“Got 13 Channels of Shit on the T.V. to Choose From”

Edited: May 2011
Apart from the news (actually, even the news is shit these days) and sport, there’s little on television that is not an insult to intelligence. So here’s my own compilation of what’s worth watching these days…

The Daily Show with Jon Stewart:
A show that demonstrates how the ridiculous thrive in our very attention deficit society and politics. Stewart and his cronies are brilliant, and approach the world with a vicious yet sophisticated mind. It's amazing that a comedian has become the most trusted man in news, a post the late great Walter Cronkite used to hold.

South Park:
These guys keep getting better and better every week. Satire at it's best.

The Simpsons:
Everyone’s familiar with America’s favourite dysfunctional family…

Whose Line Is It Anyway?:
Although these days we only get to watch re-runs of the American version of the show, Ryan Stiles, Colin Mochrie, Wayne Brady are still as hilarious as ever.

Boston Legal:
A daring show that satirizes some of the most pressing social issues of our time with courtroom antics. Fantastic performances by William Shatner, James Spader, and the rest of the cast.

Top Gear:
Hardly a pragmatic show about cars anymore. It's more like playtime for three middle aged Englishmen being racist, angry, loud, obnoxious, adventurous, and very, very fast. My dream job.

Off the top of my head I can’t think of anything else that I can safely watch without Quincy the iguana throwing up over the sofa.

The Adventures of Glufsvon Zanzibar

After I started visualizing my International Relations professor feeding alligators in a white and scarlet toga, I knew I had had too much to drink. Picking up another vegetable egg roll that we had stolen from the dining hall I tried to tune in on what my roommate James Head, a Connecticut Yankee, was saying across the coffee table we were drinking at. It was something about a man called Glufsvon Zanzibar he had met in Paris a couple of years ago. Apparently this Mr. Zanzibar ran a kenjitsu (samurai sword techniques) school in Paris and believed in the recreational and medicinal qualities of hemp. Of all the places in Paris, James met Glufsvon, who according to James looked like a pirate in his twenties, on the second floor of the Eiffel Tower. Tracking the wafting fragrance of marijuana led James to his first meeting with Glufsvon who, leaning against the railings, was sharing a spliff with a certain gentleman who introduced himself as Ntokozo Xaba (pronounced: Toe-ko-zo Chka-aba). According to James, this Glufsvon Zanzibar was the most wholly remarkable person he had ever met. Of course, I only half believed what James said. After all, it was James who had come up the idea of assassinating Salman Rushdie when he had come to speak in college and picking up the bounty he had on his head. It was all too late when we realized that the fatwa on Mr. Rushdie’s head had long been removed. (Note: If you’re interested or know anyone who might be interested in buying a second hand Remington 700 sniper rifle in mint condition, give me a call.)

I’m writing this on the airplane back from Addis Ababa trying to distract myself from the air hostess with sweaty armpits. The last twenty days have been absolutely brilliant. The most fun I’ve had in a long time. I had landed a voluntary research internship at the University of Addis Ababa with a professor of anthropology and once that was over I managed short trips to Egypt and Tanzania to meet a couple of my friends from college who live there. What happened in Cairo was perhaps one of the funniest and most uncanny experiences of my life…

After two weeks of traversing through disease ridden backward Ethiopia and Tanzania, I decided to visit my friend Ngoda in Cairo and spend a week relaxing before flying back home. If you’ve been to Cairo recently you’ll remember that there’s an oasis not far from the pyramids of Giza. Twenty minutes as the camel runs, it’s usually a fairly desolate place, perfect for hanging out on a lazy Sunday evening. Ngoda and I reached the Oasis at six in the evening, just in time to watch the sun set over the dunes. There weren’t many people at the oasis, so Ngoda and I popped open a couple of chilled beers we had brought along and spread ourselves on the sand enjoying the sweet evening air. As I was getting bored with the scenery, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulders. I turned to see a smiling shabby face of bearded Arab. In perfect English he asked me if I had a light. I threw him a box of matches and watched him as he walked back to his friends under a clump of date trees. Catching my eye, the fellow walked back to us and asked us if we wanted to join them.

The next thing I know, Ngoda and I are sitting in a circle drinking thick Turkish coffee (note: never, ever add camel’s milk to coffee) with three other Arabs smoking a hookah and laughing at the stories they were telling us. I was relieved to find that they all spoke English quite fluently. Ngoda and I swapped a few of our own escapades in return. When the first Arab found out that Ngoda was a local kid, he lowered his tone to a whisper and asked him if he wanted to buy a camel real cheap and he whistled and a beautiful camel came and sat on its knees next to him. Ngoda, who I’m guessing knew his camels, asked him how much he was selling her for. I couldn’t quite catch what his reply was, but whatever it was made Ngoda laugh out like crazy. At first I thought it was the effect of the alcohol, but the Arab looked extremely serious.
“How’re you selling her so cheap?” Ngoda asked.
Flushing with a mixture of pride and alcohol the Arab whispered, “It’s stolen. I’m a camel smuggler, it’s what I do. And she’s a fine one as my name is Glufsvon Zanzibar.”
I was stunned. Like a scratched CD I kept muttering “No way”, for the next minute much to the surprise of our other companions.
I quickly narrated James’ story and Glufsvon’s eyes grew in wonder. I don’t know if he actually remembered James, but at least he pretended to. And I have to agree with James, Glufsvon is definitely the most wholly remarkable man I’ve ever met. Kenjitsu sensei, camel smuggler, tour guide, pearl diver, fragrance explorer and come to think of it, he did look like a pirate, minus the polly and the scimitar! The rest of the evenings events are irrelevant but oh so interesting. Even as I’m about to land in Bombay, I’m still in shock. I mean what are the odds that two people from two different parts of the world will meet the same person in two different countries in completely uncanny circumstances? Suddenly the universe seems so simple.

