A knell in the coughing

No story is more bitter than the story never told. Some stories cannot be told - literature doesn't have the equipment. Besides, words are grunts we use to confuse ourselves. Any idea why "sentences" mean both communication and punishment?

Some sentences are spoken by little voices hawking "fresh" strawberries in jammed traffic. This jam comes in carbon dioxide flavour...not your usual razzberry. Other, older voices silence those squeaky voices with their gruff admonishing. There are other carefree voices that enjoy the casual banter of camaraderie. Some hushed voices professing a fearful love. The same voices later cursing telecom companies in not-so-hushed tinklings. Some speaking because they need the exorcise.

In far more silent auditoriums the only speech is that of instruments. No questions have been asked, no answers have been offered - only two instruments speaking to each other. A flute and a sitar. No lyrics here, no words to confound us with their innuendo or suggestiveness. A rippling river of strings over which the stone of a note skips across. The punctuation of percussions marking the query. A few teary eyes that reflect a very dusty inner mirror. Questions without answers. We've stopped questioning ourselves long ago. But others are answerable to us...?

Long after all the voices have faded away. Long after sticks and stones have broken our bones and words have hurt us. Long after one of those little voices stop their feeble whispers of a happy new year...there will still be voices too frozen to tell tales.















The warrior at dusk. Or the worrier?
















Creations that make voices go "oooh"















And crowds that say "aah"..
















..especially after instruments have rendered everyone speechless















The sound of bleating horns in thigh deep water















Sights which make you silent




















Unless silence is natural.
















Or if you are too scared to blow your own trumpet.















Perhaps simply scared...















You raised a voice in protest as others zoomed by















Although it needn't take only voices to scream out for attention















Because certain colours speak of hunger















Until the only sound you hear are chomps















There isn't much sound in whisperings of sweet nothings.















That's when you speak silently to someone higher Above















Apologize for the mistakes you will commit again





















And hear the voices within.

Tagged

My big toe is not blue, frozen or dead. The nail has grown a bit, but that's ignorable. Why is there a tag dangling from it? And it's not even carrying vital statistics. All this tag says is:

1. Put your MP3 player/Media player on shuffle
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. You must write the name of the song no matter what.

It also carries the name of the tagger.


Tan-da-da-tra-da-da-da-trickychowchowchowchow

* Game show host voice *


>If someone says "Is this okay?" you say:
Impossible [Kanye West]

>What do you like in a guy/girl?
Kaun [Indian Ocean]

>How do you feel today?
Becoming insane [Infected Mushrooms]

>What is your life's purpose?
Death whispered a lullaby [Opeth]

>What is your motto?
Piano smasher [Blue Man Group]

>How do you feel today?
Oil and water [Incubus]

>What do your friends think of you?
Supermassive black hole [Muse]

>What do you think of your parents?
Indian flute [Timbaland]

>What do you think about very often?
Aquatic dance [Vangelis]

>What is "2+2"?
Send me an angel [Gregorian]

>Do you think of your best friend?
Different names for the same thing [Death cab for cutie]

>What do you think of the person you like?
Hotel costes [Buddha bar]

>What is your life story?
Conquest of paradise [Vangelis]

>What do you want to be when you grow up?
Song pong [Infected mushrooms]

>What do you think when you see the person you like?
Concerto No. 3 in F "L'autun [Vivaldi]

>What do your parents think of you?
Vampires [Godsmack]

>What will you dance to at your wedding?
Hawaiian guitar [Jesse Cook]

>What will they play at your funeral?
Aaja Mahiya [Udit Narayan]

>What is your hobby/ interest?
Braveheart [John Williams]

>What is your biggest secret?
Blashphemous rumours [Gregorian]

>What do you think of your friends?
Desert Rose [Sting w. Cheb Mami]

>What should you post this as?
Shut your mouth [Pain and prodigy]


So that was the tagged post. No commercial breaks. No audience applause. No sponsorships. No celebrity host. Just pure mindless boggling blogging. Too bad my Hindustani Classical music collection didn't figure. Oh well, let the fingering commence anyway...

Who you gonna call?

And I'm back in the waiting room again. This particular hospital smells of phenyl and mothballs. The smell might have something to do with the 4pm visiting time - evening cleaning hour. Either that or it's my jacket which I've pulled out after 9 months of being stuffed. The receptionist is pretty. They must be pretty for a reason. The hospital temple (yeah it's kinda mandatory) houses a grinning Lord Krishna and a gleeful Radha draped on his arm. They both have Marwari features. They are carved out of marble. Hmmmm.......

So there are Bongs and Gujjus and Sindhis and Biharis and Oriyas all rushing into a Maru hospital. Maybe not the Sindhis. They are a class apart. They outdo the Marus too. Loads of stereotypes. Loads of differences. Something you'd see everyday in real life. Something you wouldn't think thrice about if you were in front of a PC (or a Laptop/Mac/Macbook/PDA/Cellphone). The internet has its own share of friends (frandz?) and stereotypes. So here's a tribute to those millions who make being online everyday worthwhile.

And free from hospital smells too..


The Agony Aunt - She's your best friend. It's a bit one sided though. You don't think twice about buzzing her and engulfing her with your tale of woe. If you're more of a beast, you engulf her with your tail of whoa! The knocking on her chat handle and spewing all venom is a (self imposed) given. The knocking her up you can't imagine. She's the shoulder you lean upon, disagree with, and can't do without. Over a period of time she is known to ask you to go to bed if you are up late.

The Agony Uncle - The male version of the aunt. Not necessarily married to her. In fact, this is highly undesirable. The agony uncles have a wild side of their own. You come to agony uncles for advice on friends, love, matters of the heart, matters of the fart - if you are close enough emotionally and far apart geographically. Agony uncles write out excellent reality checks. You lose your bounce a bit, but that's what he is good for. Their sentences are liberally interspersed with profanities which walk the range between mildly creative to boss-abuseworthy. They generally hate their day jobs.

