Music and lyrics

If a continental youth wants to declare his love to a girl, he kneels down, tells her that she is the sweetest, the most charming and ravishing person in the world, that she has something in her, something peculiar and individual which only a few hundred thousand other women have and that he would be unable to live one more minute without her. Often, to give a little more emphasis to the statement, he shoots himself on the spot. This is a normal, week-day declaration of love in the more temperamental continental countries. In England the boy pats his adored one on the back and says softly: "I don't object to you, you know." If he is quite mad with passion, he may add: "I rather fancy you, in fact."

-George Mikes, How to be an Alien

It's that season of the year again when one tends to get a wee bit soppy. More the continental in the above context, if you will. It also helps when it's pouring outside, one's child has the half-yearly exams coming on, and mummy has taken full control of affairs. Going out is ruled out by exam and weather, and having gotten hold of a half-decent Maths tutor ensures one is rendered fairly redundant in the household. Having a dram of ol' Scotland in stock can't hurt. What does one do, under the circumstances? One can listen to one's favorite ghazals, watch the rain yonder through the window panes, and ponder. Quite a nice way to be!

Ladies and gentlemen, I then present you, what I've been listening to.




Kabhi yun bhi aa meri aankh mein ke meri nazar ko Khabar na ho
Mujhe ek raat nawaaz de magar uske baad sehar na ho

Woh badaa rahiim-o-kariim hai mujhe ye sifat bhi adaa kare
tujhe bhulne ki dua karoon to dua mein meri asar na ho

Mere bazooomein thakee thakee abhi mehr-e -khab hain chandni
Na uthe sitaron ki palki abhi aahaton ka guzar na ho

Woh firaaq ho yaa visaal ho, teri yaad mahakegi ek din
Woh gulab ban ke khilega kyaa, jo chirag ban ke jalaa na ho

Kabhi din ki dhoop mein jhoom ke kabhi shab ke phool ko choom ke
Yun hi saath saath chalein sada kabhi khatm apana safar na ho

If I have a problem with the the original poetry of Bashir badr, it is that the ghazal doesn't have a suitable climax. It fails to really build on the first two brilliant couplets. However the matla' alone is enough to make it count as an all time favorite. While I simply love the Hussain Brothers' version, the same, alas, I can't say about Jagjit Singh's. He seems to have taken a beautiful love song and turned into a wailing in pain directed towards the divine. I can understand the grave personal trauma he was going through at the time when he recorded the song in 1991, but still.

For months now, I've wanted to translate the poetry. From my lame attempts in the past, you'd know my bad propensity towards doing it in rhyme. Here, then. Promise not to make fun.

Appear in my vision once, just so

Naïve eyes do not need to know

Stay with me but a night, just so

Dawn never breaks on the morrow.

Praise be to God, may He please

Bless me with a virtue so rare

Pray I might, make me forget you

He must never answer my prayer

Wrapped in my arms, one kind dream

Lies still a pale and tired moon

The stars won’t fade out just yet

Heartaches won’t fall asleep so soon

Together, or far apart, your thought

Like incense, on my mind 'll grow

Flourish like a blossom how can he

Burning in flame who’s yet to know?

Basked in a bright summer sun

Kissed by the night in full hue

Strolling forever hand in hand

May our odyssey ever continue

p.s. I've since managed to embed the song sung by The Hussain Brothers.

Irshad!!

I don't know what is the deal with social drinking. You ask somebody "Do you drink?"-"Y'know, I'm only a social drinker." What does that mean? Nobody ever says "Like a fish." Though most of them do. In society.

Ours is a nation of wannabe dancing stars. Middle aged men and women get sloshed in polite society with the objective of inflicting on us their dancing talent. Ours is also a nation of intellectuals. I have spent many an evening listening to them after they've had something to drink. Socially. They'll pick up a slipping thread of discussion. On anything. Danny Boyle to Masood Azhar. And they'll talk in circles. All evening. I have a dear friend who'll eventually get Stephen Hawking into all these threads. Needless to say he has a background of theoretical Physics. He's also a social drinker. Thank heavens for that. He'll never drink alone. He'll call me up, "Dear fellow, I got this twelve year old malt. But y'know I'm but a social drinker. Come over one of these evenings and be my society. And do hurry lest somebody else gets social sooner."

Me, I'm not a social drinker. I don't drink like a fish. I mean, not any longer. Gone are the days for me when juice of a lime and aspirin used to be the breakfast of champions. Today I drink like the devil. I measure fluid ounces and I shake. Or stir. I like to make a ceremony out of having a drink. Because I can't have too many. Oh no no don't get me wrong. It's not the Doc's orders. Who listens to them in these matters anyway? It's just that with age I've grown allergic to hangovers. As I get better and better with every next drink, I forget how much I can drink without having a throbbing skull next morning.

The news that started me on this whole thing was this. Now I, feel a bit loosened up today. I feel the need to rejoice. Maybe this evening I'll relax my norms a little and seek society. To celebrate this historic event. And we'll stroll over to Mesrs. Darbhanga General Stores and buy a case of the good stuff. Achtung, Bangalore! Jharkhand has arrived.

Tauba tera Jalwa

I live in a funny place. Let's see. The other night I got away quiet as a cat, to catch the late show of DevD. I was Desparate. Asking the missus along was out of the question. Firstly, this is the exam season, and she's busy with young Ayushi. Moreover I sensed she might not like it ( I'd heard the second half dragged a bit.) As luck would have it, the screen (screen, is an overstatement. It's actually the friendly neighborhood movie hall) was showing only matinee and evening shows of the flick. For some odd reason, Speed returns(hindi)U/A was showing on the night show. Not amused, I quietly crawled back, to many a jibe from wifey and dear daughter, gleeful at my misadventure. But did I give up? Hell no, I Was desperate.

Thus it happened that this afternoon I played possum and left office early, feeling terribly guilty and all, remembering the hazy old days of bunking school as a kid to watch Shakti . There were, in all, about thirty people in the theater, none of them older than 20. I was in a time warp. I was quite enjoying the film. Then, fifteen minutes from the end, with the story going around in circles, oh, another one of those childhood miracles. Blackout in the theater. Did I mention time warp?

It took inordinately long for the show to resume. After what seemed like a hour and a half(but was actually seven minutes), during which I'd completed two phone conversations and was now seriously weighing my options, action came back on screen. The film dragged to its compromise ending. Am I glad I stayed back till the end? I don't know. But boy did I enjoy my absconding schoolboy act? you bet.

Watch more Dailymotion videos on AOL Video

About the movie. Anurag Kashyap has a way with scripting. Like everybody else is saying, the first half is flawless. If Anurag's treatment has grabbed you by the collar from the very first frame, towards the end of the first half he lifts his craft to such a crescendo, it's like, where do we go from here?

Abhay Deol. One hears Amir Khan has kept a dog named Shahrukh. This lad can raise a kennel full of Khans one of these days. It's a pity his films are hardly getting mass attention. Then maybe it's better this way.

