Meh

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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'!!

Incomplete conversations

Its been sometime since we last spoke. Since we last shared every little detail that makes no sense to the world but us. Since the time I told you I had bad food. Since the time I got sounded off with a warning for doing so. Its been a while since you last told me about you finally settling down in office.
I haven't bored you with football talk in the longest time. Neither have you pretended that you don't mind it.
Its been a while since you're no longer part of my life.

Wading through each day I think of things I want to tell you. Just you. No one else would get it. No one else would get me. My idiosyncrasies have a full access permit to your mind and heart. Every little detail about me finds itself in a remote corner in my mind, neatly packed, never to be opened again. So many times I've dialed your number, only to cut it before the bell goes. I hate myself for wanting to speak to you, when I clearly said I don't want to. I hate the urge to tell you every good and bad moment that passes me by.
I wanted to tell you that I climbed the highest peak in Maharashtra. That it felt good. That I couldn't feel my legs for the next two days. I thought you would like to know that I try and go for a run every 3 days or so. That I found a group who is accommodating enough to let a dilliwala play football with them.
But is it just me? I wonder if you you want to dump on me all those unsaid moments that probably were itching to be released. I wonder if those unsaid moments have found a new set of ears. If you have, I wonder if those ears are as genuine. I wonder of you still watch Gilmore Girls when you need a smile. I wonder if that nose pin still hurts. I wonder if you ever tried to reach out in one sudden burst of emotion, but restrained. Do you still wrap the tea bag around the spoon to squeeze every little drop? Do you look at the milk pot next to it and think of me? Can you pass a single day without once wanting to tell me how it was?

I don't know the answers, but I know you know me. You know me like no one else does. And I know you more than you think I do. But what we both know is the fact that we can't talk anymore. For we know each other too well.

My one trek mind

I am not much of a cards guy but this particular day I was killing it. I was among seasoned seasonal gamblers and yet I had more counters than I could count. And let me tell you, I am so bad at cards that I used to think a trail of colour meant three red cards or three black ones. In all this excitement which stretched till 3 in the night, I almost forgot I had to leave in 3 hours for a trek to Kalsubai Peak - the highest natural point in Maharashtra.

So after finally encashing the counters and bidding a groggy goodbye to the people I won money off, I was off to bed, dreading the sound of the alarm I have truly come to hate. So with unmistakable six-sigma certified irritation, my alarm went off at 6. Followed by equally irritating sounds of friends who were already on their way to Dadar station. I must admit, I came really really close to calling off the trek in exchange for a few hours of sleep. But adrenalin prevailed over laziness, and so did better sense.

I met Sudeep and Nishant at Dadar station and in true mumbai fashion was greeted with well disguised inadvertent pushes and shoves at 7 am even on a Dussehra holiday. Sudeep was wearing a United jersey ( good man!) while Nishant was dressed as if he was about to hop across the whole Himalayan range just to show that he can. Anyhow, amidst commotion, confusion and lack of coordination we saw the 7:30 Local to Kasara leave the platform right before our eyes. We then had no option but to wait for the 8:50 Local now, which meant more morning mumbai maniacs to share the seats with. So we got into the train and managed to wrestle three seats from the morning mumbai maniacs. While perched on cold steel seats with our soft overfed asses, my part gujju genes helped me decode a discussion amongst a gujju group about our destination being two hours away. But I'm guessing they weren't true gujju's because in those two freaking hours they never once took out Dhokla, Khandvi or any other awesome gujju snack.

We got down at Kasara to the relief of our clenched butt cheeks. But a bigger pain in the ass awaited us in the form of taxi drivers waiting to rip us off. Which they did. We spend 550 bucks on a ride that the locals paid 80 for. That moment I felt deep sympathy for the foreign tourists who pay 250 rupees to see Qutub Minar, while our home-grown love birds pay only 10 to see the back of a 14th century medieval wall. Needless to say, we were the foreigners this time. Dresses in our touristy clothes, armed with Nishant's tripod stand, cameras and god knows how many lenses. That man was a walking photo studio willing to click anything from a dumb sleeping crab in the mud to camera friendly semi-naked men bathing in their undies. Our man with the lens saw beauty in everything except for the climb.