The Sighnature - This is probably you. Even agony auntcles turn into sighnatures. Every other sentence is marked with a mental sigh. Your job isn't good enough, your parents are stifling, your significant other is a bother, your siblings are successful and you probably haven't gotten laid yet. Sighnaturists have dark circles (under their eyes) and puffy cheeks.

The EMA - This is the Extra Marital Affair. Enough said? Not really. They know you inside out. No pun intended. This is mostly your doing since you choose to regale your EMA with the nitty gritties of everyday life. While the agony couple gets the bad parts, your EMA gets all the highlights of the day. EMAs have tremendous control over your mood being able to make you happy in an instant or Sighnaturist in another. Known to be emotional and fond of ascribing animal names to mundane issues. Hugging emoticons, anybody?

The Emotivator - You've been smiley bombed. A chat window will pop up at any point of the day with a smiley. Oh grin, wink, smile, stick your tongue out, cry, thpbbbbt - the emotivator is guaranteed to cheer you up. That's probably because they have an emoticon for every mood. They also motivate you to hit the ~x( keys on your instant messenger if you are busy. They motivate you to learn creative new ways of expressing yourself. Social networking sites have received numerous complaints from the emotivators about not having enough emotiis. Known to cause potentially embarrassing situations with the kiss smiley. Especially if you are at work.

The Exclaim Artist - WTF!! Generally female, the exclaim artist *hold your breath* exclaims! The shift and 1 keys are overused! Very useful for sharing gossip! Equally useful for spreading rumours! Doesn't like being spoken about! LOL! A bit shifty too!!!!111

The LOLita - the grandmother of internet lingo, the LOLita laughs his/her/its way in and out of any position. You can judge the funniness of your statement by the capitalization, exclamation marks and delay in appearance of next chat. This may be due to slow reactions or a wonky internet connection too, but LOLitas have a very cheerful disposition. A word of warning though - most of them appear to be dumb blondes. Most of them are.

The CaPiTalISt - Yeah teenagers. Not only is it difficult to understand what you are reading, but after you have attained your diploma in hieroglyphics it turns out that the message wasn't meant for you in the first place. OpsSS SoRReeY seNt 2 dA WrngPerSN bY MisTKK LOL! Teenage girls usually type this way. Some middle aged men exhibit this trait too.

The Hmmbug - Usually always busy, the Hmmbug will politely hear you out and forget about your existence. Note the use of exactly two M's in the hmm. If unusually moved or free, you might elicit a Mmmmm. Curiosity and excitement is represented by a Hmm? and Hmm! respectively. A Capitalist will never chat with a Hmmbug. ReAlLyY!

The Blogged Nose - Ah yes! The blogger spends time by roaming blogspots around IP addresses. This is a good person to chat with. Life turns into a Shakesperean drama with the computer a stage and us doing our bits. Pun intended. You glean a lot of knowledge, come across different points of view. You also decide that your own vocabulary skills are inadequate and contemplate various means of ending your life. You are also strongly influenced to download obscure softwares, blogroll random people and quote their writings in parties. (And as a blogger buddy pointed out: software ka plural, is software.) See what I mean by vocabullying?

The Techie - Smart, full of enthusiasm and your guru for troubleshooting. Gives fast solutions to any and all problems. The one drawback is you can never get them online for more than 5 minutes. The other drawback is you can't understand their rapid-action techtips. Never ask the techie his/her salary. You might end up with permanent greenback damage or a badly messed up computer. Usually possesses a 12th dimensional sense of humour.

The Bathroom Humorist - You'll talk shit with this one. And feel just as refreshed after you are done. Don't wash your hands off this one in a hurry. His/her one-liners earn you brownie points during chats. Either that or it's no donut for you. Things take a turd for the better if your face is flushed. Enjoy your afternoons taking pot-shots at each other. Go on a date if you can. You'll be exclaiming "goodness gaseous me!" in no time.

The Inslut - A glutton for punishment. The Inslut loves making off topic remarks. Any comebacks get hastily deleted. Return comebacks are targeted at your background, upbringing and length of nasal hair. Insluts think many things are overrated. They are best handled by Pwndits.

The Pwndit - Brash, rude and has an opinion about everything. Could be your long lost brother/sister/other at some Kumbh Mela. Could also be your boss in disguise. The pwndit has good command over the queen's language. You might find your head shoved up your rear entry just to get to know yourself from deep within. Making an ass of yourself is inevitable. Chances are you are viewing your own after your head has been twisted around and jammed into place.

The Mystery Cat - Lurks in cavities. You'll never find out what this person really knows. His/ her name, location, even sex is hard to find. Hell, you won't even know it exists until it makes itself visible to you. Unless you are a lurker.

The Lurker - The lurker knows almost everything about you. You also end up knowing a lot about the Lurker because he/she cannot keep his/her trap shut. A lurker buddy will find out whatever you ask. The cons involve emotional blackmail because they fall really badly for tricks and privacy attempts.

The Sex Kitten - Puns intended to stun, the Sex Kitten has an amorous reference in humour. You'll never get to bed with her, but the chat is quite stimulating. Your ROFL might be a ROBL and you'll realize that your nursery rhymes were actually attempts at perverting your innocent minds. Don't get too hooked to the Sex Kitten. The chance to unhook will, alas, be out of reach you C.

The Envirowmentalist - Frustrated species. You need them to understand how lucky you really are. If you see one, run/ignore/block/permanently invisible like hell! Identifying strains are questions about Man's purpose and existence, responsibilities and how your near and dear ones are. They normally don't have a Danger sign written on their forehead. If you are searching for one it was nice knowing you.

