Tuesday, July 30, 2013


Fifty years from now things would be a lot different. Rahul Gandhi will be dead. Modi will be ash. And Advani would be playing chess with his pet turtle that he has had since second grade. There will be new problems, like Abram and Salman’s illegitimate child having a tiff. We’d be talking less, chatting more. Human interaction will be at an all-time low since the Neolithic times when a rock to the forehead was the common form of hello. Wasting clicks after clicks on shit more useless than the last thing you wasted your click on. The important stuff, it’s all getting lost somewhere between home to work and back. Think for a moment, when did you last smile? When was the last time, the smile fairy paid a visit and washed your face with honey dipped sunshine? 

NO, that ‘furry kitten pawing the cuddly puppy’ video that made you smile doesn't count.

Everything is changing.  But the failure to notice the obvious can be attributed to the fact that you are moving along the same pace. Look back 6 weeks and you won’t see much change. Look back three years and you’d get a nauseating feeling. Did you do the important things then? Would you rather do things differently if given a chance? The impulse to crave a time machine says nothing but regret.

But fifty years from now, when I am sitting with you on a park bench, holding your hand as tightly as my weak muscles allow, I’ll look into your blurry eyes. And if see, what I see now; that one glance which tells me ‘Nothing has changed. We’re still the same’, I’d die a happy man.

Sunday, April 21, 2013

Regular Normal Guy

I am a regular normal guy.
I can't remember the names of all members of Limp Bizkit, Metallica, Daft Punk et al. I don't know of any underground indie artists that no one else knows of. I haven't seen the last 3  Star Wars movies. I didn't exactly like the first 3 so to speak. I don't know much about fancy fast cars. Or fancy cars. Or fast cars for that matter. I can, with some difficulty play only 5 chords on the guitar. I still can't play bar chords. I sometimes make jokes that only I find amusing. Then I have to suppress my laughter, so that others don't judge me. I look around the room after I crack a joke to see who has a sense of humour. I sing like a crow who got rejected at Indian Idol. I sing out loud when driving alone.I am fond of laundry bags you get at 5 star hotels. I sometimes succumb to peer pressure. I am the peer pressure ofttimes. I loathe people who press the UP and the DOWN button while waiting for an elevator. I follow a rhythm for when I have to say out a telephone number. Sometimes I am confused whether to go for a High-Five or a Fist-Bump. When I'm eating Maggi, I secretly wish no one asks for it. I loved someone once. I pretend to sleep in order to eavesdrop. I think more than I should. I drink less than what others think. I reckon the people who like me outnumber the ones who don't.
I don't try too hard. I make excuses.I am not special.
I am a regular normal guy.

Thursday, March 28, 2013

Every Morning

Wake up. Smell the coffee, drink the coffee, pour it over your head if need be. The day is begging for your generosity to declare itself open. Too long has passed between the time you set the alarm and the time the snooze gave up trying. Slumber isn't too comfortable when made to overstay its welcome.

The birds are up, trying to catch the early worm. Hell, even the worms are up and about early, to be food for the birds. What is it you say? Early worms get eaten? Lazy worms who roll in bed survive? Fair point. But you aren't a worm. There are so many perks of being a human. The first cigarette of the day for instance. I bet the worms don't enjoy such luxuries. Heck, the worms don't even know what luxury means.

You better start the day because the sun is only going to get brighter. He never once fails to turn up; learn a thing or two from him doing it for gazillion years without a moan. Soon this bed who pulls you back like a lover will start to bite you. The pillow will attempt to smother your sick lazy life out. No one wants you for too long, not even your bed. Get out, crumple a field of flowers, push someone on to oncoming traffic or just punch a goat in the throat. The world is full of amazing fucks to be taken. When life is giving out lemons, just kick it right in the gonads and say "I don't want your charity. I'll buy some lemons myself."

You are a soldier my friend, a true blood prince who shouldn't be confined to the sheets. You risk wasting  a glorious day for that 5 mins of sleep? 5 mins of sleep is actually 2 hours of sleep disguised as 15 mins of sleep.

Wake up. Smell the coffee. Oh shit, we're out of coffee. Go back to sleep. This is what the universe wants. 