Ways Of Will

I was born in the hot and humid slums of lower Limpopo. Although we spent all day working hard producing our primary export of sweat, Limpopo had failed to make a mark in the international economic scene. Limpopons, however, are always jovial and the poverty of the nation never seemed to bog down their spirit. What we lacked in formal education we made up with innovativeness. In fact, it was this innovativeness that would make Limpopo a global player in the 20th century.

Between 1912 and 1916, while the rest of the world was busy in their petty squabbles, Limpopo was researching some of the most advanced technology known to man - jugaad. So powerful was this new technology that anyone remotely accustomed with its finer aspects could escape from any adverse situation and with a little training could probably turn it to his own advantage. In fact, till 1924 jugaad was considered and protected as a national secret.

In the early 1940s Limpopo decided to start exporting this unique technology and by 1947, jugaad had replaced sweat as Limpopo’s primary export. By 1958 jugaad had taken the world by storm as it was cheaper and better than Chinese imports like the yin-yang, which have a high exchange duty in many parts of the world. In this manner Limpopo grew as an international powerhouse in the 1960s.

The United States, who often forget that a world exists outside North America, had not yet warmed up to jugaad. It was only in the 1990s that the US actually discovered the unique properties of jugaad. Immediately they tried to patent it and threatened to sue Limpopo for stealing their idea.

The Taliban on the other hand decided to rise against this act of American oppression and decided to launch an attack on the US in the middle of a Dallas Cowboys and Florida Dolphins football game. A rattled President Bush spilled his pretzels and ordered the CIA to deal with the matter. The CIA happily obliged by vaporizing the entire country and also capturing a few tons of weapons grade plutonium from a goatherd in Northern Afghanistan. Unfortunately, the plutonium had become unstable and exploded somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic while it was being transported to the US. In a brilliant move Bush accused Green Peace for the mishap and managed to get re-elected marking one of the greatest triumphs of jugaad.

The latest issue of Limpopo Today voted jugaad to be one of the “Top 5 Things the World Can’t Do Without” along with toilet paper and Mexican yo-yos (aren’t those awesome?). The Forbes magazine rated jugaad as the “greatest invention ever”. At the present more than half the world unconsciously runs on jugaad, including the Indian and the US governments. Today Limpopo has a lot to be proud about.

So the next time you use cog-chits to pass a test, or the next time the government cheats you, or you cheat the government, or if you ever do anything as smart as using a broken umbrella as a TV antenna, think of jugaad : Limpopo’s greatest contribution to the civilized world.

Chinese Shower Cabinets

Dad finally got his "O.K. Tested" label on his insanity claim.

I was awakening from my siesta when dad walked in and said "Guess what I bought today?"

"What?" I ask.

"A shower cabinet."

"Ho hum, one of those ones eh? How much did it cost?"

"*insert exorbitant amount of money here*, I'm too embarrased to specify"

I choke on my own spit for a moment. "What the...Is it made of gold or something?"

"No it's really nice, it's got a sauna, steam bath, zaccuzi, radio and even a telephone."

"A sauna, in summer, in Calcutta." I went back to sleep, hoping it was all a bad dream, but deep inside I understood why dad said he could not afford to send me to college...

There goes the excuse, "sorry he can't come to the phone right now, he's in the shower" because now there's a freakin phone in the shower!

Puzzles

Just in case,
If you're the queen of California, baby,
LittlePrince, wat a nite,
Screw aristophanes.

What's there to do in Champaign?
Smoke pot, listen to floyd and phish,
They say if you love something let it go...
If it comes back it's yous...if it doesn't...shoot it!

Tu Me Queries,
Planning to take the world by storm, watch out!
Anger is a gift,
Because i am a devil without a cause.

Franky just thinks he's Irish,
God...I love you
Israfel is gone,
*insert wise crack here*.

La belle dame sams merci,
Life is a waste of time,
Only fools rush in... sigh,
So, it's over?

I have a black-hole where my creativity should be,
Some people say I'm insane, so I kill them.
Still goin on...and will never stop,
Tally ho what, what?

The world is a blister but i'm ok with it.
All my bags are packed,
I'm ready to go,
Time to fade in black.

What The Hell Is Wrong With This Site

It fucking does what the fuck it feels like!

Dodging .45 Caps in NYC, Part Deux

Unlike Lucas' much awaited Star Wars III, hopefully this second and final installment of "New York Minute" won't be sorely disappointing and riddled with corny dialogues.

When we last met our unassuming hero, he was caught in a crossfire of .45 caps at the basement of NYC's hell-hole - the Port Authority Bus Station...

a short recap to bring you back to the scene:

4 am: A massive caucasian male, standing roughly at around 6ft with dirty salt and pepper dreadlocks and a overworn moss green trenchcoat walks into the cafe. No one except for a few people take notice of him or the 9mm pistol he's holding in his right hand. Almost in a whisper he says "I'm so fucking pissed off, I'm going to shoot every one of you mother fuckers overhere". No one really responds. Needless to say, I was shit scared - I didn't really want to die in a cafeteria in a shady NYC bus station, there had to be a better way. With most eyes on him now, this maniac marches upto an old chinese (he could be Korean or Japanese or Thai, I couldn't really tell) guy who was eating a hotdog, picked him by the collar and askedhim "how much money you got huh, how much money you got?"

