Sunday, December 19, 2010
Sunday, November 7, 2010
November Rain
I’ve always found November strange. Not a month I look forward to as a rule. A lot of experiences have been packed into this month over the years. So much so that weird doesn’t cover it now.
Too many dates to remember, too things to try and forget. For one there are a lot of birthdays this month, chaddi-buddy Kushal on the 6th and today birth anniversaries of the forgotten Shruti and Pappa’s baidi Krithika. Grandpa turns 76 tomorrow and then there’s pops on the 10th. And finally an aunt on the 20th. Not strictly complaining per se, but November is a month like no other in my calendar. Just last year, I managed to fight away depression just in time and return to SNIFF, thanks to Radha, Renu and Trupti. Two years ago on this very day, long forgotten Shruti splashed cash on her birthday at the swanky Kailash Parbat. Between the two of us, Radha and I demolished 4 sizzling hot brownies, a feat that is surely unmatched anywhere. We didn’t just eat (after all the smoke had cleared away), we slurped, gobbled and licked our way through two and grabbed on to the leftovers of those with weaker stomachs. I can still taste it, smell it and be damned if I ever forget the slimy-haired waiter that served the party. UPG hasn’t been fair to Shruti ever since, but that was one hell of a meal.
To be fair, November has only been rummy ever since pops puffed his last ten years ago, November 5 to be precise. Hindu tradition prescribes that the family perform yearly rituals sometime close to the death date based on some lunar calendar something something. The remains of the puja are to be then fed to crows. I’ve never liked crows, liked pops even less and so every year I wish we won’t have to go through the whole rigmarole. This year, there are chances this will be the last time. I have some cuckoo assumption that the holy books mandate that you shan’t feed the crows for more than ten years.
Missing this year is Nikhil’s yearly visit, now that they’re working him so hard at Sydney University, I doubt we’ll see those Australians before all of Aunt Renuka’s hairs turn grey. Nothing much of note has happened so far in the past seven days, but since it’s already had rained this month, I wouldn’t rule out anything, I only superstition I’ve fallen prey to.
Too many dates to remember, too things to try and forget. For one there are a lot of birthdays this month, chaddi-buddy Kushal on the 6th and today birth anniversaries of the forgotten Shruti and Pappa’s baidi Krithika. Grandpa turns 76 tomorrow and then there’s pops on the 10th. And finally an aunt on the 20th. Not strictly complaining per se, but November is a month like no other in my calendar. Just last year, I managed to fight away depression just in time and return to SNIFF, thanks to Radha, Renu and Trupti. Two years ago on this very day, long forgotten Shruti splashed cash on her birthday at the swanky Kailash Parbat. Between the two of us, Radha and I demolished 4 sizzling hot brownies, a feat that is surely unmatched anywhere. We didn’t just eat (after all the smoke had cleared away), we slurped, gobbled and licked our way through two and grabbed on to the leftovers of those with weaker stomachs. I can still taste it, smell it and be damned if I ever forget the slimy-haired waiter that served the party. UPG hasn’t been fair to Shruti ever since, but that was one hell of a meal.
To be fair, November has only been rummy ever since pops puffed his last ten years ago, November 5 to be precise. Hindu tradition prescribes that the family perform yearly rituals sometime close to the death date based on some lunar calendar something something. The remains of the puja are to be then fed to crows. I’ve never liked crows, liked pops even less and so every year I wish we won’t have to go through the whole rigmarole. This year, there are chances this will be the last time. I have some cuckoo assumption that the holy books mandate that you shan’t feed the crows for more than ten years.
Missing this year is Nikhil’s yearly visit, now that they’re working him so hard at Sydney University, I doubt we’ll see those Australians before all of Aunt Renuka’s hairs turn grey. Nothing much of note has happened so far in the past seven days, but since it’s already had rained this month, I wouldn’t rule out anything, I only superstition I’ve fallen prey to.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
There’s a lizard outside my window
There’s this lizard that’s taken up residence in the little grill that contains the pots outside my living room window. Every night, by about ten, it starts scurrying all over the sliding windows, looking for a way in. I’ve been watching this happen for a week now and the damned reptile isn’t giving up. Now that it knows there’s no way I’m letting it in, it’s taken to taken to casting furtive glances and turning away every time I look. This little game of hide and seek goes on for as long as I’m awake.
It’s grown noticeably larger since the first time I spotted it and seems determined to leave its paw-prints all over the windows. It doesn’t run away when I look now and attempts some lizard-ly form of scare tactics, which have had no effect yet. Yesterday, it thought it would gross me out by plucking a moth out of the air and gobbling it up slowly, savouring each bite. I was pretty bored then, and although fascinated, did not lose my dinner. It definitely needs tips from the Venus Fly Trap. It’s disappeared for now, probably wondering how best to break and enter.