The Librarunian - Library knowledge about all things Linda Goodman. Has a psychic connection with all things unbalanced. Offers solid advice, is modest and talks a bit too much. Talks a lot actually. Calls at weird hours. Will hear you out patiently and recommend patent advice. Known to be Harry Potter fanatics.

The Dock - Quack quack! This particular one echoes even in valleys. Tremendously accident prone and a potential donour to the Smithsonian, the good doctor believes in an eye for an eye and a tooth for a foot. You'll find the doc in the hospital. Being studied. Well grounded, the doc is usually in the dock too, staying close to his/her roots.

The Best Friend - He/ she is always around. A phone call away, this person knows your nickname when you were three. They know why you don't like being teased about something. They will stay online for hours just to give you a wake up call at 5am. You feel uneasy if the best friend isn't online. Sometimes, it's a group of friends who collectively becomes a single best friend. Be it calling to ask how your father is or to bash a sighnaturist, they are just there. And when you pronounce a sentence, you have their word.


There are more.. some less said the better. Some for whom you can't say enough. And some are alphabets in an online existence proving just how crazy the damned gods are. Now who sculpted that maru Krishna I wonder.

Frenetic filosophy and foam

Life doesn't have an orchestra playing in the background. If it did, every event would have resembled the movies. Life doesn't have action replays either. If it did, we would've relived very many moments a la soap operas.
Life is fired upon us point blank. Life is one day at a time.

Life stops. Randomly.


Suppose you were on your way to a bookstore. You'd just gotten off the subway. Let's say the map was something like this:

Subway > Hospital > Mall > Bookstore

We need a setting, say, dusk. There aren't many people in this set. Only you, a few cabbies idling their Sunday dusk away, and a guy lying on the road. For dramatic effect, he's having a fit, there's foam frothing from his mouth. And he's convulsing just outside the hospital gates.

Let's now say that you've spotted this chap. No one else has seen him. You run to the cabbies. You ask them for help in carrying him to the hospital. Smart world-wise people that they are, they ask you to bring a stretcher from the hospital. Naturally, you rush in. Then what? Then you spot an ambulance and two attendants. You ask them for their empty stretcher and assistance, right? What do you do when they tell you that they don't have any? You look at them in disbelief, don't you?

But you need to do something. There's a foamy chap writhing in the dust. So you rush into the hospital. You see two burly guards massaging their bellies. You ask them for help. They're from the police, they are meant to help. But they politely tell you that it's not their job to pick up people from the street. You scream at them for increasing their fat bellies perhaps? Maybe you shout at their callousness. But there's a man outside in the grip of a seizure.

So you rush in to the emergency ward. There are three doctors filling prescriptions. A few patients paying bills. You're excited. You're angry. You're stammering. You ask the doctor to please send two boys with stretchers. You're expecting help. You get a polite refusal. It's a
Sunday evening after all. People have more important things to do other than saving lives. They need to increase their wallets, don't they? The doctors are here to do their job. You know, the saving lives bit. You might have had the orchestra playing high beats and a rapid violin piece at this point. But this is life. There's no music. It's just you screaming your lungs out asking for life savers to save lives. You are not pleasant to hear. You are screeching like a banshee.

This means you rush outside again. You need help to bring this chap in. He looks like he's having an epileptic fit. Yes, his limbs are rigid and shaking and the froth is flowing fast. You convince one of those previous cabbies to help you save a life. The both of you hoist the chap up. You are supporting his spine and cradling his head. The froth dribbles over your shirt. The cabbie holds his legs. You two jog into the emergency ward. Remember the ambulance attendants and guards? They are looking bemusedly at you. But you don't care. You need to get this chap to the doctors so that they can save his life.

But the doctors are earning money. They grunt at you to set the patient down in a corner. You do that. Then you ask them to conduct their miracles. You pant at them. There's not much breath left in your lungs. Of course, you're sounding like a dog now. Who listens to dogs? Not doctors, oh no.... they've got money to make, prescriptions to fill. Who wants to attend to a dusty, dirty ragamuffin having a fit on the road. He probably won't have any money. Let him be.

You're also a hot-headed idiot prone to violent anger. You want to see some action. You scream at the doctors to stop and come do something. All you get is a young intern who wags his stethoscope in your face and asks you what's wrong with the bloke. You yell at him for being an idiot. You have another intern. A female who tells you that they have handled far worse cases than an ordinary epileptic patient. Now remember, these are just doctors. You shouldn't be angry with them. They're just supposed to make money while saving lives. The female intern receives an earful from you along the lines of being a pathetic show of idiocy. The male is standing stock still, unsure of what to do. He probably has never had a stranger from the street tell him he's incompetent and inhuman for not saving lives. He saves lives on a daily basis. How dare you tell him that he's a sick fag who doesn't have basic humanity and ethics?

That's when the politerefusal doctor brings his toolkit out. Toolkit? That's supposed to be a first aid box. Just ignore the rust. Yes, he wipes the foam away. The patient has stopped convulsing. Maybe he's dead. You didn't notice. You were too busy yelling. Oh, the interns have started reanimating his hands. The female is massaging his feet. The male is checking the blood pressure. Someone grabs your shoulder and requests you to stop yelling. You rudely inform him that as long as doctors refuse to save lives and policemen refuse to take risks you will keep raving. Everyone is looking at you. Maybe it's you who need help. Is there an insane asylum nearby? No... people are just money mad. There's no asylum for that. Everyone's got this disease.

You stumble out. It's become darker. The cabbie just drives off, away from the whole scene. There's a drama unfolding inside the emergency room. You hope that the chap makes it. He didn't look more than 25 when you lifted him off the dirt.