...END RECAP

The poor Asian gentleman was too scared to react and kept staring at Mr. Dreadlocks. Dreadlocks says, "so you dont have any money huh? I'll show you what money is." and saying so he opens the tote bag he was carrying and starts taking out wads of ten dollar bills (well they looked like $10 bills anyway) and starts placing them on the table. "See, this is what you call money, asshole" He then pushes the Asian gentleman back into his seat, slumps into the closest chair and starts crying. In between sobs he bawls out "What the fuck am I doing here? I'm supposed to in fucking Florida, what the fuck am I doing in NYC surrounded by you assholes!" In the mean time the transit guards have come back and try to appease this dude. For some reason, as if on cue, some dude's 2-in-1 starts playing that oldie Rick Springfield song "Jessie's Girl".

The cops start sweet talking Dreadlocks (interestingly the radio starts playing "Wake me up before you go go"!). The cops tell him "Sir, just take it easy, throw the gun away, stay calm, we'll put u on a bus to florida pronto, just don't do anything rash and all..." Dreadlocks, fortunately decides to acquisce and slides his gun across the table, and the moment he does that, these two cops come in and beat the crap out of the dude with their night sticks...all to the tune of "wake me up before u go go"! It was a pretty insane scene. then they (the cops) take the gun and the money, put it back into the tote bag and took Dreadlocks away...that's the last I got to see these guys.

Then after a while, after all th excitement and adrenalin has subsided, I order some breakfast and try to get back to my book, when this fairly old gentleman, in a gaudy yellowing jacket and and brown sunglasses came and sat opposite me at my table and started dinking my coffee. I noticed that the entire left side of this guys face was burnt and scarred. Before I could react, the man spoke first.

"So you think New York is a dangerous place, huh?" Slightly taken aback, I manage a shrug. "Obviously, you've never been to New Jersey" he continued. "You see these scars on my face? I didn't have these last weekend. I had just come out from a bar last friday night after enjoying a good evening of drinking and I was walking back home when these two muggers cam from behind, stabbed me in the back and threw acid on my face before making off with my wallet." (insert appropriate face of shock) "but these muggers, these muggers I can deal with, the real bastards are the ones who work in government hospitals. When I woke up, i was in this hospital and a couple of days later when they were ready to discharge me, i got my clothes and all back, and guess what, they'd cleaned out my little waist pouch which had all my credit cards and some cash...gone...all empty. but the worst part was, wait, check this..." (he opens the bag he was carrying and takes out a tweed jacket and holds it up and it's been cut quite neatly in two) "...they cut my brand new tweed jacket in half! So i go to the doctor and ask him, why the fuck did he cut my jacket in half? and he says that when i came in i was bleeding profusely and that they had to get the jacket off so he cut it. and i tell him, well if u can't fucking take three buttons off, you shouldn't call yourself a fucking doctor in the first place!" and saying so he picks up what was left of my coffee and bids me good morning and goes off...

I won't describe my reaction. I just quickly finished breakfast and spent the next hour till my bus cam in, in the toilet, trying to get some sleep and generally being safe. Well needless to say I came back to college "shaken but not stirred" and in my unshaven and unclean condition went directly to work (I was still an hour late, but my employeer decided not to dock my pay after she heard my story...)

I know there weren't any lightsabers or starfighters but I'm still working on creating my own brand of merchandise and licensed characters that i can market...

Cleaning the Room

By the end of the year, our room had become the largest landfill in a twenty mile radius. T-shirts, jackets, jeans, soiled panties (yes, we had frequent guests in our room), shoes, socks, fluff, large packets of cereal stolen from the dining hall kitchens, several empty bottles of Jack Daniels, junk mail, midterm papers, we had everything in our closet. Only regular sprays of room freshener had kept the room livable. Then on the eve of our departure as James and I began cleaning the room, we found Jeremiah.

After clearing of the top layer of junk and clothing with nostalgia, we found a bearded face amidst our clothing. In the bad light I thought it was probably a left over mask from Halloween, but as we dug deeper we found a couple of hands, a torso and even two legs and lo, there was Jeremiah!

James was the first to recover from the shock as he tried, much to Jeremiah’s dismay, to pull Jeremiah out of the closet. He looked like a chipped version of John Cleese on crack with a crazy thick beard and unkempt hair and a tattered jacket that smelt like sewage pipes. The worst part was we had never met this person before.

“Who the fuck are you? What the fuck are you doing in our closet?” James asked.

Still shielding his eyes from the light of our bedroom, the man managed to murmur “Jeremiah”. That’s how we got to know his name.

Jeremiah had been living in our closet for the past three months without our knowledge, underneath our heap of clothes and junk. He had been feeding off all the food that’s usually strewn about the room after a good raid at the dining hall kitchens…I don’t have anything to say, nothing, I’m still recovering. Gives a whole new meaning to ‘what lies beneath’ doesn’t it?

4/20

There are many urban legends surrounding 4/20, none of which are true, which is why they are urban legends. Some claim that 420 is the police code for marijuana use, others claim other stuff. Bottom line is, the 20th of April is still International World Smokers Day (although no one apart from a handful of Americans are aware of this) and it is celebrated by smoking at 4:20 am on 4/20 in the Glen beside the bubbling brook and the crayfish pond.

The amount of pot that was floating around college that week was unfathomable. It was unbelievable, I saw at least sixty odd people at a party, all smoking in groups ranging from three to twelve. Personally I  killed "Medium Middle Age", "Reborn" and "Excaliber". I don't quite remember why they were named as such though.

For dessert there was a six feet bong that was shared between the remains of the day...

Dodging .45 Caps in NYC, Part 1

Well the semester has seen a fair amount of snow storms, sloth and other vices that go with extreme cold. Apart from a remarkable night in New York City, the details of which I have stated below, and a rather arbitrary weekend at Tufts University at Boston, the semester has been pretty straight forward, actually not that straight-forward, but not as crazy as Stephanian times.

