I am back. Maybe.

Wounds heal.
Scars don't.
The mind forgets.
Memories don't.
Money comes,  money goes.
People don't.
Second chances.
Firsts don't.
Peace is tough.
War isn't.
Life forgives.
Death doesn't.

Mr. Kipling, you are the coolest.

The betrothed.

"You must choose between me and your cigar."

--BREACH OF PROMISE CASE, CIRCA 1885.

Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout,

For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.

We quarrelled about Havanas--we fought o'er a good cheroot,

And I knew she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.

Open the old cigar-box--let me consider a space;

In the soft blue veil of the vapour musing on Maggie's face.

Maggie is pretty to look at--Maggie's a loving lass,

But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass.

There's peace in a Larranaga, there's calm in a Henry Clay;

But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away--

Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown--

But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o' the talk o' the town!

Maggie, my wife at fifty--grey and dour and old--

With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold!

And the light of Days that have Been the dark of the Days that Are,

And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead cigar--

The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket--

With never a new one to light tho' it's charred and black to the socket!

Open the old cigar-box--let me consider a while.

Here is a mild Manila--there is a wifely smile.

Which is the better portion--bondage bought with a ring,

Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string?

Counsellors cunning and silent--comforters true and tried,

And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride?

Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes,

Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close,

This will the fifty give me, asking nought in return,

With only a Suttee's passion--to do their duty and burn.

This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead,

Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead.

The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main,

When they hear my harem is empty will send me my brides again.

I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouths withal,

So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall.

I will scent 'em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides,

And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read of the tale of my brides.

For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between

The wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o' Teen.

And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelvemonth clear,

But I have been Priest of Cabanas a matter of seven year;

And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light

Of stumps that I burned to Friendship and Pleasure and Work and Fight.

And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove,

But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o'-the-Wisp of Love.

Will it see me safe through my journey or leave me bogged in the mire?

Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful fire?

Open the old cigar-box--let me consider anew--

Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should abandon you?

A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke;

And a woman is only a woman, but a good Cigar is a Smoke.

Light me another Cuba--I hold to my first-sworn vows.

If Maggie will have no rival, I'll have no Maggie for Spouse!

Hi.

Fuck it.

The last post of the decade.

Feels like some big movie dialogue in Dolby Surround, doesn't it? "The last post of the decade". Heh heh. Stupid thing. I'll cheat myself by posting again in another 2 hours. Anyway, moving on, moving on.

I hope this year brings you all the joy, happiness and prosperity.

IF YOU HAVE NEVER THOUGHT OF SUICIDE, STOP READING HERE, GO BACK TO YOUR LIFE, AND COME BACK IF AND WHEN YOU DO.

If you have thought of ending it all, and obviously you haven't, because, you know, you are still alive and reading this, then here is the story:

1998, a cold, rainy winter evening on a sparsely used hilly road, somewhere in South India. Two Bullets, three guys, braving it all. Aiding them in this endeavor of driving through such horrible weather and terrain were their trusted allies, Khoday's XXX rum and loads of sheer stupidity. The rain was trying it's best to limit the visibility to below ten meters and the rum was trying it's best to break even. Heady mixture when you are twenty one. And then, one of the bullets could not take the thrashing anymore and gave up. In the middle of nowhere. A Royal Enfield Bullet is not designed to give up on you. Ever. So if and when it does, the best thing to do is lock it and leave it. Which is what the boys did. Two of them started to walk while the third rode away to find the nearest shelter. Returning in a very short span of time, he just said, "You guys are going to fucking freak". The reason for the fucking freak, was because the shelter was an old fort in ruins. As they entered the fort, so did the darkness that night brings with it. And then, a flicker of light, in what seemed to be an enclosed place. The source of the light was soon found to be a bonfire lit by two occupants of the shelter who, ironically, were stuck in the same situation as the boys. The most ironic thing, however, was that the strangers had two extra bottles of Khoday's XXX. You will agree, if you have been through a situation like this, that the bonhomie is on a different plane among people who are singled out to circumstance. And such was the case. All these memories are very hazy in the chronicler's mind, but what came out of that one night was this statement:

"Life, goes on".