Mahi Gill. What can I say? Watch her to believe. In many ways she became the essence of Paro than in any other version we've seen. You'll say her role has been written too well. But then, you get a feeling she has that ability to redefine every character she plays.

I could go on about every bit player. But the truth is Mr. Kashyap has given his characters so much meat and so little greasepaint, you get to like his folks instantly. I simply loved the three singer/dancers who act as some kind of set prop to Dev's decadence. They reminded of the three balladeers in There's something about Marie, yet so different. It was funny in a very dark sort of way.

If Devdas, as in the original, was essentially about love lost and self-destruction, in the modern day version, he is more about lovelessness and decadence. He can get so bad he'll make SRK's Dev look like a teenager stealing a smoke by the side of the school gym. At the same time he'll be infinitely more vulnerable with his skinny frame curled up in just a pair of dirty jeans on the brothel floor. Coming back to it, that is the whole point of Anurag Kashyap's interpretation. One feels mighty impressed by his work. Towards the denouement of his film he looks a little lost, true, but that's acceptable for somebody with the kind of storyline he has taken on.

I'm afraid I'd given a miss to No Smoking owing to bad reviews. But come March, I'm not going to miss Gulal. It'll be fascinating to watch where Mr. Kashyap goes from here.

I'm out
(as in "I've outed myself", more commonly used for gay people exposing their sexual orientation, though not in that sense)











Nobody really wanted to see what I look like. I know. However, the editing of these videos was a painstaking process. Took me the better part of a week. I wanted to put up at least micro clips somewhere on the web. In these clips, the bespectacled fellow with an oversized round balding head is me. (many people have compared my features with Subhas Chandra Bose). Likewise the missus and the lass.
We'll be traveling to Khajuraho, Bandhavgarh and Pachmari with a brief touchdown at Jabalpur the second week of March. Anyone who can share some travel tips esp. the journey from Khaj to Bandhavgarh and availability and rates of vehicle rental in the area, please do. I'll be grateful.

p.s. As compared to utube which sucked big time, Vimeo was a breeze. Uploading speed was fantastic and features offered for a free account were great.

Get a life
(Background score :
I wonder why nobody don't like me
Or is it a fact that I'm ugly?)


For many many months now, I've seen people summarily dismiss and humiliate people just with the expression "get a life." Now, this would be quite acceptable if the recipient of the insult was overly stressed over where did Kim Kardashiyan get her tattoo or who does David Beckham's nails. But what of those people who have got a life that seriously curbs their, um.., life? At least one definition of the phrase suggests it can also mean get a paying job, or something to that effect. And here I am so weighed down by a day job, my e-life languishes. I look overawed at the blogs of the Bertie Woosters and Ms Butterwicks of today who never seem to worry about paying the rent. They appear to have all the time in the world to seek out every WTFness in the news, attend movie premieres, art exhibitions and fashion shows, travel countries, and then manage to put up meaningful and entertaining blog entries almost everyday. Such beautiful people! I wonder why do I put in so much effort to even try. Where can I even start? Where are these lives, waiting to be gotten?

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It's a mean season. This is that time of the year again. The kid has an exam on Environmental Studies on the morrow. Announced only today. It's evening, she's cramming, and her mother is helping her cram. In these matters I, in the household is as much help as the pest control during a cardiac emergency. Nay, as the fitness instructor during bridal makeup, or, better even, like a quarterback in a home run. I could go on, but I sense you've got the picture. I'm completely out of depths, much useless, kaput. Even then I sometimes saunter in on their study session. The results are like this :

(Fill in the blanks Q&A)

Mummy: During a case of nosebleed, you should ______ on the head of the patient
Daughter : .......................
I (hoping against hope): sit?
Daughter : pour water
dark stare.

Mummy: you should also ask the patient to breathe through his____.
Daughter :...........
I (a bit more hopefully now): eyes?
expletive.

Mummy: you should furthermore ask the patient not to __________.
Daughter :...........
I (in utmost earnest): be impatient?
At this point I have to hide in the bathroom to avoid flying objects. Apparently blowing the nose was that one taboo. Who'd have thunk?

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I've decided to get away a little tonight and watch DevD. Alone. It's sacrilege even to propose such a joint outing to the missus at this hour of crisis. If I come back happy I'll try to write about it. The 12 Mb clip of the first part of travel video has failed to upload on utube after a good night's effort. I'll retry.

In the meantime, bitten by Naren's bug, I've written this little couplet :

O beloved Balma, I could die to see your one smile
Tho' with all your lipids, I'd rather you ran a mile

Don't take chaddis lightly!

On a fine day many moons ago, we were in the presence of RK the sage. (I believe I've introduced him earlier on this blog). Being the keen observer of human situations he is, RK was making his trademark original observations. Presently over chai, we got talking about the improved buying power of the middle class in India, their good life thanks to a rising disposable income and nonsense like that. Somewhere in the middle of it, RK wondered aloud : "All you ever talk about is a better standard of living. How is it better, I ask you, when I still haven't got more than a coupla chaddis in good shape. It never went from two to three. The old ones will retire in a week whenever I buy a new pair." This was quite some years ago, and the observation struck a chord. For until then, we used to buy chaddis in pairs and inevitably, not too early. The concept might sound a little dated now as we're well into the American way of life. Then again, maybe not. Consider this. If we buy two, we get three free. In no time, two of them mysteriously disappear from the clothing lines (or the machine eats them, I'm not too sure) and we're back to status quo.

But I'm not back after a longish break to theorize on chaddis. In fact, I'm mighty peeved over the way the venerable chaddi is being tossed about over a piffling non-issue. For one thing, I don't really fancy the celebration of Valentine's day. In fact I'd go so far as to contest the very existence of such an institution. You may well argue that this is because back when I was young, it did not exist, and I never got to waste my parents' money on the occasion, and you'd have a point there, but what the heck anyway.

What I prefer however, is something more direct and impacting. More importantly, something one can afford to give away freely (after all you don't give away something you've got only a pair of, at any point of time). Why not send to the Sri Ram Sene something which they should think is more alien to Indian Kulture than chaddis? Something that suggests immoral activity in their eyes more powerfully? With that objective, I'd send them this over the coming weekend:


p.s. We hope to resume regular programming pretty soon. It's just that of late the urge to post has ebbed a mite. We watched Slumdog and tinkered with the idea of damning it with faint praise. But valuable days passed by. We'd been preoccupied. Among other things we were caught up in post production work for the DVD release of our last year's vacation video. The missus gave an ultimatum that there'd be no vacation this March unless we finish the video beforehand. We plan to post a clip here. In the interim, we are trying to watch Vicky Cristina Barcelona and write on the experience. Coming March we'll be off to parts of Madhya Pradesh, plans for which are underway. Hopefully that will be good for more stories after that trip.

p.s.2 All of the above is bull, of course. All I need to do is keep off the Savita Bhabhi forums if there's to be any hope for this 'ere blog.