On our way we met a friend. A four legged one who kept following us. From now on, he( i saw his balls, plus no bitch would do what he did for us) shall be addressed as Tommy. Only because I haven't met any dog named tommy,ever since that dog name went out of fashion in the early 16th century.He walked when we walked. He ran when we ran. He eased off when we eased off. And he stopped when Nishant stopped. To be honest, our man with the photographic eye had the stamina of a chain smoking chihuahua. He stopped times to catch his breath in only the first 100 meters of the trek. Although I must say that Tommy displayed amazing patience to stick with him, for I would have just bitten the fuck out of him and carried on.
Not only was he a patient guide, Tommy was a courageous fighter as well. You know how people say that your whole life flashes before you when you are about to die? Well, its all horsepiss. When a bull comes thundering down a mud path that is big enough for only one of you, you don't see shit from the life you've been living. All you see is the bull and the fact that you will be mince meat even before you can spell it. I went through the horror of staring a rampaging bull and the only reason I am alive to tell this tale is because of Tommy. He leaped forward to my rescue by barking his guts out at the bull. The bull suddenly stopped, kicked Tommy and then changed its path. I stopped trembling after 10 minutes or so I guess, but more importantly I was alive.

One passing couple spotted the dog trailing us and very proudly boasted with their puffed up chests and sparkling eyes that the dog was a local celebrity of sorts who had even made it to a local paper for being a guide to all the non-locals.

Meanwhile me and Sudeep had already charted out pattern for our climb, which was fairly simple. Walk for 5 minutes, stop, and then bitch about Nishant while he catches up. Our plan worked well for a bit and then eventually a visibly fucked up Nishant gave up his adventurous streak in order to continue the great journey called life. Normally, we don't leave a man behind, but when the man himself wants to be left behind, its always better to scamper off before he changes his mind.

This climb to the top was the most conflicting in terms of emotions. It made me feel great on one hand, as with each step I surprised myself for making it this far. But deeply embarrassing and shame inducing on the other, as I wtinessed women in chappals and gallivanting geriatrics going about the trek at half the distress it was causing us. Now I am no fitness freak, in fact as a punju-gujju who loves overeating I am right at other end of the fitness stick.
But seeing all those locals looking at their puffing and panting city cousins with mocking eyes was a rude wake up call. But we did it. We made it to the fucking top and I am fucking proud of it. Fucking yeah! One more time. Fucking Yeah!

We made it down in almost half the time and ass breaking as it took us to ascend. We even caught up with Nishant who looked fresh as a flower in a flower shop sprayed with water every two minutes. Tommy followed us all the way till the bus stop from where we took seat in a tempo normally used to ferry goods. We perched our aching city bottoms on a tiny little plank of wood where even a rabbit would complain of discomfort. But we slugged it out like brave people who have no other option.

After 5 hours, a congested auto trip, a relatively comfortable train journey in the general compartment we finally made it to our patch. The brightly lit up city, with no trees but buildings. With cars to replace stones we dodged on the trek. The place where the closest I come to a trek is the walk to my apartment.

The three of us then wrapped up the day with a sumptuous meal to fill up spaces vacated by all the calories we burnt on our little expedition earlier. We had plentiful servings of prawn chilli, stuffed bombil fry, tandoori chicken, mushroom tikka, palak rice and dal khichdi. Along with copious amounts of beer for the other two adrenalin junkies and orange juice for me.

One final word - this trek guarantees to rip your butt cheeks apart if you're a couch potato. Which is why I had to tape mine together to wear jeans today.

You don't get it that I get it.