The orchestra stopped playing long ago. The only sound I heard was my heart thumping as I walked to the bookstore.

Must-ache

Moustaches are excellent for hiding long nose hair. They are also great for getting food stuck in them until your upper lip resembles the starry night sky. That's assuming you have a thick one. If you don't, shave it off. Mothers, sisters, grandmothers, aunts, non possessors of the growth will alternately mention how mature or young you look.

In my case, growing the bristle added a few years to my face. My grandmother was all praise. "Having a moustache at this age is very manly. You look just like your grandfather did when he was your age."
* Sudden rush of pride *
My sister was less enthusiastic. "Ewwwwwwwwwwww!"
Mom and Dad took one look at me, then returned to their paperwork.
* Sudden rush of short-lived pride *

Three weeks and two inches later, my symbol of manhood came off. Symbol of manhood. Read properly. I looked like some misplaced descendant of Genghis Khan, damn his spelling. It was longer on one side, shorter on the other. No, now shorter on that side, longer than the other. It's difficult being a well balanced person.

I missed the moustache today though. Them bristles are considered regal. You'll rarely see a bus driver, rickshaw puller or (my personal favourite) cabbies without their filament. It gives additional character to personalities. Note that I don't mention politicians, businessmen or movie people. That's because it's our drivers who take the country forward, contribute to wolf whistles in movie theatres and complain about pot holes. No self-respecting politician will complain about potholes. No businessman will take a national onus. No actor will whistle in a theater.

So back to moustaches. They are important when you want to cow someone. That's why I missed it, really. Thing is, we've got a Marwari infestation. They live in colonies in groups of four-five families scattered all over Lake Town. This particular infestation resides just behind my house.

It's a five storeyed apartment. The second storey is getting a boob job. You get the simile. They've got masons, electricians and marble cutters working in there 7 days a week. The masons and electricians are fine. The marble cutters are not. A marble cutting machine makes a high pitched whining sound, then cuts into the slab. Imagine a mixie trying to blend iron filings on Dolby Digital Sound and it gives you an approximate idea of what a treat to the ears it is. Our infestation is considerate. They work only on Sunday afternoons. That's when a peaceable retirement community like Lake Town sleeps. It sleeps at other times too, but that's not important now.

It takes two to operate the cutting machine - one to guide the instrument, another to hold the slab in place. At 2 pm, our dynamic duo got to their sound engineering. Cutter and squatter assumed their positions, drill in hand, marble between legs. Electricity flowed, sparks flew and the moans and groans started. All innuendo apart, I wasn't in any mood for afternoon shenanigans. Marched to my balcony (it overlooks their backyard), and hollered for them to stop. They looked up.

"Oi! Stop! How many more times will I ask you people to not work on Sunday afternoons?!"
"Just one slab more bhaiyya. 15 minutes."
"The last time you said 15 minutes it went on for 3 hours. Nothing doing. Stop!"

They looked at each other and continued. Me too.

"Look fellas, I know you have work to do. Do it over the week when it's time to work. You can't expect an entire locality of senior citizens to stay up just because your Marwaris want a different shade of marble."

More blank stares.

"All right people! I'll continue shouting at you. The older ladies and gentlemen will never raise their voices! But tell me, do you want to have their silent curses on your head? You who by doing your work destroyed their few snatched moments of well earned peace? You who have no consideration? Will you be prepared to live the rest of your life under those curses? I'll still be screaming, but you two will have an indelible blot on your existence! You'll go to hell for disturbing their peace!"

I've never seen anyone pack up and leave so fast.

And that's when I missed my moustache. It would've been so satisfying to give it a twirl. And no, twirling long nose hair isn't half as satisfying.

26 in 24

The heading refers to the number or letters to the number of hours. It's beyond mathematics, common sense, spoiled cheese and any coherent flow.

15.10

0500
Finished b/s with B and S. Exchanged music. G thought that I was down with L. Clarified any misconceptions. He shouldn't cry at random. V's gonna kill me on seeing the time.

0700:
Mom woke me up. Gotta accompany Dad to the clinic. I might have grunted. Ate a quick breakfast. Got into the car, drove off for south Cal. Driver was late. Grumble.

0745:
Doctor's appointment scheduled at 0800. Doctor scheduled to arrive at 0845. Waited in the rain with soggy newspapers. Clinic not open.

0810:
Clinic opened. Dustmen on watch cleaned the place. Watchmen on dust placed their cleans.

0830:
Waiting room again. One unattractive receptionist. Two hippo sized marwari ladies. Ladies? The TV looked more interesting.

0840:
TV very uninteresting. Journos with 15 seconds of fame and 15 mm of IQ were gushing about rain and it's effect on terracota plastic models. Go figure. Literally.

0900:
Doctor arrived. Dad trudged off to get whatever tests done.

1000:
Bone marrow samples, tissue samples, other unidentified samples bundled into a piece of plastic. Needed to get them to pathological labs to get further tests done. Smiled at unattractive receptionist hoping to get her to do her job. She smiled back. Yellow teeth. Dad went home.

1100:
Park Street. Lots of posters claiming justice against the red lettered litterers. Rushed to Lab 1. Lots of people. Confusion in tense already. Asked attractive receptionist about tissue sampling procedures and queues.

1140:
Got photocopies of prescriptions done. Pathologist smelt the formaldehyde sample of my dad's hip blood. He must have been Igor in some previous avatar. Little boy in waiting room screamed. Not at Igor. Waiting room again.

1200:
Park Street - Chowringhee crossing. Raining cats, dogs and socialites. Need to get second sample to Lab 2 before -
a) Lab closes
b) Blood sample loses freshness
c) I pass out of hunger

1230:
Panic call to family. Can't locate lab.