It’s grown noticeably larger since the first time I spotted it and seems determined to leave its paw-prints all over the windows. It doesn’t run away when I look now and attempts some lizard-ly form of scare tactics, which have had no effect yet. Yesterday, it thought it would gross me out by plucking a moth out of the air and gobbling it up slowly, savouring each bite. I was pretty bored then, and although fascinated, did not lose my dinner. It definitely needs tips from the Venus Fly Trap. It’s disappeared for now, probably wondering how best to break and enter.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
P.W.R. – 23 hours, 40 minutes in LaLaLand
After a long time I can say with some confidence that I’ve finally created that one Personal World record that no one but a comatose person can beat. It was the circumstances that aided in the creation of this record.
So I’d slept not more than 15 hours in the past week and not at all Friday night, working on this stupid project, a 32-page magazine which, now that I see in print, was surely worth all the sleepless nights. After a whirlwind Saturday, I hit the hay at precisely 8.30 pm after having written an exam without preparing for it and lugging 5 kilos of groceries in a half-conscious state.
I woke up some two hours ago, at say 8.10 pm thinking surely that I’d done the unthinkable by lasting 24 hours, only to rush to clock and find that I’d missed the mark by just 20 minutes. Life does suck right about now, but on the bright side, my head’s been spinning ever since I woke up and no amount of food will set it right. Guess I’ll have to sleep it off.
So I’d slept not more than 15 hours in the past week and not at all Friday night, working on this stupid project, a 32-page magazine which, now that I see in print, was surely worth all the sleepless nights. After a whirlwind Saturday, I hit the hay at precisely 8.30 pm after having written an exam without preparing for it and lugging 5 kilos of groceries in a half-conscious state.
I woke up some two hours ago, at say 8.10 pm thinking surely that I’d done the unthinkable by lasting 24 hours, only to rush to clock and find that I’d missed the mark by just 20 minutes. Life does suck right about now, but on the bright side, my head’s been spinning ever since I woke up and no amount of food will set it right. Guess I’ll have to sleep it off.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Uncle Jerry’s Death day
I don’t remember the day my Uncle Jerry died in August ten years ago. In fact, the only reason I’m confident it’s August is because I know it was three months before pops. He’d be just a couple of years shy of 100 were he alive today. Of course he’d be stone deaf and... Come to think of it, had he been alive he wouldn’t allow them assholes to cut down his mighty oak tree. The 30 year-old behemoth that was one many symbols of my childhood. Were he alive, Aunty Vivian wouldn’t be lonely today and she’d have someone to care for her as she battled cancer and eventually won.
That man taught me to love nature, it is he who pointed out to my eight year-old self the scientific name of the curious orange stone I had picked off the ground. A member of the Bombay Natural History Society and an associate of the late great Salim Ali, Uncle Jerry once scared the bejesus out of this girl while he was strolling through Sanjay Gandhi National Park. He had a kind face as old men go, but to have fluffy white hair sticking out of a dark walnut-shaped head coupled with thick glasses poking at you in the middle of a forest is enough to give anyone the shivers. I hope to emulate that feat some day. I’ve got the mangy Wolverine look; all that’s needed is to actually set foot into SGNP.
It is also from him that I inherited a fascination for snakes. Every monsoon he’d spot at least a dozen sliding through the garden at night having escaped from the neighbouring marshes. One night, as I was passing by the garden, I saw him leaning on the fence staring into the darkness. When I came closer he asked me to say nothing and just watch. I looked in the direction he was – a cat was hissing and spitting at a large cobra. And here he was, Uncle Jerry watching calmly and contentedly. He was convinced the sewers in our lane were swarming with Russel’s Vipers. Every other kid dismissed him as a crack. My brother and I revered him.
He died of malaria. His last words, to Aunty Vivian on his deathbed at the hospital were, “Vivian, the doctor has cut my throat.” I never did truly discover what the doctor held against the man. All I remember is his prone body, clothed in his favourite brown coat, lying peacefully in its coffin, bearing the legend, “Here lies Jeremiah. May his soul rest in peace.” We spent one hour picking out flowers for his funeral.
That man taught me to love nature, it is he who pointed out to my eight year-old self the scientific name of the curious orange stone I had picked off the ground. A member of the Bombay Natural History Society and an associate of the late great Salim Ali, Uncle Jerry once scared the bejesus out of this girl while he was strolling through Sanjay Gandhi National Park. He had a kind face as old men go, but to have fluffy white hair sticking out of a dark walnut-shaped head coupled with thick glasses poking at you in the middle of a forest is enough to give anyone the shivers. I hope to emulate that feat some day. I’ve got the mangy Wolverine look; all that’s needed is to actually set foot into SGNP.
