Pink bell bottoms at 5 AM!

I woke up thrice before even the alarm went off at 4:30 in the morning. 1:30, 3:30 and the at 4:30.

The first time I woke up, I remember I was dreaming a sequence where I had kept my bike out on the road and I, clad in only my biking shorts and a 6-pack (of course! Hmpf!) was spraying soap water all over it in slow-mo, a la John Abraham. I also had dark shades, but I am yet to figure out why I was wearing it at 3 AM in the morning in the dark. Also, why I was spraying soap water at 3 AM in the morning. Hmm. Am sure Sigmund Freud must be stirring in his grave right now trying to explain this.

Anyways, while I was spraying soap water (in slow mo, mind it!), I saw an apparition in the distance which looked like a female walking towards me in a shy yet assured manner. And she was smiling! I tentatively looked behind to check if she was smiling at me or the gate watchman who was sleeping. She was looking at me! And as she walked towards me, I thought I heard the tinkling of her ear rings. And her rhythmic gait added to the beauty of the entire situation. I think I was in love.

I suddenly saw I was standing atop a huge drum in a beach, seated on my Schwinn Sporterra with lots of colors being thrown around and lots of beautiful women dressed in traditional sarees dancing around the drum. I myself had shed the biking shorts and was dressed in pink bell bottoms and a jazzy blue suit over it with an even jazzier red and green shirt underneath it! Ah! I was loving it. I felt like superman in a 50s movie!As I saw around, I saw the entire beach filled with drums and everywhere there were other men seated on the cycle with women dancing around them! Oh no, wait! They were actually more of me! My goodness! I could not believe it!

But strangely there was no loud music or drums or anything of that sort. All I could hear was a constant tinkling sound and the women dancing to that. I looked around and in pure NTR style, I started to tell the female who was by then dancing around me to “put aan some moosic, I say and then dhance baby, dhance!”.

Everything fell quiet suddenly and I found I was standing in front of my table looking at my cell phone which was ringing at that time. And I heard my mother calling my name from inside and asking me to stop the alarm. I stopped it and quietness fell. I looked around the dark room. No spray, no cycle, no female and certainly no 6-packs. Damn.

I freshened up, checked my RSVP for the BFB meetup, confirmed the location, collected my accessories for the bike, got into my biking shorts and stepped out into the dark 5 AM morning. As I checked my bike, I looked around out of the corner of my eye hoping to see you-know-who. In resignation, I rested my hand on my little tummy, which was not even remotely related to anything resembling a 6-pack.

I shook my head, strapped on my helmet and with dreams of one day standing atop a huge drum in pink bell-bottoms I rode on for my Saturday morning ride!

Vital Stats:Total Distance: 19.5 Kms, Cyber Towers –> ORR Entrance –> Gachibowli Stadium –> Left towards Aparna Sarovar –> Back to Hyderabad Central University –> Left towards Botanical Gardens –> Kothaguda Junction.

Total Time taken: 50 Mins (2 breaks of a minute each)

People: HBC Riders, Mukul, Dinesh and myself.

State of mind: Distracted by the pink bell bottoms and the female I saw

State of body: Nice and fresh!

Take aways: Get a cyclocomputer, carry some money and keep a steady pace.

Cykil Maastaru!

Prejenting from the land of Orakil, Googil, Unkul and the Aapil, Soreassu – the Cykill Maastaru!


Everybody pleej do clapping and shout big big words in big big voice! Hello Soreassu, this is your family.

Jacku, Smartu, Lazy, Kissu inka Dumbu! See, this is family ficture.

They are all to be happening your cousins, OK?  no no, not distance. Not own brother-sister also. They are all happening to be somewhere in between. tch, got it no? Like, 19-20? Here and there? Like that.

So, Jacku. cheppu. cheppamma.

