Posts
Remind me not to play such silly games again.
I was playing this game last Tuesday with a female friend titled “unpleasant truths about each other”.
It was her turn. I was sitting on a couch, casually throwing grapes into my mouth from a distance.
“You don’t have too many manly qualities you know, you are slightly….how can I put it….. Dull” she commented casually
The next grape hit me in the eye as I recoiled in shock.
“What do you mean?” I spluttered indignantly.
She poked me in the tummy with a beautiful manicured finger.
“Ouch!! What the..?
“Is your stomach flat?” she bellowed like a Nazi dictator.
I studiously ignored her. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I am not fat. Just pleasantly plump in certain places if you gather my drift.”
“Real guys like to exercise” she continued. Vinod spends an hour every morning doing 200 pushups. 200...”she emphatically repeated. ”He has this body to die for, what a chiseled chest” She drooled away.
So sue me.
“What are your hobbies?” She demanded next. Pesky female, this.
“Huh?” I had drifted away to sleep.
She poked me in the stomach again.
“Hobbies” she repeated, with an evil glint in her eye.
I was beginning to be alarmed now.
“Err, books…..writing…mmm that’s it I guess”
“Such gay hobbies. All the guys I know have hobbies like Fast cars, Soccer, Mountaineering .Why are you such a sissy?”
“All the guys she knows...Don’t I count?” I thought sarcastically. I however remained silent hoping it was over.
I wish.
“You hardly Party. You don’t drink or smoke. Why on earth will a girl fall for you?” she went on.
I took offence. While you don’t have to peel the girls off me by the dozens, I have had the odd admirer or two. I said so to my friend.
“Ha, I bet you wrote her some soppy poetry or something” she said and went off into peals of laughter.
I began to deny indignantly when I remembered I did write some poetry for her.
There ended my last pretensions of manliness.
She had her eyes shut lightly as if deciding what other aspects of my manliness to attack.
If this were a Group Discussion titled “Why the guy beside me is not manly” she would have aced it.
I tried to tiptoe out of the room silently before she opened her eyes. I was almost out of the door when I realized that my way of retreat was not the sign of manliness so I silently tiptoed back in again and sat next to her.
I considered killing her by hitting her on the head with a large book.
I had visions of her ghost coming back to tell me that how a real man would have killed her by running her over with a Ferrari Convertible.
“Damn it!!!”
********************************
Note: The above post was in jest. In reality I weigh 65 kgs, have a waist size of 30, train tigers for a hobby and routinely jump off cliffs for a thrill.
P.s: Girl friend applications open from today. SMS “Macho” to 7777.
Macho Man
on Wednesday, April 02, 2008P School for Politicians.....
on Monday, February 04, 2008India has done remarkably well as a vibrant democratic nation since its independence some decades ago. This is a remarkable feat in spite of the questionable antecedents of some of the politicians who have governed Indian through the ages. While it would be erroneous to conclude that all politicians are inefficient, what needs to be deeply introspected is the abysmal percentage of politicians who have come into power based on criteria of performance and skill alone.
The long standing debate of whether “Leaders are born or made” has reverberated through intellectual circles for some time now. The political succession in India unfortunately is largely of nepotism fostered in a culture of servile allegiance to prominent political families by the hangers on. Else we have those leaders whose only claim to fame is birth in a certain class or caste of society thereby inducing a sense of pseudo superiority that the followers live through their leader.
An interesting parallel to compare with is the current robust health of our business scene. In the new millennium, one of the biggest factors in the rise of India Inc. has been the steady production of intelligent, well educated, suave young managers from the top B schools across the country. It is obvious that a B school per se does not make managers, a certain aptitude is necessary. But what is does is play a role of a catalyst –transforming a lodestone of ideas and attitude into a finished product capable of expressing and executing these ideas in the proper channels.
So I would like to propose an idea of a P-school, akin to and modeled on the lines of a B school, which will serve as a finishing school for young Indians who want to make a career in the political sphere. It must be emphasized that a political seats should not be the exclusive prerogative of scions of political parties nor of over the hill movie stars. It should be a viable and rewarding career option for the common man. And this P-School must be the vehicle which will give an opportunity to allow this to happen. Below I shall attempt to explain my concept.
If we conduct a survey among the school children of the country on what they would like to be when they grow up, it is a foregone conclusion that an insignificant number, if any would aspire to be politicians. The brand image of politics as a profession is rock bottom with corrupt, inefficient and other unflattering adjectives frequently associated with the ilk. The primary objective of the P-School along with honing the people management skills of the person is to give legitimacy to the claim of the average Indian candidate to political office. The P School would first be started by the government in a city of their choice as a pilot project, later mushrooming across the country on a need basis. All the political parties which expect to benefit by the course would be stakeholders. Later supply and demand would automatically give rise to private players which would lead to increase in competition followed by increase in quality.
The recruitment tests would consist of an aptitude, awareness and ethics test (Multiple choices similar to CAT) in English and all vernacular languages. This would be followed by Group Discussions, debates and personal interviews.
The next pertinent question which arises would be the selection of instructors at the school. The supply of ex politicians ,civil servants, lawyers and others with appropriate political antecedents to take up the mantle of finding a new generation of leaders would, I am sure not be too hard.
The duration of the course should ideally be for two years. The first year of instruction would be common to everyone and would include courses like Fundamentals of Political Management, Quantitative Methods for Political Managers, Research and Data Collection, Speech Writing, Political Management and the Media, Fundraising, Campaign Management.
By the end of the first year, there would be a summer recruitment process by which various political parties offer a two month internship to the student after a short listing process. Based on his ideals and inclination the student would choose his party.
The second year of instruction would involve taking up various specializations based on various political and social ideologies existing in India. These would be comparable to Marketing or Finance in a B school. The students would also need to work at NGO’s and other grassroots organizations at various times of the year. Ethics would be a strong undercurrent throughout the duration of the course.
Finally it will culminate in a placement process which would be attended by all political parties of prominence to recruit. Exhaustive tests would be conducted which would lead to offers to the individual students.
I would like to point out here that managing an organization in not too different from managing an area politically, the primary difference of course being the scale. Both are essentially people management jobs, even if I am over simplifying it.
Let me address the primary criticism which will arise at the concept of a P school. ”Politics can be only learnt by experience” people will say. ”What will you learn within the four walls of a classroom?”
I'm quite certain that before schools of law, medicine or business were established, critics said the same thing about those fields. While I hasten to add, the P school will by no means be only theoretical. A large percentage of the credits will involve field trips, projects, case studies and the like. But it is essential not to underestimate the results of theoretical instruction.
Any profession undergoes a change in the method of instruction from haphazard to organized as it matures. We cannot just be content with blaming our politicians for the state of our country. There should be a vehicle where normal Indians with fire in our belly and passion for excellence should be able to make a difference. And that is what the P school aspires for.
The long standing debate of whether “Leaders are born or made” has reverberated through intellectual circles for some time now. The political succession in India unfortunately is largely of nepotism fostered in a culture of servile allegiance to prominent political families by the hangers on. Else we have those leaders whose only claim to fame is birth in a certain class or caste of society thereby inducing a sense of pseudo superiority that the followers live through their leader.
An interesting parallel to compare with is the current robust health of our business scene. In the new millennium, one of the biggest factors in the rise of India Inc. has been the steady production of intelligent, well educated, suave young managers from the top B schools across the country. It is obvious that a B school per se does not make managers, a certain aptitude is necessary. But what is does is play a role of a catalyst –transforming a lodestone of ideas and attitude into a finished product capable of expressing and executing these ideas in the proper channels.
So I would like to propose an idea of a P-school, akin to and modeled on the lines of a B school, which will serve as a finishing school for young Indians who want to make a career in the political sphere. It must be emphasized that a political seats should not be the exclusive prerogative of scions of political parties nor of over the hill movie stars. It should be a viable and rewarding career option for the common man. And this P-School must be the vehicle which will give an opportunity to allow this to happen. Below I shall attempt to explain my concept.
If we conduct a survey among the school children of the country on what they would like to be when they grow up, it is a foregone conclusion that an insignificant number, if any would aspire to be politicians. The brand image of politics as a profession is rock bottom with corrupt, inefficient and other unflattering adjectives frequently associated with the ilk. The primary objective of the P-School along with honing the people management skills of the person is to give legitimacy to the claim of the average Indian candidate to political office. The P School would first be started by the government in a city of their choice as a pilot project, later mushrooming across the country on a need basis. All the political parties which expect to benefit by the course would be stakeholders. Later supply and demand would automatically give rise to private players which would lead to increase in competition followed by increase in quality.
The recruitment tests would consist of an aptitude, awareness and ethics test (Multiple choices similar to CAT) in English and all vernacular languages. This would be followed by Group Discussions, debates and personal interviews.
The next pertinent question which arises would be the selection of instructors at the school. The supply of ex politicians ,civil servants, lawyers and others with appropriate political antecedents to take up the mantle of finding a new generation of leaders would, I am sure not be too hard.
The duration of the course should ideally be for two years. The first year of instruction would be common to everyone and would include courses like Fundamentals of Political Management, Quantitative Methods for Political Managers, Research and Data Collection, Speech Writing, Political Management and the Media, Fundraising, Campaign Management.
By the end of the first year, there would be a summer recruitment process by which various political parties offer a two month internship to the student after a short listing process. Based on his ideals and inclination the student would choose his party.
The second year of instruction would involve taking up various specializations based on various political and social ideologies existing in India. These would be comparable to Marketing or Finance in a B school. The students would also need to work at NGO’s and other grassroots organizations at various times of the year. Ethics would be a strong undercurrent throughout the duration of the course.
Finally it will culminate in a placement process which would be attended by all political parties of prominence to recruit. Exhaustive tests would be conducted which would lead to offers to the individual students.
I would like to point out here that managing an organization in not too different from managing an area politically, the primary difference of course being the scale. Both are essentially people management jobs, even if I am over simplifying it.
Let me address the primary criticism which will arise at the concept of a P school. ”Politics can be only learnt by experience” people will say. ”What will you learn within the four walls of a classroom?”
I'm quite certain that before schools of law, medicine or business were established, critics said the same thing about those fields. While I hasten to add, the P school will by no means be only theoretical. A large percentage of the credits will involve field trips, projects, case studies and the like. But it is essential not to underestimate the results of theoretical instruction.
Any profession undergoes a change in the method of instruction from haphazard to organized as it matures. We cannot just be content with blaming our politicians for the state of our country. There should be a vehicle where normal Indians with fire in our belly and passion for excellence should be able to make a difference. And that is what the P school aspires for.
What Women Want....
on Wednesday, December 26, 2007The characters and situations in this story are vastly exaggerated to introduce juvenile humor where there isn’t any. Both the people involved in this story are great people and I sincerely hope they pull off a miracle. Oh and btw the characters in this story are not real and any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
It might be possible that in some remote corner of the world, say sub Saharan Africa, there might exist an undiscovered species of woman who behave logically and in a way comprehensive to the poor harried members of the opposite sex. Somehow I really doubt it. Don’t get me wrong, I love all women. The ones that look like Pamela Anderson anyway.
