Aug 30, 2007

Rear ended

           The alarm blares from my phone, as I sleepily roll out of my bedsheets. I waddle to the balcony and open the door, letting the glorious sunlight pervade my room. I yawn expansively and stretch my limbs, rubbing the drowsiness out of them. A lovely carnatic song plays in the background and calm fills my heart, as I look forward to the day. The smell of fresh morning air fills my lungs, accompanied by the fragrance of flowers and the sweet sound of birds, chirping. Encouraging thoughts run through my mind, as I arm myself with my toothbrush and tongue-cleaner and march off towards the bathroom; a spring in every step and totally carefree. And then suddenly, out of the violet, like an empty bus at Adyar bus stop.... I go blind.
           Imagine three bare bodies in trousers that are too loose to hold themselves up, bending over the sinks, flossing away. What do you expect? Zigackly. An amazing, literally breathtaking array of, yup: huge, deep, hairy butt cracks.
           I go to the bathroom every morning (including government holidays) and right there in front of me is that sight; disgusting enough to make Rakhi Sawant look the pride and honour of Indian beauty. The first time I felt like gouging my myopic eyes out. The owners are not exactly Baywatch rejects to drool at, anyway. Nor are they in any way related to them, to even have a remote chance of being stared at. They are more like those comedy sequence stand-ins for hard core Telugu movies. Only worse.
           In due course, I had learnt to avoid the temporary impairment of vision. However, on certain days when my razor sharp alertness fails, I resemble a burnt transformer for a few hours. One day, out of part curiosity, part revolt, part concern, part jealousy and part core competency value ignorance, I committed the cardinal sin of asking one of them butt-contestants, the reason for their behind-the-scene previews. I immediately regretted it and mentally drowned myself in the Sabarmati.
           One of them says, "It's the heat, dude".
           "Hmmm... Eh...?" I say, absolutely and completely confused. How can anybody attribute their obviously voluntary, display of bottomed geometry to the outside world without having the slightest pity on the poor beholders? Even if they are from the most arid bowels of Tamil Nadu, somewhere around Andipatti, with a thick Indo-Australian accent that is more fake than Veerappan's moustache?
           The next five minutes is dedicated to the brain damage of Chimp by the weirdest logical reasoning ever. Weirder than Da Vinci's alleged, illegal relationship* with Mona Lisa's husband. The pseudo-Aussie tries to clarify his point and says, "Machan, listen. This damned city is damned hot. I damn cannot afford to roast my damned genitals without them seeing the light of the damnable day, at least once in their demmed lifetime. So what do you expect me to damn do, mate...? I have to crash sans my damned Vikings and damned Frenchies and damned Crystals. I am saving it for somebody, you see. Damn them! ". And he winks conspiratorially. Urgh. I slide away, nodding and grinning, like it made amazing reason and absolute sense. It apparently did not. And never will. Even to Michael Jackson's lawyer.
           I still manage to brush my teeth, trying my level best to avoid those bodyline deliveries. Occasionally, when they are in a real good mood I am treated to them nature's aberrations with great fanfare. But I am not ungrateful. I know I can be worse off.
Like them, for example.

* "His story was my inspiration for Brokeback Mountain. Brokeback was supposed to be an anagram of Leonardo. But it is not." -Excerpt from Ang Lee's unwritten autobiography.

Aug 25, 2007

Rat-a-tat Ta da!