Update : I swear on my chaddis I didn't know of their existence at the time of going to press. The thought had just occurred independently to me, I guess, though in a different way.

Good luck, Mr. Gorsky
warning : Long post.

People always say, "You should have your money working for you."
I've decided I'll do the work......I'm gonna let the money relax.
Know what I mean? Because you send your money out there...working for you, a lot of times it gets fired.
You go back, "What happened? I had my money working for me."
"Yeah, I remember your money. Showing up late, taking time off. We had to let him go."

-Seinfeld, The stock tip.

Unlike Jerry, it won’t be easy for me to put all blame squarely on my money. Why, it was doing quite well last year. Not like it had suddenly developed a drinking problem or started doing drugs this January, which finally, would completely bring him down in October. Had I gone to his workplace to enquire, the response I’d most likely get should be, “Oh, we knew your money. Among the finest we had. A sharp kid, he was. None of his fault, actually. These are difficult times, sir. We had to close down the whole division he was working in.”

I know. This is all my doing. I should have called him back in time. “Son, that’s no place for nice people to be working in. I think you should stay home and keep warm under the mattress for a while. Heck, read something, get a degree if you will. I’m sure there’ll be openings for you at a later point.”

I have a friend whom for good reason I call the mad professor. He is somewhere in-between what you’d call piquantly eccentric and stark raging mad, leaning as far towards the latter as a demanding career in academics would allow. For apparently no fault of mine he insists on calling me the Corporate Honcho. Can’t imagine what I’ve done to deserve this. So, the other day, mad Prof calls and asks, so, how’s the Honcho doing? Had to tell him the Honcho is sitting on his haunches to closely observe the depths the stock market can plunge.

Have to mention another friend here. Now let’s call him Mr.Gorsky for reasons I’ll not get into until later. Like many a respectable bloke, he was patently skeptical of stocks till late last year. Then one day in cold January, the bug bit him. Everybody around him was making too much money too easily. He couldn’t take it any more. He was into a bit of liquidity at the time. As it happened, the market crashed down under the weight of his investment. It was like, he put some cash in, the stocks went down a little; he averaged, the market went mean. He sunk a little more, it dipped lower. In no time he was out of cash and the market, outside the standard range of deviation. Still our Mr. G was all tall talk.

“By January 2009 you’ll all see, the sensex will cross 25000.”

“I’m in it for the long haul, man, and I’ll clean up double my money in two years time.”

We used to snigger. This made G choose a quiet modus operandi. Every month, with his paycheck, off he goes, to throw some more good money after the bad. It would not be such a bad idea if he stuck to big blue chips, like every analyst on TV seems to suggest, though I don’t see them actually doing it. No, he is all into his Lando Infratechs and Warren Finances and God knows what other exotic stuff. In the matter of picking stocks, he blindly trusts his broker, who periodically feeds him all these tips. I know the broker; he is actually quite a nice guy, not a common trait among his tribe. Irony is, you can trust a nice guy only with things he has some control over. I tried to reason with Gorsky, “See, feller G, you can trust feller B not to defraud you or stab you in the back, but how can you trust him when he promises no rain on Thursday evening? Be reasonable, will you?"

By now I'm convinced bailing out Gorsky is the only bailout we need to put the economy back on track. We've discussed it among friends. We made an offer to G to raise among ourselves the amount he is in the red for, and let him quit at evens, if he promises to stay out of stocks. Doubtless it would hurt us all a lot in these tough times, but what's to be done has to be done. The economic situation can ease out only if G is persuaded to disinvest. But he would have none of it. He'd say, "Guys, don't you know, this money, quadrupled, would see my daughters through college?" And we'd say, "Good luck, Mr. Gorsky."

I think we should appeal to Mr. Chidambaram for mandatory implementation of the Gorsky bailout package. In case you don't catch the Gorsky reference, the original joke is at the bottom of this post.*

Since I started with Seinfeld, I thought it fitting to end it with another big influence from pop entertainment. But Peanuts was never big on economics. After much research, the best I could come up with was this:

*When Apollo Mission Astronaut Neil Armstrong first walked on the moon, he not only gave his famous "One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind" statement but followed it by several remarks, usual com traffic between him, the other astronauts and Mission Control.

Just before he re-entered the lander, however, he made the enigmatic remark "Good luck Mr. Gorsky."

Many people at NASA thought it was a casual remark concerning some rival Soviet Cosmonaut. However, upon checking, there was no Gorsky in either the Russian or American space programs. Over the years many people questioned Armstrong as to what the "Good luck Mr Gorsky" statement meant, but Armstrong always just smiled.

Just a few years ago, (on July 5, 1995 in Tampa Bay FL) while answering questions following a speech, a reporter brought up the 26-year old question to Armstrong. This time he finally responded. Mr. Gorsky had finally died and so Neil Armstrong felt he could answer the question.

When he was a kid, he was playing baseball with a friend in the backyard. His friend hit a fly ball, which landed in the front of his neighbor's bedroom windows. His neighbors were Mr. & Mrs. Gorsky. As he leaned down to pick up the ball, young Armstrong heard Mr. Gorsky pleading with his wife about something and Mrs. Gorsky shouting at Mr. Gorsky. "Oral sex! You want oral sex?! You'll get oral sex when the kid next door walks on the moon!"

*Source : here

Other fish to fry

Did you miss me? I guess not.(then proceeds to drink a jug of water and leak from hundreds of bullet holes in his body to demonstrate the point) - The mask

Hello friends. In case you were wondering, which I'm certain you weren't, yours truly had been alive and well and in the meantime attending to generally uninteresting stuff. Been going through a dull phase, with nothing worthwhile to report, and the old creative ying dying a slow death.

On the duller side of things, fish in my daughter's fishbowl had been dropping off at a steady clip. Now, at the very beginning, had I googled a bit on the subject, like I do with most things including finding a proper euphemism for dying, I'd have known instantly that the most suitable fish for keeping in fishbowls are the Siamese betta. They are the piesces equivalent of career convicts who are most at ease inside their 8'x8' cell. The wide open world bothers them so much they keep doing bad things. I've seen a betta live in a wine glass for weeks in perfect contentment. The local pet shops curiously call them the fighter fish. I haven't seen them fight with anybody. In fact, in a multiracial environment, they are most likely to seek a nook and hide in it. We had one in our bowl. That fellow would hide inside a faux bush all day. Coming up for food once in a while seemed for him like too much trouble. One day the pearl gourami killed him. But we'll perhaps come back to that.