Hello, i am Jacku. it is shaart farum for jackassu. sometimes in the naarthlo, they call me jhakaas. I ask, enti undie jhakaas? And they show the “first class” fingering style in their hand and also do winking at me!!?? Ayyyo! I am thinking why they do all that? They do not have father-brother at home?  Anyway, why i am called Jackassu, nobody know. I think it is because i tell everybody I like jack daniels when I am in Hyderabadu. But I only ride an donkey in my native drinking coconut water and toddy. hehe. i think it cool. but sadly, others think it uncool. What assulu! By the by, i am your unkul’s sister’s elder brother’s cujin.

Not with sword, I say, I will kill with eyesight!  Ha ha! By now, with the Balayya dialogue I crack, you might know I hope that i am Smartu – your father’s brother’s elder son’s brother.

I am also deep meaning poet. I will give egjhample:

Better smartassu than a dumbassu (my other cujin!), is what I always say,

let me tell bro, being a smartu is not eejy way,

fishlu will swim and birdulu will fly

but I will be Smartassu till I die!

How it is? 🙂 Ok, i know, i need to change Balayya’s dialogue now.

Babu, Lazzyassu? where you are? tell about yourself no? This Smartu is always talking0 talking! You should talk more to aal peepul, ask koschans about them. Why always sleeping like gunny bag, munching chipsulu and watching only Baba Ramdev’s Yoga on TV? You do shavasana anyways. you don’t change channel also, atleast go out do some pzical activity, you are the warasht fellow, look at soreassu, he is doing cycling to work, thinking of running aalso, so many good good things…

Hi, I am Lazyassu. I am your father’s uncle’s sister’s….ayyo, forget it…you hear my aunthee. It is ok.

… and you do not want to move your bum an inchi, why you are like this i am having no idea at all….

You are right Aaunthee. Lazyassu is really lajee. He does not do any werk also; you do all the hard work, cook nice food, clean house, do laundry, give us aapils to eat, you do so much Aunthee. very nice you are. Oh, soreassu, I am Kissassu. Ayyo Aunthee, wait undie. You will get tired working alone. I will come and do chatting with you so you have timepass and feel fresh afterwards; then, we will have some tea and biskuts. How you make such nice tea aunthee? please teach me aalso no, today….

Why are you called Soreassu, babu? Is it because you have a sore bum? Why you have sore bum? Oh, you are having cykil now? And you are cycling to work aalso? Why? How it will help save money when you already spent so much on the cykil no? Oh, you shout inside car at other people who put horns unnecessary. they are horny people babu. don’t fight aganest them. but why you shout? you also put horn no. anyways, it is because of tummy you buy cykil. I understand now. you want to lose weight, be more active and all. but why? you do not have gf, you do not have wife, you are divorced i know, very sad (or very happy, maybe). so, you want to lose weight because you have bf? ay ay yo. ok, but problems are there even if you have bf, baasu. ask me. tch.

Oh, also you bought some jing-bang with it – helmet, glovesulu, ayyo. Oh, you already start cykil to work? you also do cykil rides in weekend? you go round round for 15-20 kms with some other people? why? it is fun? why you do on weekend when you cykil to work?

oh, that is why you name this blog as http://www.bumsandbrakes.com?

But why you are called Soreassu? Hmm. I do not understand anything, I say.

Oh, by the by I am Dumbassu. Hello!

Wham Bam…

…you’ve got spam!

Spam

verb /spam/

  • Send the same message indiscriminately to (large numbers of recipients) on the Internet

noun /spam/

  • A canned meat product made mainly from ham
  • Irrelevant or inappropriate messages sent on the Internet to a large number of recipients
confucius say   /spam/
  • Spam is like Japanese driver in Indian traffic, be safe but you will get hit anyways.
  • Spam is like Indian driver in Japanese traffic, honk in No Parking zone and get towed away.
  • Horny spam, honk repeatedly.
  • Man who confuse sperm with spam, date wrong thing.
  • Man who write bulls***, get more of the same.