__________________________

Present day:

Musings and learnings from the past decade:

If you have loved, and been loved in return, you have achieved your greatest.

You are your biggest strength.

Everyone has a story about why they are alive, as much as why they should die.

Let go, sometimes. At other times, cry your heart out.

If you have it all and lose it in an instant, consider yourself blessed. For you've just been given a chance to live many lifetimes over in one life.

Be polite to people who've never seen pain.

The more dreams that shatter, the stronger the spirit, the more resolute the will.

Most importantly, only when you are totally, utterly helpless and truly broken in every way, do you truly become unbreakable.

If any of the above apply to you, then you, my friend, are the man.

Remembering Navin's poem here would be apt, because it's my bloody blog and I can do whatever I want, and because it was the most inspiring piece of prose I've ever read:

"Isliye apun ne socha aisa approach dalenga

Bachne ke liye saala poison bhi khalenga

Lekin marke aisa kya ukhad lega

Saala zinda rehke duniya ko dikha dega"

I've lived it up.

I've lived it down.

My name, is Aditya Jammi.

And I'm fucking unbelievable.

And oh, wish you a happy new year.

Something something something.

It's been a long time since I rocknrolla.
It's been a long time since coca cola.
Been a long time, been a long time,
yea lonely lonely lonely lonely taaaaaaaiiiiiiime.

Anyway, hey guys. What's up and all. I'm losing my mind. There have been a series of lemony snippets in the recent past that have left a deep ever lasting impression on my impressionable mind. I shall try and chronicle the events.

On the 25th of October, which also happens to be Pablo Picasso's birthday, apart from being mine, I woke up as usual. I brushed as usual. I drank my coffee as usual. And then it happened. Presuming that you are above the legal age and privy to the habits of grown men who smoke cigarettes in the bathroom during their rich, undisturbed and very private conversations with themselves, I shall let you in to the fact that I, was a member of this club. So when I lit the cigarette and read the headlines, as is my custom, I had a strange nauseating feeling, which was so strong in nature that I just spit the cigarette out. And that was it. I have been clean since then, and to top it, am now allergic to second hand cigarette smoke. You might think nothing of it, but I take it as a huge let down to a glorious association of fifteen years. No good- byes, no 'this is my last cigarette'. Just one moment of extreme revolt.

The next event happened recently, around the fifth of November. I was at a friend's place, duly invited to entertain a select gathering with my most awesome guitar skill, which has won me accolades and almost one female fan, but that is another story. Anyway, there I was, drinking beer, conversing, listening to conversations, eating chips, letting out a subsonic fart, behaving generally well, you know. And then it happened again. Never in my life, my friends, and I mean NEVER IN MY LIFE, have I got high on a bottle of beer. I did that night. I don't remember anything after a certain point where I had started a sentence with "Actually, the thing is basically......" and drifted away. Recollections by reliable sources who were not under the influence of alcohol or any other substance revealed a high strung, unending guitar lesson, a motorcycle ride at maximum speed, and some other nonsense, which are usually not the attributes of a respected gentleman with fine tastes such as myself.

This is not the end. The said friend's place is one that I frequent and have, many times in the past, slept over when the alcohol content was too much in the system. Suffice to say that I am very comfortable and at home with the place. To continue the story, the first thing that I woke up with was the thought that I had been kidnapped was now in Poland. This lead to a frantic search for my passport, which evidently, was not there. I was sweating. I was planning the best strategy to escape. A note here - I was still lying down on the bed. All the action was happening with my eyes half open, but I was fully conscious. And then, a girl I knew in Kindergarten, whose name I do not remember now, walked in through the front door wearing the red checkered uniform from that era calling out my name. I have never run faster in my life. I just picked up my two guitars, the car keys, and whatever I remembered as mine, got into the car, and drove off.