Monday, March 11, 2013

How to write a suicide note: A guide for beginners

Welcome, to a step-by-step approach on how to write a fabulous suicide note. A suicide note isn't just a normal everyday letter.
Why you need a tutorial you ask?
 It's the last piece if communication you leave behind. Kill it (no pun intended).

Let me start by calling the elephant in the room - suicide is a bad thing. But so are drugs and we have drug dealers. Even if suicide is detestable and and an act of cowardice, a little help won't hurt if you've already made up your mind.

I'd like to shed some much needed light on this whole concept of leaving behind a note. Firstly, it rules out murder. This way the focus remains on you and not someone on the run. I know there are enough murder mysteries that profess the theory of a fake suicide note, which usually ends up with the police on a wild goose chase.
So here is your first lesson: Always write it in your own handwriting. No computer, no typewriter and definitely no cutting alphabets off the newspaper (Although, that is great if you plan to send out a ransom note). In case your handwriting resembles a drunk ink-dipped ant strolling on the paper, then I would suggest practicing cursive before penning down that letter. Now I know you probably have a lot going on in your life and handwriting practice is the last thing you need. But hey, at least your note will sparkle.

Let us move on to the 'How do I start my suicide note' section.
Leave out the pleasantries. Do not begin it with a 'Dear', no no. You're just about to jump off a building or slit your wrist or watch Son of Sardar for the second time or do some other gruesome thing to your body. Just come straight to the point. But do not overthink or obsess over this particular part. It's just like the opening credits of a film; it has no bearing on the actual plot.

The next part of the letter is the real deal -The Reason. This is where the drum roll begins.
You better have a good reason for cutting your long story short, for The Bible labels suicide as the worst sin a man can commit. And you don't  really want to stand before god and make him go all, "REALLY? This is why you jumped in front of that bus? Really, dude? You are such a pussy!"
I assume you don't want to go through the embarrassment of god mocking you in front of all those pretty angels, with wings and harp and all that fancy-shmancy shit.
Re-evaluate your reason. If it isn't good enough, wait. Wait for things to get worse, wait till you have that big reason. People respect a dead man who had a good reason.

Once you have decided to pull the proverbial chord, you will have random thoughts clouding your judgement. All of a sudden the opinions of people will start mattering. What would they think? Will they laugh at me? Write me off as a coward?
Purge your brain off all that filth. You are not a coward. Do moviegoers berate those who walk out of the hall during a shitty movie? NO. And here, your life is that shitty movie. Walk out. Get out. You paid for it and you're not getting a good show.

Now the ending.
Well, you can nail it Cobain style by coming up with something like that burning and fading analogy, or you can borrow some quote from somewhere. Google them if need be, there are tons littered around on the net. No one is going to hold you to task for a shoddy ending anyway. How can they, you're dead.

One last thing.
Don't do it. Death will eventually catch up.

Friday, December 28, 2012

Sun's not coming out

(Written on a rainy Bombay evening, thanks to a paper and a rolling paper)

Don't think the sun's coming out today
I'll still wait by the window anyway
Its getting cold, too cold to step outside
Getting too dark to see the way.

It went down fine last I checked
I went down with it, I faded away
I am done lying low and ducked
I want to rise, start another day

Burn me, blind me, enlighten me
Just Don't frighten me
Come out now, come out and guide me.

The Rays of hope are running late today
Whilst I let out a silent pray
I'm facing east and a clock beside
Looks like its gonna be a night all day

It went down fine last I checked
I went down with it, I faded away
I am done lying low and ducked
I want to rise, start another day

Burn me, blind me, enlighten me
Just Don't frighten me
Come out now, come out and guide me.

Eyes are open, but they feel shut
Feel beaten, bruised and cut
Fuck you I don't need you, I'm on my own
They say its darkest just before dawn

I'm burnt, I'm blinded, enlightened
I'm no longer frightened

Friday, December 14, 2012

Myths surrounding advertising

Let's get one thing out of the way first, no one really cares about advertising. You change channels when my hardwork comes on the TV in between Balika Vadhu. You use my paper ads as chewing gum coverings. You curse at the radio for playing too many ads. So yes, in a way what I do for a living is borderline detestable and generates the same amount of disinterest that only a Meira Kumar sex tape can match.