Back on the subject of choosing a fish, instead of doing a little research, at first we went by whatever inputs visual media gave us. And beautiful fat goldfish in bowls were all the rage over tv and print. What is it they have against the poor goldfish, these hateful media men, is something I might never understand. They have caused more deaths in the goldfish populace by inducing people to keep them in bowls, than perhaps Henry Ford did among the human race by introducing them to automobiles. Goldfish in a bowl is easily the most unreliable creature on the face of the earth. Now you see them having one helluva party, eating and shitting in wild merriment. You saunter off to the kitchen to fix a little snack, having gotten a little peckish yourself, y'know, just looking at them. What with having a snack, taking a call, catching a TV show, you might get delayed by minutes and next time you look, one of them will be belly up. Happened to me coupla dozen times. I never count on goldfish not to die on me without prior notice. Inconsiderate bunch of quitters, I call them.

Nowadays, we've gotten wise. We now keep only those fish which the pet shop boys call hard fish. I think they mean hard to kill. The Steven Seagulls and Bruce Willes of the fishworld, y'know? We keep Gouramis, tetra, assorted colored carp etc. Even these manage to die under mysterious circumstances. I suspect there are evil spirits of dead fish haunting that bowl. My daughter is keeping a headcount. The day we kill our 50th fish, we'll throw a party and feed them all some pork chops and tuna salad.

All these talk about fish reminds me of a scene from You don't mess with the Zohan, the new kickass comedy caper from Adam Sandler, ideally watched on the home theater on some evening when the kids have gone to some birthday party or something. It's not actually sexually explicit, but many scenes may not be fit for family viewing. Watch this where Zohan the crack agent of Mossad is about to capture a Palestinian terrorist, and they are challenging each other's pain endurance. Enjoy!

Mouse on the house

It's a peaceful evening at the Pronto household. Ms. Ayushi is at her study table steadfastly battling her demons, namely : Averages, Angles and Decimals. At this particular instance there's a vicious quarrel brewing up between some stubborn supplementary and complementary angles who won't listen to to the voice of amicability. They insist on extracting their exact degrees of flesh from this squabble. Ms.Ayushi is in fact contemplating the prospect of seeking arbitration from daddy, who's in the next room in front of his PC reading worthless blogs. She doubts this will be a happy scenario, 'cause daddy, while pointing to a solution, has this nasty habit of running down people who are unequal to resolving such minor tiffs between angles. Those people include mommy, who has washed her hands off Maths ever since Ayushi went to standard five, into the grim world of fractions, geometry and other goblins. At this very moment, mommy is grappling with one of her endless phone calls, which threatens to eat into her appointment with sa-re-ga-ma-pa.

All in all, a pretty picture of blissful domesticity, with all indications that God has turned in a bit early for the night after a long week at office( sending another half a dozen i-banks packing), seeing all's well with heaven and earth.

Suddenly blasted to smithereens by a deep, lusty, soul-stirring cry of eeeeeeeek emitting from Ms. Ayushi's room. Followed by mommy slamming down the phone and running into cupboards and bedspreads with a broom in hand. Such a commotion that even daddy has to reluctantly abandon his schemes of changing the world, pondering on the latest entry in Dilbert blog.

Peoople will ask why all that fuss over a puny liddil mouse. What they don't seem to understand (to paraphrase John McCain), is that nothing can put on a homeowners' pride and self-belief a bigger dent than a rodent in the house.

The military attache' at the White House placed a frantic call to Pentagon : an wild moose is scouring the lawns, threatening national security. Get in touch with the Governor of Alaska ASAP......oops, wrong war story. Truth be told though, SOS calls did get made to various corners of the map. Ayushi's mom calling most of her relatives for advice on assault plan and damage control. It all ended with Daddy running to the nearest mom-and-pops' and heckling them into opening their store well past ten. A pack of ratkill was secured. Chuha jisse kha-kar, mare bahar jaa-kar. Ayushi promptly announced she'd sleep the night on her parents' bed. No, make that every night, till the mouse is gone.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Dead at night, with Ayushi fast asleep save occasionally mumbling something about a mouse creeping over her pillow, the missus tells me she had wind of this. Well in advance. "Y'know, I used to get a mousy smell. Everywhere. In every nook." I'm like,"what, do you mean you kept smelling a rat? And I always thought that smell was about dead rats and financial scams only? Never knew live mice had a particular smell too."

For the next three agonizing days, the mouse kept eating the ratkill. Part by part. Only it didn't seem to be dying. It was very much alive. And it was having one hell of a bowel movement. maybe the Mortein company made sure their poison was full of fiber. Maybe it was meant to go out to defecate and die in the process. The mouse never made that mistake. Everyday, the missus would find inside cupboard and bed boxes, rat stool in quantities I myself would've been proud of as a homo sapiens. Oh for the iniquities of being!

"Hubby, our plan doesn't appear to be working."
"Who do you think you're dealing with, dear lady? It's a mouse, it should know all about the best laid plans."

"Y'know, dear, we should go get a mouse trap."
"What? No, no, no, not tonight, old lass. Tonight I'm not in the mood for Mrs. Christie. Tonight I'll be with Sir Pelham."

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They say, (with apologies to The Boss)

You can't kill some vermin without getting blood on your hands
This gun's for hire, even as you're just dancing in your pants.

How the mouse was won, is not a pretty story. It involved gore, a broom, heroics from our maid, and other icky stuff.

Our maid is getting a hefty bonus this festive season. And we're driving down to Kolkata for Pujo after two long years, glum in the knowledge our books and blankets are safe once again. Wish you all a happy Pujo, Dussera and Navaratri !

My wife has information from the grapevine there might be bomb blasts this Durga Pujo in Kolkata. I doubt it. Militants never pick Kolkata. Didi is doing enough here already towards disrupting public life.

Khaak-sar



I often enjoy watching films that no one else seem to bother with. Like these two films I caught lately. One, with great potential, competent cast, some sort of an improbable storyline that's the stuff of most great comedy, some witty one-liners and smart scenes here and there, but altogether a waste of effort. Another, the second from a line of awfully fucking disrespectful films that have come to define a genre. The genre which is neither ABCD nor American Pie. But first let's talk about Mallicka Sherawat.

Ooh, the way she turns at the door, makes a face and throws Khaak-sar at Kay Kay Menon ! Maybe Maan gaye Mughal-e-azam could be endured once just for that moment. And all that at the end of a spate of hilarity from good old Sanjay Chhel, where he does 'fun with Urdu', an oft-visited terrain in Bollywood, but still manages to turn out some originals. Consider this.

Kay Kay (to Pawan Malhotra) : Thode Mashruf hain bhai, kal baat karte hain.
Pawan : Mushroom kha rahela hai to kya hua re?

Kay Kay: Don bhai to bahut bade fan hain hamare mausiki ke
Mallicka: Kiski mausi? Aap ki mausi bhi singer hain? Meri mausi bhi gaati hain. Bhajan.

While Mallicka and Sanjay Chhel keep the show running, Paresh Rawal and Rahul Bose keep ruining it. About Paresh, we needn't elaborate. Nowadays he unfailingly gets into this loud bigger-than-the-script mode. So extremely annoying, everybody hates him for it. About Rahul, I think he is a misfit for this sort of a game. Not his forte. He's much better understated. His flaws with comic timing is exposed here every now and then.