Presently, I had traveled for about a kilometer when I had this feeling, nay, belief, that one of the tires was running a puncture. I stopped, got out, checked the whole assembly, got back in, and repeated the same exercise around 5 times till I got home. Once I reached home, the feeling that my mind was trying to get out of my mind became even more intense. I had asked my mother for some tea, and when she served, I got very suspicious that it was laced with poison. My mother being my mother, gladly accepted the refusal and drank the tea herself. I walked into my room, washed my face again and promptly fell asleep, only to wake up at nine in the night. I was later told that (during my sleep) I had a very meaningful conversation with someone about investments, someone else about the latest blue ray players, and someone else about books. I have no recollection whatsoever of these events.

And yesterday, for the first time in my life, I accepted an alleged attempt to modernize me. My barber, who thinks he is the Bruce Lee of hair cutting, suggested that I get blackheads removed. Blockheads, according to him. He then went on to give a sermon on how removal of these 'blockheads' ensures long life, high return on investments, reduction in the global carbon emissions, and the general good of mankind. He went on to do a procedure known as the 'facial'. I must say that though I enjoyed the massage while it lasted, I felt thoroughly guilty like I had committed a heinous crime. Also, a contemporary haiku to commemorate the event -

When I am forty,
with the right amount of multani mitti,
I shall look thirty,
Like a certain Silpa settty.

Thank you, thank you. Anyway, I have been metro sexualised. Also, women with impish boy brats who refuse to let their hair cut unless in the presence of their mothers, choose a better time to visit. In other words, it's very embarrassing for a man who is convinced that he was tricked into the facial thingy to have a mom in the background. The facial includes applying a 'Multani Mitti' pack, a stupid paste which solidifies and pulls your face. When this was happening, the brat in the next seat was going, "What has uncle put on his face?", "Why does he need it? My mom puts the same thing. It's only for ladies, no?". Bah.

Anyway, coming back to the narrative, I couldn't sleep last night. Just when I was about to drift off into la la land, I heard a voice, calling out my name in a whisper. It was not a man's voice nor a woman's. There it was, every time I was technically falling asleep, a soft call, right next to my ears.

I think I am officially going mad. Anyway, the good side to all this, is that my servant maid, after long negotiations about her pay, has returned.

Thank you.

India - The state at play.

Serious thinkers. Forgive me, but I think you are bollocks. Forgive me, for I never see any thought transform into action. Forgive me, for I belong to a land of high treason. Yes, this is blasphemy. Which is why my comments section is moderated, but I would love to be convinced otherwise of what I am going to write about.

My country is the largest democracy in the world. I was talking yesterday to a Major in the Army who is in Srinagar. And these, are his exact words:

"There is a very thin line between democracy and holding the country to ransom".

How true.

Another friend of mine, who was concerned about the state of affairs in the region where I stay, with regards to the state being bifurcated, the political unrest, etc etc., forced me to think. And here is what I thank:

I am a citizen of this country by birth and descent. I am a citizen of Oslo by naturalization. I have been given a good education and made to read books with complex English, like Wren and Martin. In short, I consider myself to be one of the self - aware, city bred yuppies who think they have seen other cultures because they have also read Asterix and Obelix. If you are reading this, you probably belong to the same class of social existence. Now, here is my question:

Has any political leader from any political party, ever approached you for a vote?

How many bills have been passed in our parliament in the last month, and what do they concern?

How many of those bills will directly work for your benefit?

How is it that we have a deficit of XXX Billion $, but still come up with 'hosting' the Common Wealth Games?

Do the Common Wealth Games stand for let's all get together and share the wealth of the people equally like, say a poker game?

Did you know that the cost of one vote is one chicken Biryani and 500 rupees? So, if the ruling party has won by a majority of so many votes, you know how many chickens were there.

Why does my country run on preventive maintenance mode? I mean, why does it take a 26/11 to actually review our competency?