Yet I keep getting dollops of "Oh your job is so interesting", "I wish I could do it", "You live the life bro, is best bro, is best"
That's not the case. We in advertising do not live a charmed life. If anything we are at the extreme fag end of the spectrum. Our lives aren't that interesting and what makes it worse is that people believe otherwise.
I'm going to try dispel a few myths now.
This isn't an ad, so I hope you actually get till the end.

Myth #1 - Youtube
We often get accused for watching youtube videos all day. That's a lie as big as Sonakshi Sinha's forehead. We do not watch youtube videos all day. We play online games as well. We chat with our peers in different ad agencies because let's face it, the rest of you are too busy making this world a better place. The well ironed suits, the big meetings followed by working lunches, the excessive travelling, that's the kind of thing that makes the world tick. The important kind of shit. While you non-advertising folk do all the horsing around, we advertising folk provide Gagnam Style and Cat videos with the hits they need to become internet sensations.

Myth #2 - Loose morals
This is one rumour we so desperately wished was true. Who wouldn't mind morals being flung out of the window while you're ideating. Wouldn't it be bloody amazing to just point at someone and then get down and dirty almost instantaneously. But then, it's asking for too much and this world we live in isn't exactly orchestrated by Oprah Winfrey.
Just because we drop words like 'sex' and 'fuck' in normal conversations, doesn't make ours a filthy business. Unlike the hallowed halls of the corporate corridors where everything is so hushed you can almost hear the desperation. Once those suits are off, everyone is equally naked. At least we don't put on a garb between 9 to 5. We wake up the way we go to bed. Which is mostly alone, mind you.

Myth #3 - Drugs
Drugs are a rich man's indulgence and unfortunately we aren't exactly known for being the money ringers. "See that guy with dreadlocks?Oh, he looks like a junkie. Must be in advertising."
"Look, a bald guy with a tattoo. Must be one of those charlie sniffing creative kinds."
If you don't look like you've bathed in a tub full of dettol with a nice school boy haircut, you sir a filthy ad whore.

Myth #4 - We get paid like shit
Yep this one is true.

Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Time Time ki baat hai

So I thought about writing a post about punctuality sometime back, but delayed it. So, yes, the irony isn't lost on me.
This post is the closest I can get to punctuality, since my life is a far cry from the actual meaning of the word. As far as my memory can take me, I've been at a constant loggerhead with being on the dot. Inexplicable as it is, i'm going to go deep into the crust and dry to dig the cause.

For one, I think my body is repulsive to being on time. It rejects any hasty thoughts by the mind to adhere to the prescribed social norms of coming on time and leaving on time. My body clock has its own body clock. And I am fairly convinced that both are faulty.

More often than not this grave ignorance to time is innocuous. But not anymore. Once you start working and start getting paid, people start expecting you on time. And if you fail to meet those expectations, they start cutting your money.

My job doesn't require me to put in a shift of 8 hours to be deemed efficient. It just requires me to be efficient. In an industry where work hours dwindle between 5 mins to a moon cycle, it's a shitty policy to measure one's ability based on the hours clocked. My job is to generate ideas, besides trying to make myself feel that it is actually quite an important job. That what I do actually means something to the world. Which it frankly doesn't. No one gives a shit about advertising. So why give a shit about people coming on time as long as we fulfill our duties.

Unlike other jobs where time plays an important role, advertising works on really contorted principles. It's all about idea generation. Now ideas are these assholic things that fool you into believing that they are on their way. That they're just around the corner and will be with you shortly. But those fuckers never turn up on time. HOLY SHIT. You see what I did there?
Basically, a good ad is a good ad because it has a good idea providing the foundation. Now ,whether it took 8 hours or the entire duration of a Sooraj Barjatiya movie song, is immaterial.
So things like office rules, office policy, 9 to 5 really means bugger all. All that stuff is as useless as being selected as a Roadie in season 10.

Anyhow, I have to be somewhere and thanks to this post I am running late.