On the first day (a saturday) of Spring Break, dad called and told me that one of his friends would be flying to San Francisco via New York and that I should meet this gentleman at JFK on Thursday night. come Wednesday I'm all set to go to the city, when my dad calls in the evening and informs me that the above mentioned gentleman would now be flying in on the following Sunday instead.

Saturday night I find out that there is a certain chap on campus who was going to be driving down to NYC on Sunday morning. Naturally I decided to hitch a ridewith him. This guy tells me that we'll leave at 11 am on Sunday. I was fine with that since the before mentioned gentleman's flight was supposed to come in at 5:30 and NYC is only about 4 hours away from college.

Sunday: (I'll do the rest in an itenary format tospeed things up, this keyboard sucks!)
As asked, I show up at my ride's room at 11, only to be told that it was in fact his brother who would becoming in from Yale to pick us up and drive us to the city and that his brother was not here yet.

12 pm: his brother turns up in a spanking new fuel guzzling Nissan SUV and we set off and I promtly fall asleep in the back seat.

2 pm: I wake up and look around and notice a rather large board saying "Welcome to Whitestown, Pennsylvania". I panic. "Dude, aren't we going to the city?" I inquire. "Yeah we are but my parents just called and they want me to return the SUV to them, so we'll take my truck from home and then go to the city." my friend replies.

3 pm: I am cramped in the tiny utility seat in the back of a Chevy Truck and we're headed towards NYC. They smoke a joint en route.

6 pm: We reach the outskirts of NYC in a a place called Beacon and my friend stops the truck outside the railway station and tells me to take the train from here to the city since he was not going to drive any further since he was going to go to a friend's place here.

7:30 pm: the freaking train takes an hour and a half to reach grnd central. I get onto a bus for JFK

8:00 pm: I'm in JFK. Obviously the fore mentioned gentleman is no longer waiting for me. I call dad and find out which hotel he's staying in and go there. I've never met this guy before in my life, but it turns out that he was pretty chilled and all. He gave me some money dad had sent and my plane tickets to fly back home. He asks me if I wanted to spend the night here or go back to college. Since I was working the next day, I decided to go back and took the West bound subway to the bus station at Port Authority.

9:45 pm; I reach Port Authority in time to miss the last bus to Utica by 15 minutes. The next bus is at 7 in the morning. I have from 10pm at night till 6 in the morning to kill. I decide to go to Broadway.

I'm at Broadway, outside a theatre playing "The Lion King". They're sold out. Fortunately or unfortunately, I find a shady dude scalping ticketsfor the show close-by. I pay an exorbitant amount towatch the show, which was awesome (the show that is, not the exorbitant amount)!

1 am: I wander into the Laughter House to watch comedian Kathie Lee perform. She's terrible...house-wife humour. I walk out an hour later. I wonder why I stayed so long.

2am: the only kind of people on NYC at this time were drunks, black chain gangs and 24 hour chinese food delivery people. I decide to head back to the bus station.

3 am: I'm sitting at the cafeteria downstairs of the bus station, trying to read "Brighter Than a Thousand Suns" when I and some other people in the cafe realize that the woman sitting next to me was trying to commit suicide. This lady was a diabetic in her late 50s or early 60s I would guess and her preferred method of dying was tearing open sugar sachets and pouring the contents into her mouth. How did we find out? Well, we noticed that there was a rather unusually large heap of empty sugar satchets on her table, maybe about forty or fifty and when one of the cafe staff guys tried to ask her what she was upto, something flipped in her head and she started cursing, flailing her arms about and screaming "let me fucking die the way I want to, what the fuck is your problem?" Finally the transit guards showed up and managed to take her away.

3:30 am: The earlier events well behind us, the cafe is back into it's lethargic late night mode. there are a few homeless drunks sleeping on the floor, or Hispanic labourers with their families curiously looking at the shoes on display at one of the closed shops. Things were pretty quiet.

4 am: A massive caucasian male, standing roughly at around 6ft with dirty salt and pepper dreadlocks and an over worn moss green trenchcoat walks into the cafe. No one, except for a few people take notice of him or the 9mm pistol he's holding in his right hand. Almost in a whisper he says "I'm so fucking pissed off, I'm going to shoot every one of you mother fuckers overhere". No one really responds. Needless to say, I was shit scared - I didn't really want to die in a cafeteria in a shady NYC bus station, there had to be a better way. With most eyes on him now, this maniac marches upto an old chinese (he could be Korean or Japanese, I couldn't really tell) guy who was eating a hotdog, picked him by the collar and asked him "how much money you got huh, how much money you got?"...

[I'll leave it at this cliffhanger...will Maity escape with his life or will he succumb and become just another New York crime statistic, find out in the next episode of "Days of Our Lives"]

End Of The World

Must watch flash:
http://www.ebaumsworld.com/flash/endofworld.html

For Four Hours Only

The slippers were very irritating. The dusts and spits of water from the road formed miniature, muddy and uncomfortable puddles in the slipper’s undulations.

A beggar sat cross-legged by the roadside. His feet were covered in a funeral blanket. His eyes stared unfalteringly at a distant arbitrary object. His hands moved in a systematic and rhythmic motion; the ends of the cymbals hitting each other in perfect synchronization. I passed him nonchalantly.

Weighing machines, sleeping kids, the stolen watches vendor, the trinket seller all set themselves in a manner organized to cause the maximum hindrance to pedestrians. As if the jagged rocks, bricks and man-holes scattered all over the pavement were not enough.