' You don't have to be shot to know that a bullet kills'

The first time I uttered these words, I knew I had hit upon a fabulous insight capable of bringing down all the pointing fingers belonging to the Naysayers. It was like a neatly devised counter-attack at all claims that attempted to undermine my capability of 'getting it' just because I wasn't in the same situation as the person supposedly 'getting it'.

These words when used collectively perform admirably as one giant middle finger to every 'chuck it, you won't get it' ever thrown your way.

No, I would never know how it feels on the first day of chumming. Probably not even on the second or third. Fuck how many are there? Probably equal to the times a boyfriend needs to say sorry for doing nothing. I digress. So, coming back to the point -If girls chum then I have been kicked in the nuts. That too with several different objects of differing weight, sharpness and force. Which qualifies me to sympathise with the pain, if not the reason behind it.

I would also fail to shed a tear or two for the loss of your beloved pug, but my condolences will be real. I have lost toys too. Lost them to fires and sometimes even the depths of the commode. And they were precious to me. Precious because I have always been an above average student. Something my folks never quite came to terms with. For them I was Einstein reincarnated with a callous approach and normal hair. So basically, with grades like mine, new toys were as rare to come by as spotting a semi naked lady with a broken down car on a rainy afternoon, while you good sir are her only hope. Not only of a ride but also accommodation for the night.

So don't look at me with soggy eyes, a lump in the throat and mildly suppressed anger if I don't understand your loss just because I haven't picked up dog poop in parks, or in some cases secretly kicked it in the bushes after the business was done.

Because I can't take a bullet to prove that it kills. But hand me a gun and I will be more than willing to prove my theory.

Sitting Ducks

So its been three months since I shifted to Mumbai. Before I came here, I got a lot of advises like - be safe, avoid crowded areas, don't take the locals.

I merely smirked and feigned gratitude at their concerns, for I was driven by logic and stats. My analytic yet gullible mind thought that post 26/11 the city of Mumbai would be a fortress, as promised by the government. You know how you protect what is more vulnerable. I thought that was the agenda after the horrific 26/11 or the train blasts or the several bomb blasts that now seem passable. I thought tough measures were being taken, as promised by the government.

My belief was driven by the simple fact that no other city in India has been a bigger target for terror than Mumbai. So according to common sense it should now be the safest city in India given the deployment of security forces in their fancy new tank like vehicles.

But it wasn't to be. It was deja-vu all over again. Like some anticipated yet dreaded yearly occurrence.

There was a blast. There were body parts strewn all over. There were horrified faces. There were faceless bodies. There was public outrage. There were police officers at the spots. There were official statements and condemnations.
There was no action taken. There was no attempt to punish the offenders. There was just an open invitation for the mercenaries of death to come and kill some more of us.

This governmental impotency aside, I don't understand the crap we are fed daily in the form of the 'spirit of Mumbai'. Its not spirit that forces people to get out of house the very next day, its need. The need to survive and provide for the family. People are used to such acts of terror that they have accepted it as a part of their daily life. Getting scared and staying at home is not an option for the regular mumbaikar, because frankly hunger kills more people than bombs do.
No one steps out in the face of a tragedy with a Rambo style bandana and wild chest thumps. People step out because that's what they have to do. Life never stops, it just ends. There is no spirit in being one of the many name in a dead list.