1315:
Located lab. Semi attractive receptionist. Requires full payment before samples can be sent for analysis. Annoying sub-receptionist. Very effeminate. Looked me over. Not sure if I should have been repulsed. Attractive receptionist smiled nicely. Misshapen teeth.

1400:
Hurried lunch at Park Street crossing. Note to reader: If you're still here, don't ever eat a hot chicken patty with cold mango juice. Fibres don't do wonders for your smile, stature or gas.

1600:
Last two hours spent travelling from Lab 1 to Lab 2. Some more pending work. Reached home in a smelly metro. Bald bugger waltzed into my seat. Gave him a ghastly grimace hoping to scare him out of my seat. He grimaced back. No teeth.


And the next day being the conclusion to my college life, it should have merited a post. But that was postponed thanks to lesser events. Like falling asleep in the middle of studying. The dreams were good though. Two attractive receptiontits. And such teeths too.

Hospitality

Waiting rooms smell pretty good - if you don't mind the body odours of fellow waiters. Or waitresses. Of course, it becomes a different smell when you're in a hospital waiting room. That's when you wrinkle your nose and look at the people around you.

Everyone looks tense. Arms folded, legs crossed, lips pursed. They're unobtrusively observing everyone else observing them unobtrusively. Some are talking amongst themselves. Some are gazing vacantly into the distance, faces expressionless. Some are there waiting just to peddle some new wonder drug to the doctor. These are the people who are juggling notes hoping to make that all important sales pitch as if their life depends on it. For the others who are in the waiting room - someone else's life depends...


So, what am I doing in the waiting room?

My Dad's been admitted to the hospital. Nothing much, just a few routine tests. The usual ECGs and X-Rays and CT Scans and blood tests. And this little thing called a "Lymphoma". What's a lymphoma? It's a cancer of the lymph nodes. What are lymph nodes? They are filters or traps for foreign particles and contain white blood cells. What are foreign bodies and white blood cells? Read up on 5th grade biology.

It's visiting hour. People are queuing up outside the lift. There are the usual shoves and pushes that are a part of lift travel. No one's aggressive here though. No annoyed mutterings, no angry glares. Everyone wants to get off at their respective floors and visit the whitewashed room that cages their loved one. The whitewashed room on the sixth floor where my father is.

He's doing fine. He was groggy from the general anaesthesia yesterday when the doctors performed the biopsy. And in his own words, he was talking too much. People do that when they're traumatized. Some go silent, most talk. Some mumble gratitude, most rave. It's the state of the innermost feelings of the mind when the drug exposes the mind's web to the doctor's gentle questions. It's a dissociative anaesthesia that makes the patient walk away from human existence for as long as it's required for the whitecoats to slice off whatever tissue they need for their tests.

The tests which show that Dad has Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma.

This is a statement of mixed relief. The cancer is non-lethal, but it's aggressive. Chemotherapy will start and change our lives. There will be upheavals - physical, emotional and many other als. He's taking it remarkably well. He knows exactly what's wrong with him and how bad it may be. I'm supposed to be prepared for every eventuality. This is one of those moments in which you become suddenly interested in the view outside the window. Dad's room overlooks a noiseless thoroughfare. This is Calcutta - there's no such thing as a noiseless thoroughfare. The 70foot elevation takes care of whatever stray sounds. The only noise is the rush of blood from thumping hearts in that room. And my father is extremely composed. He knows that he will be cured even at the stage he's in. He knows that there's no eventuality that needs to be prepared for other than the impending treatment. But he's thought everything ahead. Dad's name translates into "sober". It's that sobriety personified right now. There are no hushed voices. He's sick and he's telling us to take care of ourselves!!

Visiting hour is over. The ward boys knock. Dad's coming home tomorrow.

Dinner. Dad's having continental cuisine at the hospital. It's funny when you read the number of good words that begin with C: continental, cuisine, courage, character, calm, confidence, curable. And then comes the Big C. Throws things a bit out of gear. But things will be fine. It will be rocky, but obviously curable. I'm looking at Dad's seat at the dinner table.

It's not a place I'll fit into.

A few lessons learnt

Lessons learnt in the Design Yatra, presented in the Goaing, going, gone way. But this must have some witty comment to prove how smart I am. The thoughts within quotes aren't mine, the hyphenated ones aren't either. But just because I'm nice, it's getting credit here.


"Everything I do always comes back to me"
- Life must be a boomerang

"Trying to look good limits my life"
- Hobos are in

"Everybody thinks they are right"
- Lefties feel so left out

"Helping other people helps me"
- Two helpings of each then

"Over time I get used to everything and take it for granted"
- Try living in a vacuum

"Complaining is silly - either I act or I forget"
- This must be for whining and dining

"Worrying solves nothing"
- I'm tensed about the outcome of this statement

"Everybody who is honest is interesting"
- Dishonest people are interesting too. Check their bank balances.

"Assuming is stifling"
- Oxygen is a lack of assumptions?

"Material luxuries are best enjoyed in small doses"
- Bring out the caviar and Coney Island people

"Thinking life will be better in the future is stupid - I have to live now"
- Yeah, 4 feet of water is so conducive to the good life

"Being not truthful works against me"
- Umm... about the money... er.. forget it. Nothing!

"Money does not make me happy"
- Something else does, but we're civilized here

"Having guts always works out for me"
- Chicken guts works out too

"Low expectations are a good strategy"
- I should have learnt this for my maths exam

"Actually doing the thing I set out to do increases my overall level of satisfaction"
- Civilized society, civilized society, civilized society...

