, which I gave, he then asked for kilometers. What? Why, on earth or anywhere else, would I need to give a kilometer reading to go take a leak? I pushed him aside, went in, and just did what a man does in dire desperation. I pissed. Phew. But can somebody please help me with the question?
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Gopi.
Dawn. Sunshine. Fresh. Change. Date. Gopi. Bed. Groggy. Hate. Day. Dream. Good. Gopi. Graduate. Jobless. Youngest. School. Problem. Study. No. Learn. Yes. Question. Always. Why. Teachers. Disgusted. Brothers. Sisters. Disgusted. Brothers. Sisters. Families. Hopes. Jobs. Settled. Gopi. Aimless. Clueless. Father. Dead. Street. People. Neighbors. Disgusted. Rinku. Love. Lala. Rinku. Father. Hate. Gopi. Job. Desperate. Applications. Interview. Instinct. Great. Appointment. Two weeks. Wait. None. Desperate. Telephone. Letter. Sent. Gopi. Surprised. Ecstatic. Shave. Neat. Shirt. White. New. Shoe. Shine. Hair. Oil. Walk. Pace. Spring. Post Office. Local. Letter. None. Post office. Region. None. Gopi. Blank. Walk. Home. Lala. Admire. Rinku. Admire. Home. Walk. Ahead. Rail tracks. Goods train. Bogies. Count. Enjoy. Kid. Hands. Folded. Count. Bogies. Durga. Idol. Majestic. Beautiful. Look. Pray. Head. Wheel. Smile. Blessed.
Pani puri soul
Greetings Intelligentsia. The nut is back. Nut reminds me of two things.
1. A mentally deranged man successfully outrages the modesty of a female nurse and jumps out of the window and escapes. The news headline next day - Nut screws and bolts.
2. A guy walks into a grocery store. “You got nuts?”, he asks. “No”, says the grocer. “You got dates?”, he asks him. The grocer replies, “If I’d have had nuts, I’d have had dates.” (Jerry Lewis)
I know I told some of you that there is going to be a short story. Well, you know me. There isn't, for now. I am in the process of neutralizing the shaken nervous system. Bangalore. Wow. I saw a bus driver doing a drift. The bus did a drift. Manjunatha swamygale (most probably his name, and he is most probably called 'Romanchak Nanchak Manja' by his friends.) nimma driving super aagi ide ri. Simply super. Namaskara. And also, I would like to take this opportunity (this is the effect of having too many meetings in one day, you take the opportunity just like that.) where was I? Ah, yes. I take this opportunity. Thank you. Now that that is taken, I realised that I have three sets of friends. The first set of people, I love from the bottom of my heart. The second set, from the heart of my bottom. The third set is basically a subset of the first and second sets. I love them. No hearts, no bottoms. I love you guys unconditionally, you know who you are. I wish, someday in my life, all the third set comes together. Anyway, the trip back was based on three things. Inefficiency of Deccan airways (may I aver - Dhakkan(?)), efficiency of some cabbie (42 Km in 27 minutes - impressive mate) and the inefficiency of Indian Railways. Describing these three things would border on a travel blog so I leave that to my good friend who blogs travels. Or travels blogs. I've taken it again. The opportunity. And I finished Jed Rubenfield's "The interpretation of murder". Good read, one-time.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Supernovaditya
They should have called me Supernovaditya. I’ve heard Nagaditya, Srinivasaditya, Krishnaditya, Sriaditya, etc. But I still think they should have called me Supernovaditya. The irony (read Bangalore University) of the naming ceremony is that, all through our lives, we are identified by something which was given to us by somebody (usually a priest or oldest surviving family member who is like both feet in the grave) who we’ll never meet again in our entire lives. At this juncture, one is compelled to opine that one should just be left alone as a kid and given a choice to choose and patent his/her name once one learns basic algebra. One chose. The chosen one is Supernovaditya. Supernovadi, for short. I just spoke to an old friend. He is becoming a father. I have known the couple for about 11 years now. It feels great. All my friends are becoming fathers. It’s like the father season. However, at normal room temperature, I am sane enough to know that I would not get to be one. Don’t mistake me, I am quite potent, but it’s just that the eve is gone. Leaving me with a heartache in the head. It’s really tough to get out of this. Moral of the story: The red bullet is always faster than the black bullet. Given the circumstances, some cry, some get drunk, some talk, some sleep. I have chosen to rename myself.
Friday, March 14, 2008
No title
Chit Chor: The wikipedia does not describe chit chor. Which is not surprising. So there.
Chit Chor: A person who steals the chat.
I am in a Friday kind of mood. Today is Friday. So I am in the right kind of mood and the right kind of day. So something is terribly wrong somewhere. But then, we’ll come to that in due course, the fullness of time, etc. QED.
Hokay. This award actually belongs to a lot of people. I would like to thank god, my parents, the entire unit, my director, my co – stars, spot boys, light boys, any boys. And also my producer who is the biggest casting couch potato I have ever seen. (Applause; bow and cup your cheeks with both your palms, show off your solitaire, smile.)
Now that all that is done, I would like to say something. The scene is a man reading a newspaper in the balcony. I shall try to get as many states as I can:
Jammu & Kashmir: Ka – boom. Followed by Ka – boom 1 to 392. (News flash the next day: There was a suspected bomb blast in some area of Srinagar where a man was reading the newspaper in the balcony. Subsequently, there were about 392 other blasts around the valley by all suspected terrorist outfits who wanted to take responsibility for the original blast. Unfortunately, all the suspected terrorist outfits wiped themselves off in this exercise except for one suspected militant, who was holed up in some hotel in downtown Srinagar but blasted himself off a few minutes ago not just because he was going to turn 39 in 2 days but the sum total of the individual digits in 392 added up to 5, which was his unlucky number. The actual cause of the original blast is suspected to be the man eating lots of roasted gram. They managed to find only the head. But he set a record posthumously for the biggest fart measuring 5.8 on the Richter.)