Well, to subtly illustrate this point (Not about Pamela Anderson but about women in general) let me narrate a story. The chief characters in the story are: One IIT Type guy, working in a big factory with a large disposable income. And one B school type girl, cute, smart, and with the right smattering of girlish eccentricity which drove IIT type guy mad. (Not with desire I think, though maybe that too).
Some back ground is required. Both of them live in the same city, a measly 20 kilometers apart .A drive in rush hour traffic would take about 2 hours from his house to hers. Through back breaking, bone crushing, soul wrenching traffic which would make Sun TV Midnight masala a very inviting alternative. But our guy was made of sterner stuff, he persevered. He would come back from work, dutifully wear his best deodorant, travel 20 kms to her place, smile and pretend that the drive was pleasantly spent in anticipation of their forthcoming meeting, pick her up, drive back 20 kms to the city to take her to an expensive restaurant (No highway type dhabas for her), eat dinner, drive back another 20 kms to drop her back and then drive back home another 20 kms.
As you can see he spent a good part of his life driving. He could have quite profitably run a cab service (I doubt whether even Blue line buses have a frequency of 2 to and fro trips in 3 hours).All that is ok. He did it because he liked the girl. What is a mere 8 hrs/day on the road compared to the love of a beautiful girl? Right?
One night he drove back home after an unusually agonizing ride back home in traffic. He thought the dinner had gone well; the food was good, although she had been slightly silent and had looked expectantly at him as if she wanted him to deduce something. Not being related to Sherlock Holmes, our guy ignored her and drank and made merry with indecent exuberance. She apologized prettily for having kicked him accidentally in the shin during dinner (3 times no less).He was feeling unusually noble for being chivalrous enough to treat his girl like the princess that she was.
He had just parked his car, when his phone rang. It was her. ”Probably to thank me for doing so much for her”he thought with pride.
This conversation can be described in the following sequence:
Guy: So…good time naa?
Girl: Hmm…
Guy :( in a self congratulatory tone) so… you look like you have something to say
Girl: Well...today…somehow…I dint feel close to you…
Guy: But we were sitting so close that I could feel the wart on your hip…
Girl: that is the problem, you never understand me.
Guy: Err…What... (Doing his imitation of a confused ape-man)
Girl: The whole problem is that you are not driving the relationship.
Well, put yourself for one moment in the shoes of the poor guy. He practically spends his life driving for her. And to get such thoughtless comments about not “driving” the relationship hurt him to the quick. As you may have imagined, the conversation rapidly went downhill from there.
To cut a long story short, they decided to meet up later to resolve the issue. On his birthday in fact.
They had just been seated in an expensive restaurant (where they charge you for merely looking at the waiter).
The waiter in a loud whisper asked the girl whether he should get the cake now or later. Our guy was the bashful type. No loud or raucous birthday celebrations for him. He insisted that it was ok that the surprise had been ruined and could they please cut the cake in his car, without having the ignominy of demented waiters grinning at him. She agreed.
He asked for the bill. With a start he realized that the bill was slightly inflated. He quickly scanned the items in the bill and realized that the cake was billed to him. Well, he was not the kanjoos type .But he considered it only fair that a cake which was bought for him on his birthday should not be billed to him, by principle. Fair right? Especially when he could have fed a slum for 13 days with the amount the cake cost.
He politely smiled, trying to catch her attention. “Did you realize that the inflation rate for chocolate cakes with icing in south Asia is 17% this financial year?”
She looked at him like he had lost it. He gave up.
Later when he was back home, he realized that she had packed the rest of the cake and taken it home for herself. He was chivalrous. He dint begrudge her the cake.
He went and switched off his cell phone before lying down in bed with a cold compress before she could call up and say something like ”The icing on the cake was when I did not feel close to you today.
He couldn’t stand the mention of cakes right then.
It might be possible that in some remote corner of the world, say sub Saharan Africa, there might exist an undiscovered species of woman who behave logically and in a way comprehensive to the poor harried members of the opposite sex. Somehow I really doubt it. Don’t get me wrong, I love all women. The ones that look like Pamela Anderson anyway.
Well, to subtly illustrate this point (Not about Pamela Anderson but about women in general) let me narrate a story. The chief characters in the story are: One IIT Type guy, working in a big factory with a large disposable income. And one B school type girl, cute, smart, and with the right smattering of girlish eccentricity which drove IIT type guy mad. (Not with desire I think, though maybe that too).
Some back ground is required. Both of them live in the same city, a measly 20 kilometers apart .A drive in rush hour traffic would take about 2 hours from his house to hers. Through back breaking, bone crushing, soul wrenching traffic which would make Sun TV Midnight masala a very inviting alternative. But our guy was made of sterner stuff, he persevered. He would come back from work, dutifully wear his best deodorant, travel 20 kms to her place, smile and pretend that the drive was pleasantly spent in anticipation of their forthcoming meeting, pick her up, drive back 20 kms to the city to take her to an expensive restaurant (No highway type dhabas for her), eat dinner, drive back another 20 kms to drop her back and then drive back home another 20 kms.
As you can see he spent a good part of his life driving. He could have quite profitably run a cab service (I doubt whether even Blue line buses have a frequency of 2 to and fro trips in 3 hours).All that is ok. He did it because he liked the girl. What is a mere 8 hrs/day on the road compared to the love of a beautiful girl? Right?
One night he drove back home after an unusually agonizing ride back home in traffic. He thought the dinner had gone well; the food was good, although she had been slightly silent and had looked expectantly at him as if she wanted him to deduce something. Not being related to Sherlock Holmes, our guy ignored her and drank and made merry with indecent exuberance. She apologized prettily for having kicked him accidentally in the shin during dinner (3 times no less).He was feeling unusually noble for being chivalrous enough to treat his girl like the princess that she was.
He had just parked his car, when his phone rang. It was her. ”Probably to thank me for doing so much for her”he thought with pride.
This conversation can be described in the following sequence:
Guy: So…good time naa?
Girl: Hmm…
Guy :( in a self congratulatory tone) so… you look like you have something to say
Girl: Well...today…somehow…I dint feel close to you…
Guy: But we were sitting so close that I could feel the wart on your hip…
Girl: that is the problem, you never understand me.
Guy: Err…What... (Doing his imitation of a confused ape-man)
Girl: The whole problem is that you are not driving the relationship.
Well, put yourself for one moment in the shoes of the poor guy. He practically spends his life driving for her. And to get such thoughtless comments about not “driving” the relationship hurt him to the quick. As you may have imagined, the conversation rapidly went downhill from there.
To cut a long story short, they decided to meet up later to resolve the issue. On his birthday in fact.
They had just been seated in an expensive restaurant (where they charge you for merely looking at the waiter).
The waiter in a loud whisper asked the girl whether he should get the cake now or later. Our guy was the bashful type. No loud or raucous birthday celebrations for him. He insisted that it was ok that the surprise had been ruined and could they please cut the cake in his car, without having the ignominy of demented waiters grinning at him. She agreed.
He asked for the bill. With a start he realized that the bill was slightly inflated. He quickly scanned the items in the bill and realized that the cake was billed to him. Well, he was not the kanjoos type .But he considered it only fair that a cake which was bought for him on his birthday should not be billed to him, by principle. Fair right? Especially when he could have fed a slum for 13 days with the amount the cake cost.
He politely smiled, trying to catch her attention. “Did you realize that the inflation rate for chocolate cakes with icing in south Asia is 17% this financial year?”
She looked at him like he had lost it. He gave up.
Later when he was back home, he realized that she had packed the rest of the cake and taken it home for herself. He was chivalrous. He dint begrudge her the cake.
He went and switched off his cell phone before lying down in bed with a cold compress before she could call up and say something like ”The icing on the cake was when I did not feel close to you today.
He couldn’t stand the mention of cakes right then.
An open letter to all aunties traveling in public buses!!!
on Tuesday, October 09, 2007ATTENTION: The following post is entirely in jest.What i have writtem is not to be taken seriously.
(Dear)Respected Aunties,
I am not disputing the fact that you once put the Hema Malinis’ of the world to shame. However that was about half a million years ago. This letter is to strongly bring to your notice that we, the young innocent men aged 20-25 who travel in the public buses of our city do not intend to tease/leer/molest you at all. We would rather French kiss a Walrus. So next time our hand accidentally b
rushes your hand or we fall against you when the bus gives a sudden brake, kindly desist with the hurt and outraged look of an innocent 16 year old. What you are imagining as the red lusty look on our faces is merely the pain when our elbow accidentally collided with your hipbone.
It is bad enough when all Bollywood /Tam/Gult movies portray us as maniacs who are waiting for the slightest chance to bump against nubile young girls. That’s true enough. We are like that. But the operative words here are young and nubile. We even nod our heads in agreement when you try to pull your young daughters away from our nasty leering eyes. But pray pause a moment when you pull yourself away. We solemnly promise you that the jasmine in your hair or the kanchivaram sari you wear is not exactly what we fantasize about.
When we decide to sit next to you in the bus, it is merely because of our paining legs after a hard days work. Though your decision of putting half your body outside the bus though the window so that we don’t brush against you accidentally certainly gives us a lot of space to sit comfortably, it pains us. We worry that a passing pole would accidentally knock you back against us and you would die of a coronary thrombosis of the heart. In this world where space is a luxury, we worry about the distance between us on the seat which would be enough to seat two elephants and a hippo.
We also confess that when we were in our early teens and our hormones were out of control we did watch the occasional Shakeela movie when the Jenna Jamieson video was out of stock. But we are well past that stage now. It merely scares us witless when we watch them now. From Meena and Nagma we have now graduated to Scarlet Johansson and Katie Holmes. Our tastes have refined as we have become men of this world. So my dear Aunties, unless you have teenage daughters, you have nothing ever to be scared from us.
I know that you read lurid paperbacks about macho heroes who rescue their heroines from impossible situations. One look at your pot bellied Brahmin husband and you feel like throwing the novel at him. So you try to imagine romance and intrigue where none exists. We are entirely in sympathy. Our wives would probably face the same thing in 20 years time. But in the meantime, when we still have ample hair on the head and only the beginnings of a potbelly (which we can hide under a shirt of the right fit), please let us go about our business of attracting the PYTs in peace. When we are surreptitiously trying to touch the hand of the sweet young thing in the public bus, if our feet actually stamps your feet, please desist from calling for the cops.
Yours (lovingly) respectfully ,
Young Men Bus Travel Association
I am not disputing the fact that you once put the Hema Malinis’ of the world to shame. However that was about half a million years ago. This letter is to strongly bring to your notice that we, the young innocent men aged 20-25 who travel in the public buses of our city do not intend to tease/leer/molest you at all. We would rather French kiss a Walrus. So next time our hand accidentally b
rushes your hand or we fall against you when the bus gives a sudden brake, kindly desist with the hurt and outraged look of an innocent 16 year old. What you are imagining as the red lusty look on our faces is merely the pain when our elbow accidentally collided with your hipbone.It is bad enough when all Bollywood /Tam/Gult movies portray us as maniacs who are waiting for the slightest chance to bump against nubile young girls. That’s true enough. We are like that. But the operative words here are young and nubile. We even nod our heads in agreement when you try to pull your young daughters away from our nasty leering eyes. But pray pause a moment when you pull yourself away. We solemnly promise you that the jasmine in your hair or the kanchivaram sari you wear is not exactly what we fantasize about.