         It was the third time in the same week that I went speechless. No; it was not because my jaws lost the sense of motion after watching Paris Hilton's new video. It was for far more positive reasons.
         The first time was totally unexpected. Exactly a week ago, it so happened that my hormonal upswings were hitting an all time low and I was nowhere near to completing my secret mission of eloping with a gorgeous female by the end of the term. I was pissed and bored. So was Dfock, who was wandering around, aimlessly within the campus with a semi-drunken look. Looked like his self-proclaimed girlfriend had self-ditched him again and our man was totally down among the garbage, trying to sweep himself up. And so, in a machiavellian task of weeding out the evil thoughts that corrupt young, guys' minds and provide them with grades that would help children learn the alphabet in reverse, quickly; we both set off to watch Transformers. We never regretted the fact that we were female-less. We were totally stunned. and of course, speechless.
         The second time was when my splendid marks came. Sometime during the week when I was prancing around in vague happiness, with no idea of the disaster. It was so sudden, that I never knew what hit me until I tripped in the bathroom and banged my head against the soap tray. I broke the soap tray in anger and walked away with a stinging palm. It was really too much.
         The third time was neither unexpected, nor unannounced. I knew about it and I had been waiting for it, for quite some time. It came. I saw. It conquered. (Sheesh. Sounds too corny, even by my standards. My grammar is slowly going to the chihuahuas.)
         Anyway, there are some things in life that are never worth missing. It may be small - a miniscule part of your long, happening, happy lives. But it may make you think in the future about the past. You may find yourself asking the same question again and again, like Siddhartha Basu with short term memory loss, "Had I done it, would it have made any difference?" You never would know. And so, I end my discourse on the parallel thinkings of Sir Walter Scott, with regard to his philosophical ideas surrounding the length of expectation and effect governing a two hour long, visual pleasure that mostly involves digitalized puppets on a big, flat, vertically inclined sheet of opaque material.
         I am extremely sorry for the above digression. Too much of them French dialogues, French accents and French kisses. Take my word. Go for it. Every scene is worth every franc. Bon appetit pour toi heart!

Aug 22, 2007

Dont stick 'em up

         I simply love him. God knows why I do. I am not embarrassed to admit it. Honestly, sometimes he does his job only too well. In spite of being one of the 1001 useless facts of the country, that I do not understand a word he says most of the time, I fell in love simply by the mass female following he commands. He looks like He-man on Dr. Reddy's diet pills, with a hair style that would easily win the modeling design award for the head of Harry Potter's next broom. He is getting too old and his voice wavers too frequently nowadays like a naked man sitting on a huge block of ice. And yet, he has magnetism. He did literally pull me and a couple of my fellow comrades to watch his movie. And screwed us over.
         There are times when you find a movie extremely appealing; the simple innocence of it all says everything. It gives you a happy feeling, like you have watched something eternally worthwhile, something that you can use as a starting topic to yack with your girl friends, when you catch her in a not-so-good mood.
         Chak de, India does not.
      With loud, rotund Punjabi females, a hot female with a hot cricketer as boyfriend, a local, illiterate country jerk, a fiery, small midget and a team that has never made it big and never will; the movie is not clichéd at all. It is very well taken with amazing camera work, that does not give you a head ache. The fast paced screenplay is riveting to say the least, with originality that oozes out of every scene like mayonnaise. The humour was simply awesome and was not boring at all. My sides are still paining from laughing so much. I, in fact laughed all the way to my dorm room and I am still laughing at myself. The music was like honey, tomato sauce and Dabur chywanprash all mixed together. I did not feel like sawing my ears away at all. In addition, all the actors, especially the hired audience for the matches acted really, really well. I was so taken up at their disappointment when India failed to win, that I literally cried like a baby. It deserved a collective Oscar, at the least. Never in my life, have I seen so sensitive an audience who are so fanatical about the country, but somehow manage to wave the flag upside down. But the scene that stole it all was during the intermission when the entire hockey team, walks out after fighting away a bunch of local goondas (who had obviously messed with the best), with team spirit and unity shining out of their eyes - in a perfect V-formation! This scene was historic. It will be copied down the ages in every sports movie hence made. Or has it already been?
       By the way, I do not know what sarcasm means.
      Rajeev Masand, I came to find out is one of the worse movie critics I have ever come across. How can somebody call a movie, that is lifted straight from three English movies, dialogues and scenes intact, to be visually and ideologically appealing, is beyond my tolerance level and I've already blown two arteries. I very badly wanted to pour a bottle of sulphuric acid down his pants and rot his genitals after he gave his damned review.
      One man stood out though. Shah Rukh Khan. I am being serious here. I loved him. The movie rode on him as it always has in the past. This time he was exceptionally good. If not for him, I would have murdered both my friends and surrendered to the Gujarat Police.