Just came across this spam comment on my last blog post. Not that this was the first time, but it just felt so apt. The made-for-each-other types, the perfect glove for the hand, the right tie for the shirt, the right drink for the mood. You get the picture.

Thanks about the tremendous related information right here from your net, this is often a little bit of questions in the site market. Who reported by the other line? . . . .Lasting love might be patron, appreciation may be range. But there’s more covet, but there’s more brag, purpose incredibly. It’s not necessarily rude or obnoxious, to the self-seeking, it is not necessarily really angered, this stops simply history of the errors. Take delight in shouldn’t appreciate noxious yet unfortunately rejoices applying the actuality. This particular you must defends, be certain to trusts, constantly hope, often perseveres.

And then I checked the stats for the spam count on my blog. This is what I got.

It figured. Confucius was right after all.

P.S : Ham is that which is not spam. Nothing to do with pork or pig. Veggies, do not sue me. Else, I’ll spam you.

Whatitees Guide: The Dictionary of Crap

Disclaimer: If you are currently reeling under a bad stomach ache, and/or are making frequent visits to the loo, and/or constipated, I’d advise you to to not read this now, and maybe come back a later time. This is not for the weak farted hearted and certainly not for the constipated. Because when the shit hits the fan,some people run and some people wonder what’s happening. So keep a loose motion tablet next to you. Please. 


I say it is about time.

About time we broke the shackles of convenient morality. About time we came out of the closet and let it out in the open. About time we redefined the dictionary and fought for inclusion of this word which has been so used, abused, misused, demeaned, and thrown around like an old rag with utter contempt. That which has allowed billions of people around the world express myriad emotions – Anger, happiness, love, frustration, elation, ecstasy, orgasm, denial, horror – with just one word: CRAP! Sometimes shit!

And yet, we have not recognized the selfless way it has weaved itself into our way of life without asking for anything in return. Oh! The beauty! The beauty!

It is about time we give it the respect it duly deserves. And I have taken the mantle of doing so.

Here again, with a dramatic re-entry and continuation of what the latest reviews on http://www.crappyguides.com have to say about, I present to you from the house of the Whatitees Guides:

The Dictionary of Crap.

Please imagine the mandatory trumpets, bugles and drum rolls, as is the norm with all my posts. Here goes:

Crapilicious crapi-li-cious

– adjective

   1. highly unpleasant to the senses, especially to taste or smell:

             a crapilicious dinner, a crapilicious aroma.

2. highly unpleasant feeling growing in the stomach after consuming such foods where the chicken (or brinjal, as the case may be) is seen to be floating harmlessly in red colored oil:

              I had such a crapilicious paneer butter masala in office yesterday, my boss could hear the rumbles in my stomach from his cabin!

Crapugedera crapu-ge-dera

– adjective

   1. when you come and go out of the cricket team and don’t get picked even for an IPL team despite the lowest starting price.

Crape diem cra-pe di-em

      Latin. Run with the newspaper in hand the moment you hear the rumble; as opposed to delaying it while increasing the CO2 content in the atmosphere. Seize the moment; don’t think of the future.

Crapuscular crapus-cu-lar

-adjective

1. of or pertaining to crap: crapuscular feeling

2. dependent on or affected by crap: crapuscular feeling

3. having well-developed crap: crappy

Crappendix cra-pen-dix

-noun, plural -dix.es -dic.es

1. supplementary material at the end or beginning of a question in an MBA class, an article, a document, a book, a long speech, a training session in office post lunch, a blog such as this or any other text usually of an explanatory nature which will make you feel crapuscular.

2. an appendage which makes you feel like pulling out your hair.

Bon crapetit bon cra-pe-tit

-interjection. French

Used as a salutation for a person who has been affected by the Fourth Law of Motion. (I wish you) a crappy appetite.

Crapsule cra-ps-ule

-noun

1. a small soluble container, usually made of gelatin that is needed to be taken when someone has just wished you bon crapetit.