When we decide to sit next to you in the bus, it is merely because of our paining legs after a hard days work. Though your decision of putting half your body outside the bus though the window so that we don’t brush against you accidentally certainly gives us a lot of space to sit comfortably, it pains us. We worry that a passing pole would accidentally knock you back against us and you would die of a coronary thrombosis of the heart. In this world where space is a luxury, we worry about the distance between us on the seat which would be enough to seat two elephants and a hippo.
We also confess that when we were in our early teens and our hormones were out of control we did watch the occasional Shakeela movie when the Jenna Jamieson video was out of stock. But we are well past that stage now. It merely scares us witless when we watch them now. From Meena and Nagma we have now graduated to Scarlet Johansson and Katie Holmes. Our tastes have refined as we have become men of this world. So my dear Aunties, unless you have teenage daughters, you have nothing ever to be scared from us.
I know that you read lurid paperbacks about macho heroes who rescue their heroines from impossible situations. One look at your pot bellied Brahmin husband and you feel like throwing the novel at him. So you try to imagine romance and intrigue where none exists. We are entirely in sympathy. Our wives would probably face the same thing in 20 years time. But in the meantime, when we still have ample hair on the head and only the beginnings of a potbelly (which we can hide under a shirt of the right fit), please let us go about our business of attracting the PYTs in peace. When we are surreptitiously trying to touch the hand of the sweet young thing in the public bus, if our feet actually stamps your feet, please desist from calling for the cops.
Yours (lovingly) respectfully ,
Young Men Bus Travel Association
Picture Perfect!!!!
on Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Ahh…these social networking sites. Breeding grounds of losers par excellence who stalk you at all times with friendship requests and an unsolicited”hey...Remember me?” when all you did was make the mistake of talking to them for exactly 12 seconds 7 years ago. But a lot has been said on these issues. The topic of my ranting is on something more specific-the display pics on these social networking sites.
These attention grabbing pictures can be classified into a few standard types.
Main hoon Hero: The subject, usually male, stares at the camera with ferocious intensity .His photo has been clicked when he is out climbing the Himalayas, strumming on his guitar, fighting the neighborhood Bengal tigers or any such manly activity. Our hero, in spite of the ordeal is immaculately attired in branded clothes, designer sunglasses. A condescending smile and all the right muscles complete the picture.
Most likely scrap:” Whassup dude?”
These attention grabbing pictures can be classified into a few standard types.
Main hoon Hero: The subject, usually male, stares at the camera with ferocious intensity .His photo has been clicked when he is out climbing the Himalayas, strumming on his guitar, fighting the neighborhood Bengal tigers or any such manly activity. Our hero, in spite of the ordeal is immaculately attired in branded clothes, designer sunglasses. A condescending smile and all the right muscles complete the picture.
Most likely scrap:” Whassup dude?”
Mama! I’m famous: Abhishek Bachan, Hrithik, Aishwaria Rai et al. Some go for an international celeb for a more cosmopolitan image.
Consists of two categories
Extremely ugly guys who know that putting up their actual pic would mean they would remain bachelors all their life.
Extremely good looking girls who know that if they put up their pics they would be harassed by Category 1.
P.S: The death of a girl in Mumbai after meeting her lover from orkut has now been understood to have arisen from shock to see how the guy actually looked.
Most likely Scrap:”Guess who”?
Thoda Casual Mangta Hai: Endeavoring to convey a boy/girl next door image. The photos have all been “accidentally” clicked. The subject will be look at any direction except the camera. Quite likely to have a half demented far away look in their eye. Will be wearing torn shorts, pajamas etc to emphasize the casualness of the situation.
Most likely scrap: “Remember me?”(If you don’t they will scrap you 12 more times asking “Why haven’t you replied”,”You look very busy” etc)
Techno freaks: Lots of spare time at their hands. Spend hours on piccasa or Photoshop to scare the living shit outta you. The subject is at a weird angle to the camera. The background is a nauseating combination of weird colors. Sometimes Black and white to cover their spotty complexion. Morph ugly face on handsome body. Morph Ugly body on Ugly face. His own Mom can’t recognize him now.
Most likely scrap: “Album updated!!!”(Note the 3 exclamation marks to emphasize the point)
Tab Main chotta Bachha Tha: The collection of the ugliest baby pics ever found on the internet. Usually dribbling from the corner of their mouths. Painstaking scanned from torn photo albums. To emphasize innocence. Cause of innumerable confusions like the actual age of the person now, the sex of the person etc. Usually sparks off a series of scraps from girls with moustaches on their faces which all go”Cho Chweet….is that you?? Did you wet your pants often then? You get the picture.
Most likely scrap:” It’s been a long time” (To include all the years growing up too”)
Change is the essence of life: Works on a real time basis. Is usually armed with a webcam or phone cam. The aim of his Life is to click pics from various angles and upload it instantly. The face is usually very close to the camera, arm extended giving a slightly distorted picture. Usually is so engrossed taking the pic that he forgets to smile. Badly Lit background.
Most likely scrap: (doesn’t get time to scrap…only upload pics constantly)
Famous Places/Nature: The subject stands in front of the Eiffel tower, the statue of Liberty, the qutub Minar etc else in front of a scenic background. Often have to screw our eyes to locate the person in the pic as most of the pic consists of the back ground. Travels 3 days of the week. Uploads pic the other half.
Most Likely Scrap: ”Eiffel Tower pics uploaded”
I’m sure all of you have identified the category you belong to. And I know my Orkut Page tomorrow will have 4234324 profile visitors all asking the same question”What pic has this guy put up? .We’ll show him.”
After gasping at my nude profile pic you’ll be short for words. Try and classify that … (evil Grin). (Mom and dad! I’m joking.)
The Taj times
on Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Headlines
- The government of India today awarded citizens who cast the maximum votes for the Taj with deluxe holidays for 4 days and 3 nights at the Taj Mahal. The top prize winner was however caught trying to exchange his gift for a second hand microwave oven.
- A mysterious fight broke out between Mr. Manmohan Singh and Mrs. Sonia Gandhi today. Our reporters interviewed Mrs. Gandhi "I am a true Indian. Even though I eat pizza 4 times a day and my Hindi accent sucks, please don't think otherwise. When that sardar insisted that the Taj Mahal was better than the Colosseum I had to teach him a lesson. Mera Bharat Mahan."
- The mysterious disappearances of women all over the country were finally solved. The women are committing suicide by burying themselves. In a emotionally moving letter mirroring millions of other letters, Mrs. Taj Begum (Name changed on request) begged her husband to build a monument in her name so that her soul can rest in peace
- Bill Clinton famously once said" The world is divided into people who have seen the Taj and people who have not ".He today admitted he was wrong. He said it should have been" The world is divided into people who have SMSed for the Taj and the people who have not."
Economic - The share price of Bharti Airtel has zoomed to Rs.6700 per share. In an entirely unrelated incident, after consultation with a numerologist Mr. Sunil Mittal has now changed his name to Sunil Mittaj.
- The tourism revenues have quadrupled this quarter because of the tremendous response from the people of different nationalities who throng the Taj Mahal daily. The breakup was
Tourists from Agra-96%
Rest of India -3%
Foreigners- -1%
Our reporter caught up with Mr. Lal who lived 100 meters away from the Taj Mahal. "It is my first visit" he said" I wanted to know what I had voted for"
Entertainment - In a startling twist, months after actress Bipasha Basu exclaimed"Oh my god, it's the Taj Mahal" after the inclusion of the monument of Love in the final list, her personal love life has dipped alarmingly.
- A red faced Abhishek Bachan refused to confirm rumors that he had married Aishwaria Rai after his family conducted an SMS contest to decide the bride. An unrelated report from the telecom department showed that Salman Khan and Vivek Oberoi had unusually high phone bills that month.
.
Sports - The Indian Cricket team now leads the ICC cricket rankings. All the other teams had 200 points subtracted because an enquiry revealed that no other team had any monument in the new 7 wonders list. Ian Chappel remarked morosely "I asked my government to nominate my brother Greg for the competition. But they went with the opera house and see what happened?"
- Saurav Ganguly took over as the captain of the Indian team after it was shockingly revealed by our reporter that Dravid had voted three times lesser than the Bengal Tiger for the Taj Mahal. Our reporter caught up with him . "Taj Mahal is the pride of Bengal "he said. When reminded that the Taj was not in Bengal, he threateningly swung his shirt over his head.
- Greg Chappel leaked an email to the press which highlighted how it was the fault of Saurav Ganguly that the opera house could not make it to the final list. "He is not a team player. When I was captain of Australia the Taj was barely known" he complained
Nai...R.I.P...
on Tuesday, June 12, 2007My Nai died yesterday in an accident.My family and I are desolate and are only slowly recovering from the pain.
We adopted our dog from the streets about 8 years back.Brown in colour and with one ear misshapen,our dog showed up in our house and decided to stay.Fond as we are of dogs we decided to adopt it.We named it "nAI" which literally means dog in tamil.All my neighbours were used to us shouting Nai...at the top of our voices.
My dog ate anything.But it loved tomatoes more than any other thing.If during cooking Mom forgot to put the tomatoes at a safe height,the tomatoes would be gone.It was the cleverest dog i had ever seen.It understood every word we said.It was human,my nai.
When ever the Paper recycling guy used to bicycle down the road in front of my house yelling,my dog would imitate his tone and pitch to perfection.The paper guys soon got used to it. But whenever a new guy came,he would look at our house warily as he cycled past.
We gave it the most comfortable life a dog could ever wish for.It slept only in the AC room or in front of the cooler.It would share our food,right fromn icecreams to curd rice.Whenever it felf that we were eating something without it, it would sit down and utter a sharp bark to remind us.It had blankets during winter but ended up sleeping on the bed.
Once every 2 months it would stay out for 2 ,3 days at a strech and worry us.My father would go out to look for it .It was scared of bathing.It would run miles whenever we planned to bathe it.
I cant go on.I love you Nai.More than you ever know.And i am sure you are looking down upon us from some doggy heaven with lots of tomatoes strewn beside you and having a lot of fun.But we miss you.Rip.
New novel..chapter 1
on Friday, June 08, 2007i hav started a ambitious plan to write a novel.This is the first chapter.Please leave comments,ideas ,suggestions.
Chapter 1:
I looked out of the third floor balcony of the brown colored building. Appa, Amma, Thatas and Pattis, uncles, aunts and a few stray cousins were all waving their hands. My family has this quality of gathering around in big numbers when they foresee an event of some consequence about to take place. And my engineering entrance exam which was scheduled to begin in 13 minutes 34 seconds qualified as an event of consequence. The culmination of months and months of back breaking effort, the thousands of rupees of carefully hoarded money paid for study material and tuitions, the hopes and dreams of a family as they all looked at me as a way out of generations of penury and struggles. Only a small factor stood in the way of their aspirations, a factor that only I realized. I had no hope in hell of clearing the exam.