25 things about me

1. For me Manchester United is life - the rest are mere details. People give me all kinds of looks and opinions for my obsession towards the club I love.I just turn a blind eye, for they don't know what they do.
2. Ive been on a diet since class 8th.
3. Ive put on a lot of weight since clas 8th.
4. I have a huge ego, and have lost a lotta friends as a result. Fuck it, i don't give a damn!
5. I suffer from pancreatitis. A medical condition under whch I am only allowed to do drugs, but no alcohol.
6. I have come close to dying because of this pancreatitis, twice. This experience has taught me one thing in life...you get a lot of attention when you are close death.
7. I have a small dream to be season ticket holder for life at Old Trafford, the home of the mighty Manchester United.
8. I have a bigger dream of building an OLD AGE home. Although I would never in my life set foot inside it.
9. The reason for which is that I suffer from what I call - an attachment problem. I get attached to things/people easily and to a level that it pains when you let go.
10. I used to be a big time piss taker. Taking people's case for no reason by being extremely rude and mean. Then an angel came in my life and changed me. Thank you Akhilesh.
11. I have six pack abs.
12. I have a feeling I won't succeed in life. Even though I know what I need to do to be successful, I tend to take things lightly. My parents are right.
13. I don't believe in God. Yet, there is always a silent prayer on my lips when Manchester United is playing.
14. I scored the winning penalty in a corporate football tournament. I know what it feels like to win the world cup now.
15. For a good 10 years of my life I couldn't walk straight on the road. For I was constantly making batting and bowling actions with my hands.
16. I am the best actor at acting gay.
17. Adding to the list of my ailments is the problem of Overthinking. I can give the most useless of things the deepest thought and screw myself. I love it.
18. I love spending time at the airport. Not when I am leaving on a flight, but when I am waiting to pick up a loved one. There is no better place than an airport for me when I am sad. I can sit there 24*7 even if i have nothing to do.
19. 90% of my clothes are black in colour. I have donated the rest 10%.
20. If I could travel back in time, I would definitely not go on the trip where I gained 20kgs. I was in class 8th back then.
21. I miss my school. I miss my college. I miss IIMC. I miss Ogilvy.
22. I was at a nude beach in Barcelona once, and I was more interested in the pizza i was eating.No wonder I am fat. I deserve it.
23. People say I am stuborn. I would like to tell everyone, I AM NOT STUBBORN. You get that. Whatever you think is your problem, not mine. I am not stubborn and I shall not budge from my stance.
24. I wish I had spent more time with my dadaji and nanaji. They were the greatest men I know of.
25.I love my famiy. I wish I die before them.

a brief story

Sitting late in an advertising agency makes you do all kinds of things. Of which the most frequent activity is also the most futile. Thinking crap. Stuff that gets you frowns and glares in your boss' room, but virtual laughs on such blogging forums
Stuff that only feeds your ego and creativity, but is of no actual use to any living form. Servicing included.

So one such thought occured to me while holding a brief, while I was wearing one. There are many a common things between the two briefs.
Firstly, let me, for the benefit of those who are not from the world of advertising, explain what a brief is. It is a useless piece of paper handed over to the creatives by the servicing as a document that contains vital information for making an ad. But it is actually a quick and easy way for the servicing guys to feel as if they are part of the team and are actually making a contribution. That piece of paper is then generally used as a cover for wrapping chewing gums that have lost their taste or to make paper planes. Sadly, the thoughts never take off.

Coming back to the topic, these two briefs ( I am guessing we all know what the other brief is. Hint: its not a synonym for short, but quite close to shorts) have a lot in common. So here is a juxtaposition( please visit http://www.dictionay.com/) analysis of the two.

Firstly, one is full of loopholes, and the other just has holes. The loopholes get us in a lot of trouble and as for the holes, we just have to get us in. In either cases, we are left with no choice.

While one brief is supposed to throw light on important parts of making an ad, the other makes sure the important parts stay in dark. Unless you choose otherwise. I shall stay clear of the details regarding this one. Children below 18 have access to net these days.

Both have many forms. Pay a visit to my workstation and come to closet, and i shall show you enough specimens of both.

And lastly, you need to look past one to get done with your JOB. Similarly you have to do away with one to...well I'll just BLOW past this one!

Closest one

Everytime I wanted to update my blog, some kind of problem would always creep up. From lack of thoughts, laziness, lack of thoughts, work to lack of thoughts, you name it.