It is also from him that I inherited a fascination for snakes. Every monsoon he’d spot at least a dozen sliding through the garden at night having escaped from the neighbouring marshes. One night, as I was passing by the garden, I saw him leaning on the fence staring into the darkness. When I came closer he asked me to say nothing and just watch. I looked in the direction he was – a cat was hissing and spitting at a large cobra. And here he was, Uncle Jerry watching calmly and contentedly. He was convinced the sewers in our lane were swarming with Russel’s Vipers. Every other kid dismissed him as a crack. My brother and I revered him.
He died of malaria. His last words, to Aunty Vivian on his deathbed at the hospital were, “Vivian, the doctor has cut my throat.” I never did truly discover what the doctor held against the man. All I remember is his prone body, clothed in his favourite brown coat, lying peacefully in its coffin, bearing the legend, “Here lies Jeremiah. May his soul rest in peace.” We spent one hour picking out flowers for his funeral.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Thin Red Line
Passing by a colony of hutments on my way home today I saw two small girls crying as it poured lightly, whether it was because their naked bodies were freezing in the drizzle or the fact that their parents weren’t around I couldn’t tell. Nor could I find the compassion to provide them some cover. I felt a strong urge to photograph them.
It would have made a compelling picture, they were hugging each other as no one else paid them any attention, framed right it would be one of best photographs. I forced myself on before I could dig out my camera. Apart from the fact that photographing individuals in the nude without their consent is just one step short of full-blown pornography, I realized that whatever my intentions, I would be exploiting them. I would be taking advantage of their helplessness and the fact that they were just too young to understand what was happening around them. All they wanted was to find their parents and someplace warm. This, and not the fact that I’d be risking permanent damage to my camera and being mobbed by the morally sensitive pedestrians, is what made me abandon the idea. Of course, not doing anything to help them is another story.
Ever since my dead-brained principal told me that I’d never make a good journalist if I kept taking the easy way out (her version of the story and opinion is completely irrelevant, for her the best sources are those that hold office and not ordinary observant individuals), I’ve thought a lot more about things that I hoped wouldn’t come up ever again. I thought I’d put to bed the good journo - bad journo argument (which lasted all summer) before deciding to study journalism. I’d convinced myself that no matter what the consequences, I wouldn’t sell out, that I’d rather quit than be forced to turn a paparazzo. I was confident I’d research each of my stories carefully and thoroughly and never lift phrases off press releases, I wouldn’t exploit someone just to get a story and if someone got run over I’d first get them to a hospital than make them the next day’s news. But here it is, the age-old debate has reared its ugly head once more. All it took was a careless remark and a moment’s indecision.
I never expected to fall back this easily, never thought I’d be re-examining the line between news and exploitation. The problem is the same but this time the solution is different. A simple exertion of will power will put an end to this for good. Tonight I will know if I can resist the call.
It would have made a compelling picture, they were hugging each other as no one else paid them any attention, framed right it would be one of best photographs. I forced myself on before I could dig out my camera. Apart from the fact that photographing individuals in the nude without their consent is just one step short of full-blown pornography, I realized that whatever my intentions, I would be exploiting them. I would be taking advantage of their helplessness and the fact that they were just too young to understand what was happening around them. All they wanted was to find their parents and someplace warm. This, and not the fact that I’d be risking permanent damage to my camera and being mobbed by the morally sensitive pedestrians, is what made me abandon the idea. Of course, not doing anything to help them is another story.
Ever since my dead-brained principal told me that I’d never make a good journalist if I kept taking the easy way out (her version of the story and opinion is completely irrelevant, for her the best sources are those that hold office and not ordinary observant individuals), I’ve thought a lot more about things that I hoped wouldn’t come up ever again. I thought I’d put to bed the good journo - bad journo argument (which lasted all summer) before deciding to study journalism. I’d convinced myself that no matter what the consequences, I wouldn’t sell out, that I’d rather quit than be forced to turn a paparazzo. I was confident I’d research each of my stories carefully and thoroughly and never lift phrases off press releases, I wouldn’t exploit someone just to get a story and if someone got run over I’d first get them to a hospital than make them the next day’s news. But here it is, the age-old debate has reared its ugly head once more. All it took was a careless remark and a moment’s indecision.
I never expected to fall back this easily, never thought I’d be re-examining the line between news and exploitation. The problem is the same but this time the solution is different. A simple exertion of will power will put an end to this for good. Tonight I will know if I can resist the call.