Craptitude cra-pti-tude

-noun

1. an inherent ability to endure when s**t happens. Man, he had the craptitude to have two plates of chicken masala even when he was constipated!

2. display of intelligence while attending to the call of nature. You know what, he is so intelligent, he has the craptitude to solve an entire ET crossword when he is in the loo!

Crapitulate crapi-tul-ate

-verb

1. to surrender unconditionally when the rumbling goes bigger and one cannot squirm nor sit nor stand nor take the support of a nearby table/chair/pole/person.

2. to give up and experience utter bliss.

Crapsize cra-psi-ze

-verb (used without object), -verb (used with object) -siz.ed, -siz.ing

to turn bottom up. you get the picture.

Crapivorous crapi-vo-rous

-adjective

1. of the carnivores and herbivores family.

2. crap-eating. Heard one fly telling another, “you are crapivorous, dude. Bon crapetit!”

Whataycrap what-a-crap

-abuse,

What you are thinking right now for having come all the way here reading all this crap.

Crappendix: I just realized that this was the fastest post I ever came up with. What can I say. Sh*t happens!


Story of a house – II

 Continuing from part I. If you have not read it yet, you have no right to be here.

Pune. Circa 2007. Fourth job. Sixth House.

What do you call something that is somewhere between a 2BHK and a 1BHK but actually is a 2BHK?

Buzzz. A stupid question.That is the wrong answer. You have another chance.

Oh, I know. A 1.2333 BHK with a loo that has no commode. That is again the wrong answer. You have one last chance, you jackass!

Ok, ok. 2BHK with one of the bedrooms locked. That is the correct answer!

So, there it was. An old, but nice 1BHK apartment. Found after a month of incessant searching. Not only of the Google types. And I was to get almost married by an old man and a middle-aged woman for me to move into this flat. The old man called himself the society broker and the middle-aged woman was a friend to the owner / caretaker.

The owner was cooling his heels in Dubai. I keep getting email forwards from him even now. He still does not know about the nail I drove into the kitchen wall, I guess!

So, we are in the woman’s apartment inside the society at around 7 in the evening after having taken a look at the flat. Under the watchful gaze of the woman, her not-so-watchful husband and the old man, I looked around, drank a glass of water and made some mental calculations of the amount I could spend for this flat. Satisfied with the numbers, I broadened my chest, brought a smile to my face and started to speak.

Me. “OK, Ma’am, how much…”

Old man who called himself the society broker. First, tell us. Are you married?

Me. “I am sorry? What..”

Old man who called himself. “Yes.Yes. please tell us, are you married?”

Me. “No, I am not. Could you please….”

Old man who called. “When do you plan to?”

Me. “Sir, this is a personal question.”

Old man who. “Yes. This is a decent society with decent people. We do not want any hanky-panky going on. So, when do you plan to?

I was indignant and amazed at this. Yes, both at the same time. And it is possible. You just need to raise one eyebrow and show a hand gesture which seems to say “what the??”.

No sir. This is a personal question which I do not need to answer. I am as decent as you people are. In fact, more decent than you all. At least I have manners. I do not need your house. This is against my principles and I do not need to get insulted like this.

Me. “Ah. Maybe this year. But yeah, I forgot to tell you. My mother will be coming over this month to stay with me. I am from Hyderabad sir. I have an elder brother and a sister-in-law who stay in Hyderabad. And my mother will come to stay with me. She says she needs a change, and wants to see Pune also. You see, she is getting old….

Old man. “Ok, ok. The rent is 7000 per month. And again, no hanky-panky. You seem to be a very nice boy”.

And that was how I did not get to do any hanky-panky for the 6 months I stayed in that house. Because I eventually had to call my mom to stay with me to prove to the old man / society broker / caretaker that I indeed am a nice boy. And my mom not only ensured they know the same, but she also went a step ahead and called the lady over for some nice Andhra snacks / coffee. Not to mention the smiles and small talk they eventually started to share like they were old buddies. smooth stuff.