I carried a water bottle slung over my shoulder. My forehead was smeared with vermillion and veebhudhi as a safety precaution if my mind was not at its razor best on this important day. I carried three gold and red pencils assiduously sharpened to a sharp point by my mother. I carried a pad, which would be used to support the answer sheet. The pad was covered with various stickers. A saraswathi photo tidily pasted to the top right corner was ample evidence that my mother had been at work here too. But there was also a sticker of Spiderman and one of the WWE wrestler the “ROCK”. And in a clear concise handwriting the name Senthil Ragavan scribbled below in tiny letters.
No. That was not my name. I forgot to introduce myself. I am Surya Vinayaka Ragavan. Senthil is my brother. ”Was” rather. He was five years older to me. He was brilliant guy. After effortlessly getting into the BITS, pilani, he died of a lung problem in his final year of his engineering. He smoked too much; catching the habit early from a friend and never was quite able to give it up. My parents were shell shocked for a year. They then recovered rapidly and proceeded to pin their hopes on me instead.
I really liked my brother when he was alive. He would buy me and my friends’ ice golas at the corner shop if we came across him when we were loitering on the hot dusty streets of Hyderabad, for that’s where we lived. He would fly kites with me during the festival of Sankaranthi. I would patiently catch the chakri as he deftly flew the kite and I would yell “Affaaaaa” with all my might when he would cut the kites of the other kids. I was proud of my brother.
But I am ashamed to say, I don’t like him anymore when he is dead.
I looked at Appa. He looked really small and inconsequential from this high up, a small wizened man, prematurely old from too much work and too little money. He looked lonely and forlorn in spite of the people around him. I genuinely prayed for a moment, hoping for a heaven sent miracle to clear the exam, to make him happy. But I neither had the brains or the application required to clear the exam.
I really want to be a writer. I am writing this story at the age of 37.My story. As I sit all day long in this dim room in my cramped flat typing away with one finger my wife thinks I’ve gone mad and leaves me to my own work. But I am happy; finally I am doing what I always wanted to do. Where was I? .Oh yeah I was about to step into the examination hall to write the exam. But let me rewind the story to two years ago.
I had just got the results of class 10 Board Exam. A steady stream of relatives, well wishers and friends poured into my house offering congratulatory messages to Appa and Amma for having been blessed with such a fine son who scored 92% in his board exams. I had my cheeked pulled by a Punjabi aunty, who then proceeded to stuff my mouth with an outsize laddoo saying “Mooh Meetha Kar lo” as was her custom.
This was the earliest I remembered of the sub conscious rebellion against my parents which persisted all through my life. My parents always held centre stage in my life, relegating me to being a nobody in my own life. They were graciously receiving visitors now. Appa was dressed in a Kurta pyjama, old but spotlessly immaculate. Amma was wearing her best kanchipuram Silk sari, resplendently wearing all her jewellery as if she were decked out to go to a wedding. She was being very nonchalant about the whole thing as if brilliance in the family was commonplace.
These class 10 board exams are very dangerous. They are the first genuine indicators of the capacity of a child. Senthil had scored a whopping 96% in his board exams. He was in his third year at BITS right now, smoking three packs a day. He has on-campus offers from a couple of companies to work for them already but he has not committed to anybody yet. He wants to pursue his masters in the USA.
Anyway as I was saying, my family used the class 10 exams as a litmus test of a child capability. If you get below 75% you were a social outcast like that neighbor Latha’s child. Between 75% to 90% you were considered good. And if by any chance you managed to get above 90% you were classified as “IIT material”. And then you were dead. Granted that there were people who got into the IITs and other top engineering colleges,and I am not saying it was a bad thing to do either. Cream of the intelligentsia and all that. But there were people cut out for engineering and people not cut out for engineering. I was most emphatically not.
Appa was a school teacher who taught class 10 mathematics in the neighboring school. He was a sticker for doing things at the right time. He got up at precisely 5 am every day. Took a cold water bath at 5 minutes past. He then went for a morning walk. Had breakfast at 9 am. Went to school at 9.30.Returned at 4 pm. He read the newspaper from end to end after that, commenting acidly to my mother about the articles he did not agree with. He wrote a couple of letters a week to the newspaper in stiff formal language. When one of these letters was printed he would cut them out with his scissors and paste them in a brown scrapbook he displayed proudly to every visitor that crossed our threshold. Pushing forty when I was in class 10 he was a sprightly fit man, proud and intelligent. He had three degrees already. A B.sc in Mathematics when he was a student followed by a B.ed when he was 30 and an M.sc through correspondence only a year ago.
Appa was a conventional old man. But in one aspect he was not conventional. He loved American fast food and would eat pizza and burgers and gulp down Coke like aa American teenager. In fact many years later he would die peacefully in his bed at precisely 9 pm, the last words we would ever hear him utter would be ”Get me some French fries”. It was a wonder he remained fit with all that junk he ate. It was a sight to behold .Appa with a pile of magnificent pizzas in front of him while Amma was timidly eating curd rice and avakai. For all the differences in their eating habits, Amma was the one who turned out to be fat in her middle age.
It was an arranged marriage obviously. Love obviously was frivolous so my Appa avoided it .He worked his way through school and college and supported seven brothers and three sisters besides. He was awarded a gold medal in his graduation which he displays proudly in his drawing room and which looks more like lead and less like gold if you ask me. But maybe I am jealous for I have never won anything in my life. He married my Amma when he was twenty two. My brother was born two years later. Around this time my father’s brother Seenu Peripa had an unusual bit of luck in his cloth business. So that was how Appa’s uneducated brother came to become an enormously wealthy man. He married a pretty, young girl who was closer to my age than his. Reena Perima would come to our house dressed in jeans and such a tight t shirt that my father would lock himself up in his room, refusing to come out till that “devil” had left the house. However I and Senthil would giggle uncontrollably when she would sway past us talking in her high affected voice. I don’t know why she came so often to our house for she had nothing to come for, save two gawky adolescents gaping at her .Appa refused to even speak to her and she drove Amma mad with her tales of what was the latest thing to wear in the Mumbai party circles and the latest piece of delicate artwork she had bought .
From very early on in our lives Amma and Appa made sure that everything that we saw, thought or did was in some way connected with the larger purpose of getting into a good engineering college. Before I even learnt to read a book of numbers was thrust into my hands. While my friends got cricket bats and tennis balls for birthday presents I remember all I got was books of various sorts like the “Magical Mathematical tricks” etc.
At most they would agree to buy us board games which were supposed to improve our thinking ability, while our friends played in the glorious rain outside. I remember playing countless games of Brain vita with my brother in our bedroom. When I was six years old the temptation was too much for me and I jumped out of the window one day and had two glorious hours of fun, playing football with the poor kids across the street. I came home gloriously dirty and tired, nose bleeding through a minor scuffle I had got into.
I was not punished at all. Amma and Appa did not utter a single word of reproach. But Amma did not eat well for three days afterwards, dabbing at her tear stained eyes with the end of her pallu. Corporal punishment was passé in our house. We had a novel kind of Indian torture, punishment by guilt. After the fourth day when Amma began to look weak, I went up to her and apologized. Only then did she eat.
It was not all bad obviously. During meal times my brother and I would sit on the floor in front of her as she made small balls of the sambhar rice and handed it alternately to us, along with a piece of fried papad. Appa would tell me stories about the Ramayana and the Mahabharata as we listened open mouthed. Afterwards Senthil and I would play mock games of the great epics. He loved to play the roles of Rama or Krishna while I was content to play a Duruyodhana or a Ravana.
I used to be rocked gently to sleep on my mother’s lap. Even as a child I used to suffer from insomnia. I would go crying to my Amma. She would gently lay my head on her lap and rock me, singing old Tamil songs from the movies of MGR and Shivaji. The moon would cast a solitary ray of silver through the broken window pane right on my eyes. She would cover my eyes from the rays, glaring at the moon for disturbing her son. They loved me a lot all right. But many years later I still cannot sleep. And when I lie awake thinking about them I realize that love alone is not enough sometimes.
I looked out of the third floor balcony of the brown colored building. Appa, Amma, Thatas and Pattis, uncles, aunts and a few stray cousins were all waving their hands. My family has this quality of gathering around in big numbers when they foresee an event of some consequence about to take place. And my engineering entrance exam which was scheduled to begin in 13 minutes 34 seconds qualified as an event of consequence. The culmination of months and months of back breaking effort, the thousands of rupees of carefully hoarded money paid for study material and tuitions, the hopes and dreams of a family as they all looked at me as a way out of generations of penury and struggles. Only a small factor stood in the way of their aspirations, a factor that only I realized. I had no hope in hell of clearing the exam.
I carried a water bottle slung over my shoulder. My forehead was smeared with vermillion and veebhudhi as a safety precaution if my mind was not at its razor best on this important day. I carried three gold and red pencils assiduously sharpened to a sharp point by my mother. I carried a pad, which would be used to support the answer sheet. The pad was covered with various stickers. A saraswathi photo tidily pasted to the top right corner was ample evidence that my mother had been at work here too. But there was also a sticker of Spiderman and one of the WWE wrestler the “ROCK”. And in a clear concise handwriting the name Senthil Ragavan scribbled below in tiny letters.
No. That was not my name. I forgot to introduce myself. I am Surya Vinayaka Ragavan. Senthil is my brother. ”Was” rather. He was five years older to me. He was brilliant guy. After effortlessly getting into the BITS, pilani, he died of a lung problem in his final year of his engineering. He smoked too much; catching the habit early from a friend and never was quite able to give it up. My parents were shell shocked for a year. They then recovered rapidly and proceeded to pin their hopes on me instead.
I really liked my brother when he was alive. He would buy me and my friends’ ice golas at the corner shop if we came across him when we were loitering on the hot dusty streets of Hyderabad, for that’s where we lived. He would fly kites with me during the festival of Sankaranthi. I would patiently catch the chakri as he deftly flew the kite and I would yell “Affaaaaa” with all my might when he would cut the kites of the other kids. I was proud of my brother.
But I am ashamed to say, I don’t like him anymore when he is dead.
I looked at Appa. He looked really small and inconsequential from this high up, a small wizened man, prematurely old from too much work and too little money. He looked lonely and forlorn in spite of the people around him. I genuinely prayed for a moment, hoping for a heaven sent miracle to clear the exam, to make him happy. But I neither had the brains or the application required to clear the exam.
I really want to be a writer. I am writing this story at the age of 37.My story. As I sit all day long in this dim room in my cramped flat typing away with one finger my wife thinks I’ve gone mad and leaves me to my own work. But I am happy; finally I am doing what I always wanted to do. Where was I? .Oh yeah I was about to step into the examination hall to write the exam. But let me rewind the story to two years ago.
I had just got the results of class 10 Board Exam. A steady stream of relatives, well wishers and friends poured into my house offering congratulatory messages to Appa and Amma for having been blessed with such a fine son who scored 92% in his board exams. I had my cheeked pulled by a Punjabi aunty, who then proceeded to stuff my mouth with an outsize laddoo saying “Mooh Meetha Kar lo” as was her custom.
This was the earliest I remembered of the sub conscious rebellion against my parents which persisted all through my life. My parents always held centre stage in my life, relegating me to being a nobody in my own life. They were graciously receiving visitors now. Appa was dressed in a Kurta pyjama, old but spotlessly immaculate. Amma was wearing her best kanchipuram Silk sari, resplendently wearing all her jewellery as if she were decked out to go to a wedding. She was being very nonchalant about the whole thing as if brilliance in the family was commonplace.