Viva Espana! Viva!
I like to think that Spain will not be the third European casualty of the 2010 FIFA World Cup. It was bad enough watching Italy slump to a 3-1 defeat against Slovakia last night. I’m no Italian fan but it still hurts when a team that comprises Pirlo, Cannavarro, Gattuso, Buffon, Camoranesi, Chiellini and Iaquinta flop on the grandest stage of them all. It’d be nothing short of catastrophic if Chile does that to Spain tonight.
I’m not Spanish, not even remotely and live in dumpy city (long live Bombay!) more than 6000 miles away from the Promised Land (Spain). I’ve been supporting the national team since 2007 and danced myself crazy when they won EURO 2008. They’ve been underachievers and underdogs for as long as they’ve been playing the sport. It’s only in the last couple of years that they’ve finally played to their potential. And they’ve carried that into the World Cup, threatening to sweep away all opposition with their slick passing game.
But Switzerland stood in the way. Or rather, my mother allowed Switzerland to mess up the match. Everything was going fine, Iniesta and Xavi were supplying Villa with enough ammunition every time they went forward. Of course the finishing was nothing to write home about. But then, my mother asks why the Swiss haven’t scored yet. In the next three seconds, Gelson Fernandes skipped past Puyol and Pique and scrambled the ball into the net.
I’m never going to forgive her for her ill-timed remark. She cost Spain the match, but refuses to admit it. Thank god Spain played Honduras while she was sleeping. But I think I’ve identified another potential threat: - popcorn. Teams I support tend to lose while the corn’s popping. So there won’t be any food on the table for tonight’s match, not even orange juice or a 5-Star crunchy. I’m going to sit in my favourite chair, refuse to answer any calls and hope all goes good. Viva Espana! Viva!
I’m not Spanish, not even remotely and live in dumpy city (long live Bombay!) more than 6000 miles away from the Promised Land (Spain). I’ve been supporting the national team since 2007 and danced myself crazy when they won EURO 2008. They’ve been underachievers and underdogs for as long as they’ve been playing the sport. It’s only in the last couple of years that they’ve finally played to their potential. And they’ve carried that into the World Cup, threatening to sweep away all opposition with their slick passing game.
But Switzerland stood in the way. Or rather, my mother allowed Switzerland to mess up the match. Everything was going fine, Iniesta and Xavi were supplying Villa with enough ammunition every time they went forward. Of course the finishing was nothing to write home about. But then, my mother asks why the Swiss haven’t scored yet. In the next three seconds, Gelson Fernandes skipped past Puyol and Pique and scrambled the ball into the net.
I’m never going to forgive her for her ill-timed remark. She cost Spain the match, but refuses to admit it. Thank god Spain played Honduras while she was sleeping. But I think I’ve identified another potential threat: - popcorn. Teams I support tend to lose while the corn’s popping. So there won’t be any food on the table for tonight’s match, not even orange juice or a 5-Star crunchy. I’m going to sit in my favourite chair, refuse to answer any calls and hope all goes good. Viva Espana! Viva!
Return of the Dhruvster
I never thought I’d run into him again. Not after I nearly broke his leg (at least in my head). But there he was, sauntering in my turf, down my stairs, in Maaaay College. Shock didn’t quite cover my reaction. This was a dumbstruck, eye-popping stare that should have turned him to dust.
Just as I was about to demand what he thought he was doing here and whether he’s lost his way, he comes up to, throws around a smile and tells me he’s a student here! He dropped out last year only to return this year. I tried to be as pleasant as possible, in a non-menacing way, but it just wouldn’t come. He went away just as my jaw was getting sore from all that grimacing.
He turned up again the next day. This time I was delighted to see that his left arm was in a cast. His full sleeves were covering it the other day. I flashed him an ear-to-ear monkey grin in greeting. He wouldn’t be playing football anytime soon but hoped to be fit in time for the university season to begin.
So see the situation couldn’t be better. Not only am I his senior but get to use all my influence within the college to get him trouble, get pushed off stairs, stuck in lifts etc. Must remember to tell the coach and his teachers to give him hell, graduation year is going to be one heck of a ride!
Just as I was about to demand what he thought he was doing here and whether he’s lost his way, he comes up to, throws around a smile and tells me he’s a student here! He dropped out last year only to return this year. I tried to be as pleasant as possible, in a non-menacing way, but it just wouldn’t come. He went away just as my jaw was getting sore from all that grimacing.
He turned up again the next day. This time I was delighted to see that his left arm was in a cast. His full sleeves were covering it the other day. I flashed him an ear-to-ear monkey grin in greeting. He wouldn’t be playing football anytime soon but hoped to be fit in time for the university season to begin.