Maybe it's the blocked nose, or maybe it's the confidence that not many people would read this, but I think what the country needs most is a dictator. Please vote for me. Thanks.





Disclaimer:
The views expressed in this are not the author's. The author was drugged, bound, gagged, and made to type with his little toe. The article does not attempt to change / correct any administrative red tape in any country on this globe. The name 'India' is used figuratively and does not necessarily mean the country.

The Future of Jeans - FADEAD

To,

The Management,
Levi's Strauss Jeans India



Dear Sir / Madam,


I have been you loyal customer for the past 27 years. I am also the proud owner of two pairs of Levi's 501's from the '80's. I recently went to the Levi's store to buy jeans and was taken aback at the quality of denims that are being passed off in the name of fashion. I understand that in today's world where nobody has time, you bring in pre-faded jeans, pre-torn jeans, etc., but it is my kind request that you also retain certain old school originals for old boys like me. My knowledge in wearing jeans is very limited and the only way I know for a jeans to fade is described below:

1. Buy Jeans.
2. Wear them.
3. Remove only in case of suspected fungal infection or excessive itching in the wrong places.
4. Wash both Jeans and self thoroughly.
   
5. Hang Jeans upright, like you wear them.
   
6. Go back to step 2.

Eventually, the Jeans also develops little tears due to aging. So please, for the sake of a dying breed of die hard romantics who do not understand pre-doing anything but would like to age with the Jeans, please, please market the old school Levi's blues. Each crease, each tear, each thread in these aged Jeans has a memory attached, and those, to me, are priceless.

Thank you very much.

Sardarji.

Okay. This is not an interesting story. I mean, it does not constitute the genre which stirs up your senses, makes you think, etc., in short, it will not make Subhash Ghai get up, brush his teeth, and say, "Damn! I am making a movie on this".
This is more of real life, no story. I will, however, try to make it interesting in a very uninterested way. We were in our last year of engineering, and as is expected out of people who are in their last year of engineering, we used to spend most of our time learning about life than in the college, which is of course, a very polite way of saying we were outstanding students. The 'we' here is a select few elements who were handpicked by each other for their varying degrees of hallucinating capabilities and/or complete disassociation from any kind of reality whatsoever.
Anyone who has stayed in a hostel will agree with me when I say hostels in general make you admire the finer things in life. Like food, for example. You never will understand hostel food and even the world's greatest chef cannot replicate the taste even remotely. Of course, legend has it that one particular chef from Japan, afraid of harakiri, came to our hostel to eat the food, but after one bite, decided that harakiri was a safer option. Under these circs., a search for alternate means was inevitable and our quest led us to the subject of this story. The Sardarji.

The sardarji was a man of frugality. He lived in the same place where he made Aloo Parathas, and made Aloo Parathas in the same place where he made masala chai, and served masala chai in the same place where he lived. His life was full circle. His tea (masala chai) was and is one of the best that I've ever tasted, and he even let us in on the secret. Being hard rock fans those days, we remembered the secret recipe as LEDS - short for Led Zeppelin, but actually was Lavang (Clove), Elaichi (Cardamom) Dalchini (Cinnamon) and Saunf (Fennel seeds). The man was demure and very friendly. Order an Aloo Paratha and he would know you were going for the tea next, so he would start off making the tea while discussing life. I often used to wonder what this man had done to bring him so far away from his region. Was he a convict who couldn't find his place in this bullish world? What about his family? He never left his shack during night or day, and he dint even have friends. What can a man do, to bring him to this stage of life? The reason I still remember this man and find him so intriguing is the fact that one afternoon, when we guys just finished some exam and wanted to have tea, the Sardarji had gone. Lock, stock and Aloo Parathas. No one knew where he had gone. He just packed his stuff and left. I remember I was staring at his shack for a long time thinking a lot of things, but I never saw the man again. I hope he is well wherever he is and if he has Internet access and is on Facebook, I hope I learn about his life someday, while drinking his Masala Chai.