And, remember I said I had fallen in love? Yeah, that also happened along with a big divine intervention. I got shipped off to Japan. The Japan Diaries has the dope on why I went there. For my Sumi.

We shall not talk about the love story here. Since this is the story of a house. Suffice it to say that this love story spanned across

  • 18 months,
  • 2 countries,
  • innumerable calling cards,
  • countless fights and make ups,
  • lots of pasta, trips, insobriety,brooding, philosophizing,
  • lots of 555s, and finally
  • did not end with us living happily ever after.

Quite an anti-thesis to the DDLJ type stuff we are fed on. Serendipity is the lifeline for a wanderer. I was still trying to unravel myself. But on retrospect, it was the best thing that happened to me.

I learned life’s sixth big lesson. “Love is not blind, deaf nor dumb and needs to have a good memory.”

Confucius is confused between shaadi.com or meetsinglesinyourlocalarea.com.

I hope you are enjoying the story. ‘Cause if you aren’t, then am sure you do not have much to do for you to reach this line. So read on.

Japan. Circa 2008. Same job. Seventh house.

What do you call a place that is somewhere between a 1BHK and a 1BHK?

Buzzzz. A 1BHK with H silent. That is the right answer! Man, are you on fire!

Arigato Gozaimasu! Yes, it was a 1-room-kitchen-bathroom-toilet-balcony. All rolled into one, beautifully cramped-up pigeon-hole and yet spacious enough to do a 2-minute sumo wrestling jaunt with your Japanese girlfriend before you let go of her and she falls over the balcony railing.

And this was the same room where I spent 18 months of fun, cooking, trying out Japanese cuisine, treks (Mount Fuji!) and more, including the points listed above.

Then I intervened – the only time when I did not let the divine come in. I regret that actually. And I shipped myself back to homeland.

Learned life’s seventh biggest lesson. “Love does know boundaries. When in Japan, stay in Japan and earn some more.”

Confucius is feeling better as I came closer to China.

Chennai. Circa 2009.Fifth job. Temporary.Seventh House.

What do you call a place which is between the ocean, some coconut trees, a wide stretch of road, is pink in color and is lovingly called the Playboy Mansion?

Buzzz. Wow! A hammock between the trees and some nude gays running around!

Wrong answer. And what is making you so excited?

“Err. Pink, Playboy. Hmm. Has to be one of the Best Homes I have ever seen.” Yep. That’s the right answer!

And so, “Best Homes”, the name of the apartments on OMR Road, Chennai became the backdrop for one  of the strangest seven months in my life.

Fun, dark, poignant and in all that, made some friends for life. The Chennai Times. Says it all.

And then it happened.The happening that happens at the end before I happen to learn my lesson. Strange, it always happens that way.

Divine intervention and I went back to Pune to my previous company.

I learned life’s eighth biggest lesson. ” A pink colored apartment is not always a playboy mansion”.

Confucius is searching the dictionary and the phone directory for playboy.

Pune. Circa 2009. Sixth Job. Eighth House.

What do you call a place that looks like a run-down 1BHK from the Victorian era?

Buzzzz. A 1BHK in a cosy residential area behind ICT towers on SB Road. Yep! That is the right answer. Am surprised you understood the koschan.

This 1BHK from the Victorian era was a stone’s throwaway from a swanky gym, a Crossword to spend weekends at, nice looking chicks, some malls and which costed me a bomb.

But I did not complain because it was right next to where one of my very close friends from Chennai stayed. Hence, the prospect of continuing the Chennai Times seemed so inviting, money did not matter. And friendship prevailed.

Hmmm. I am so warm and mushy right now. Not so much though when the same guy abuses me these days for not calling him so frequently.

But for the few months I stayed there, before you-know-what-intervened (duh!), the wheels of fortune flipped, hopped, skipped and jumped in such a random and yet heart-warming manner, I started seeing dots everywhere. Yes, dots. Not stars.