So see the situation couldn’t be better. Not only am I his senior but get to use all my influence within the college to get him trouble, get pushed off stairs, stuck in lifts etc. Must remember to tell the coach and his teachers to give him hell, graduation year is going to be one heck of a ride!
The Partnership Continues
For some godforsaken reason, BATA hasn’t received its usual supply of POWER shoes from its ‘warehouse’, the reason it seemed as though POWER had gone off the market for good.
Even then, they were nice enough to save one last pair of gaudy brown shoes and I gratefully bought them. Only Rs. 300 changed hands, half the price of the previous ones. So the new ones aren’t much to look, they fit funny and size 10 just manages to keep all my toes in. The colour isn’t exactly inspiring but blends well the post-rain litter on the streets. The sole is jazzed up with funny white protrusions that are supposed to fulfil some kind of acupuncture treatment on the go. On the whole, it’s a great bargain, an okay fit, not at all inconspicuous (in fact, if the folds of my pants didn’t cover them, I’d look more mismatched than crusty the clown), but the important thing is that I did find the shoes and the Partnership is alive and should regain its former glory when the warehouse decides to deliver their consignment after we’re finished with the rains.
Here are a couple of photos of my latest acquistion for your viewing pleasure only. Make what you will of them, the comment boxes need filling anyway.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
The Power Partnership
My friend Radhika and I wear identical shoes. The only differences are in size (I’m an 11 and she’s somewhere close to half of that I think) and in colour (her are grey and mine green). But the large POWER logo on the front strap really stands out and when we put our feet together to display it to unwitting strangers it looks really cool.
It was a complete coincidence, one day, about a year ago; we suddenly noticed we wore the same shoes. It was the nice and right kind of weird. It felt like the perfect testimony to our friendship, the kind where we don’t have to talk to each every minute that we’re next to each other but still knowing that we’re around for each other even though we’ve never let on as much aloud. The shoes are just one of many things that go unsaid between us.
And now, that’s under threat.
Each day that goes by without fresh punishment being inflicted on my pair is a miracle. The side straps are frayed and hanging on by a few threads. The bottom is slowly peeling apart and every step I take is carefully measured and taken with extra precaution. I’ve been looking for a replacement for three days now and so far it looks like no one sells this model now. Also, no one seems to stock anything larger than a size ten these days, but that’s beside the point. I could easily buy one of those new Sparx shoes (as I clearly need to) but then the magic of it all will have died. It will no longer be one of many things that Radhika and I share. It would sadden the heart if it happened and I’d hate wearing them. If I do find what I need, i don’t care what size it comes in, just as long as the POWER PARTNERSHIP doesn’t die.
It was a complete coincidence, one day, about a year ago; we suddenly noticed we wore the same shoes. It was the nice and right kind of weird. It felt like the perfect testimony to our friendship, the kind where we don’t have to talk to each every minute that we’re next to each other but still knowing that we’re around for each other even though we’ve never let on as much aloud. The shoes are just one of many things that go unsaid between us.
And now, that’s under threat.
Each day that goes by without fresh punishment being inflicted on my pair is a miracle. The side straps are frayed and hanging on by a few threads. The bottom is slowly peeling apart and every step I take is carefully measured and taken with extra precaution. I’ve been looking for a replacement for three days now and so far it looks like no one sells this model now. Also, no one seems to stock anything larger than a size ten these days, but that’s beside the point. I could easily buy one of those new Sparx shoes (as I clearly need to) but then the magic of it all will have died. It will no longer be one of many things that Radhika and I share. It would sadden the heart if it happened and I’d hate wearing them. If I do find what I need, i don’t care what size it comes in, just as long as the POWER PARTNERSHIP doesn’t die.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Harrison Ford vs. Dennis Quaid
It took the credits of 2002’s The Rookie to tell me that Jimmy Morris was played by Dennis Quaid and not Harrison Ford as I’d believed the past hour and half. Then again in Vantage Point, this time it took me only 40 minutes. These two should come with a nametag.
Monday, May 31, 2010
13-0
I really can’t decide which side of the fence I’m on when it comes to reacting to a defeat. I’m really inconsistent and unpredictable with those. I’m a self-declared sore loser, just can’t stand losing, usually end up being moody and nasty and extremely sarcastic to the victor after a defeat. And sometimes I just accept and try doing better the next time. Today’s losing streak can’t be categorised. If you must know, I was outplayed, outfoxed, outthought and completely outclassed by my good friend Pankaj. When it comes to table tennis (ping pong), I’m one of those not so good but so bad types that do pull off the odd win. More due to pure luck (catching the farthest corners of the table for instance) than due to skill.