Shuffling feet, heavy breathing, sweltering faces; they all gave me a second look as I passed. Their eyes shone with fear and hunger. I tried to ignore it but I couldn’t. A young boy of about six ran and grasped my trouser leg with all he was worth. I resisted the temptation to kick him and pushed him away as gently as possible. The child ran off to hide behind a fruit-juice stand. A few black patches of dirt now covered my otherwise sparkling white trouser right where that kid had held me. I cursed the little beggar boy.
Dodging the heavy rush hour traffic near, Suicide Alley, I managed to barge into Kumars’ sweet shop. The singeing sun, the reckless drivers and the obstacle course I had just completed had made me unbearably thirsty. I ordered a mango shake.

I sat by the window allowing my eyes to observe. Then they fell to rest on that young beggar boy. He was being beaten by his mother. “Bainchod, bas itna paisa laya aaj?” She screamed at him. The boy retreated, tears rolling down his dark cheek. Without waiting for the milk shake I walked out of the shop.

I headed back towards school not really knowing what to think; only aware that I should have a profound thought. I was deep in introspection and retrospection and all those other big-words when suddenly a hand fell on my shoulder. I turned to find Hamid. I wasn’t particularly fond of him. I wanted to shout at him, probably say an obscene word or two, but before I could, he flashed two tickets for the latest movie, waving it in front of my face. I literally fell at his feet and grabbed his leg.

The incidents of the day well forgotten, I became his best friend for the next four hours...

How To Maintain A Healthy Level of Insanity

1. Sit in your parked car with sunglasses on and point a hair dryer at passing cars. See if they slow down.

2. Page yourself over the intercom. Don't disguise your voice.

3. Every time someone asks you to do something, ask if they want fries with that.

4. Put your garbage can on your desk and label it "in".

5. Put decaf in the coffee maker for 3 weeks. Once everyone has gotten over their caffeine addictions, switch to espresso.

6. In the memo field of all your checks, write "for sexual favours".

7. Finish all your sentences with "in accordance with the prophecy."

8. Dont use any punctuation marks.

9. As often as possible, skip rather than walk.

10. Ask people what sex they are. Laugh hysterically after they answer.

11. Specify that your drive-through order is "to go".

12. Sing along at the opera.

13. Go to a poetry recital and ask why the poems don't rhyme.

14. Put mosquito netting around your work area. Play a tape of jungle sounds all day.

15. Five days in advance, tell your friends you can't attend their party because you're not in the mood.

16. Have your co-workers address you by your wrestling name, Rock Hard.

17. When the money comes out the ATM, scream, "I won! "I won!" "3rd time this week!!!!!"

18. When leaving the zoo, start running towards the parking lot, yelling, "run for your lives, they're loose!!"

19. Tell your children over dinner. "Due to the economy, we are going to have to let one of you go."

21. Pee into bottles and then empty them into the pot.

22. Jump out of ATMs/Public Bathrooms naked and say "don't go in there".

23. When someone pulls out his hand to shake yours, try and dodge it, Matrix style.

24. When someone wishes you, sneer viscously and say "fools, you're all gonna die" and walk away laughing hysterically.

25. When someone says "dude, I haven't seen you for sometime", claim that you were in "stealth mode" or hug him/her and say "it's all over between us".

26. Wear a bow tie with your T-Shirt. (Is that too gay?)

27. Walk around with a blunt sword.

Raju Be Happy

Nana Pillai’s only son Raju was studying in the United States, at Franklin and Marshall. He wasn’t offered a scholarship when he had gone, but Raju had assured his dad that he was a cinch to get a full tuition grant by his sophomore year. With that hope (and a bit a pressure from his wife), Nana pumped all he could into his son’s education. Raju had left for the US as the devoted son, with eyes that said, “I’ll do you proud” as he touched his father’s feet at the airport.

Three years had passed and Raju had not even received a partial scholarship. Nana’s bank balance was depleted. Savitri, his wife, had succumbed to terminal cancer. She could have been saved, he knew it, but it would take away the very last penny they had. That would be the end of Raju’s education. Savitri wouldn’t want that, would she? Nana’s wife died happy. Her mission on earth was complete. Her little Raju was a man now!

Nana didn’t inform Raju about his mother’s death. He didn’t want to disturb his son’s happiness. He was happy, wasn’t he? After all, those initial loving, home sick letters, longing for his mother’s cooking had stopped a long time ago. They were now replaced by short and curt demands for more money, each time outlined by some excuse. Nana, however, was not one to ask questions. He duly obliged, sending words of caution and advice, but he never complained…

Times were hard. The Pillai family home had been sold. His factory was sick and he had absolutely no security. Yesterday, Nana had received another telegram from Raju. Raju always used the post. The telephone was too expensive, he said, and they had to be economical. Raju needed money and he needed it quickly.

Friday, the 26th, three days after Raju’s telegram, Nana and his dilapidated scooter were found eighty-three feet below Bandel Bridge. The police report said that Nana, blinded by an oncoming truck’s headlamps, had lost control and smashed through the guard railing. The scooter’s petrol tank had burst, charring what was left of Nana’s mutilated body. Nana’s life insurance company, after a lot of debate with Nana’s lawyers, reluctantly handed over one hundred and thirteen thousand rupees to Raju Pillai’s account.

It was a sacrifice worth the Pillai name. A sacrifice for that little Raju who used to say, “When I grow up, I’ll buy you a big car daddy.” And Nana would say, ruffling his hair, “I know son, I know.” All Nana knew as he drove his scooter off the bridge was that he could not fail Raju.
A few days later, seven thousand kilometers away, Raju Pillai died of a cocaine overdose.