These class 10 board exams are very dangerous. They are the first genuine indicators of the capacity of a child. Senthil had scored a whopping 96% in his board exams. He was in his third year at BITS right now, smoking three packs a day. He has on-campus offers from a couple of companies to work for them already but he has not committed to anybody yet. He wants to pursue his masters in the USA.
Anyway as I was saying, my family used the class 10 exams as a litmus test of a child capability. If you get below 75% you were a social outcast like that neighbor Latha’s child. Between 75% to 90% you were considered good. And if by any chance you managed to get above 90% you were classified as “IIT material”. And then you were dead. Granted that there were people who got into the IITs and other top engineering colleges,and I am not saying it was a bad thing to do either. Cream of the intelligentsia and all that. But there were people cut out for engineering and people not cut out for engineering. I was most emphatically not.
Appa was a school teacher who taught class 10 mathematics in the neighboring school. He was a sticker for doing things at the right time. He got up at precisely 5 am every day. Took a cold water bath at 5 minutes past. He then went for a morning walk. Had breakfast at 9 am. Went to school at 9.30.Returned at 4 pm. He read the newspaper from end to end after that, commenting acidly to my mother about the articles he did not agree with. He wrote a couple of letters a week to the newspaper in stiff formal language. When one of these letters was printed he would cut them out with his scissors and paste them in a brown scrapbook he displayed proudly to every visitor that crossed our threshold. Pushing forty when I was in class 10 he was a sprightly fit man, proud and intelligent. He had three degrees already. A B.sc in Mathematics when he was a student followed by a B.ed when he was 30 and an M.sc through correspondence only a year ago.
Appa was a conventional old man. But in one aspect he was not conventional. He loved American fast food and would eat pizza and burgers and gulp down Coke like aa American teenager. In fact many years later he would die peacefully in his bed at precisely 9 pm, the last words we would ever hear him utter would be ”Get me some French fries”. It was a wonder he remained fit with all that junk he ate. It was a sight to behold .Appa with a pile of magnificent pizzas in front of him while Amma was timidly eating curd rice and avakai. For all the differences in their eating habits, Amma was the one who turned out to be fat in her middle age.
It was an arranged marriage obviously. Love obviously was frivolous so my Appa avoided it .He worked his way through school and college and supported seven brothers and three sisters besides. He was awarded a gold medal in his graduation which he displays proudly in his drawing room and which looks more like lead and less like gold if you ask me. But maybe I am jealous for I have never won anything in my life. He married my Amma when he was twenty two. My brother was born two years later. Around this time my father’s brother Seenu Peripa had an unusual bit of luck in his cloth business. So that was how Appa’s uneducated brother came to become an enormously wealthy man. He married a pretty, young girl who was closer to my age than his. Reena Perima would come to our house dressed in jeans and such a tight t shirt that my father would lock himself up in his room, refusing to come out till that “devil” had left the house. However I and Senthil would giggle uncontrollably when she would sway past us talking in her high affected voice. I don’t know why she came so often to our house for she had nothing to come for, save two gawky adolescents gaping at her .Appa refused to even speak to her and she drove Amma mad with her tales of what was the latest thing to wear in the Mumbai party circles and the latest piece of delicate artwork she had bought .
From very early on in our lives Amma and Appa made sure that everything that we saw, thought or did was in some way connected with the larger purpose of getting into a good engineering college. Before I even learnt to read a book of numbers was thrust into my hands. While my friends got cricket bats and tennis balls for birthday presents I remember all I got was books of various sorts like the “Magical Mathematical tricks” etc.
At most they would agree to buy us board games which were supposed to improve our thinking ability, while our friends played in the glorious rain outside. I remember playing countless games of Brain vita with my brother in our bedroom. When I was six years old the temptation was too much for me and I jumped out of the window one day and had two glorious hours of fun, playing football with the poor kids across the street. I came home gloriously dirty and tired, nose bleeding through a minor scuffle I had got into.
I was not punished at all. Amma and Appa did not utter a single word of reproach. But Amma did not eat well for three days afterwards, dabbing at her tear stained eyes with the end of her pallu. Corporal punishment was passé in our house. We had a novel kind of Indian torture, punishment by guilt. After the fourth day when Amma began to look weak, I went up to her and apologized. Only then did she eat.
It was not all bad obviously. During meal times my brother and I would sit on the floor in front of her as she made small balls of the sambhar rice and handed it alternately to us, along with a piece of fried papad. Appa would tell me stories about the Ramayana and the Mahabharata as we listened open mouthed. Afterwards Senthil and I would play mock games of the great epics. He loved to play the roles of Rama or Krishna while I was content to play a Duruyodhana or a Ravana.
I used to be rocked gently to sleep on my mother’s lap. Even as a child I used to suffer from insomnia. I would go crying to my Amma. She would gently lay my head on her lap and rock me, singing old Tamil songs from the movies of MGR and Shivaji. The moon would cast a solitary ray of silver through the broken window pane right on my eyes. She would cover my eyes from the rays, glaring at the moon for disturbing her son. They loved me a lot all right. But many years later I still cannot sleep. And when I lie awake thinking about them I realize that love alone is not enough sometimes.
p.s: chapter 2 soon coming soon.....
I have written for various reputed Newspapers,Magazines and Websites including The Hindu, Rediff,JAM etc.
I write mainly in the areas of Humor,Business/Marketing,Fiction and general articles.
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- The IPO
- Sub prime crisis
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JAM
Please contact me (See contacts tab) for any articles you want written.
Regards,
Srinath
Vannakam!!!
I assume that you have taken the trouble to come to this page that you would want to know something about me.
1)Where are you from?
I am a mongrel.Born in Chennai,brought up in Hyderabad and worked in more Indian cities than I can count.And before you ask me,I have not gone onsite yet.
2)Are you educated?
Silly question.I have an engineering degree in Electrical but would be hard pressed to even state Ohms law.I suffer from a poor memory and wandering concentration.I also somehow picked up an MBA in Marketing.
3) Do you live off your parents?
No I dont(though occasionally I take pocket money from them). I earn my own bread and sambhar and rasam.I work in an IT Company in Chennai.(Dont we all?)
4) Do you do anything of note other than eating and sleeping?
Oh yes.Lots of things.I also drink water,laze around,watch TV etc.Seriously I do have my hobbies which include Reading,writing,rock,travelling,photography,cricket etc.Yes I am a jack of all trades.
5) Why do you write Humour pieces?
My humour articles are an extension of what actually goes on in my mind.I think very similar to how I write.Unfortunately it means that I burst out laughing at inappropriate occasions following my own chain of thoughts.
6) Are you single?
Hahahaha...(rolls on floor) After reading my articles how can you even ask such questions.I am surrounding always by a bevy of scantily clad women.But a good application can always find you a spot.
Parties, Placements and Nostalgia
on Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Note: As B school life draws to a close, my own way of reliving those moments through a series of unrelated incidents in college life, some funny, some poignant and all of them etched forever in my memory.
I am most emphatically not a Party animal. I don’t drink alcohol, I don’t smoke, I dance like an animal in pain, and Punjabi music makes me wince. But for reasons I am not able to fathom, I go to all of the parties in my B School with the devotion of a pilgrim. Maybe it’s because of the money we are forced to contribute to the Party. It is usually a hefty amount, carefully designed to pay for my soft drinks and alcohol in copious amounts for ten other people.
This time I decide that I’m going to take things into my own hands. I decide to make sure I eat and drink my four hundred rupees worth or die trying in the process. I reach nice and early and after pushing out two other people in the line grab the first burger of the evening with a satisfied smile. Only 390 rupees to go, I think to myself.
Thirty minutes later I am looking at my half eaten fourth burger with revulsion. I visit the loo frequently but my body refuses to accept any more Coke. Once I figure out who owes me the remaining Rs. 307.25 ,hell is going to break loose.
The first time I heard the MC, BC word after I landed in Delhi was in a party. I turned around in awe struck shock when I heard it. There have been family feuds and people killed with blunt axes for using such language in my hometown. But something was terribly wrong here. One guy was smiling like he had received the biggest compliment of his life. ”Tu hain BC...”the other guy cooed again in tones of infinite love. They hugged each other after that. While I still don’t use the words myself I have learnt not to wince each time people let loose a string of profanities. In fact I confess I stood before the mirror one time to see how it sounded as I tried yelling the words myself. I had really got going when a saw a face peering at me in some concern through my window.” “God...you must really hate yourself” muttered the witty guy as he walked away. ”BC” I whispered to his retreating back.
Punjabi music is something that never appealed to me.But my friends swear by it. And as for the huge Sardarjis, they spring to instant action. They wave their arms and legs in a frenzy, magically acquiring the wingspan of an albatross as they contrive to knock off your spectacles from impossible angles and distances. And they stamp on our fallen spectacles for good measure, as they try out a particularly interesting dance step.
Placements were five days of total madness. I still remember the first day when all of us were trooping into the seminar room for our group discussions for a particular company .I was walking into the room just behind one of my close friends. Suddenly he decided to bow deeply at the two people from the company. Now I was in a quandary, wondering whether I should bow too in order not to lose my competitive advantage. The company representatives were looking with concern at him wondering whether he was overcome with stomach cramps, so I decided not to. A particularly funny rumor is still going around college about how my friend bowed lower and lower each succeeding day of placements till he succeeding in impressing some company with a particularly fine low bow.
I had seen drunken people before I came to IMT. But the scale and the scope magnified tenfold after I came here. We have some of our parties in the amphitheatre which is very pretty. But with its steep steps, it is not easy for navigation by people who are drinking their tenth pegs of alcohol. I was sitting on those steps and enjoying the music at one of the parties when a body came crashing down face first on my feet. I nearly jumped out of my skin (besides having really sore feet for a couple of days afterwards). After another such party ended I was just getting into bed at 5 am when a knock on the door woke me up. My friend stood clad in a towel. ”Wake me up at 10 am “he said seriously. He looked slightly tipsy so I asked him the reason for getting up early. ”I have to go to the court” he proclaimed proudly. Nonplussed I asked him why. He put on a sinister face. ”Blood blood…..blood everywhere “he suddenly screamed and then ran away. I ran into my room and bolted the door.
There are many kinds of drunken people. Some of them become violent and abusive, some of them become and sleepy and pass out, some of them throw up all over the lobby. One of my close friends became emotional every time he got drunk, remembering all the girls he ever loved and was sobbing madly on my shoulders by his fourth peg,leaving me with a very wet t shirt indeed..
I started washing clothes for the first time here. My friend carefully informed me that we had to soak the clothes in water for some time before washing them, in order to get the layers of dirt out .He neglected to inform me that the clothes should not be soaked for more than a day. I remembered about the clothes I had soaked after five days, when people had started complaining about the odor from the bodies buried under our lobby. I always used the dhobi after that. So much for doing your own work.