I’d like to blame lack of practice for today’s debacle, but since I don’t look at it as a sport in the first place, I’ll have to look somewhere else for an explanation. Because it surely can’t be the botched style of serving, the ages it takes me to react to a shot, inviting a violent smash with every return, and being completely undone when the smash does come and watching it sail past my outstretched hand (always a second too late). I’m pretty convinced I suck, although my vanquisher (being a gracious man and a fair competitor) wouldn’t think so. He’d like me to not give up hope and continue to let him beat me.
And so for the sake of the record, I am going to play him again in a marathon fifteen match series and hope to be blanked 15-0. After all if it gets me a record, I’m all for it.
I just lost 13-0 today. Beat That!
I’d like to blame lack of practice for today’s debacle, but since I don’t look at it as a sport in the first place, I’ll have to look somewhere else for an explanation. Because it surely can’t be the botched style of serving, the ages it takes me to react to a shot, inviting a violent smash with every return, and being completely undone when the smash does come and watching it sail past my outstretched hand (always a second too late). I’m pretty convinced I suck, although my vanquisher (being a gracious man and a fair competitor) wouldn’t think so. He’d like me to not give up hope and continue to let him beat me.
And so for the sake of the record, I am going to play him again in a marathon fifteen match series and hope to be blanked 15-0. After all if it gets me a record, I’m all for it.
I just lost 13-0 today. Beat That!
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Record Broken!
I’ve been trying to test myself ever since 31st October, 2009 when I did the impossible. Turns out, exhaustion was the answer. I’d just returned from this class trip to Jodhpur on 7th March, 2010 and after dragging the suitcase up two stories, a welcome back hug, and a couple of hours of narrating all the debauchery to a stunned audience, and a meal, I hit the hay and woke up with a massive headache. In short total time clocked, 3.30 pm – 9 am on a sunny 8th March. I’ve been trying to better myself ever since, but it finally seems I’ve come to my limit of natural sleep and thus safely proclaim 17 and a half hours to be my new P.W.R. Beat that!
P.W.R. – 15 and half hours in LalaLand
It’s not always intentionally that you create a personal world record (P.W.R.). Sometimes, they just happen when you aren’t expecting them. That’s what makes them so cool. You don’t even need to awake to be a record-holder. For example you could go to sleep at night and wake up to find yourself proudly holding a P.W.R. for the longest sleepwalk. Of course, when you do wake you might end up taking a naked stroll with the penguins bang in the middle of you-know-where and icicles will have formed on your nipples and who knows where else.
On 31st October, 2009, I added another record to my collection. I slept for 15 and half hours. I remember sleeping somewhere around midnight and waking up at 1530 hours the next day. I’ve always thought I was capable of pulling off such a caper but I’d never consciously tried it. Turns out, I didn’t need to. I’m not sure of all that happened in between my snores but I’m sure it wasn’t anything I missed including that shower of thick dark chocolate that smothered Kashmir – gotcha!
Bottomline – the world may end, Rakhi Sawant may decide to pose and weird, slimy half penguin-half snail crossbreeds may cover the earth in goo, but I ain’t gonna ever wake up.
On 31st October, 2009, I added another record to my collection. I slept for 15 and half hours. I remember sleeping somewhere around midnight and waking up at 1530 hours the next day. I’ve always thought I was capable of pulling off such a caper but I’d never consciously tried it. Turns out, I didn’t need to. I’m not sure of all that happened in between my snores but I’m sure it wasn’t anything I missed including that shower of thick dark chocolate that smothered Kashmir – gotcha!
Bottomline – the world may end, Rakhi Sawant may decide to pose and weird, slimy half penguin-half snail crossbreeds may cover the earth in goo, but I ain’t gonna ever wake up.
P.W.R.
I’m not much of acronyms person, I find it’s too American a tendency, but I have no choice here. Most American acronyms are too mundane and unimaginatively constructed, in fact the only reason they are part of their Lingua Franca is because the dumb chumps can’t remember the big words. Just in case you didn’t know, they aren’t brightest of people.
Getting back to acronyms, P.W.R wasn’t too hard to come up, it means Personal World Record. The expression is my way of snubbing the Guinness Book of World Records because most of us are ordinary individuals who don’t go around playing with our quite breakable spinal cords and openly challenging death to a game of catch-me-if-you-can. You don’t need me to tell you who wins. And so I’ve come up with a revolutionary, harmless method of world-record setting. This way, everybody can become a world-record holder and there hopefully won’t be too many broken bones.