Angst, frustration, dogged persistence with the mundane while expecting the turn of a corner, and finally harmony.

Got divorced. The word does not seem to have the strange twang it used to have earlier.

And got an MBA admit along with it. This neither. Of course, because I am an MBA now. Ah. There it is again. Damn!

It’s amazing how easy life’s hurdles seem, when you start believing in these rather insignificant elements of the universe – The dots. Steve Jobs has spoken about it. Rashmi Bansal has written about it. And I am blogging about it. Man! Too much that was!

The divine intervened and I left Pune yet again to head back to where I was born. Well, not exactly where I was born, but close enough. I learned life’s ninth big lesson. “A strange dot twangs and a strange blot swangs.”

Confucius is levitating. He is deeply moved by the depth of this saying. The playboy seemed to have worked.

Hyderabad. Circa 2011. Seventh Job. Ninth House. My Home.

And this is the moment I have been waiting. For almost 172 Hours, 54 minutes, 6 seconds. Since I started writing all this down. Including part I.

Trumpets, Bugles and Drum Rolls. I will take a dramatic pause and imagine myself standing atop the roof of my brother’s beaten down Hyundai with my hands stretched out, a la SRK while you answer this koschan. The last one, I promise.

What do you call a place that

  • makes you walk and drive around in the sun like it was pleasant weather,
  • surprises you by making 7-figure numbers dance on your fingertips,
  • makes you negotiate like you were born to do that,
  • makes terms such as “super built up area” look like you use it everyday
  • makes you a financial planner, interior designer, carpenter, pujari, loan and real estate consultant, all rolled into one,
  • makes you read the “Personal Finance” section of the ET with unprecedented enthu,
  • makes you go on an all-night, mantra-chanting devotional trip, clad in only a dhoti and shrouded in smoke that would singe you down to your eye sockets, and preceded only by a day-long fast that’d get the rats in your stomach run everywhere inside of you, and
  • gets you to pay almost half of your salary every month after all this, and yet

does not make you feel a wee bit uncomfortable?

Buzzzz. The comfort and warmth of your own home. Yeah, I know that is the right answer, and the only answer. Thank you and good luck!

The one thought that hit me right in the middle of my medula oblongata when I was going through all the bullet points listed above while searching, deciding and finalizing my own apartment in Hyderabad was just this – I guess I am growing up. I just smiled at myself.

And it has only started. The dots seemed to be lining up.

Meanwhile, I learned life’s tenth big lesson. “Don’t laugh when someone says “rubber wood”.”

Confucius is calling up playboy and is asking about it. I need to call him home once.

Confucius say

“Man who reads long post gets exhausted”

Story of a house – I

Sector 35, Noida. Circa 2004. My second job. My first house. 6 months.

What do you call a place to stay which is somewhere between a 1 room flat and an enclosed space with a thatched roof?

Buzzzzz. A servant’s quarter. That’s the right answer!! And I paid for it every month.

An LG Flatron TV. A wooden bed. 6 AM knock on the door by a nice caring owner with a steaming cup of tea. A few “Bobby Da Dhabas” at a stone’s throw for the daily staple.

And if I threw a few more stones,  I even had a “Waves” mall. For the Saturday night movies. And some eye balm too. Nutshell. Everything what a bachelor, still fresh from staying in a hostel for four years, needed.

Except that one thing. Which you need for the sweat and the heat. The swelter that can make you go crazy. That which can make you strip down to your bare skin in utter desperation. Yeah, a fan. What else did you think?? That rotating piece of machinery, which throws air around and lets you sleep in peace. Especially during power cuts in the middle of the hot summers’ night of Noida.

It was the first insight I had into life’s myriad lessons. “A fan rotates fast.” It was an eye-opener. A silver bullet. Confucius would have wanted to say this. And I moved on.

Andheri, Mumbai. Circa 2005. My third job. My second house. 6 months.

What do you call a place that is somewhere between a servant’s quarter and a 2BHK?