Last word: Patriotism apart, promoting the same by making plagiarized movies that are terribly clichéd is not the way to do it. It just degrades movies like Rang De Basanti and Iqbal, each of which though far from the topic, portrayed what it wanted to say, in its own domain, effectively to a greater extent with sincerity. And which people still do not find the ability to appreciate. It's a pity. Deep below, we are Indians after all.

Aug 19, 2007

Programmable Logic

           What is more harder than teaching a circus elephant to dance to a telugu song, by making it watch a video, wherein Chiranjeevi lugs it out with a female, old enough to be his grandson's illegitimate girlfriend? It is trying to think straight, with a song from any Ram Gopal Verma film running in the background.
           I was undeterred, though. I was bidding my time. The timing had to be perfect. I waited and waited and waited with patience and perseverance; remnants from studying an ancient subject called Human Resource Management (HRM). Kept my mind numb for that ever slight moment of lull that would occur. I did not want to falter. And then it came. It was the remix of Mehbooba and I pounced at the opportunity like a goat on steroids. As the rubbish song rattled on and on, I loosened my mind and started filtering out the necessary information.
           Seconds ticked away, the song was rising to a rather loud, irritating crescendo, that made you wish that you were better off among a pack of wolves with bad colds and I was still searching for the final scrap. That little mite of a rogue was lost totally. I was simply unable to locate it or recall it. I commenced sweating in gallons. The song would get over any second. I rummaged in a frenzy and approximately two seconds before the song got over, I struck golden gals. Rubik's cube!
           I felt so elated for no apparent reason that I wanted to kiss the first human being, be it man or woman or Vidya Balan. My elation bubbbled over and I feel a bit of it still, which is why I erroneously added an extra 'b' and not because I am a patron of that branch of fine arts, which we all very fondly refer to as porn.
           The program was complete, with all the relevant details, guaranteed to grant preferred results. With numerous side effects of course.
           Here is the NASDAQ approved, HSBC certified, N*A*S*H idea-of-the-century awarded 7-point program,

1. Vague point
2. Good point
3. Point of seductive statements
4. Main point
5. Cash point average
6. Suicide point
7. Match point

           If the program makes no sense, it was meant to be. And if it did make sense, please let us know.

Aug 11, 2007

In Search Of A "Solution"

           On a normal day, devoid of anti-aircraft missile testing and professors running off to Namibia, we have a twenty break between classes to empty our bladders, have a quick chat with would-be-girlfriends, grab a cuppa and laze around in the sun before we are driven back into those well known loads of drivel and sodden theory. In fact, it is those cuppas that save us from snoring our way to a dream sequence with Malaika Arora's grand-daughters and grand sons (if any), in class. If not for that life saving draught of hot beverage, the campus walls will crumble from the collective sounds emanating.
           I seem to have a problem which I have never been able to figure out for a long time, like most of my problems. I know this much. It starts the previous night when I come back to my room after class, strip off my trousers (females, get a grip on yourselves and resist the temptation) fling it onto the nearest chair and crash. The trousers lie forgotten like some ancient mummy until it is excavated by me one fine, dark day when I discover that my dhobi has eloped with his mistress taking with him all my precious clothes after having seduced her with the same. Until then, I lose all memory about the trousers and it's back pocket. And the contents of the back pocket as well. And then my mind seems to lose its marbles all of a sudden.
           In a totally disconnected track, of late I have never been able to find my wallet which is why I am standing in in front of my class, yearning for that elusive cup of coffee.
           In due course of my long and arduous travels from section to section and building to building, I have come to find out, to my utmost satisfaction and pleasure that there are other people whose dhobis too have eloped taking with them, half their wardrobes with which they have seduced their respective mistresses.
           I tracked each one of these poor hapless souls, created a database and laid plans for the final undertaking. One fine day, when I thought the time was riper than the mating capabilities of a moth, I called all of them and organised a meeting in the utmost secrecy.
           At the meeting, I explained to each one of them, the reason why we were here and the plight of the community in general. The group slowly evolved into an underground movement devoted to the noble cause of providing our poor, ailing bodies a strengthening potable. We called ourselves the OCs.
           We, in due course of time, after several torn slippers and spending mosquito/bedbug/cockroach-ridden nights in the local jail, have developed a seven point program which we had to implement. The execution and the results will, in all probability be the object of discussion in my next post.