If you’re wondering what kind of records you’re allowed to set or break, wonder no further. You’ll be amazed by the sheer simplicity of the entire jig. Just go about doing normal everyday stuff and claim it is as your own P.W.R. Let me give you a few examples. A few months I set a new personal record by not bathing for five straight days. The streak came to an end on a Sunday. So the next week I went one further and made it six. And for all those disgusted friends of mine, I’d like to let you know that unlike most of you, I don’t suffer from body odour, so had I not confessed, you probably would never have guessed it.
Moving on to something more fun, my personal record for most paanipooris eaten stands at 25. Beat that! I have been challenged to a bout of paanipoori-ing by a middle-aged squirt, which I would have refused knowing her decades of experience in the field, but I’m way too stupid and supposedly proud to back down from a challenge even though it could cause irreversible damage to my taste buds and result in my never being able to look another paanipoori in the eye. While we’re on the subject, I’d also like to mention my favourite record, that of downing the largest, most piping hot, dripping in ghee Parathas known to man (courtesy of my darling grandmother) five days a week. I can now confidently say: Beat That! I know you won’t because you won’t ever get the chance to.
Now that you know the opportunities in setting your very own P.W.R’s are limitless, get cracking at them and show Guinness that you don’t need to melt to be a German melting away inside a sauna to be a world-record holder. And what’s more, write to me about the records you set, I promise that no matter how silly or puke-inducing they turn out to be, one day you will see them compiled in a fat book with lots of pictures that you can gladly gift your grandkids for Christmas fifty years from now.
Getting back to acronyms, P.W.R wasn’t too hard to come up, it means Personal World Record. The expression is my way of snubbing the Guinness Book of World Records because most of us are ordinary individuals who don’t go around playing with our quite breakable spinal cords and openly challenging death to a game of catch-me-if-you-can. You don’t need me to tell you who wins. And so I’ve come up with a revolutionary, harmless method of world-record setting. This way, everybody can become a world-record holder and there hopefully won’t be too many broken bones.
If you’re wondering what kind of records you’re allowed to set or break, wonder no further. You’ll be amazed by the sheer simplicity of the entire jig. Just go about doing normal everyday stuff and claim it is as your own P.W.R. Let me give you a few examples. A few months I set a new personal record by not bathing for five straight days. The streak came to an end on a Sunday. So the next week I went one further and made it six. And for all those disgusted friends of mine, I’d like to let you know that unlike most of you, I don’t suffer from body odour, so had I not confessed, you probably would never have guessed it.
Moving on to something more fun, my personal record for most paanipooris eaten stands at 25. Beat that! I have been challenged to a bout of paanipoori-ing by a middle-aged squirt, which I would have refused knowing her decades of experience in the field, but I’m way too stupid and supposedly proud to back down from a challenge even though it could cause irreversible damage to my taste buds and result in my never being able to look another paanipoori in the eye. While we’re on the subject, I’d also like to mention my favourite record, that of downing the largest, most piping hot, dripping in ghee Parathas known to man (courtesy of my darling grandmother) five days a week. I can now confidently say: Beat That! I know you won’t because you won’t ever get the chance to.
Now that you know the opportunities in setting your very own P.W.R’s are limitless, get cracking at them and show Guinness that you don’t need to melt to be a German melting away inside a sauna to be a world-record holder. And what’s more, write to me about the records you set, I promise that no matter how silly or puke-inducing they turn out to be, one day you will see them compiled in a fat book with lots of pictures that you can gladly gift your grandkids for Christmas fifty years from now.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Yes Yes Yes eeeeyyhuusssssssssssssssss!!!!!!!!!!!
They have done it! Suprs have done! They're going to play in Europe! The top four has broken! Tottenham Hotspur 1 - 0 Manchester City! We're goint to play in the Champions League for the first time in our history! Bring 'em on and let's beat the arse the finish third! GLORY GLORY TOTTENHAM HOTSPUR! PARTY AT WHITE HART LANE!
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
John Cusack vs. Kevin Spacey
I can’t believe how similar they look. I’ve been confusing one for the other each time one of them appears on screen and I don’t catch the credits at the start of a movie. Google’s come to rescue once again. I don’t intend misplacing this image ever; never know when it might come in handy. I just wish the interviewer in the video had done her homework and avoided embarrassing herself on camera. The classic interview mistake.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Nehra's Nuts
Too bad South Africa lost, can’t believe they got so close even after Kallis left. I’m a little disappointed but the match was fun. The highlight wasn’t Raina’s 100 or Kallis’ brave innings. The defining moment of the match came in Nehra’s last over. Goofy as I like to call him was completely totalled by that wild throw that smashed into his nuts. My scream of delight only got raised eyebrows from my mother – a woman extremely sensitive to loud high-pitched noises. I doubt he’ll suffer any lasting damage, but it felt good to see some other man have his crown jewels shattered for a change.