"In a time of universal deceit, telling the truth becomes a revolutionary act"
- Move over Guevara, Egoman is here

"The only thing you really have is what you give away"
- Nobody look at my commode

"Tom Cruise doesn't like the colour Red"
- And that's why the Mission: Impossible text is blue tinted


in fine print: Stefan Sagmeister
Neville Brody
Wally Orlins
Michael Johnson
Kyle Cooper

Lights. Chimera. Action.

I untangled my headphones. The thrum of digital music wasn't for this setting. The white dog looked expectantly at my hand. It's tongue had run faster than it had, hoping to bite into my burger. Or whatever was left of it. I threw the last piece of meaty bread onto the sandy beach and licked my fingers clean.

Goa.

I'd been here two days already. A rushed preparation, some anxious moments for reserving tickets, a lot of pent up frustration. The place was worth every second of waiting in smoky AC rooms hoping to get a seat in the Design Yatra 2007 conference.

There was this international creativity conference happening in Goa. The who's who of design were going to showcase their work. The mailer said it was a place "where creatives meet". I was interested. I had no chance of going. My notice period in the old workplace was over. There was just no way my ex-boss would sponsor my presence among all the old colleagues. The ex-officio Dark Stallion had bitten the dust. But here I was, walking in the sand.


I wasn't just bitter, I was angry. Angry at the way the last job ended. Angry at the fact that all my friends were out of station. Angry at the fact that I didn't have the energy or inclination to keep in touch with a single one. And in true movie style, I needed to vent. There, this post has gotten so many "I-s" already.

"Ma, I want to go to Goa. The office is gonna be there for 3-4 days. I plan to show up. There's also this design conference happening. I can get a student discount. Need some money."

"The word 'please' and 'may I' seems to have disappeared from your vocabulary."

"Let's not talk about it Ma. I need a break..."

Ma and Dad paid for my tickets. It was a vengeance visit. I wanted to prove to the ex-boss that I could jolly well show up wherever he was and have just as much fun, and learn just as much, and network with just as many, and I didn't need his help. If there was an ophthalmologist then, I'd have gotten an instant prescription for acute short sightedness. I'm also gleaning over a lot of details here. Details make postings unnecessarily big.

24 hours and 20k later, I was sitting in Mumbai Airport. My male ego was pounding it's gorillaic chest. I'd managed to shock my ex-colleagues by showing up. It's a different thing that my back was throbbing from three days of zero sleep and endless hours of anticipation. Goa was only an hour away. By flight that is. The check-in and boarding added a tidy 4 hour wait before that one hour came my way.

The organizing committee had made reservations at the Alor Grande, Candolim. My friends were in more posh hotels around Goa. The point is, I had come. The nearest hotel, La Calypso, was on Baga beach. It was about Rs. 100 away. Another taxi driver buddy and business card later, I was back to socializing with the old gang. This sounds more and more like a memory journal. It probably is.

I finally managed to meet a colleague who sat in Mumbai. We chatted, joked, got inspired and annoyed the ex-boss together. The fact that I was present there was annoying in itself, but to have dinner with everyone and get away with smart alecky comments was a bit too much. Every dinner with the old group was accompanied by Port Wine. Lots of it. Shark fin steak, seafood platter, beefsteak sizzlers and chocolate mousses were lost in the revelry and thick atmosphere of sarcasm. Someone dropped a glass of wine. It seeped towards the boss. I offered him a napkin.

"Here, use this to stem your flow."

I wasn't part of it. It felt good to be rude and in-your-face. I was also beginning to loathe myself.

"Lake Town? 10 rupaye zyaada dena hoga."

"Theek hai, chalo."

I'd have to pay 10 bucks more for the taxi ride home. It was raining and empty cabs were few and far between. The extra tenner was worth an hour's waiting, or worse, haggling.

We drove off the Park Street Flury's crossing. Traffic wasn't sparse. It was 9:00 pm and the rain swept homecoming office crowd was looking for a dry journey. I looked around, snug in my seat. The howling wind was conducting the rain orchestra.

The taxi reached the Park Circus bridge. A grizzled man with a jovial grin, the driver guided the car through the sea of vehicles and water. The grin was more of a grimace - road rage runs high with cloistered spaces and reduced visibility.

"What idiots! Why are they all in such a tearing hurry!"

I wasn't in a mood to reply. It had been a long day and I'd rather take a nap in the one hour ride home. The driver turned around to look at me. I grunted a non-committal reply.

"Yeah... everyone needs to get home."

"They do, but that doesn't mean you do it at others' expense. Think about the blessings of science that have enabled people to drive instead of walk. This doesn't mean that they zoom through like blood in arteries."

The analogy was interesting. I leaned forward from my splat-on-the-seat position. He continued talking. The conversation that followed was entirely in Hindi.

"I was listening to the news on the radio, babu. It's delhi ka fm. Sometimes it tunes itself here. I listen to it every day and read the papers too." A neatly folded copy of Sanmarg was resting behind the fare meter. "They said that a robot has been bought by doctors in Delhi - for the first time in Asia - that will be able to do biosurgery. A doctor will guide it and it will perform the finest of operations and surgeries without any errors. Just think babu, how we have progressed. A machine to operate on human beings."

"Yeah, it's amazing. Science is making progress."

"And not just progress babu, it's moving forward at a tremendous speed. Where are we going?"

I was piqued. The cabbie wasn't just passing on information he'd heard or read about. He had given it some thought.

"In the satyug, you only had to imagine yourself in one place and you would be there. In the dwapara you had to work by physical labour. And after that it's been a downhill ride. We now travel in mechanical monsters. But we are making progress. It takes two hours on a plane now instead of an instant compared to thousands of years ago."

