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

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.

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.

The last seventeen months

Crammed up houses. Filth strewn everywhere the eyes can roam. Clogged roads turning seconds into hours. What is it that Mumbai uses to charm and attract? 17 months and I'm as clueless as the day I got down at Mumbai Central to give this city a try, like million others pouring in like tea from a kettle. It might be an old, ragged and an overused cliche, but this city is alive. Something beats through it constantly, pumping energy from god knows where. It's not just one city, it's a collection of thousand ecosystems striving each day, somehow. The rich jog on the same carter road that is home to a colony of fishermen. Spoilt kids tap on their smart phones while sharing the bench with a 10 year old rag picker who has discovered treasure in the form of a half-eaten burger.

The elitist South Bombayites or SOBOs look down upon anything north of Worli. Worli looks down on anything north of the sea-link and this hatred of north stops only at Delhi. It's a crime in Mumbai to be from the capital. As soon as you share your origins, snide glances are exchanged, judgements are made and artillery to put you down is loaded inside mouth shaped cannons. But then I found out, much to my amusement, that a poor Andheri dweller suffers from the safe fate. Being from Mumbai isn't enough to win you approval.

Everyone has a story to tell in this city, for everyone who washes up to the shores of Mumbai tugs along some baggage. People sit for hours eyeballing the setting sun near the sea, as if trying to reason the befallen misfortunes. They search for answers in low tides. Look for some deep-rooted meaning when the tide is high. I can vouch for it myself, having spent many a night at Bandstand, watching the Arabian Sea play Taliban to the horny couples on the rocks. Ofttimes you do silly things when alone.Like, make small talk to the guy firing up his make-shift stove to make bhutta. Only to be deterred by his talkative nature. Then feign interest and listen to his grouses, his aspirations. Get sucked into his story and suddenly feel shit that you can't even share your trivial problems with this guy. No one needs a psychiatrist in this city. We all help each other out.

This city is a barren wasteland for a loner and a throbbing melee for the rest. There is something for everyone here. Cold as a stone at times and warm as an embrace on occasions, it confuses the fuck out of you. You can't love it, you certainly can't hate it. This city could be your first love. It could very well be the one who cheated on you. It can pain you and also play the doctor. Mumbai is a teacher. Mumbai is a rapist. Mumbai is anything you want it to be.

So the question still lurks. What is it about Mumbai?
I don't know. I guess nobody knows.
What I do know is, I loved every day of my 17 month stay.

Voice of the Banana

A banana is a fruit ridiculed worldwide for its striking resemblance to the male reproductive organ. And almost all the flak that comes the way of this innocent fruit is uncalled for. The bent in the shape isn't what he got customized when God was creating all the fruits. The reason that would make maximum sense is that God had a tiny memory malfunction when he was chiseling the final touches to the Penis.

He must have been all "Why do I feel I've seen something like this before. Where dammit where have I seen the same shape. Aah...let it be, not like anyone would question me. And if anyone does, I'll send Rahul Gandhi to their home to satiate himself with the last remaining morsel of grain in their house."

Is that the Banana's fault? NO. Is the Banana entitled to feel wrongly done? YES. Is there an end to the Banana's life of shame and suffering? NO. Should the Banana be given a right to speak up for the atrocities it has faced over centuries? YES.

When will people wake up to the plight of the Banana? We fight for women, for kids, for blacks, but when it comes to the Banana, no one gives a fuck. Give a fuck.
What if that Banana was a member of your family, being oppressed and subjugated every single day of his/her pathetic lamentable disgustingly unfortunate existence. Would you tolerate it then. I doubt it. Because supposedly ties of blood weigh more than ties of fruit.

Stand up for the Banana. The Banana would stand up for you. Because it might look like a dick, but it isn't one.
It is a fruit.

Of days Bai Gone

The crumpled sheets on my bed remind me of her. I see clothes strewn all over, like little pieces of misery. I stare at the door, longing for her to walk in and fill my life with eternal joy and happiness.

Oh BAI! How I miss you. Come back soon, its been more than a week and I am running out of clean underwear. I contemplated refurbishing my wardrobe with new set of undies and boxers, because that seemed a lot easier than washing the old lot. Sadly that plan never took off thanks to stupid shops that close their shutters by 8. Out came the deodorant and their claims of long lasting freshness were put to the ultimate test, under extreme conditions. Let's just say if the Axe commercials were true, then all the angels would have been dangling from my dick and slipping off my balls.

The pile of dirty dishes is so tall, that the insects in my house are enjoying the comforts of a multi-storied skyscraper that they can feast upon as well. If I could understand their buzzes or their tentacle talk, I am sure I'd be thanked over and over.

Please come back in your sweaty attire and non-coherent sentences that I don't understand in one go. Bring along your tantrums and even your half-hearted working style. But please come. Its been too long. If you were well read you would have come across the phrase 'Distance makes the heart grow fonder'. Baby, I mean it, every word I mean it for you. From the bottom of my pile of dirty clothes and dishes, I mean it.

If you had BBM, I would send you cute emoticons of my crying and being sad. I would dedicate my status updates on FB to you and only you, if you had an account.

Oh Bai! ab bohot hua, wapas aa jao.

One neat orange juice please, thank you.

This is my usual order each time I walk into a place that serves alcohol. Sometimes it changes to a diet coke, although that usually depends on how gassy I am feeling at the moment.
I'll be honest, I look around the bar after placing my order just to check if I was low enough. What follows next is the silent smirk of the bartender. Who I'm sure thinks of me as some kid who got a high just by walking inside a bar.
But he doesn't know the reason behind my amateurish order. About the horrible medical problem I suffer from. Which is commonly known as the Doctor's Advice.

Some six years back I suffered from acute pancreatitis or pancreitis I am still not sure. It was terrible pain that makes you want to wish there is a god somewhere, who can just clap his hands together and take your life away in an instant. I must have sent him atleast a 100 instant prayers per day to rid me of my pain by snapping the life chord, but I guess those prayers never made it past the ozone layer. So much for the holes in it.

Years passed and I continued to whisper orders without once questioning the doctor's logic. So once I sat at home twirling a stirrer in my neat orange juice, pondering at my plight. Some really startling questions popped up in my mind. Like, there is some problem in my pancreas, but alcohol usually affects the liver. Which means either the liver secretly passes excess alcohol to the pancreas or maybe my pancreas are those snooty neighbours who throw a strop by callign the cops on the party next door. Anyhow, it just didn't make a lot of sense.

But to be honest, I was too tempted to try what I was missing. Call it the lure of the forbidden or the non-existent peer pressure. Non-existent because I am blessed with some lucky bastards who don't let me drink. They think I am a better designated driver than a drinking buddy. And frankly, who has ever got lucky picking up a girl whilst holding a virgin mojito?

I'v decided that I am going against my doctor's prestigious educational degree and well compensated concern. At the risk of drinking myself to an early grave, I've decided to flirt with booze. I've watched people drink themselves silly and act completely bonkers. I want to do that too. I don't want to be the guy who watches people roll on the floor and then takes them back home. I want people to clean my vomit. If not as a friend then as someone who can ruin a nice sofa in their expensive apartment.

Lastly and probably the strongest reason why I drink is so that when I die because my pancreas can't take the load of a grey goose or whatever, people can say 'He went on a high'!!