John Isner Vs. Nicolas Mahut.

John Isner and Nicolas Mahut.

Two guys playing a tennis match.

Stretching it for three days.

For two bloody points.

I normally am not moved by anything the rest of the world gets moved by (like gravity), but today, I am moved. I am moved because of the same reason everyone else is moved too. These two guys, playing a game of tennis, showed the world a lot of things. Back in the day, I was a tennis guy myself, and I say this with experience, that you cannot, and I mean CANNOT, play more than three hours. Anything after that is not you playing, but a heady mix of your chi combined with adrenaline combined with Redbull and vodka, and these two fine gentlemen seem to have got an extra dose of that in their DNA.

Whatever it was, whatever be the result, no one cares anymore. But everyone knows these two names now. Because sometimes, a match is what it is supposed to be. And very rarely, a match becomes more than what it can ever be.

So here's to you, Mr. Isner and Monsieur Mahut, for playing this game. For giving us this wonderful moment, when no one in the whole world gave a shit about those two bloody points.

Here's to you.

A Nikon, a fender stratocaster, Chiranjeevi, my dad and other stories.

All of us so-called humans have two basic operating modes. Side A and Side B. Side A is characterized by a docile, harmless demeanor and Side B, is, well, the same thing with a lot of Red Bull and Vodka. If you still are at a loss, then "Side A mein bajta hai. Side B mein bajata hai." (Any attempt to translate this would, well, defuse the effect.)

Side A:

It is true.

You don't need an awesome product to make your life better. In fact, I agree. It is a waste of money. Wait. Make that a huge waste of money. The innuendo being the purchase of a Nikon yesterday. Maybe it is a 'passing fancy' and it sure like hell won't help me earn any money. I am not even an amateur photographer by any standards, and frankly, the Nikon is to me what a Bugatti Veyron is to a guy learning the bicycle.

The same goes for almost any product. Human minds are strange. The question "Do I really need this stuff?" often is used to convince ourselves of the opposite. Why? I mean, if a guy really wants something and he can afford it without killing anyone, let him have it, I say. Why should he consider the world's economics, the consequences of his instinctive folly, etc. etc. ?

Also, I will never understand why 'growing up' has something to do with forgetting all that you promised yourself when you were, say, five or six years old. Maybe inside us, there really is the most awesome guitarist, artist, photographer, poet, pilot, bus conductor or whatever we dream of, and it's only because of this stupid growing up thingy which brings in ego, occasional diarrhea, and other unnecessary evils, that we decide somewhere down the line to join the rest of humanity in leading a 'normal' life. Normal to me is going out and winging it. No matter what it is.

Okay, at this point, all the wives will argue that they have to save for the future. You never know what is going to happen. Which is exactly my point. When you don't know what is going to happen, then why save at all?? I mean, you can save enough to lead the same kind of existence that you are used to, but if you earn more than that, wing it boys. I think I have spoken for all the men out there who want to buy something which they've always wanted, something which will make them awesome in their own eyes, something which they know is a 'passing fancy' but would be more than glad to let it pass over them, balls to bones.

Concluding this, I just would like to say that I did what I've always wanted to. I feel good about myself.

























Side B:

Fuck you. Watch me.

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Very disturbed. Very depressed today. I feel like calmly going out for a stroll and killing a couple of people, without straining my back in the process. I really really need to get out of myself. Or, maybe I just need to find that something which will hold my interest for longer than 3 minutes. I scoured the web today for all the certification courses that are left for me to do and sadly, there are none. Maybe it's time I got that hair transplant thingy done. Maybe I should really get out and meet more people. But then again, they all remind me of someone or the other I had already met and made a mental note not to meet again at that time. Maybe I do really hate people, as is the general opinion of the masses. Or maybe as someone from Bangalore once put it in a very casual, non-interfering way, I am one of the biggest bastards ever. Maybe I need to be more tolerant, more of an actor instead of just being plain blunt and showing what I feel on my face (or my trousers - circumstance dependent metric). I am tired of doing nothing, depressed with being happy all the time, and have had it with those 'intellectually stimulating conversations' to last a lifetime. Wait. Make that two. Maybe this is what happens to people when they are alone, they are confused.
I really fail to see any meaning in me anymore. I am either searching in the wrong places or there isn't any meaning anywhere. What is it that I want to do in my life? Where do I want to go? Who do I want to meet? Aah....it is all bull. What I need is a person who can play the tabla. Can anyone help me with this? Please email me at aditya.jammi@gmail.com in case any of you guys know anyone who can play the tabla in Hyderabad.
Thanks.