In the end, it's Ms. Sherawat's film. Say what you will, but I can't help feeling sorry for her. She needed a hit at this point, and God knows she did all she could, and then some. But all her efforts lay wasted in a product put together in a hurry, a product running frequently out of funds by the looks of it, a sad mishmash in all hues of brilliance and shoddiness. Sigh!




When you are among the presence of the great Kumar Patel, you tell your sensibilities go see a man about a dog. Or some other animal.

In this, their second outing, Harold and Kumar are a much improved lot. They are no longer gawky undergrads posturing as adults. Now they've come of age. Now they aren't out of their depths even while smoking weed with Dubya. Then they have this conversation with the Prez.

-Dude, this is weed.
-That's Alabama Kush. That's only the finest.
-So you get high and then you put other people who smoke weed in jail? That's so hypocritical.
-Yeah? Well, let me ask you something, Kumar. You like giving hand jobs?
- No, sir.
- You like getting hand jobs?
- Yeah.
-All right. Well, that makes you a fucking hypocriticizer too. So shut the fuck up and smoke my weed.

Exceptional vision has gone behind that scene. Makes you see why everybody loves America. By the way, if you haven't heard Micky Avalon's brand of genital-bragging rap yet, do click the above utube link. Awe inspiring, I should say. All in all, a coupla hours well spent. To hell with propriety.

Stand up and deliver, Sir!

To : depgdnb@rediffmail.com
(Kind attention Shri Sri K.N. Prasad, DE(PG), O/o GMTD, Dhanbad)

Dear sir,

I am a consumer of BSNL landline phone service residing in ****** Steel City, Sector-IV, Quarter no. ****. I have a landline connection with telephone number 06542-****** and consumer no. 98060475. Since May.2008 I have not been receiving my telephone bills at my residence. For the bill dated 11/05/2008, I had downloaded the bill from your web address http://www.jharkhand.bsnl.co.in/billquery.htm and deposited the bill amount. However, now the link on that page for Dhanbad SSA (59.94.89.203) too has stopped working for the past two months. Since I did not receive my bill dated 11/07/08 on time and neither could I download it from the internet, I was waiting for the bill to eventually arrive and pay with late fine. But it never arrived, and this morning outgoing calls from my number has been temporarily suspended. On contacting the local exchange, I was informed that it was the local SDO’s responsibility to ensure delivery of bills, in which there was a failure for whatever reasons. I was directed to collect the duplicate bill from their office and deposit. This is a very inconvenient situation for me as I will now have to waste time and effort on collecting a duplicate bill. Moreover, I apprehend repetitions of this incidence in future.

Having understood that BSNL has little or no control over timely delivery of telephone bills, I would like to request you to henceforth kindly arrange to e-mail me my landline telephone bill at the following mail ID : **********@gmail.com . This will help avoid a lot of harassment to a loyal consumer and ensure my peace of mind. Thanking you,

Yours sincerely,

(Partha Protim Chakrabarty)

Frankly, I don't believe for a moment mundane affairs like this should be put on a blog. Neither do I expect anybody to read through the long-winded grievance. It's just that I've got a good feeling about this. I remember my earlier panga-s with behemoth PSU corporations. Both these cases were marked with phenomenal and completely unlikely success since I decided to ditch the old world route and use electronic media. And in both cases success arrived after I posted them on zis here blog. Yes, I know this is mere correlation not causation, but for me it has become like the pale blue shirt I used to wear to interviews.

This time around it's Gormint machinery I'm up against, so I'm keeping fingers crossed.

A game of hardball


My uncle and his friends used to play ball. My uncle and his friends used to play ball on lazy summer afternoons. My uncle and his friends used to play ball on lazy summer afternoons at the Green Garden club grounds.

OK, OK, enough. What I'm driving at is, my uncle and his friends needed to raise some cash at times, to write off and replace a tattered old ball. We all did. In fact this could be the story of my own life too. Only I didn't have the one of a kind friend like my uncle did. But I get ahead of myself.

Well, my uncle and his friends would go dig into their saved pocket monies and put their athannies or whatever it would take in those blissful times, into the common kitty. Off they would march to the Unique Variety Stores, to purchase the the finest soccer ball of the day, a size 5 fake Adidas.

Then, after the dust had been sprinkled down on the Green Garden soccer field, and the battle lines been drawn, the territories marked, and the ball about to roll (I could talk in cliches till the cows came home) and there was but a bated breadth between the whistle and forty-four feet engaging in combat, from somewhere a shrill voice of discontent would spring.

It would later become clear, that Poltu kaku had had some tiff with people in the group over the choice of the color of ball, or his wish to play in the center forward position in his team, or simply that he wanted to have golgappa on the way back from Unique Variety with the leftover cash, which he was denied. Intricacies of the discontent need not be gotten into, for all that mattered now was that Poltu would not allow getting the game under way. Not one inch, any which way.

"What do you want now, shithead?" the big bullies glared down at him, but the puny Poltu would glare back with equal force. "Give him his athanni back and kick him out of the football field", somebody would proffer. But Poltu was by now squatting on the ball in the middle of the field and he would have none of it.
"Shove your athanni, who wants it? I want my share back."
"But that's all there's to it, that athanni was your share, ghonchu!"
"No, I want my share in this ball. I want a slice of this."

I really don't remember how my uncle and friends got out of it with their balls intact, it was such an old story. But I'm certain violence was not an option. Poltu's dad was the school headmaster and his elder brother was in the NDA.

I guess Mr. Gandhi, Mr. Bhattacharya and many other well-meaning people of Bengal should go ask my uncle and his friends.

Update : Looks like they did, this morning.
Update 2 : But then, did they learn the secret technique after all?

The interview

Last night I dreamt I was facing a job interview. A tough, no punches pulled, "bizarre, new world" job interview. Now most people who have a faint idea of who I am and what I've done so far with my life, will be quaintly amused with the absurdity of the notion. The last proper job interview I attended was in the wee early nineties, when people were still sending telegrams, and the blogger and the fan reunion was more than just a motion away. In recent years, whenever I'd gone to discuss an opening with some prospective employers, they seemed to have a fair knowledge of the archetypal me. They never ask me about my strengths and weaknesses, or, why did I think my skills would be a good fit for the job. They know, to the exact decimal point, what I was capable of not doing, by dint of my sizable experience in not doing anything in the capacity of a technical manager in a behemoth organization. And whenever the subject of dope would be broached, lots of rolled up eyes and muted laughter on their part at the remunerations I'd require. As a rule, these discussions tend to culminate in perfectly amicable disagreement over the issue of moolah alone.

But this being the season of cross-voters and cross-dreamers, what should I dream of but this, a bizarre, tough, new world job interview. Say your howdys to Anita Bruzzese. Her idea of such a interview questionnaire is like

• If you could be any character in fiction, whom would you select?
• If Hollywood made a movie about your life, who would you like to see playing the lead role?
• If someone wrote a biography about you, what do you think the title should be?
• If you could compare yourself to any animal, which would it be and why?
• If you were a salad, what dressing would you be?