The outcome
I couldn’t do it. He was right before me, running around like an idiot. I had my chances, I came real close at times but I didn’t get him.
I don’t know what stopped me brining him down, maybe it was the fear of injuring my leg further in the process or fouling him in the penalty area and drawing an unnecessary penalty. I defended the ball pretty well though, and kept him away, clipping on his heels as soon as he was on it. My best chance came when he was nearly through on goal and I had to stop him getting there. I did, shoving him off the ball and winning the physical battle for the first time. I should have swung my leg across his ankle right then while trying to keep him from scoring. I didn’t do it.
This confirms my long held belief that I just can’t bring myself to harm another human being, no matter what the circumstances, not without my conscience giving me hell. Thanks for all the advice Malik, for telling me what to do to guarantee maximum pain, but I just couldn’t do it.
I don’t know what stopped me brining him down, maybe it was the fear of injuring my leg further in the process or fouling him in the penalty area and drawing an unnecessary penalty. I defended the ball pretty well though, and kept him away, clipping on his heels as soon as he was on it. My best chance came when he was nearly through on goal and I had to stop him getting there. I did, shoving him off the ball and winning the physical battle for the first time. I should have swung my leg across his ankle right then while trying to keep him from scoring. I didn’t do it.
This confirms my long held belief that I just can’t bring myself to harm another human being, no matter what the circumstances, not without my conscience giving me hell. Thanks for all the advice Malik, for telling me what to do to guarantee maximum pain, but I just couldn’t do it.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
another sunday morning
I’m going to the beach to play football tomorrow, like i do every Sunday. Being part of and playing for P.W.F.C. (Pandurang Waadi Football Club) is something I’m very proud of. Tomorrow will be different. As usual I’m going to play to win but also this once, to injure. I think of myself as incapable of harming another human being. Yet tomorrow I will, at least, I will try.
My right leg still hurts from the bad tackle I got last week. And that’s the leg I must use to hurt the wrongdoer. The chump’s name is Dhruv, the kind of guy with great stamina and who can play any position, and well too. He’s normally quite fun to play against, running around a lot, cracking jokes etc. He plays clean too, which isn’t to say that he doesn’t tackle.
He does. And with his shoes hitting our bare feet, it hurts. A lot. And so I must invoke the Roy Keane spirit and put him out of the match tomorrow like he did to me did last week. I want to hurt him, watch him writhe in pain and maybe even spit on his face as an insult to injury because I’m sick of asking him to remove his shoes while everyone else plays barefoot and him not caring a damn. I’m tired of his unnecessary tackles that can really hurt. I don’t want him trying those stupid antics on any of my teammates. And injury prone as he is, I want him to know what a real injury feels like and that I’m not going to take this lying down.
Most of all, I want revenge, to pay him back, hit him hard on the calf and make him wonder for about an hour if he’ll play football again this week.
My grandma says i shouldn’t be vindictive when it comes to sports, my team-mates say this isn’t a serious injury. I know and that’s the reason I’ve recovered in time to make amends. And this once, I’m not going to listen to my grandma. See you after the showdown and even if there isn’t one. Until then, Glory Glory Tottenham Hotspur!
My right leg still hurts from the bad tackle I got last week. And that’s the leg I must use to hurt the wrongdoer. The chump’s name is Dhruv, the kind of guy with great stamina and who can play any position, and well too. He’s normally quite fun to play against, running around a lot, cracking jokes etc. He plays clean too, which isn’t to say that he doesn’t tackle.
He does. And with his shoes hitting our bare feet, it hurts. A lot. And so I must invoke the Roy Keane spirit and put him out of the match tomorrow like he did to me did last week. I want to hurt him, watch him writhe in pain and maybe even spit on his face as an insult to injury because I’m sick of asking him to remove his shoes while everyone else plays barefoot and him not caring a damn. I’m tired of his unnecessary tackles that can really hurt. I don’t want him trying those stupid antics on any of my teammates. And injury prone as he is, I want him to know what a real injury feels like and that I’m not going to take this lying down.
Most of all, I want revenge, to pay him back, hit him hard on the calf and make him wonder for about an hour if he’ll play football again this week.
My grandma says i shouldn’t be vindictive when it comes to sports, my team-mates say this isn’t a serious injury. I know and that’s the reason I’ve recovered in time to make amends. And this once, I’m not going to listen to my grandma. See you after the showdown and even if there isn’t one. Until then, Glory Glory Tottenham Hotspur!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)