I had gone to akshardham temple with a female friend. There was very stringent security, so we had to deposit our bags at the counter. My friend very prettily asked me to carry her bright pink purse and lip gloss with me in my pockets. Overcome by a bout of chivalry I agreed. However I had forgotten something. All of the visitors were searched at the entrance by a security guard. He came up with the lip gloss and pink wallet on me and stepped back in a hurry. I gave him my most ungayish smile I could muster up on the spot. It did not work apparently for he gave my things back from a safe distance.
There were sad moments too. We all loved together, had our hearts broken together, we all cried together. A few of us found love here too.
That reminds me.I have another friend who has been commited to a girl since the last five years.They talk on the phone so much that it has become a joke with all of us.We used to tease him a lot about it daily.One fine day his girl friend had gone for a bath .And my friend called her up at precisely that moment.Another girl picked up the phone."Hello...."my friend cooed in his most lovestruck tone."Who are you?"asked the surprised girl.My poor friend almost hit the roof,confusing her for his girl friend.We spent hours calming him down.
Now the days are drawing to a close with frightening speed. Every time we want to hold on to certain moments they seem to gallop away faster. Now we are going our separate ways. Our paths would cross with certain people, while we would never see others again.
It was more than two years of fun. It was an entire lifetime of memories. Thank you IMT.
I am most emphatically not a Party animal. I don’t drink alcohol, I don’t smoke, I dance like an animal in pain, and Punjabi music makes me wince. But for reasons I am not able to fathom, I go to all of the parties in my B School with the devotion of a pilgrim. Maybe it’s because of the money we are forced to contribute to the Party. It is usually a hefty amount, carefully designed to pay for my soft drinks and alcohol in copious amounts for ten other people.
This time I decide that I’m going to take things into my own hands. I decide to make sure I eat and drink my four hundred rupees worth or die trying in the process. I reach nice and early and after pushing out two other people in the line grab the first burger of the evening with a satisfied smile. Only 390 rupees to go, I think to myself.
Thirty minutes later I am looking at my half eaten fourth burger with revulsion. I visit the loo frequently but my body refuses to accept any more Coke. Once I figure out who owes me the remaining Rs. 307.25 ,hell is going to break loose.
The first time I heard the MC, BC word after I landed in Delhi was in a party. I turned around in awe struck shock when I heard it. There have been family feuds and people killed with blunt axes for using such language in my hometown. But something was terribly wrong here. One guy was smiling like he had received the biggest compliment of his life. ”Tu hain BC...”the other guy cooed again in tones of infinite love. They hugged each other after that. While I still don’t use the words myself I have learnt not to wince each time people let loose a string of profanities. In fact I confess I stood before the mirror one time to see how it sounded as I tried yelling the words myself. I had really got going when a saw a face peering at me in some concern through my window.” “God...you must really hate yourself” muttered the witty guy as he walked away. ”BC” I whispered to his retreating back.
Punjabi music is something that never appealed to me.But my friends swear by it. And as for the huge Sardarjis, they spring to instant action. They wave their arms and legs in a frenzy, magically acquiring the wingspan of an albatross as they contrive to knock off your spectacles from impossible angles and distances. And they stamp on our fallen spectacles for good measure, as they try out a particularly interesting dance step.
Placements were five days of total madness. I still remember the first day when all of us were trooping into the seminar room for our group discussions for a particular company .I was walking into the room just behind one of my close friends. Suddenly he decided to bow deeply at the two people from the company. Now I was in a quandary, wondering whether I should bow too in order not to lose my competitive advantage. The company representatives were looking with concern at him wondering whether he was overcome with stomach cramps, so I decided not to. A particularly funny rumor is still going around college about how my friend bowed lower and lower each succeeding day of placements till he succeeding in impressing some company with a particularly fine low bow.
I had seen drunken people before I came to IMT. But the scale and the scope magnified tenfold after I came here. We have some of our parties in the amphitheatre which is very pretty. But with its steep steps, it is not easy for navigation by people who are drinking their tenth pegs of alcohol. I was sitting on those steps and enjoying the music at one of the parties when a body came crashing down face first on my feet. I nearly jumped out of my skin (besides having really sore feet for a couple of days afterwards). After another such party ended I was just getting into bed at 5 am when a knock on the door woke me up. My friend stood clad in a towel. ”Wake me up at 10 am “he said seriously. He looked slightly tipsy so I asked him the reason for getting up early. ”I have to go to the court” he proclaimed proudly. Nonplussed I asked him why. He put on a sinister face. ”Blood blood…..blood everywhere “he suddenly screamed and then ran away. I ran into my room and bolted the door.
There are many kinds of drunken people. Some of them become violent and abusive, some of them become and sleepy and pass out, some of them throw up all over the lobby. One of my close friends became emotional every time he got drunk, remembering all the girls he ever loved and was sobbing madly on my shoulders by his fourth peg,leaving me with a very wet t shirt indeed..
I started washing clothes for the first time here. My friend carefully informed me that we had to soak the clothes in water for some time before washing them, in order to get the layers of dirt out .He neglected to inform me that the clothes should not be soaked for more than a day. I remembered about the clothes I had soaked after five days, when people had started complaining about the odor from the bodies buried under our lobby. I always used the dhobi after that. So much for doing your own work.
I had gone to akshardham temple with a female friend. There was very stringent security, so we had to deposit our bags at the counter. My friend very prettily asked me to carry her bright pink purse and lip gloss with me in my pockets. Overcome by a bout of chivalry I agreed. However I had forgotten something. All of the visitors were searched at the entrance by a security guard. He came up with the lip gloss and pink wallet on me and stepped back in a hurry. I gave him my most ungayish smile I could muster up on the spot. It did not work apparently for he gave my things back from a safe distance.
There were sad moments too. We all loved together, had our hearts broken together, we all cried together. A few of us found love here too.
That reminds me.I have another friend who has been commited to a girl since the last five years.They talk on the phone so much that it has become a joke with all of us.We used to tease him a lot about it daily.One fine day his girl friend had gone for a bath .And my friend called her up at precisely that moment.Another girl picked up the phone."Hello...."my friend cooed in his most lovestruck tone."Who are you?"asked the surprised girl.My poor friend almost hit the roof,confusing her for his girl friend.We spent hours calming him down.
Now the days are drawing to a close with frightening speed. Every time we want to hold on to certain moments they seem to gallop away faster. Now we are going our separate ways. Our paths would cross with certain people, while we would never see others again.
It was more than two years of fun. It was an entire lifetime of memories. Thank you IMT.
Immortal battles.....
on Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Note: Have you ever felt that you were fighting one of life’s battles where victory seems farther and farther away? That you are facing a faceless, nameless enemy who relentlessly attacks you and does not wilt? That your allies turn into foes and lovers turn into uncaring strangers? But you still want to fight on because you are fighting for what you vehemently believe in? The slim hope of victory spurs you on, scarred body and tormented heart notwithstanding, because it will take you closer to immortality?
Sparks of clashing steel flash across dreary horizons,
Dark shapeless fiends close in .Ah!!!solitary me,
War cries and screams echo in dense night air,
Lonely battle of life I fight, foes outnumber…
Transient faces drift past in endless shadows,
Mutating lovers into uncaring strangers,
Agonies of pain sear flesh, torment soul…
Stare straight ahead; refuse to fall to earth,
Naked defenseless, towering amidst bloody carnage,
Hope fadeth fast, foes spring to life all around,
Closing eyes for one eternal moment,
With a cry of hope, spring forward again.
Strong beliefs spur me on…to imagine
A day when calm skies greet peaceful earth
When I fall with a sigh into arms which love and trust,
Into a land where immortality shall take birth
Sparks of clashing steel flash across dreary horizons,
Dark shapeless fiends close in .Ah!!!solitary me,
War cries and screams echo in dense night air,
Lonely battle of life I fight, foes outnumber…
Transient faces drift past in endless shadows,
Mutating lovers into uncaring strangers,
Agonies of pain sear flesh, torment soul…
Stare straight ahead; refuse to fall to earth,
Naked defenseless, towering amidst bloody carnage,
Hope fadeth fast, foes spring to life all around,
Closing eyes for one eternal moment,
With a cry of hope, spring forward again.
Strong beliefs spur me on…to imagine
A day when calm skies greet peaceful earth
When I fall with a sigh into arms which love and trust,
Into a land where immortality shall take birth
A tribute!!
on Sunday, November 19, 2006
Note:A tribute to my paternal grandfather who passed away last week
Rising Apollo, wide net of light bequeath,
Vanquishing lust of the night darkly,
Scattering life …bright blaze,
Riding noble, across heavens vast moor,
Alas, vanish it does, behind lofty mountain blue,
Oh mighty one, where does thou travel?
Ephemeral spirit…gone are you,but…
Darkness will reign no more
Vanquishing lust of the night darkly,
Scattering life …bright blaze,
Riding noble, across heavens vast moor,
Alas, vanish it does, behind lofty mountain blue,
Oh mighty one, where does thou travel?
Ephemeral spirit…gone are you,but…
Darkness will reign no more
Dreams of Insanity..Rock song lyrics..!!!
on Thursday, November 09, 2006
Note: Writing has been a soul elevator. I have this insane desire to branch out into different genres of writing. I’ve done poetry, anecdotal writing, marketing articles, humor, short stories and some other pretty random stuff.
Another great buttress in my life is rock music. So you know I kinda thought, why not write the lyrics of a rock song. Even though I don’t know the ABC of musical composition, I hope these words are put to music some day.
Theme: A tribute to all romantics who have experienced the joy and the pain of unrequited love. Have you ever wanted to desperately forget a girl, but those recurring dreams make it impossible?
P.S: It’s a rock song for heavens sake. People who complain it is too dark and moody can go and listen to boy band pop!!!
DREAMS OF INSANITY
Lyrics by Srinath
Swirling clouds darken, azure sky no more
Leaden weight of memories, closed eyes bemoan
Drained…The sun travels across...forgetting paradise lost,
Nights creeping hands, the thoughts flood back again
(Chorus)
These dreams of insanity lurking right beneath
Floating petals…Fuelling the fires of desire within
Time refuses to turn…
Following bright dawn’s allure
Running amok…
Eyes wide shut…These dreams…
Follow like a faithful slave
Tossing around...cascading beads of pain evolve
Screaming…shouting…unnerving whispers ask
How can someone who cared now be cold?
Blessed wakefulness frees …
From mirages of days whose scars still sear
(Chorus)
These dreams of insanity lurking right beneath
Floating petals…Fuelling the fires of desire within
Time refuses to turn…
Following bright dawn’s allure
Running amok…
Eyes wide shut…These dreams…
Follow like a faithful slave
I walk alone…clothed in love...
Phoenix reborn, even though only tatters remain...
A thousand scars mark ...this battered soul o’ mine
I will not give in…coz only she can heal
These dreams of Insanity
……These dreams of Insanity
………………These dreams of Insanity
Another great buttress in my life is rock music. So you know I kinda thought, why not write the lyrics of a rock song. Even though I don’t know the ABC of musical composition, I hope these words are put to music some day.
Theme: A tribute to all romantics who have experienced the joy and the pain of unrequited love. Have you ever wanted to desperately forget a girl, but those recurring dreams make it impossible?
P.S: It’s a rock song for heavens sake. People who complain it is too dark and moody can go and listen to boy band pop!!!