She has a theory it brings out grace under pressure. That there are no right answers, only the manner you respond which is analyzed. Surely they would have a manual for this. Y'know, the shallow drifter sort for thousand island, the power exec for blue cheese, and likewise? Set me thinking, and I pondered over it for long before dinner. Then I had this dream.

They were interviewing me for some job. Oddly, they were asking me personal questions. Oddly again, the interviewers were all pretty young women in their 20's. I know, men will be men, and one is allowed such liberties while dreaming.

If you were a cocktail, which one would you be?
If you are an MP who has cross voted, which party you'd rather be from, and why?
If you could marry a celebrity, whose husband would you be?
You suspect your boss is a closet gay. What color clothes would you wear to office on a Friday?
You're the leader of this terrorist outfit that is into serial blasts. Which city will you do after Bengaloor and Ahmedabad?

The second one was a sitter. I blurted BJP even before she finished. The fourth one I'd cross check with Mr. Shenoy. Apparently he's done some research in the area. The last one was not a happy question. I was in no mood to answer.

My happening lifestyle

Delivered as an insert with the morning paper. Captivating. As adverts go, one hell of a job dun.

In other news, the perfect bloody Mary still proving to be elusive. Do I have a future in food photography? Think not.


With the annual liquor license renewal drama in effect in these parts, practically any kind of booze is elusive in the neighborhood. It's like the tramp said "who do you have to f*** to get a quart of Vodka around here?" We try and get by. The booze shops remain closed. A lacky hangs out nearby. You slow down and peer. The exchange takes place fifty yards away near some shrubberies. So much for law enforcement.

I've devised a drink, which, for some reason I call The Hotshot Russian :

2 1/2 oz Vodka
3/4 oz fresh lime juice
rock salt/kosher salt to taste
1 tsp tabasco
Black pepper powder (optional)

Stirred with lots of ice. Garnished with black olives. We like.

Cherche la femme' chèvre

This is the new resolution we've passed. Henceforth, on every new post, we'll include a strip from Peanuts. Something that suits the mood. Please bear with us.


I don't even know why I'm writing about this. The incident is in no way significant. Not funny, neither outright tragic, nor of great shock value to our inured minds. Only reason I can think of, (besides that I've got way too much time on my hands) is that it says something about the thought process of yours truly. Something I'll be reminded of, when I come back to this page years later, and mutter, "So, I've been like this only".

I was driving down to the market in our small town a few evenings ago. On the way, there was a a confused-looking mob on the road at a busy intersection. Somebody asked us to turn around and take a detour. The crowd was swelling, somebody saying something about an accidental death. It didn't look like any automobile was involved. We didn't wait. Later at the market , I was told somebody got electrocuted at a faulty electric pole. Power supply to that particular area was cut off for the night. I didn't think about it much at that time.

Next morning at work, while having chai, a colleague was narrating the incident in great detail. The summary is like this. You see, there's a line of butcher shops near that intersection. Late afternoon, a goat escaped from a butcher's place and went scurrying into a nullah. It was a busy day at business, so the butcher called a ragpicker loitering nearby and asked him to go bring the goat back. On the bank of the nullah there was a transmission tower of some mobile network. There must be a live cable leaking somewhere, 'cause when this grown-up male ragpicker went near the nullah, he did not come back. Word started spreading. The scared butcher went to the local police chowki and reported the incident.

The station-in-charge, seeing no merit to the case, sent over an old hawaldar with a known drinking problem. His brief was to cut power, recover dead body, inform next of kin for identification and send the body over for autopsy. While carrying out the third part of the agenda the policeman got a bit jittery. He was getting late for his evening appointment with the bottle. At the door of the dead man's shanty he called out for his wife and unceremoniously gave her the bad news. She was asked to come and identify the body. But the woman started to wail or something, causing delay, and the hawaldar lost all patience. He roughly dragged her by the hand. This is when the mob had risen. The onlookers suddenly got really pissed and they grabbed the old sod and started lynching him. Things went out of control. A full contingent had to be called in and the area cordoned off.

Later a DSP came and apologized to the local people. The hawaldar was suspended. The traders of the area called a Bandh the next day. The usual.

Only, after listening this far, I had to interject, "So what happened to the goat?" Tell me, was that an unreasonable question? Everybody seemed to find it very amusing.

P.S I suppose everybody is familiar with the original reference.

P.S.2 And do try calling in sick on a thursday once in a while and drinking vodka through the day. Busts a lot of stress, I tell you.

My wandering mind and all


1. power outage baby
Years ago, the power went out in San Francisco for a long time. Nine months later, there was a certain increase in birthrate. If you were born nine months after a power outage, you are a power outage baby.
e.g. Thomas is a power outage baby.

The last coupla days we had a major power outage. It prevented me from finishing a longish dissection of Chetan Bhagat. It also reminded me of this phrase from urban dictionary. That in turn reminded me of a term of endearment we frequently used in college. Which, euphemistically translated, would read like, "born out of a burst prophylactic." Amazing how the human mind works, huh?

Like I said, I was in the middle of a diatribe on 3 mistakes, a shallow novel for shallow people like me. When the pointlessness of the exercise hit me, I was too far gone. So I thought I'd post that anyway. However, there were other, more significant matters gnawing at my mind in the meanwhile. Namely, what makes Savitha Bhabhi such a rage?

No, I don't think the site targets the minds of young Indians and is more harmful than many other mainstream porn sites, like some enraged people think. I don't even believe the site will appeal particularly strongly to the teenager of today. What it appeals to, greatly, is the fifteen-year-old in all of us greying and about-to-grey Indian male. Those who grew up not on electronic media, but on those thin books in yellow covers, hidden inside textbooks. Though the visuals seem to heavily borrow from mainstream adult entertainment of today. Didn't see much of reverse cowgirl and DP (links NSFW) in those good old yellow-cover days, eh? That way, it embodies the best of both worlds. Plus the serialised strip format. Always keeping interest alive for tomorrow's page. Yeah, that's the secret of her success. By the way, the page would do better to add an age verification thing at the start, for that's the standard procedure for attracting underage viewers.

Speaking of their standard procedure, I'm reminded of the many many BAD places I've gone to on the net. Which in turn, brings us to the crux of this post, an anecdote on what may come off going to those places. This was an incident involving a colleague, one Rajesh Kumar (name changed).

This was in the year 2000 or 2001, way before India had seen broadband. Our Rajesh had recently acquired a dial-up connection at home. One night, after the family had gone to sleep, Rajesh got a little naughty and adventurous. It is difficult to ascertain exactly where he started (it was all so long ago) but desibaba, a great site of those days, would be a good guess. One click, however, led to another, and presently, old Rajesh was in the land of bliss.