The Crucifiction of Scooby Doo

Recently I had the pleasure of visiting Delhi running an errand for my father.
11:00 pm I am on the AC deluxe night bus to Delhi, with a drunk guy sitting next to me."wanna know why I'm drunk" he drawls, showering me with stray drops of alcohol that he had not swallowed and clouding the immediate vicinity with the stench of booze... "My son, he flunked his CBSE hahahahaha, so I'm going to Delhi to fuck him!" (of course the entire conversation transpired in Hindi.)
2:00 am Still on the bus, freezing cold because of the AC but I manage to fall asleep by covering myself with a towel. (now I know why Douglas Adams said never leave home without a towel.)
2:10 am Rudely awakened by some noise. I find that some dude has started an arguement with the conductor. He wanted the AC to be put off, but the conductor was arguing that the bus would have to be stopped for that and it would spoil the AC if he kept putting it on and off. the bugger got pissed off and started abusing the conductor. The conductor abused back and naturally a fight broke out. At Midway Hotel (midway between Delhi-Dehra Dun as the name implies), some of the passengers throw the conductor off the bus. The conductor agrees to acquiesce (go SAT word list!) for the rest of the trip...
5:30 am The bus drops me off at Lal Quila. i have no idea what to do...
5:45 am I reach Amit Chandra's flat (formerly Tanaya's flat) in Indravihar. i knock on the door till 6:00 am. No response.
6:00 am I fall asleep outside the flat.
7:00 am I decide it's too uncomfortable and go to college. Fall asleep under the Buddha statue in University lawns with some guys practising karate nearby and the whole world out on a morning walk looking at me as if I was a freak show (no smart comment on this please)
9:00 am Wake up...lawns are empty. I walk to Mukh East and see fancy tiled toilets and showers...take a crap and a shower...didn't have a brush...
10:00 am I meet Wilson in main corr. I smile at him.
10:10 am Out on the work I was meant to do.
11:45 am work done. Sit at Cafe Coffee Day watching music videos with Uttam Mukherjee (I Chem) and his girlfriend. eat breakfast.
12:50 pm In CP booking tickets for the journey back home. Go window shopping in CP, piss off shopkeepers.
2:30 pm In PVR Naraina (stoned) watching "The Passion Of The Christ". There were some deaf people who had come too. I didn't know then that the entire movie was in Hebrew with subtitles. In the end they distributed "Love Jesus, Love God" booklets and left. I went to watch Scooby Doo 2.
7:00 pm back in CP. got stuck in dirty Delhi rain, had a subway dinner while reading MAD. Chatted up some arbit tourist who had just visited Doon (I was carrying a Doon School bag with me.)
9:00 pm on the bus back home.
10:00 pm the conductor tells me the bus is going to Nainital, not Dehra Dun. i panic. Don't worry he tells me, I'll put u in another bus.
11:00 pm I wait for the "another bus" to come in the rain at Fatehpuri.
11:30 pm bus comes. I fall asleep.
6:30 am I reach home.
I love this world....

The River

The shadow of the thick-leaved tree seemed to float on the rays of the smooth and intense light of the morning sun. It sailed past the open meadow, over the jagged rocks and finally rolled down to the River where it broke into a thousand glimmering wavelets.

The River was always mysteriously beautiful. Calm, with small ripples and undulations, yet deadly and forbidding.

No one crossed the river, for fear of the other side. The woods were dark and deep there. The sun could not penetrate through the gigantic evergreens. They say the woods hide riches. Riches, beyond our wildest dreams, but there was no path to it. The river ate the path years ago.

The River. One now said that name with a God-like reverence. It had no name. It never required one. God doesn't need one. The water was sweet and had a flavour that could tantalize even the most morose of men. Its cleanliness rivaled by nothing in this world. Its power, its might, raised its ego. It was not the sustenance of life. It was life.

The river and its two banks have existed for eternity, its diversions caused by human intervention. It still marks the light and darkness. A few foolish, greedy yet courageous men ventured to step into these waters to cross over. They succeeded, but no one knows if they found gold, for they never returned.

This balance will always remain.
There is life and there is death.
There are things understood and things left misunderstood.
And in between them all runs the River.
This is how creation works.
This is how God works.

Bart Simpson's Lessons

A burp is not an answer.
All work and no play makes Bart a dull boy.
Bart Bucks are not legal tender.
Coffee is not for kids.
Five days is not too long to wait for a gun.
Funny noises are not funny.
Garlic gum is not funny.
Goldfish don't bounce.
High explosives and school don't mix.
I am not a 32 year old woman.
I am not a dentist.
I am not authorized to fire substitute teachers.
I am not deliciously saucy.
I did not see Elvis.
I do not have diplomatic immunity.
I saw nothing unusual in the teacher's lounge.
I will finish what I sta
I will never win an emmy.
I will not aim for the head.
I will not barf unless I'm sick.
I will not belch the National Anthem.
I will not bribe Principal Skinner.
I will not bring sheep to class.
I will not burp in class.
I will not bury the new kid.
I will not call my teacher Hot Cakes.
I will not call the principal Spud Head.
I will not carve gods.
I will not celebrate meaningless milestones.
I will not charge admission to the bathroom.
I will not conduct my own fire drills.
I will not cut corners.
I will not defame New Orleans.
I will not do anything bad ever again.
I will not do that thing with my tongue.
I will not draw naked ladies in class.
I will not drive the principal's car.
I will not eat things for money.
I will not encourage others to fly.
I will not expose the ignorance of the faculty.
I will not fake my way through life.
I will not fake seizures.
I will not get very far with this attitude.
I will not go near the kindergarten turtle.
I will not grease the monkey bars.
I will not hide behind the Fifth Amendment.
I will not instigate revolution.
I will not pledge allegiance to Bart.
I will not prescribe medication.
I will not re-transmit without the express permission of Major League Baseball.
I will not say Springfield just to get applause.
I will not sell land in Florida.
I will not sell miracle cures.
I will not sell school property.
I will not show off.
I will not skateboard in the halls.
I will not sleep through my education.
I will not snap bras.
I will not spank others.
I will not squeak chalk.
I will not teach others to fly.
I will not torment the emotionally frail.
I will not trade pants with others.
I will not waste chalk.
I will not Xerox my butt.
I will not yell Fire in a crowded classroom.
I will not yell She's Dead at roll call.
I will return the seeing-eye dog.
It's potato, not potatoe.
Mud is not one of the 4 food groups.
My homework was not stolen by a one-armed man.
My name is not Dr. Death.
No one is interested in my underpants.
Nobody likes sunburn slappers.
Organ transplants are best left to professionals.
Spitwads are not free speech.
Tar is not a plaything.
Teacher is not a leper.
The cafeteria deep fryer is not a toy.
The Christmas Pageant does not stink.
The Pledge of Allegiance does not end with Hail Satan.
The principal's toupee is not a Frisbee.
There are plenty of businesses like show business.
They are laughing at me, not with me.
This punishment is not boring and pointless. Underwear should be worn on the inside.