The car had reached the ITC Shonar Bangla by now. All plans of napping forgotten, I was leaning forward intently. I was desperate to show off my two bits of knowledge in front of this illiterate, uneducated man. My philosophical bantering tends towards non-materialism and non-wealth.

"At the end of your life, it doesn't matter how much you've earned or what name you've made. What really matters is whether you've been able to make somebody happy. Anybody."

"You are right babu. The Gita says -"

"Karmanye Vadhikaraste Ma Phaleshu Kadachana,
Ma Karma Phala Hetur Bhurmatey Sangostva Akarmani"

"- yes babu. Do your duty and not expect outcomes. Don't do the job for results but for the pleasure of getting the job done..."

I stopped. This man clearly knew what he was talking about and was more than your tobacco chewing, khaini spitting, passenger refusing Nana Shaw. Nana Shaw is a stereotype of the typical Calcutta taxi driver - leaves his mark on the city and on the mind of passengers by refusing them.

"Why did you become a taxi driver?", I asked completely oblivious of how I said it.

"I've got a school in my village. I'm from Hazaribagh, Jharkhand. I make enough foodgrains to last my entire family, and my brothers. And also run a school there. This taxi is just for my freedom. The 20 odd thousand Rupees I save every month goes into making the school. I started off my brother with teaching. He took the school forward. I plan to open a library for students. They walk 11 kilometres to buy books. My house in Kasba needs to be fixed. The shingles are falling in on the mud walls. But it's all for the children, babu. You said na that you need to make somebody happy?"

"Yes..... a thousand people..."

His statements weren't as random as my typing. I couldn't digest the information. This man had started a school for the village children. And not just any school, this institute had a thousand students on its roll with 13 qualified teachers registered under the State Higher Secondary Board. A man who drove someone else's cab for a living had a farm, a secondary school and burning ambition to his name. He might have been bluffing. I wouldn't know. His statements were crisp and purposeful. His voice was hard - accustomed to toil and turmoil. His message was soft. If you need to do something with life, contribute to science's robotic surgeries, make a school, make people happy - start with yourself.

The taxi had reached Lake Town.

"Bhaiyya, aap change rakh lo..." Keep the change.

IST - Individual Suitable Time

This is the Independence Day post. It's on time, just take a look at the title. Blog titles are very important. They promise something else and then wander off to wherever the .....

As I was saying.

This year the shades of saffron and hues of green didn't hold much stock for me. Until dinner that is. At this point I decide that this is going to be a food review complete with pictures. I also decide that I need better flow of thoughts.



Now the purpose of having a picture smack there isn't just to fan the "them's" ego by saying that a picture speaks more than a 1000 words. (reference: They say that.. blah blah blah). The secret to selecting a good sizzler is to carefully see what everyone else is choosing and following suit. Herd mentality is a good thing except if you're a goat that has had the honour of being the main dish.

Caught 'N' Bowled at the Salt Lake City Center boasts of great continental food with a cricketing ambiance. They live up to it. The 15th Aug menu had its share of greens and oranges with a liberal white sauce. What you're looking at passed out on the 16th. But on the 15th it was a lamb steak sizzler. Add to that the carbohydrate addition of macaroni pasta cooked in a tangy tomato puree, American style French fries, a very Indian looking potato kebab and the salad to taste.

Incidentally, the salad rests on a bed of fresh lettuce. Remove the bed and feast your eyes on the crack in the sizzler plate. This is where they pour the alcohol and set fire to it. Hmmm... spirits in the crack that set it on fire.

Feeling particularly foodial, hence the second pic. At a different angle of course. The hand you see is my sister's spearing the cauliflower. She doesn't have a blog. And for those on orkut who want to strike up a frandship about "Hey, you're [my name]'s sister! How is [my name] doing?" - ask me yourself. That was the compulsory comic twist which didn't really fit in, but anyway.

Keeping your eyes closed while eating is generally a good way of unlocking hidden flavours. The texture of the meat. The spicy tanginess of the sauce. There may be those herbs and spices which are missed out while engaging in intellectually stimulating conversation. The aftertaste the potato leaves when eaten with the dip. Then there's the aroma. A very important part of the taste is the way it smells. So inhale, chew carefully and keep your eyes closed.

The above statements do not apply if you're out with voracious eaters with a sense of humour. You'll end up smelling everything other than your food. And when you open your eyes you'll see the plate. Just the plate.

Final word: The secret to enjoying a great sizzler is to not get your tongue burnt on the first bite.

Chalk De India

The heading is inspired. So's the movie.

Take 80 parts inspiration, 18 parts bitterness, 1 part rationality and 1 part implications. Put it together. Get an insipid blog post about an inspiring movie. Inspiring. I love that word now. It begins with I. Just like India. And as they say, there is no "I" in team.

Chak De India chalks out a simple enough plot. Captain of National Hockey Team misses out the oh-so-important-this-shall-decide-the-fate-of-the-world penalty shot in a match against Pakistan. Curses, allegations and alligator like journalists (in collaboration with Times of India and Aaj Tak?) waste no time in attaching labels to the betrayer Kabir Khan. He disappears for seven years while the world leaves its mark on his address. But this isn't a movie review. That's for Sandy.

Movies like Chak De.. prove that we don't need songs and dance routines. Just put in a lot of sportsman spirit, comment about the same, show some mercenary politicians, mention sponsorships, raise hockey sticks and walk away in a blaze of teary eyed realizations. Come to think of it, just how much of it is a light on the current situation in the country? But then "this is India, yahaan pe kuchh bhi hota hai". Not surprising that sport body association leaders have flabby bodies, have their sideburns dyed one scene and whitened the next and don't much understand the intricacies of sportsmanship. No, this plot is about holding a mirror up to an obvious bias towards more marketable games, testosterone, gender bias and McDonalds.

deviation: The Calcutta McD is a pile of glass, steel, wood and curious passers by. The McD in the movie was a pile of upturned chairs, no food, vegetarianism and not in the screen passers by.