Buzzzzzz. A 1BHK!. That is the right answer!

I also had 3 housemates. One of them was my first running buddies. And the last also, I guess. We used to run every night post dinner after 10 PM. I never understood then. I do not understand now, either.  But we ran after 10 PM.

Probably it was all part of the bonding process between housemates. Turned out we were the only ones to be bonding. ‘Cause the other two already had mates with whom they did more than just run. One of them was always on the phone. The other always returned at ungodly hours in the night.

And I always woke up with yellow wall paint peeled off from the ceiling.

This had nothing to do with the bonding process I am sure. A call to the house owner always ended up with

  • him saying that he would fix it, BUT
  • he would add that amount to the rent, BUT
  • we always refused to do that, AND

I ended up waking up with the yellow paint peeled off from the ceiling.

I learned life’s second big lesson. “A ceiling paint never peels. And it never falls all over you during the night”.

Confucius wants to hug me right now.

I was on the verge of moving out. And at around the same time, like a divine intervention, I was shipped off to Bangalore.

I learned life’s third big lesson as well. “Ceiling paint and software services are not related”.

I can sense Confucius confused.

Bengaluru. Circa 2005-2006. Same job. Different place. Third house.

What do you call something that is between a 1BHK in a village type place and an IT park and is only 10 minutes to reach from?

Buzzzz. A road! Yes, but a little more specific? A road, tarred in places and not so much elsewhere! That is the right answer! This has nothing to do with the post, though.

Easily, one of the best times I have had. In fact, third house = 2 houses. And that includes a motley crew of my engineering buddies. Waking up to strange guys lying sprawled in the living room, French toast and beer for breakfast, night outs and “power cut” intoxicants, fighting, laughing, et al. It was called The Mansion. And we were called the Homies. We listened to everything that sounded like music, cooked anything that looked like food, partied anytime, cracked poor jokes, swore at each other and generally hung around with no hassles at all. Cool stuff, really.

Oh. And I even started to fall in something called love. Will talk about that later.

While I was about to transform into a real Homie, the divine intervened once more and I got called back to Mumbai. Actually, Thane. Most people say it is not Mumbai. Whatever works.

I learned life’s fourth big lesson. “A Homie always drinks on Mondays”. Yo, Confu bro! Wazzup!

And I moved on again.

Thane. Circa 2006. Same job. Fifth house.

What do you call a place that has a semblance to what you call a “house” and looks like a poor cousin to Hiranandani?

Buzzzz. A 1BHK apartment in Rutu Estate. That is the correct answer! By the way, Hiranandani has got nothing to do with Rutu.

This 1BHK was one of the places I could call my own. Well, technically it was mine because I was the only one who lived in it and paid the rent. And it had everything. My own bedroom. My own TV. My own loo. And a fully functional kitchen where I had one of my very first encounters, among many with an entity called Dosa.

It was my first tryst at staying alone. And strangely, it did not feel strange to me. I guess I had grown up, although I could never get that Dosa to look like one.

Oh. Talk about growing up. I also went on a date once. You know, the kinds where you do not know if it’s a real date? Or you’ve been made part of a romantic scene of a Hindi movie with cameras all around and you just don’t know it yet?

Going by the general definition of a “Date”, it was all smooth and copybook. Like the bullet points I have written below.

  • I took a sweaty bus ride
  • I waited outside her place for half an hour
  • I took another sweaty auto ride. This time with her.
  • I spent the evening sitting by the beach with coconut water and listening to her talk. Mostly about herself.
  • Meanwhile, I held on to my drink, all the time wondering if watching a movie with pizza had been a better option. Do not get me wrong. She was a nice, pretty girl. But remember the point about the movie scene?
  • I took a sweaty bus ride back

Copybook and nice. Really. Only thing, it happened only once. Because, between this one and the next one that was being thought of, by her, she said something about her parents looking out for her and something about me deciding soon. I do not remember the “something” because it was around 3 AM when she said this. But I distinctly remember me not going to office the next day.