My Best Blog Post Ever.

Oh.

Weimaraner

If I were a dog, I would have been that.

It's a Sunday. I have a hangover. I'm stinking of rum. Speaking of which, here is a little thought.

There was once a bridge connecting a small town. Because of the flash floods, the bridge was completely submerged. A car driver, who wanted to cross the bridge, asked a boy sitting on the bank about the depth of the water. The boy said it would not be more than six inches. The driver drove the car only to get washed away. Later, when someone asked the boy as to why he had said six inches, he replied, "Well, I saw a bunch of ducks passing by, and they seemed to calmly walk across the bridge."

The question here, is how many times in your life have you been the boy on the bank? How many times did you presume that you 'knew' a situation before reacting to it? Interesting, eh?

*Source: Chatterji uncle.

And woke up with this thought:

There are many people on this planet. Some are born to rule, some, to rock, few follow their dreams, many aim to please, some will only cheat, one or two will always take the heat, but there are very few, and I mean limited in phonetics, who are born just for the heck of it.

How is everyone doing?

Hohumdrumaticism.

Tired? Bored? Depressed? Job screwing you? Can't cook for nuts? Can't do shit about your most awesome non-existent sex life? Have marathon bouts of 'running' temperature and nose? Then here is the answer!

Errr.....two answers, actually.

One. You can pay me 10,000 dollars in cash and I shall give you the ultimate question.

Two. Take your dad down memory lane. I did it last weekend. Drove down to a town called Kakinada, where he grew up. Took pictures of his school, college, the place where he used to hang out, their house, etc.,etc.


I apologize to all the people out there who have cursed, ordered, requested, emailed, called, threatened me to write. But you know, what do you call it? Writer's block. Heh heh.

In other news, single men are better than married men. Because if you are married, your wife is doing everything for you apart from letting you have the idea that you are "responsible". Now, let's see you come back to that, Mr. X the Gyasshole (An asshole basically, unfortunately a gyani too.). (Whoa! Looks like I'm on a coining spree today!)

Ahem. My birthday came and went. Everybody else just came. As in, they arrived. Physically. Went to Golkonda, and was pleasantly surprised by N.K, taking us to the Nizam Saab's house. Nice jam, it was. Next time, let's go drunk. Maybe we'll sound better.

And yeah, this post is dedicated to Nisha and Ajit's wedding anniversary. Good on you guys, I'm sorry I'm a bit late (3 months, I think), but you know me.

OK. Now to A.C for the comment in "Arcane". Dude, let me tell you a small story, which might even be mine:

There was one a man. He had a job, a secure environment to live in (Not like me, I barely make ends meet and am struggling with only two cars and only one house and only two laptops and only one katana.....) and was generally the equivalent of what you might call a good bloke. And as is the general nature of this world, everything is expected to be hunky dory with all these good blokes.
But such was not the case with our man. There was always some unrest, some internal angst, some questions he needed answered to feel inner peace, which is basically the feeling that you should technically get after 4 rounds of JackD + coke followed by Vanilla ice-cream with hot chocolate sauce, but then, to each his own. So this guy one day says to himself, "fuck it all! I've had enough of this dreary meaningless mechanical existence!!! I want to live, but what is it to live? I will ask god." So, he promptly gave god a missed call as he was on a prepaid account and was a little hard pressed on credit, and, exactly after 57,624,9017, 34 missed calls, god called back. And so, our man asked god the meaning of his life. God paused. Our man asked him why he was there on earth, his purpose. God paused. The persistent protagonist that he was, he finally asked god, "Why was I born?". God got tired of pausing. He said, "Because your parents had sex."
QED.