Exactly what triggered the onslaught would yet again be difficult to guess, cause by then, Rajesh was clicking away with gay abandon, but it must've been a loose click on some entirely wrong button, and all hell broke loose at once. Cascading windows started to open on Rajesh's desktop. All pointing to very nasty places, with lurid graphics and stuff.

At first Rajesh tried his best to close the windows as they opened. But, this was clearly a battle of unequals. If Rajesh had been blessed with three pairs of hands with half a dozen mice in them, he could still give those windows a run for their money, but such was not the case. So the windows kept cascading @300/min and Rajesh' eyes were popping out.

I know you will jump up and ask why didn't he invoke ctrl-alt-del. The answer to which is i) Dear Rajesh was a technically challenged person, (he still is) and ii) he had lost his nerve at that point in time. By the time he got around to try and shutdown the pc, it had stopped responding completely.

Rajesh then, had no option but to cut the power. In fact, so shaken was he, he yanked off the power chord from its socket as well, for good measure. He then went to the kitchen and drank two tall glasses of water. The house was quiet, everybody sound asleep. Rajesh took deep breaths. Twenty of them. He gathered himself. Only then did he sneak back to the pc and boot it.

But this evil malware, it had him by his balls by that time. It had a bulit-in dialer (we later gathered from his narration) which sat cosily inside startup and connected as soon as the OS loaded. The windows came roaring back again! Much credit to his ready wit, Rajesh knew what to do this time. He pulled out the telephone line from the modem. He said, "Take that, bastard!" and waited.

I guess today nobody uses IE anymore, but there's a feature with IE which used to be very handy in those days of slow speed dial-up. It allowed you to view full pages offline. Somebody must have turned on the feature on Rajesh' computer, and it was not him, for it was clearly beyond his ken (again, something we figured out later from his account). That feature now told heavily on rajesh' already pounding heart. For even with the modem disconnected, his screen was rapidly getting splashed with those lurid windows. Rajesh held his head in his hands and stared at impending doom. A sweat broke out at the back of his neck. It was the end of January.

Rajesh looked towards the bed where his six-year-old son was sleeping. Like other geeks of his generation, the brat would start the pc first thing in the morning and engage in Mortal Combat.
Morning was but six hours away. What's Rajesh gonna do?

I've loved these days

A good Sunday is one that starts with a benign hangover. Like today. I woke up with a dull head full of bad beer. Been to a wrong kind of party last evening, where the tandoori chicken was cold and the beer was lukewarm. The dance floor, it had all manners of riffraff thrown into a 30'x 30' space. There, you get the picture, so I won't dwell on it.

As a result of which, this morning. Has anybody ever tried swimming to cure a hangover? In my case it was less an act of experimentation and more of compulsion. My ten-year-old dragged me to the pool. Given that I'm a swimmer of repute and my jig involves covering the breadth of the pool on the shallower side swiftly with clumsy strokes, (never get into more than five feet of water, that's the secret of my long and successful career) I thought the water that usually gets in my nose should clear out the old sinus and take care of the heavy head. It didn't exactly turn out that way, but the idea should not be written off. I'd recommend more trials of the method, when need arises.

Coming back to this here Sunday. A Sunday morning should be ideally spent doing nothing. Now, doing nothing is serious stuff, never to be underestimated. Within permissible limits, one can watch television, preferably off news related programming. One can casually read the Sunday papers, without much attention and comprehension. Reading a book would be an automatic disqualifier. My brand of doing nothing involves something like watching the daughter play Dinner Dash 2 from a distance while trying to read a Sunday supplement and advising her on strategy to cross level 12. Top that.

A school buddy calls long distance. No, make them two. One calls, the other speaks. Rajib the hot shot consultant, has been given a Blackberry by his firm, Indranil the pathologist reports on the said berry. (Actually these buggers are in a Sunday adda session with other friends, in another school buddy's smallish flat. Six-seven grown up people, who get endless rounds of tea and fries from the hostess without gratitude. They openly criticize her cooking. Seema, with amazing grace, never gets mad. She just threatens murder sometimes. These lucky sods! There had been times when I got up early on a Sunday and drove 300 Kilometers to join them.)

I've never really wanted a Blackberry myself , but these are moments to be properly envious and sarcastic, so I manage "A black berry at his age? Let's see, so how many years to go before he gets the blue berry? And the red ?" Rajib : "Very funny. Now store this number on your strawberry, for it will be my number as long as I stay with PWC." Me : " Until you move up to PWD?" Sweet badinage. Round one, a tie.

On a beautiful decadent morning like this, I hear Billy Joel.

Like only he can write :

We light our lamps for atmosphere,
And hang our hopes on chandeliers.
We're going wrong, we're gaining weight,
We're sleeping long and far too late.
And so it's time to change our ways …
But I've loved these days.

(Yawn)..Sleepy again after breakfast. See you after this nap.

P.S. In other news, I've finished Namesake in a record nine months time. Now I've started 3 mistakes which I hear is a real page-turner, so I hope to finish it in a month or two. People have writer's block. I got a reader's block.
P.S 2. Oh that Vodka, I forgot. Great drink. Recommended by a great man. Ooh, I am smelling apples already. Time to fix me an Applebottom Pimp before lunch.

Words, words,words

I've recently taken issue with certain words that have come to represent the uber-chic of today. Given that I'm quite the philistine when it comes to high fashion, and the swinging high life in general, my point of view must not be taken seriously.

1. Ombre' Source

n. A French term meaning "shaded." Usually a multicolored stripe, with colors graduating from light to dark. The color effect is woven into the fabric. Generally produced by arranging different tones in the warp.

That doesn't even begin to convey the madness associated with it. How many times have we seen a halfway decent design idea stifled by overkill and a little French? Besides, what's so original about that light to dark theme in the first place, I ask? In Kolkata, in the early eighties, everybody and there uncles were wearing "loadshedding shirts", so ingeniously named after the ethos of the times ( loadshedding meaning powercuts) in which the light used to slowly go out top downwards. Exactly like the ombre' of today. I had one such beauty in red, though I don't have pics to show, alas!

And while we dwell on this, I have something else to ask. Does the repetitive ombre' also qualify? I mean I've had this shirt for some time, which I sparingly wear because I suspect it's too flashy, has it now fallen into the HOT category?


I really need to know. That shirt cost an obscene amount by my standards. I would love to save it from mothballs.

2. Bling

source

Def: Preity's necklace is bling. I have it on good authority.

Now here's a potent word. Can be used as one-off or in repetition (bling-bling), as a noun, or a verb (maybe adjective even, though I haven't come across that usage.) While this is otherwise a good strong word, what intrigues me is why something which makes an ejaculating sound should be used to describe gaudy jewelery. Nah, I'll discount that joke about mother explaining to kid how she gets her jewelry. Really, who needed another slang for funky tinsel when worthier candidates like himbo and farticle are begging for induction?