DREAMS OF INSANITY
Lyrics by Srinath
Swirling clouds darken, azure sky no more
Leaden weight of memories, closed eyes bemoan
Drained…The sun travels across...forgetting paradise lost,
Nights creeping hands, the thoughts flood back again
(Chorus)
These dreams of insanity lurking right beneath
Floating petals…Fuelling the fires of desire within
Time refuses to turn…
Following bright dawn’s allure
Running amok…
Eyes wide shut…These dreams…
Follow like a faithful slave
Tossing around...cascading beads of pain evolve
Screaming…shouting…unnerving whispers ask
How can someone who cared now be cold?
Blessed wakefulness frees …
From mirages of days whose scars still sear
(Chorus)
These dreams of insanity lurking right beneath
Floating petals…Fuelling the fires of desire within
Time refuses to turn…
Following bright dawn’s allure
Running amok…
Eyes wide shut…These dreams…
Follow like a faithful slave
I walk alone…clothed in love...
Phoenix reborn, even though only tatters remain...
A thousand scars mark ...this battered soul o’ mine
I will not give in…coz only she can heal
These dreams of Insanity
……These dreams of Insanity
………………These dreams of Insanity
Me,Myself and Gymming....
on Monday, October 30, 2006
The following is an account of an insane decision. I decided to join a gym a couple of months back.
Let me introduce myself. I’m a tam Bram. We eat curd rice and are nice people. Exercise is one of the seven deadly sins and involves at the most pressing the buttons of a remote while flipping channels on the television. An intricate math problem? An uninvited discourse on Aristotle? We are the guys. Physical activity..u kidding?
So I was moving into hitherto uncharted territory when I decided to join the gym.
My Mom couldn’t have reacted more strongly if I said I was going to become a nudist. She stared at me open mouthed.” Gym? Do I feed you so that you can go and waste it waste it lifting funny contraptions? What if you become thin?”
One fine day feeling a bit like Christopher Columbus and having pushed my chest out a couple of nonexistent inches I walked into “Bodygrow”. Suitable pictures of men with nonexistent underpants and muscles jutting out at the unlikeliest angles adorned the walls.
All around me I saw big men with funny looking faces lifting a variety of heavy apparatus.
I nervously approached the biggest guy in the place assuming logically that he must be the instructor. He listened to me and critically looked me over frowning and shaking his head.
”LIFT, PUSH, JUMP” he suddenly bellowed.
I jumped out of my skin and nearly hit the ceiling.
Weakly catching on to a treadmill for support I stuttered”w...What?”
“What are you waiting for? Start lifting and pushing and jumping!”He growled.
Forcing my face into what I thought was a grin I backed away.
I was frowning in concentration, straining as I pulled at a weight. I contorted my face into a variety of expressions as I made an effort. Suddenly a hand tapped me from behind. I nearly went face first on the canvas. The abominable instructor man was back.
“Contort your face” He said. Assuming that he was instructing me on the procedures of facial exercise I pulled my face into an ugly distorted angle.
” Look into the mirror, he growled.
I looked, rather pleased at how ugly I had made my face.
“Do you want to be stuck with this face for life?”
Even though I rather thought it would make life exciting to go around with such a face I prudently remained silent.
” Do not contort your face while exercising. The facial muscles could stay that way forever.” He walked away after another of his hammer hits on my back
Suddenly I had a bright idea. I thoughtfully set my face into what I assumed was a handsome, appealing expression, assuming if my face was going to become a certain way due to contortion I would rather it be this face of mine. For the next ten minutes I exercised with that same expression staring straight ahead. With a start I suddenly realized a guy opposite me was staring at me with a strange expression. Suddenly he winked. I slowly straightened out the grin into a normal expression, hoping he would understand that I was not the brokeback mountain kind. Me and my big ideas.
I had no idea that there were girls in my gym till a day when a lovely damsel walked in. As she hopped and jumped in her pink tights I would discretely steal glances . Whenever she was around I would try to do spectacular things like lifting weights I would not normally dream of otherwise.
With what I thought was a spectacular amount of weight on the apparatus I lifted with an almost heroic expression on my face. After repeating it for a couple of times and when my back showed signs of breaking down, I got off the machine patting myself on the back for having suitably impressed the girl. The girl herself walked to the apparatus I had just got off and after clicking her tongue after seeing the weights, she casually added a couple more weights and started working the machine rapidly. When I was walking away with a downcast expression a smothered giggle added to my humiliation.
And yeah the pains. The first day after I had started working out the pains were terrible. The only particular consolation I could think of was that there was no specific spot that pained. It pained if I laughed, it pained when I breathed and damn it, it pained when I tried using the remote too.
It’s been two months now. I wish I had a “before” and “after “picture to show you like the tele shopping network. I know I don’t look like anything closely resembling Arnold of the terminator fame. But for the disbelieving I assure you under the clothes the muscles are in place.” Asta la vista baby” …I guess..!!!
Let me introduce myself. I’m a tam Bram. We eat curd rice and are nice people. Exercise is one of the seven deadly sins and involves at the most pressing the buttons of a remote while flipping channels on the television. An intricate math problem? An uninvited discourse on Aristotle? We are the guys. Physical activity..u kidding?
So I was moving into hitherto uncharted territory when I decided to join the gym.
My Mom couldn’t have reacted more strongly if I said I was going to become a nudist. She stared at me open mouthed.” Gym? Do I feed you so that you can go and waste it waste it lifting funny contraptions? What if you become thin?”
One fine day feeling a bit like Christopher Columbus and having pushed my chest out a couple of nonexistent inches I walked into “Bodygrow”. Suitable pictures of men with nonexistent underpants and muscles jutting out at the unlikeliest angles adorned the walls.
All around me I saw big men with funny looking faces lifting a variety of heavy apparatus.
I nervously approached the biggest guy in the place assuming logically that he must be the instructor. He listened to me and critically looked me over frowning and shaking his head.
”LIFT, PUSH, JUMP” he suddenly bellowed.
I jumped out of my skin and nearly hit the ceiling.
Weakly catching on to a treadmill for support I stuttered”w...What?”
“What are you waiting for? Start lifting and pushing and jumping!”He growled.
Forcing my face into what I thought was a grin I backed away.
I was frowning in concentration, straining as I pulled at a weight. I contorted my face into a variety of expressions as I made an effort. Suddenly a hand tapped me from behind. I nearly went face first on the canvas. The abominable instructor man was back.
“Contort your face” He said. Assuming that he was instructing me on the procedures of facial exercise I pulled my face into an ugly distorted angle.
” Look into the mirror, he growled.
I looked, rather pleased at how ugly I had made my face.
“Do you want to be stuck with this face for life?”
Even though I rather thought it would make life exciting to go around with such a face I prudently remained silent.
” Do not contort your face while exercising. The facial muscles could stay that way forever.” He walked away after another of his hammer hits on my back
Suddenly I had a bright idea. I thoughtfully set my face into what I assumed was a handsome, appealing expression, assuming if my face was going to become a certain way due to contortion I would rather it be this face of mine. For the next ten minutes I exercised with that same expression staring straight ahead. With a start I suddenly realized a guy opposite me was staring at me with a strange expression. Suddenly he winked. I slowly straightened out the grin into a normal expression, hoping he would understand that I was not the brokeback mountain kind. Me and my big ideas.
I had no idea that there were girls in my gym till a day when a lovely damsel walked in. As she hopped and jumped in her pink tights I would discretely steal glances . Whenever she was around I would try to do spectacular things like lifting weights I would not normally dream of otherwise.
With what I thought was a spectacular amount of weight on the apparatus I lifted with an almost heroic expression on my face. After repeating it for a couple of times and when my back showed signs of breaking down, I got off the machine patting myself on the back for having suitably impressed the girl. The girl herself walked to the apparatus I had just got off and after clicking her tongue after seeing the weights, she casually added a couple more weights and started working the machine rapidly. When I was walking away with a downcast expression a smothered giggle added to my humiliation.
And yeah the pains. The first day after I had started working out the pains were terrible. The only particular consolation I could think of was that there was no specific spot that pained. It pained if I laughed, it pained when I breathed and damn it, it pained when I tried using the remote too.
It’s been two months now. I wish I had a “before” and “after “picture to show you like the tele shopping network. I know I don’t look like anything closely resembling Arnold of the terminator fame. But for the disbelieving I assure you under the clothes the muscles are in place.” Asta la vista baby” …I guess..!!!
A true story!!
on Sunday, September 17, 2006The following is an excerpt I have heard from a friend of mine. It is about that oft repeated and written to death topic, love. Readers of my blog will of course be aware of my rather cynical views on the subject. But when I heard his account of what love was, I felt a stirring in my heart and a certain gland in the eye began to threaten to function, undermining my manly pretensions of pride. The following is a more coherent and orderly account of what transpired between us last night. His story was infinitely more rambling and punctuated by hiccups, under the influence of the fourth peg of an amber liquid used as a buttress for the emotionally wrecked. As a guy with no emotions and a rather more boring upbringing, I had a glass of the ubiquitous coke cradled in my hands. He sniffed and began
“I have always pictured love as something which sweeps you off your feet; you know… an upheaval which registers a 9 on the Richter scale of your four chambered thingie we have in our chest. For me it was different. She just walked into my life one day as merry as you please.
I remember her that day, prattling away prettily to everyone in the room except me. I began to feel more awkward and uglier than I normally do, which is quite a remarkable feat in itself. My eyes followed surreptiously the graceful movements of her hand as she brushed away wisps of hair that fell over her lovely face, drinking in every movement of her eyes. I still remember those eyes. Clear pools of light which could cut through the armour of hardened hearts like mine.
I have heard of prospectors working for hours, wrecking their body and souls for that one elusive precious stone. There she was ...my diamond.”
Err...I decided it was time for me to make a point
“Shut the **** up, what do you know about love?”
Looking at the nasty gleam in his eye I decided not to press the point too much. My friend was infinitely more abusive and stronger under the influence of alcohol. He continued as if I dint exist
“She started haunting my every living moment. I would walk all around college hoping for a glimpse of her, for a fleeting memory which I could cherish and relive until I saw her next. These transient moments of voyeurism became the fuel for the mundane everyday things I now sleepwalked through. When I actually had a chance to talk to her I would mumble a greeting and run away as soon as decency permitted, my blushing face a cornucopia of emotions. My emotions were taking a roller coaster ride on those fearsome rides you see in the amusement parks called ‘lightning dragon” or with some equally absurd name. A smile could transport me to the very pinnacle of emotional elation .Just as quickly I would come plummeting down to the lonely depths of emotional despair.”
He paused to take a long draught from his glass. I thoughtfully sipped on my coke not bothering to speak.
”Why the hell are you gaping silently like a fish?”he roared.
Did I mention that my friend was seldom logical when he was drunk? ”What happened then? I asked nervously. Suddenly a smile lit up his face.
“One day she said she loved me too.
That was the nearest I had come to a coronary thrombosis of the heart. After I heard it I ran to my room and closed all the doors and windows.
And then I began to dance, a wild and ungainly movement of arms and legs, where each unrestricted motion was a manifestation of a euphoria that was building up inside me like a fountain of her beauty and love.