In a world of mediocrity, excellence is a curse. In a relative world, absolute thought, a crime. Need I say more?

The Chronicles of Hernia: Prince Thespian

OK. The list is finally out. And the ranking, based on a world wide survey (I don't think it was world wide, they dint ask me) is as follows:

1. Batman
2. Spider man
3. Superman
4. Wolverine
5. Iron man

Maybe this post should have been called "How to be a superhero for dummies", but then, that wouldn't have made sense as much as the current title makes. Anyway, way back in college, we had names for each of us ranging from the "Incredible Ice Cream Melting Man" to "Big Fat Man". Yes, it's the same Big Fat Man, though the IICM man is now married and too busy to be the IICM man. So anyway, here is how you too can become a superhero.

1. Buy your undies carefully. They should be made of Kevlar or any other indestructible compound, be rust proof, bullet proof, weather and temperature proof and able to accommodate various gadgets other than your own. They should also be available in bright color options. IMPORTANT!!! Make sure you take a mighty leak before you go on any world saving missions.
2. You can choose to be masked or you could choose the look, like superman or wolverine. If in case you choose the look, make sure you have a good barber for the hairstyle and beard shaping. In case of a mask, you should design it on your own. It should also incorporate all the qualities of your undies but make sure you can breathe properly. In all cases though, your dentist should be damn good.
   
3. You should always have an alter ego who has the IQ of a toothbrush. He/she should always have a first and a last name and your entire name should only consist of two words, for example, Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Peter Parker, Tony Stark.
   
4. Some sacrifices are in order. Your love life, given your undies, will be lousier than lousy. Sorry about that mate, but you will always have an amazingly good looking chick / hunk who will know who you are, (at least, if not in the first part, later on) and will most probably get killed.
   
5. You should make sure you have a hideout. Given the complex nature of your costume and the time taken to change, make sure it is quite remote.
   
6. In case you are not from the Mutant School or the Oracle's drawing room in the matrix, it is imperative that you arm yourself with the latest gadgets like a GPS, a digital watch with date and time in large block letters, a bottle of Gatorade / Jack Daniels (Make sure you sip very carefully, see important note in 1), a mobile phone with a blue tooth headset, etc.
7. Your opponent, or "The Villain", would always be better looking and maybe even win an Oscar.
   
8. Your costume should be designed very carefully. It should have the color Red. This is essential so that oncoming traffic, local trains, occasional planes, and the neighbourhood kid who you will help at least once in every escapade, know who you are. You should also have some sort of symbol embossed near your chest area for quick identification. You can be any size but the suit should always have the six pack.
   
9. You must make it a point to look at your mask (or face in the mirror if you are the "look" guy) and say, "You are the man" before going to bed ever day.
   
10. You should have a nice name. "Photo chromatic Man", "Iwannahumpalotta Man", "Fender Stratocaster Man", "Police Man", "Post Man", etc., are all strict no-no. If you want to be an Indian superhero, I would suggest "Chota Chettri", "Blade Badshah", "Chirkut Circuit", "Romanchak Nanchak Manja", "Bey-imaan Basanti",etc.

So there you are. Due to certain copyright constraints, I cannot divulge the entire information here. Anyway, I hope you have fun. While you save the world, I shall make sure your love interest (if it's a she) is occupied. I will read her stories about your exploits and draw a pie chart about your popularity ratings. In effect, I will take care of her so well that you will eventually forget you had a love interest.

Well, go on, then.

Viva Voce

Hello.

Hello.

What are you?

A carbon based life form. Biped. Mammal. Scientific Name: Homo sapiens neanderthalensis. Common Name: Rude Boy.