Three Bad Poems

Stephanian Winter
In the concrete Serengeti, the meeting season had begun.
The day was marked by raucous calls of prospective meets.
They fell on deaf years.
At night, little Timmy relieved himself by the lamppost
And sniffed a stray burning Navy Cut butt.
He had to be fast, the dew would extinguish it soon.
The Ritz at one end of town, bustled.
There were no seats left – you had to book yours.
The Oberoi had lost a lot of business lately.
Ski-masked terrorists lurked in dark corners.
The cold had taken a toll on them.
Their heaters blew the fuses. Darkness. Time to strike.
Lazy men sat in wasted old-age homes
Drinking vodka without caviar.
That was the thrill of it…
Jokers in dark suits, boots and ties were laughed at.
The jokers laughed when the act was over.
They stopped laughing when they had to pay the taxi bill.
A white Esteem rolled out of the gate at night.
The crowd screamed in delight:
Elvis had left the building!



Rickshaws in Europe
Rickshaws in Europe
Is that too much to ask for?
Their frail axle is susceptible
In the moon surface of Kamla Nagar:
You bounce, jump and jiggle in your seat.
Suspension, non-existent…
The roads of Europe are smooth and clean –
Smooth as a Basu’s head.
You don’t need a fishbone suspension
Rickshaws are perfect for Europe.


Sad Boredom
Sitting alone in a stupid stall selling ‘study abroad’ advice
When there’s hot music to chill to on the dance floor.
Sitting alone in a room sulking and hearing
Heavy rock emanating through your window.
Sitting alone in a rave party stone cold sober
Watching others dance to the DJ’s bad Punjabi music.
Feeling guilty to have fun because you’re worried about the future.
It’s sad…

Are These Actually True?

Shortest Essay:
An English university creative writing class was asked to write a concise essay containing the following elements:
1) Religion 2) Royalty 3) Sex 4) Mystery
The prize-winner wrote:
"My God," said the queen, "I'm pregnant. I wonder who did it?"

Another one says that a class was asked to write a two thousand word essay on "Courage" and the prize-winner handed in a blank sheet with only one line on it:
"This is courage"...