I had a bad stomach. And I had not even made Dosas.

Meanwhile, divine intervention happened. And I moved again.

I learned life’s fifth lesson. “A bad dosa or a bad date will cause a bad stomach” Confucius must be hungry.

I am hungry too. Will continue in part II. This is just to keep the curiosity alive. And kill the cat.

******** To be Continued********

******** Yes, will be Continued********

******** Quadrata Continuendum********

******** El Continu********

******** Continuum Mechanicos********

******** Your call is important to us. Please be in line.********

******** Your call is important to us. Please be in line.********

******** Your call is important to us. Please be in line.********

5.so what?

When you walked starry eyed, through the hallowed portals with a suitcase in your hands, did you already forget?

Did reality slap you into what you thought was being “pragmatic”? Or did you just conveniently shove it under the carpet of your self-defined sense of rationality?

Insanity is the eccentric’s rationale. What was yours’?

That small bubble you created, losing yourself in a mocked up maze of well-dressed suits, intelligent gibberish, and esoteric phrases that you conveniently thought was the real deal.

All hidden in the garb of passionately written paraphrases and forgotten away neatly in a folder. A state of denial. Comatose.

Did you try to peel through this maze ever? Take a deep, hard look at yourself in the mirror beyond checking if the shave you just had was smooth? Or if the jeans was fitting you properly? Did you ever stop and ask yourself, why? Did you ever pause? And ask yourself the one nagging question that people journey through their lives trying to answer?

Or did you just brush your hair aside, check the tuck of your t-shirt and walk back into the maze?

I bet you did just that. If you didn’t, you must have been asleep.

A portion of your life, albeit a small one, spent running through silent corridors, into well-lit amphitheaters, caffeine induced sleepless nights, 15 minute power naps, sleeping through inane presentations, debating and discussing like you were the intelligent, final word and the occasionally frequent moments of insobriety. Or sanity, if you will. Words which serve as the backbone of businesses. You used them as punchlines. As dinner time jokes to show how “uber cool” you are. And how stupid they were.

You fought hard to look like you did not care. You fought hard to sound intelligent. You rested your self-worth on laurels won before and sought approval. You loved talking and laughing about people on moonless rooftop nights. Drunk as you were. And you loved being cynical. As if that was the latest fad. You ploughed through countless sheaves of paper and books, solving problems. You learned by rote. You learned by force. You suffered the ignominy of an imbalanced sheet. Then “bounced” back from it by posting it on Facebook. With a smiley. And then strutted around with a bloated sense of self-importance when you saw you were just five marks, and thirty comments better.

You learned by rote. And forgot just as easy.

Decimal numbers became a matter of pride. Or shame. You cared. You feared. You ignored. But you did not pause to revisit that paragraph where you had written why you wanted to be here. You went with the flow. Like you were plugged in. You pushed for every decimal point. You laughed at every decimal point. You sounded blase about it like you never cared. You kept quiet about it like it was your own little secret. But you never ceased to fight it.

And then epiphany struck. Natural numbers and nattily dressed suits. The next program in the matrix was loaded. Being basic was passe. Talking big was the norm. You forgot to look in the mirror. Except to check for the crease on your suit. And you fought hard for those numbers. Ironically, every additional zero seemed to keep you afloat. And you did not bother to see that you were riding on a balloon. All it needed was just a little pin prick. You rode high and floated above all. You had a smile on your face. And you forgot why you were here.

You became Jack’s bloated sense of conceit.

You never stopped to question. You never stopped to ask.

What do you really want?

You conveniently forgot. Like a piece of crumpled paper. And drowned it in the sweet taste of sin that very night.

You’re not your job. You’re not how much money you have in the bank. You’re not the car you drive. You’re not the contents of your wallet. You’re not your fucking khakis.

You’re the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world.

P.S : Last few lines are Tyler Durden’s. I might just be a paranoid schizophrenic.