OK. I meant your qualification....

Oh that. I am an Engineer. An Instrumentation and Electronics Engineer.

Nice. What is a transducer?

Its a thing with which you can make juices of various kinds. Like fruit juices, vegetable juices, etc. Err...did you say transducer? That's the same thing as a Mixer Juicer, only it has a transformer in it.

Hmmm....what is a relay?

It's that race thingy where skinny runners run with the stick. And then pass it on to the next guy.

What is DSP?

The ESP that you get when you wear a digital watch.

DSP? Digital Signal Processing?

Oh that. That is getting any work done through SMS.

OK. Could you tell me what a JK Flip Flop is?

It's a cheap alternative to Converse. Almost the same price as our Bata lubber chappal.

Any light on Microprocessors? How many Flags, for example?

Depends on the number of countries involved in manufacturing it.

Thank you. I think I've had enough.

No problem. Chillax mate.

Err...Homo neanderthalensis is extinct, for your information.

I know. I am living proof of it.

Kinetica Dynamica Life.

If you would remember, I was ambiguous here.

Well, I have finally decided. I have, to put it simply, put the left indicator and turned right. Let's see where I go from here. I, for one, shall be watching my progress with keen interest.

Zen and the art of Hyderabadi parking.

Hey all, wassup, hello, hi, what ho! and all that.

I've said this before and I shall say it again. Any normal self respecting Hyderabadi normally drives on the road like its family business. I mean, if you took this chappie and put him on Mohammad Ali road in Mumbai (I still like to call it Bombay, tch.), he would drive like Mr. M. Ali was his father. The endorphin/adrenaline kick is well, really a kick here and the absolute lack of any thrill ride parks in Hyd is also explained by this phenomenon called traffic. Death defying stunts and car sequences belittling the scenes in "Ronin" are but a daily occurrence for our subject Mr. M. Ali's son. Suffice to say, if you can drive in Hyderabad, you can drive anywhere on this planet. Which is all good and all that.

But (There is always one, the but, that is.) if you can park in Hyderabad, you can't park nowhere else.
(This sentence, on the whole, is for my American friends who are basically from here but have stayed near the hood for a couple of years and call petrol 'gas', and use double negatives everywhere.)

A typical parking scenario is depicted in the illustrations below:
So there you have it. I can withstand the driving, but please, for the sake of my shattered nervous system and Ursa major, please learn to parallel park. C'mon O Goltis of Goltiland, fear not, for like you can always teach an old dog new tricks, you can also learn to park. For your sons and daughters toil in Boston, Mississippi, and other places, for they call petrol 'gas', for they use 'uh huh, I see that, uh huh' even when talking to Salim chicha with lubber chappal, for whom the USA is "Our country" (I find this tough to tolerate. Alright, so you've stayed there for some time, this still is YOUR country. ), for their sake, learn to forking park.

Muchos Gracias.

12:34:56 7/8/9

Apparently, this is a huge thing. The last time it happened was at 1:23:45 on 06/07/89. All the numbers being in series, that is. The next time will be in 2089 and I, hopefully, will not be alive to see it. So there. It's a huge thing. Given the hugeness of this moment and my inherent awesomeness, I have divined a mantra, applicable till 2089. For the general benefit of the masses, the most awesome mantra, in a line, is this:

"I am unique. Just like everyone else."

Yes. I know. It has already been said by some smarty pants, but I said it here, so it's an original by me. You can get a full version of the divine discourse on blu-ray if you pay me as much as I want.

Anyway, there are 7 couples I know who are in their 8th month of pregnancy. Pretty neat timing, huh? I wish all of them a healthy baby and a healthy life. Personally, to me, a baby is still 9 months of waiting and 19 years of pain. Maybe I'll be flogged for saying that, but I would get flogged anyway.

Also, the monk who bought the Ferrari from the monk who sold it is much smarter.

Here are some pics of the dog.

Anwar Ali's poem