Of Love And Scooters In The Ditch

One summer holiday I had stayed back in Dehra Dun to study. It was my last year in school and I didn’t want to waste it by going home and loaf around all day. My father arranged for a house in an obscure place called Indira Nagar. He knew that in a colony for retired people I wouldn’t find any items of distraction. Unfortunately in his quest for peace and serenity, my father had set me up 14km away from the main town!
My tuition timings were fixed; right from 6.20 a.m. in the morning till twelve noon. Each morning I caught a Vikram and took a three rupee and thirty-minute roller coaster ride, downtown. First up was Physics, followed by Math, English and finally Chemistry. Between math and physics I always kept an hour and a half free for breakfast, which I usually had at Barista. I became quite friendly with the staff there and by the end of my holidays I knew all their wives’ birthdays!
Carrying my doggy bag of a ‘Brrrista’ and a grilled sandwich, I usually parked myself in the cyber café next door. Each day I would type ‘mighty_180’ on Yahoo! Chat and expect to find a virtual ladylove, like those thousands of hopefuls who place their ads with Yahoo! Personals and expect their true love to be delivered to their doorstep on Saturday night.
However, I did meet quite a few interesting people. For instance there was this Austrian who shared similar literary tastes and an American teenager who believed Fred Durst is Jesus reincarnated. Love, however, was something that escaped me.
Before I could get bored of the devotional songs playing on the café stereo, I had to take a walk down Rajpur Road, survive the traffic of Suicide Alley and arrive at my math tutor’s doorstep. I always found Rahul “Bhappa” Singh and Anshul Wasu (couple of my school mates) hanging around his house, waiting for his previous batch to finish. They would come early to watch the chicks come out and drive away in their scooters.
We usually sat under the fiber glass shade of a video library, discussing Doscos and Welhamites (who said girls were the only ones who gossip), licking an occasional ice-cream and trying to puncture scooter tyres (So we could act chivalrous and help the girls change wheels, but that plan never worked out!).
Math tuition usually passed by in a breeze. We either discussed whether Devdas was a loser or Haseena Maan Jayegi was a better movie than Analyze This! By the time we actually opened our registers it was already time to leave.
Bhappa had an ancient crackpot contraption which only passed as a scooter because a dilapidated ‘TVS-Scooty’ sticker was pasted on one side. He lovingly called it Dhobal, after a classmate, because according to him they both ran on jugaad. We would ride down together to English tuition from Math and thus Dhobal became an intricate part of my daily life. The adventures of Dhobal are another story itself which I shan’t delve into.
Without fail, Bhappa, Dhobal and I were always ten minutes late for English. Not that it really mattered for the class always started fifteen minutes into time. Ganging outside the classroom we would spend time breaking litchis and bitching. To make matters more interesting there were a bevy of pretty girls in our batch and one fatally smote poor Bhappa. A real cutie who went by the name Piya. Bhappa was always falling in and out of love; he could never hold a relationship for more than a week – that was his record.
For the next few days Bhappa followed her scooter (hell, everyone had a scooter, except me!) in a feeble attempt to find out where she lived. However, when all the jugaad failed, Bhappa decided to adopt the good old fashioned lover boy style. The next day he came along with a single stem of a red rose wrapped in an aluminium foil like a tandoori chicken leg. The rest of us guys obviously couldn’t help but burst out laughing, and were then as useful as a toothpick in the Amazons. I couldn't stand all this juvenile mushy, mushy crap so I promptly fled the scene and walked all the way to the Vikram stand without waiting for anyone to give me a ride. I don't know what happened that day, but I guess it turned out quite well since the next day Bhappa and Piya stuck together like the 12th and 13th page of a book.
There were the evenings at Barista, the romantic walks, hand in hand, through Paltan Bazaar, gifts of expensive perfumes stolen from mummy's closet, chocolates and the like. Then it all fell apart.
It was a Wednesday. As I walked into the path leading to my math teacher's house, I saw a bent and forlorn Bhappa throwing pebbles at a bewildered dog. The end of another relationship, his longest yet – a whole fifteen days! Damn, the guy was getting better.
That day Math and English passed unceremoniously. I didn't bother to ask Bhappa what was wrong and surprisingly he didn’t say a word either. As soon as English class was over Bhappa stormed out and stood under the litchi tree with his hands on his hips. Soon another chap called Thoothoo came and joined him in the shade. The rest of us quietly slinked away. Something big was up and we decided to watch from a safe distance. Then Piya came and stood beside Thoothoo. A three way face off. It reminded me of some lines from the merchant of Venice…
A heated argument followed, but I was least interested. I would rather watch my dog fall asleep. But from what I could gather, it was a love triangle feud. Apparently Piya had been two-timing both Bhappa and Thoothoo. I don’t blame her. After all, who wouldn’t want to mufti twice at Barista in one day? I mean, c’mon she’s only human. Hell! If I was getting two free meals a day, even I would have done the same. Unfortunately Bhappa and Thoothoo didn’t quite grasp this simple logic. They spoke about truth and commitment and all that other horse manure you usually hear women say in TV soaps. Then they asked her to choose. Well let’s see, Thoothoo had a sexy new Hyundai and owned most of Rishikesh and Bhappa had… Dhobal.
Poor Bhappa in his grief stricken stupor could only murmur, “…well in that case, remember the perfume I had given you, could I have that back?”
I was really bored by now and my stomach was beginning to growl. I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast and I wanted to go home and have a nice lunch. Unfortunately, my ride was stuck up in a seemingly stupid argument. What was more pissing off was that they had been at it for an hour and still showed no signs of letting up!
I quickly checked my wallet and figured that I didn’t have enough money to buy a ride to the Vikram stand. Then my guardian angel came in the shape of Sakhlani.
“I don’t think they’ll manage to sort this out before nightfall, man, come, I’ll drop you off at the stand.” With a wry smile I jumped onto his scooter and thanked god for letting me out of this mess. As Sakhlani revved the engine I looked back and saw Piya bored to the teeth. I knew exactly what was going through her mind… “Guys could we sort this out at Barista, please?”
I smiled at the thought and turned my head. I felt the sweet summer breeze on my lips as the scooter raced down EC Road. We were doing seventy. I didn’t want the ride to end. I just felt like singing, so I started singing “Sun is shining”. Suddenly Sakhlani turned around and gave me a dirty look. I guess he didn’t like my singing. Well, hey, not everyone’s Elvis!
“Dude, girls are pure poison, bloody hundred percent cyanide, man. Arre, Bhappa and Thoothoo were such great pals and now look what the weaker sex has done to them!”
Sakhlani was sore about the incident. I nodded my head in agreement. He took it is as encouragement.
“Bloody hell yaar, I’ve seen it in every Hindi movie. It’s always the girls who breaks up friendships and get brothers separated. What the hell yaar, I mean…”
It was too late when we saw it coming. In all his excitement Sakhlani had forgotten the road and missed the white Gypsy heading right at us. In my absolute state of shock all I could do was poke Sakhlani in his ribs. Sakhlani turned around after he saw my white face and what followed was a scene The Matrix fans would have paid to see. Sakhlani braked hard and skid the scooter to one side. We hit the road at fifty and slid down, the rough asphalt cutting into our jeans causing internal injuries which would trouble me for the next couple of weeks. We were headed right for the ditch and before we knew what had happened, we were waist deep in the dirtiest and murkiest Dehra Dun water. Sakhlani looked at me and shrugged.
I finally got to the Vikram stand; wet and stinking. Seeing my condition several Vikrams simply refused to take me! Somehow I reached home – hungry, but smarter than I had started. I had learnt a lesson: having anything to do with love is a dangerous proposition. But don’t let that take your mind off Dehra Dun roads, lest you end up in a ditch.