3.Bicurious

I love the word "bicurious". I also love Shah Rukh Khan. Yes, I know that'll take some explaining, so please read on. I think SRK is a master of repartees. A coupla years ago, when someone asked him "Are you metrosexual?" he replied, "No, I'm just sexual." A coupla months ago some intrepid scribe hinted " Are you bisexual?" he retorted " No, I'm Trisexual. I keep trying." (Laugh tracks)


Source

But I'm still curious. I'm bicurious. No, not in THAT way, the horror! (I'm completely, what's the word now? 'heterorigid '; and I want to stay that way, thanks very much) I'm just curious to know if certain people are bi. Like, say, SRK and Karan. Like, say SRK and that Ramphal dude now. Just curious, y'know.

There, I've said it. I'll now prepare for the worst. Possibly libel action, maybe death threats. I'm afraid. Very afraid.

4. Trapeze


Source

A beautiful word that evokes visions of scantily clad beauties flying high in the air. Curse on those fashionistas of today who have brought it to denote tent-like billowing cuts suited particularly for mid-heavy women and expecting mothers. Need I say more? O irony, how cruel can thou get?

I had a few more of them on my mind but seem to have lost steam. Contributions from my two-and-a-half readers will be greatly appreciated.

Heavy Duty

This was one heavy weekend. It was shaping up differently at the start, of course. Listening languorously to this favorite rendition of Faiz by Mehdi Hassan saab.

Aaye kuchh abr kuch sharaab aaye
us ke baad aaye jo azaab aaye

baam-e-miinaa se maahtaab utre
dast-e-saaqii meN aaftaab aaye

har rag-e-KhuuN meN phir charaaGhaaN ho
saamne phir wo be-naqaab aaye

kar rahaa thaa Gham-e-jahaaN kaa hisaab
aaj tum yaad be-hisaab aaye

na ga’ii tere Gham kii sardaarii
dil meN yuuN roz inqilaab aaye

is tarah apnii Khamoshii guuNjii
goyaa har simt se javaab aaye

“Faiz” thii raah sar-ba-sar manzil
ham jahaaN pahuNche kaamyaab aaye

Idly wondering how the poetry would read in translation, I looked up for something by Agha Shahid Ali. Couldn't find anything. Not on the net, that is.

With that same laziness I started playing with the first couplet. And got drawn into it. It took up all my leisure these last three days. I'm not particularly proud of the effort. I know I've flayed a golden rule of translating shayari. I shouldn't of gone for rhyming verses. Anyway here's what we did manage.

Let the clouds close in; bring on a bottle of wine, rare

Come hell or high water then, the devil may care.

Moonshine on my cup alights, at brim, the urn'd pare

The enchantress' hand, then, pours me the sun, a-flare.

Let a ray of light race thru’ my veins, burn in desire

Beauty, step out of your veil again, do me ensnare.

Pondering myriad dolors of my life, alone, I declare

My cruel concubine, always on my mind, you were.

The tyranny of your grief, inexorable, hangs in the air

Each day this bleeding heart rises in rebellion, despair.

In the heart of emptiness, echoed a silence as it were

A hush harked back, from here, there and everywhere.

Destination lay in this journey we took, dear Faiz

Success, ours on every step, far as we did dare.

Knowing fully well that this is a pretty lame job, I can't but disclose a small smile of satisfaction from the first verse. Two cliche's packed into one single radeef ! I felt like that MP from Yes, Prime Minister who could " talk in cliche's till the cows come home."

Thanks Aligarians for complete lyrics

P.S. It occurred to me last night. Does the rhyme remind you of Bianca Castafiore's piece de resistance ? OK. OK, never mind.

The Surf's rising




I was not always this idle blog surfer who has little else to do to see him through his drab and dreary days and lonely evenings. No siree. Yours truly used to get a little more in the way of amusement, the thrills of life, the rush of adrenaline. In other words, I used to have a life. It's another thing that I never quite learnt the parameters of having a life. Having a career that's fulfilling and rewarding may not be one of them I guess. That'd render so many people lifeless, apart from me. Playing and partying hard may be another indicator. I was never a party person.Been a decade since I last put bat on ball, too.

Besides other unmentionable games I played, I was quite fond of playing the markets. I have a good mind to come back to the unmentionables in another post, but that'll wait. Tonight I'm in a, what's that word? peculiar pecuniary frame of mind.

Once upon a time, I had a very small amount of money. Some monies, if that's what it'd take. Definitely not many monies. I took them to the market. No, not just like that. I'd mostly keep them in my savings account. Where they'd earn a robust 3.5% for most of the year. I'd wait for dips in the market and put some of these into stocks. Sometimes the market would heat up and I'd sell. This went on for about two years. I'd aim for an ambitious 25% p.a. on my net worth, and end up with a promising 11. Not so bad, huh? Prudent investor, that I was.

Then this January, it melted a little. I put in a little. Next day it was dripping. I put in a little more. Then it started to run down the drain. I was in denial. So I put in all I had. They took the shirt off my back and hung it high on their wall and threw me out into the street. Cruel Wall Dalal Street.Then they restricted entry to men without shirts. So that's what brings me here.

Don't let yourself run away with the idea that I'm bitter. I'm not. I'm not trying to whine either. Actually I've completely quit worrying about them small monies. I only ponder sometimes on the BIG monies they're going to bring back. Yeah, that'll be the day.

What I've observed in the interim, however, is a very interesting phenomenon. And that is the crux of this post. I've found out that the art of making a purchase decision gets infinitely easier once you are out of liquidity. I'll elaborate. Let's say we have a dining set which has seen twelve years of wear and tear. I've been getting hints at the home front every now and then. Let's also say my PC has of late started crashing and restarting without provocation. The vendor says it's with this mo-bo. Better get a new machine, sir. All of this going on while I had those some monies in that savings account, remember? But I can't spend it, no? It was earmarked for investment? Then again, is it financially wise to borrow for petty purchases while you have the cash? No. So these decisions were put on hold. All of this past year.

Then one day I didn't have the cash anymore. So wifey falls for that monstrosity in chrome and glass, and I hear myself say, "sure thing, momma." The hardware man yaps about this new pocket-friendly core-2-whatever processors and 2 Gb ram and I say, "why, bring it on!" at the snap of my fingers.

Now that I'm in a debt situation and just about able to breathe with difficulty, I've started to secretly drool over that 42" bravia x-series ( eludes me why Sony should name it like that). Me worry. It's been telling on the last reserves of my prudence.

There's only God to thank, ( and maybe Bernanke, or, Bush, or O'bama, or Chidambaramji, I don't know, whoever deserves my gratitude, kindly accept) I've noticed lately that the surf seems to be rising a little. Which means I can now see my investments lurking like distant shadows below water, as opposed to lying at the bottom of the occean. It gives me a notion of semi-liquidity. Nobody knows if it will hold, but at least now I can hopefully put off my tryst with Sony Inc. for another year.