All these roadblocks clearly pointed to just one person. The one closest to me. To whom I dedicate this post.
This person has been with me through thick and thin, despite my constant efforts to ward him off . He has always taken me for a ride and made sure it wasn't smooth at all.

Whenever I was unable to park my car right before an important meeting, he was there. Sat nicely in the cars occupying all the empty spots.
Every time the guy in front of me in the line got the last ticket for the last show, it would turn out to be him. And along with the last ticket for the last show, he would also have the last laugh.

He opens my fly before a big date. He leaves an earring that doesn't belong to the girl I am driving with, in my car, on the dashboard and makes sure I go over a pothole.
He turns green into red when I am running late for office. Something that leaves me red and green. Red for the fury and green with envy at my lack of power to undo the things he is capable of doing.

It's because of him I walk with my head turned sideways. As I am forever looking behind my shoulder. Only to find him walking beside me, as always.

He hates me I guess, but I don't. And why should I? I am constantly in his mind. He is always there for me, although I don't want him to, but that's another thing. He teaches me not be happy all the time, for I shall not enjoy happiness if it gets too much. He makes sure he is always stocked up with sorrow, so that he can shove it up my ass. Maybe that's his way of making it disappear.

This one is for you, murphy!

The Delhi Dilemma

It doesn’t happen very often, but whenever I am faced with the question, “so where are you from”, I am a little dumbfounded. I don’t know why, but I want to avoid this question. Not because I am ashamed of the place I belong to, but to put it simply, I am not sure where I belong.

Born to a Punjabi father and a Gujrati mother, I am somewhere in between. So that must mean, geographically I am from Madhya Pradesh, but generally speaking I belong nowhere. I am at home whether I am in Gujarat or Punjab, but at the same time equally lost.
Maybe I belong to a different breed called - the Delhite. We delhite’s have nothing to call our own. Put more brutally, we are like parasites sucking on the city as a host. Our territory begins in Rohini and ends with the M.G. road. We cling on to nothing but our forefathers’ long left land long and long forgotten culture. So, what is it that we delhite’s represent culturally? What do we stand for?

To a girl, a delhite stands for a lecherous creature that has no respect for women on the streets. To a south Indian we are those superior bastards who look down upon everything that is a shade darker. To a mumbaikar we are more like competition. To a Bengali we are inhabitants of a state that has no soul, no history.

But to a regular normal punju-gujju boy who now proudly wears the tag of a delhite, we are a bunch of misfits who are basically misunderstood. We have a false image that always sticks like a shadow behind us.

There is a reason a Bengali director makes movies only about Delhi. There is a reason Delhi is called Dil walon ki dilli. There is a reason that even without anything to call our own, we are attributed a lot of things.

As a song puts it perfectly – Yeh dilli hai mere yaar, bus ishq mohobbat pyaar. That’s all we stand for, that’s all we want to be known for. Nothing else.

In the end, this is for a friend who almost puked at the mention of a delhite.

Wait for me

Watch the road and turn back once more,
Look over your shoulder and search no more,
Coz I’ll be there, m just a lil late,

As my legs are paining, can’t run faster,
Lungs are breaking, I am panting harder ,
But when I see you, its worth the wait.

So, wait for me when you reach the sky,
Wait for me when you choose to die,
Wait for me when the cool winds blow,
Wait for me when your heart is low,

Wait for me all this while,
Wait for me, oh just wait for me
The next time you smile

I am almost there, one block away,
Can fall anytime, but you just stay,
Be there when I come, be there for me.

So wait for me, when the clock ticks away,
Wait for me when you pray,
Wait for me when the guns cry loud,
Wait for me when you’re in doubt.


Wait for me all this while,
Wait for me, oh just wait for me
The next time you smile

They are blocking me, I can see you standing,
Turn to me- I scream, turn one last time,
I know you’ve waited long enough,
It’s been too late,
So, if I don’t make it in time, I hope you never wait