Punjab: Duniya mein char kaal hote hain. Bhoot kaal, Vartman kaal, Bhavishya kaal, Sat Sri Akal. Chal ab lassi pee, paratha kha aur newspaper padh.
Delhi: The only place where you have to watch television to know what is happening next door. So no one reads newspapers. Also, the crosswords are pretty tricky here. Like this one: 8 Across: A single word which describes a delhiite. The answer? TashanX. Why that X? TashanX.
Bihar: If its lalloo, its news, otherwise, its arre sasura ka hai noose ma?
Kolkatta: Bhy are you reading the newspaper in the Bhalcony?
Rajasthan: You read the paper (if you get one) on camel back.
Gujarat: Balcony ma su kar ra cho? Hole mein aao.
Assam: This is probably the only place where you get good tea, and a newspaper. (And yes. It’s a part of our country, high time we realize that.)
Madhya Pradesh: You don’t get newspapers here.
Mumbai: You don’t read the paper in the balcony. You read it in the 7:46 Virar fast. And it wont be your newspaper.
UP: There are no bhaiyyas left in UP to read newspapers. All of them read newspapers in the 7:46 Virar Fast in Mumbai.
Orissa: Same as Kolkatta but with lots of pan spitting.
Goa: If you are in Goa to read a newspaper in the morning, even Jesus cant help you baby.
Bangalore: En ri, uta ayitha? (Just when you sit down to read the newspaper, somebody will come and ask you this. It means, Sir, have you eaten? It dosent matter what time it is or if there is a spaceship hovering right above you. You ask this question first, and then you flag the spaceship down.)
Hyderabad: You get the newspaper in the afternoon because of the traffic. And its customary to shout “Maa ki kiri kiri” here.
Chennai: You’ll get the newspaper. It’ll be in tamil.
Kerala: God’s own enterprise. The pricing here is done by God himself. Only he can afford it. You get the paper, you’ll get cocoanut oil head massass, in our beetifill ayurveda zender. Wonly 20, 000 bukz per our.
Beautiful country, eh?
Chit Chor: A person who steals the chat.
I am in a Friday kind of mood. Today is Friday. So I am in the right kind of mood and the right kind of day. So something is terribly wrong somewhere. But then, we’ll come to that in due course, the fullness of time, etc. QED.
Hokay. This award actually belongs to a lot of people. I would like to thank god, my parents, the entire unit, my director, my co – stars, spot boys, light boys, any boys. And also my producer who is the biggest casting couch potato I have ever seen. (Applause; bow and cup your cheeks with both your palms, show off your solitaire, smile.)
Now that all that is done, I would like to say something. The scene is a man reading a newspaper in the balcony. I shall try to get as many states as I can:
Jammu & Kashmir: Ka – boom. Followed by Ka – boom 1 to 392. (News flash the next day: There was a suspected bomb blast in some area of Srinagar where a man was reading the newspaper in the balcony. Subsequently, there were about 392 other blasts around the valley by all suspected terrorist outfits who wanted to take responsibility for the original blast. Unfortunately, all the suspected terrorist outfits wiped themselves off in this exercise except for one suspected militant, who was holed up in some hotel in downtown Srinagar but blasted himself off a few minutes ago not just because he was going to turn 39 in 2 days but the sum total of the individual digits in 392 added up to 5, which was his unlucky number. The actual cause of the original blast is suspected to be the man eating lots of roasted gram. They managed to find only the head. But he set a record posthumously for the biggest fart measuring 5.8 on the Richter.)
Punjab: Duniya mein char kaal hote hain. Bhoot kaal, Vartman kaal, Bhavishya kaal, Sat Sri Akal. Chal ab lassi pee, paratha kha aur newspaper padh.
Delhi: The only place where you have to watch television to know what is happening next door. So no one reads newspapers. Also, the crosswords are pretty tricky here. Like this one: 8 Across: A single word which describes a delhiite. The answer? TashanX. Why that X? TashanX.
Bihar: If its lalloo, its news, otherwise, its arre sasura ka hai noose ma?
Kolkatta: Bhy are you reading the newspaper in the Bhalcony?
Rajasthan: You read the paper (if you get one) on camel back.
Gujarat: Balcony ma su kar ra cho? Hole mein aao.
Assam: This is probably the only place where you get good tea, and a newspaper. (And yes. It’s a part of our country, high time we realize that.)
Madhya Pradesh: You don’t get newspapers here.
Mumbai: You don’t read the paper in the balcony. You read it in the 7:46 Virar fast. And it wont be your newspaper.
UP: There are no bhaiyyas left in UP to read newspapers. All of them read newspapers in the 7:46 Virar Fast in Mumbai.
Orissa: Same as Kolkatta but with lots of pan spitting.
Goa: If you are in Goa to read a newspaper in the morning, even Jesus cant help you baby.
Bangalore: En ri, uta ayitha? (Just when you sit down to read the newspaper, somebody will come and ask you this. It means, Sir, have you eaten? It dosent matter what time it is or if there is a spaceship hovering right above you. You ask this question first, and then you flag the spaceship down.)
Hyderabad: You get the newspaper in the afternoon because of the traffic. And its customary to shout “Maa ki kiri kiri” here.
Chennai: You’ll get the newspaper. It’ll be in tamil.
Kerala: God’s own enterprise. The pricing here is done by God himself. Only he can afford it. You get the paper, you’ll get cocoanut oil head massass, in our beetifill ayurveda zender. Wonly 20, 000 bukz per our.
Beautiful country, eh?
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