For a fleeting moment which felt like eternity… there was no “her” and no “me”
There was just “us”.”He sniffed and a large teardrop landed in his drink. I swear that I had a lump in my throat.
“
Love is so beautiful yet so physically cruel.
I spent a few days in paradise, listening as her whispered endearments dripped off her lips like honey from a busy honeycomb.
The touch of her hand was a physical shock. It was similar to the feeling you have when someone hits you in the gut.
Remember that woozy helpless feeling you? It was like that.
And then it all changed.”
He had now graduated from tears to big racking sobs, a big blubbering helpless guy. I wept silently too, my arms trying to protect him from the barbs of his agony.
And then the drink finally overcame him and he collapsed like a bag of potatoes against my body. I felt his heart throbbing away, each beat radiating his love for that angel he had surrendered to.
And the next day he refused to speak a word about it.
I know this is a strangely unsatisfying story. I don’t know how it all changed and what happened to shatter his paradise.
I also wish I could tell you that it all ends happily ever after.
But quite frankly I don’t know, what is going to happen and neither does he.
But you know what? In spite of my cynical outlook; I am a romantic at heart.
I refuse to believe that true love will not vanquish all.
Each day I look at my friend as he masterfully laughs his way through life concealing the scars beneath. And each day I wonder what will happen!!!!
Note: I know that quite a few of my friends frequent my blog. When you read this , pray for a minute. Pray that true love will win through.
Humor in advertising...not so funny anymore?
on Saturday, July 22, 2006
Srinath S
Humor….the panacea to all ills...But advertisers across the globe seem to be taking this statement a little too literally. As a result we have advertisements for all kinds of products from chewing gums, adhesives, to cola’s and cars, all trying earnestly to tickle the viewer’s funny bone. But the million dollar question which logically follows is…does the humor actually help influence the customer? The reason for humor in advertisements is the expectation that the feel good factor will help sway customers when they make decisions. And everybody likes funny stuff right? No, as the advertisers are beginning to find out to their dismay. Humor is of course a very integral part of marketing communication but the operative words here are tasteful, well delivered, product appropriate humor.
The fact that needs to be appreciated is that although a tastefully done humorous advertisement can indeed help in a certain brand recall associated with humor, what can conversely happen is that the brand can become an object of ridicule in the mind of the customer if the humor doesn’t come off too well. The advertisers would do well to keep in mind the fact that humor in advertising improves brand recognition, but in no way influences product recall, message credibility or buying intentions. The first thing to watch out for while trying to incorporate humor into your advertisement is the type of product you are advertising for. If the products are essentially low involvement products where humor can tilt the balance then I’m all for it. If while in a supermarket the toothpaste brand that beamed the funny advertisement catches my eye, in all probability I might pop it in my shopping basket. But if they think that just by including a funny punch line in higher involvement product like say a car, I am going to get even slightly influenced they are suffering from delusions. While I do not say that there is no room for humor in higher involvement goods the advertiser needs to tread more carefully.
The second point where marketers need to pay close attention to is the fact whether the humor in the advertisement highlights the value proposition of the product or it merely is added on as an afterthought, in effect sticking out like a sore thumb. This is where one of the most humorous and effective series of advertisements to hit Indian television, the Fevicol advertisements pulls off a winner. The humor was inseparably entwined with the adhesive properties of the product, a fact that many brands need to make an example of. Humor induced brand recall should not be vague; it should provide an association in the customers mind to what the product stands for.
The third potential pitfall is the type of humor and the delivery of the humor in the advertisement. Agreed that humor does not have to be classy all the time, but it should neither be slapstick nor such that it offends the sensibilities of a certain section of people. Also everything might not be funny for everyone. A south Indian like me might guffaw uncontrollably at an advertisement while my north Indian counterpart might wonder what all the fuss what about. So in essence what I mean is if your advertisement takes a pot shot at certain sections of society even though they may not be the intended target segment they ploy will backfire. So when you want to be funny stay away from sensitive topics and issues, however rib tickling they might seem.
Advertisements are essentially for repeated telecast on mass media.
Fact 1: The frequency of the same advertisement being aired is quite high especially during primetime television.
Fact 2: Even the best of humor can grate on your nerves if shown again and again.
So logically from the above stated facts advertisers have a big task on their hands if people groan when your advertisement comes on for the umpteenth time .So even though a slap followed by ”doobara mat poochna” might be funny for the first time, after the nth time I might actually be so irritated that I consciously avoid the product. And if the makers of chorlmint actually ask me why, all they’ll get from me is a “doobara mat poochna”!
This might be regarded as a problem of advertisements in general and not only of humorous advertisements but the problem is only exacerbated with the use of the wrong kind of humor. So what is the solution then? The solution is a series of advertisements on the same theme with the same essential message as in Fevicol or chlormint do. The message in reinforced each time but with different characters and a different storyline. What also happens is the anticipation increases and the recall value consequently gets a boost.
Humor in essence is like spices. Add too little and the food could be bland. Add too much and it will lose its flavor. So the right promotional mix with just a dash of humor could reap big benefits. Or rather in keeping in touch with the theme ”laughing all the way to the bank”.
Humor….the panacea to all ills...But advertisers across the globe seem to be taking this statement a little too literally. As a result we have advertisements for all kinds of products from chewing gums, adhesives, to cola’s and cars, all trying earnestly to tickle the viewer’s funny bone. But the million dollar question which logically follows is…does the humor actually help influence the customer? The reason for humor in advertisements is the expectation that the feel good factor will help sway customers when they make decisions. And everybody likes funny stuff right? No, as the advertisers are beginning to find out to their dismay. Humor is of course a very integral part of marketing communication but the operative words here are tasteful, well delivered, product appropriate humor.
The fact that needs to be appreciated is that although a tastefully done humorous advertisement can indeed help in a certain brand recall associated with humor, what can conversely happen is that the brand can become an object of ridicule in the mind of the customer if the humor doesn’t come off too well. The advertisers would do well to keep in mind the fact that humor in advertising improves brand recognition, but in no way influences product recall, message credibility or buying intentions. The first thing to watch out for while trying to incorporate humor into your advertisement is the type of product you are advertising for. If the products are essentially low involvement products where humor can tilt the balance then I’m all for it. If while in a supermarket the toothpaste brand that beamed the funny advertisement catches my eye, in all probability I might pop it in my shopping basket. But if they think that just by including a funny punch line in higher involvement product like say a car, I am going to get even slightly influenced they are suffering from delusions. While I do not say that there is no room for humor in higher involvement goods the advertiser needs to tread more carefully.
The second point where marketers need to pay close attention to is the fact whether the humor in the advertisement highlights the value proposition of the product or it merely is added on as an afterthought, in effect sticking out like a sore thumb. This is where one of the most humorous and effective series of advertisements to hit Indian television, the Fevicol advertisements pulls off a winner. The humor was inseparably entwined with the adhesive properties of the product, a fact that many brands need to make an example of. Humor induced brand recall should not be vague; it should provide an association in the customers mind to what the product stands for.
The third potential pitfall is the type of humor and the delivery of the humor in the advertisement. Agreed that humor does not have to be classy all the time, but it should neither be slapstick nor such that it offends the sensibilities of a certain section of people. Also everything might not be funny for everyone. A south Indian like me might guffaw uncontrollably at an advertisement while my north Indian counterpart might wonder what all the fuss what about. So in essence what I mean is if your advertisement takes a pot shot at certain sections of society even though they may not be the intended target segment they ploy will backfire. So when you want to be funny stay away from sensitive topics and issues, however rib tickling they might seem.
Advertisements are essentially for repeated telecast on mass media.
Fact 1: The frequency of the same advertisement being aired is quite high especially during primetime television.
Fact 2: Even the best of humor can grate on your nerves if shown again and again.
So logically from the above stated facts advertisers have a big task on their hands if people groan when your advertisement comes on for the umpteenth time .So even though a slap followed by ”doobara mat poochna” might be funny for the first time, after the nth time I might actually be so irritated that I consciously avoid the product. And if the makers of chorlmint actually ask me why, all they’ll get from me is a “doobara mat poochna”!
This might be regarded as a problem of advertisements in general and not only of humorous advertisements but the problem is only exacerbated with the use of the wrong kind of humor. So what is the solution then? The solution is a series of advertisements on the same theme with the same essential message as in Fevicol or chlormint do. The message in reinforced each time but with different characters and a different storyline. What also happens is the anticipation increases and the recall value consequently gets a boost.
Humor in essence is like spices. Add too little and the food could be bland. Add too much and it will lose its flavor. So the right promotional mix with just a dash of humor could reap big benefits. Or rather in keeping in touch with the theme ”laughing all the way to the bank”.
A new perspective of life!!!
on Thursday, July 20, 2006Clarification:the following piece of work is not my work.It was so original in its thinking and humourous in its narration so i decided to have it anyway.
The most unfair thing about life is the way it ends.
I mean, life is tough.
It takes up a lot of your time.
What do you get in the end of it?
A death!
What's that, a bonus?
I think the life cycle is all backwards.
You should die first, you know, start out dead, get it out of the way.
You wake up in a an old age home, feeling better every day.You get kicked out for being too healthy, go collect your pension, then, when you start work, you get a gold watch on your first day.You work 40 years until you're young enough to enjoy your retirement.You drink like a fish, party your ass off, and screw anything that
moves - you've only got a few years left, so why not?!?
Then you get ready for High School. You go to primary school, you >become a kid, you play, you have no responsibilities, you become a baby,then, you spend your last 9 months floating peacefully with luxuries like central heating, spa, room service on tap, larger quarters everyday, and then ...
You finish off as an orgasm!
Aah! What a life that would be!
EVA….
on Sunday, July 09, 2006A poem by Srinath
Tanya the wide eyed girl in the mansion by the river,
One Christmas morn, beside the festooned tree she found,
A package wrapped in silver…she tore it open with a pleasant shiver
A golden haired doll she found in glee she clapped and twirled around
That same Christmas day, in the decrepit house across the street,
Jane walked to the bare tree in the one roomed house,
She dragged her feet, refusing to let hope rise in her chest,
Tears arose, the bare bulb casting shadows on the bare floor.
Eva …Tanya named the pretty doll and marveled at her shiny frock,
Brushed her golden hair and kissed her rosy cheeks,
Look how pretty we are...she squealed with pride …
She ran to the window…Snowflakes fell gently on a small figure across the street
Jane walked disconsolately clutching her coat to keep out wicked fingers of frost,
The bright neon light of the storefront said “the season of cheer and hope”
She smiled and lifted her face to challenge the heavens above,
At the window of the big house she saw, the cold winter air like a mirror between
Tanya played with the doll merrily skipping across the room,
In a moment of carelessness she left the doll prone ,
Her dog, inquisitive it was...tore the pretty dress and bit an arm off...
In this sorry state by Tanya was the doll found.
She shouted with disgust, looked at Eva with eyes so different
With a smooth motion, out of the window Eva flying went.
Jane closed her eyes; she hummed a tune sad and pure,
Suddenly with a thud near her feet fell,
The sweetest doll in the world, Torn were the clothes….
The arm so bent, but as she looked at Eva’s smiling face,
A friend she had found, no more would her heart bleed
It was the season of hope indeed!!
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