The storyline proceeds predictably. There can be only one villain in a team, and this one didn't have it. Jealousy, teamwork, oneupmanship - it's all there. Technically, oneupwomanship, but then we're Indians and selfless creatures who don't hog the glory. If the ball has to be swished alongside, so be it. It's a match we are winning. Two and a half hours in seventy minutes that no glory can take away. Some obvious jokes along the way of course. India faces six time champion Australia. Okay, good thing it wasn't cliche that Pakistan wasn't the opponent here. But then, there wasn't a single mention of them during the entire World Championship. Hmm...

If you're watching the movie (as you very well should), don't miss out on the obvious cricket references. The Team India huddle at the climax, the cricket world cup being the high point, newly elected gymmed physique vice-caption's take on the rest of the world and a few other things which I should have noted but didn't.

There's something about watching country related movies. Maybe the spontaneous clapping you get from the hyperactive Rs. 30 ticketers. Perhaps it's the vigorous shaking of the seats which remind you of earthquakes. Those, incidentally are the Rs. 50 ticketers who are stamping at the floor in newfound Rang-de-Basantish fervour.

Chak De.. makes you want to cheer. It makes you want to go watch women's hockey. Even the one year olds who were towed into the theatre were crying out their enthusiastic support. Although I'm not entirely convinced they were crying out for the right reasons....

Spare the rod. Shove the entire pole instead.

Today's daily news carried an article about punishing children.

To sum it up, capitulate and otherwise round up - teachers are likely to be spanked by the men in uniform if they spank the children in uniform. Which might just be bad news for those who are in "the noblest of all professions" right now.

I disagree.

We are going the American way. Yeah truth, justice, child laws and all that jazz, but those blokes overdid it quite a bit. If there are any who take offence, please do. To not hit a child, or to point out their mistakes, or to not give them a scolding is wrong. The old wives who didn't spare the rod sure knew what they weren't spoiling. Obviously, the venerable bearded (and hairless) ones that passed this particular decree don't know either.

Have you ever been in a classroom? Ever corrected marksheets? Ever controlled a bunch of 50 odd angels who have their horns neatly combed over? Ever had to handle bawling 6 year olds one time and hormonal 16 year olds the next? No? Neither have I.

School isn't an arena. It's one of those places that actually attempt to get something into our brains. It teaches how to compete. It teaches how to fend for oneself among otherselves. From fighting over playground space to duking it out for the teachers' affections - it's all a part of growing up. Real life isn't that much different. We still fight over cubicle space and duke it out over the boss' favours. And those same people in positions of authority do take your case. They dole out criticisms which border on chaotically destructive. School is about preparing for the real life. It doesn't really matter whether you scored 98.7 or 83.4. What matters is what you are capable of. And if you aren't capable of cultivating a little "stupid" comment, you're pretty much keeping the plankton company in the food chain. At least nobody knocks plankton.

So if someone in a black cassock sans wig decides that the morale of the "citizens of tomorrow" is best guided by not calling a spade a spade, then bully taw. May their system face a rot of thought.

Which it already has.

The reel deal

I've never really gotten the deal about Japanese Animation. Other than the fact that it looks really sleek and the characters swagger in styles enough to throw Olympic swimmers into depression, what's so great about it?

Maybe, everything.

Sure they talk funny. The leading characters (and unleaded characters too) are fueled by a lot of energy. The kind that powers verbal diarrhea perhaps because their lips keep moving long after the actual speech has ended. That might be due to bad dubbing, but it's kinda trancelike to watch those itty bitty probosces keep fluttering. And then expand to the size of hippopotamus mouths while eating. Background score: Crunch, mmgah, chomp, deelish, gnaw, crunch. I already said crunch. The animators sure know how to make them sound good. The only time I heard someone actually eat like that was in a Bong marriage when competing over fish fries was still fashionable. The burp was still in vogue then. After that, health became fashionable and the quintessential Bong bourgeoise was sadly left behind...

Back to anime.

Most ingredients of a typical anime are liberally splashed with action, skin show, some more action, a storyline that involves either a treasure, dragon, parallel world, godlike power, cyborgs and fan service. Speaking of action, those blokes westwards could really take a few hints. Matrix style moves, flying kicks, crustaceans wielding nanchuckers with a taste for pizza leaves a funny taste in the mouth. More salt please. So there you have these long haired japs who look typically stereotyped in their ripped jeans, out of proportion physiques (I swear, if those characters were life size, they'd be over 8 feet tall with gorilla arms and no chest hair. We call them metrosexuals - just without the height). And they swing their arms as fluidly as cigarette smoke, make some grunting sounds that might or not be inspired by Jenna Jameson and then crack the skull of the not so attractive anime opponent.

Basically, it's fun. It's fun to imagine blasts of ultra heat from your eyes. Oyya, speaking of eyes - they're always lazily drooping until the sexy villain decides to beat the living daylights out of the poor wrong protagonist. This sounds very Bollywoodish, but villains here are never sexy. Maybe long haired and dyed beards at the most. Animes look cool with any colour of hair. It's mostly metallic yellow and purple, but the odd shade of red, green and blue are also there. Black hair sticks out like a misshapen mustache on a southie hero. Think pokemon.

Ultimately, it's about entertainment. It might just be about money as well, but we're prudish and don't cloud our thoughts about such materialistic things. (Also skin show). So if you'll excuse me, my Fatal Fury - the movie has finished streaming and I'm off to watch the ghost of lover the martial artiste coax him into wishing his new lady love good night.

Tandove

The heading might sound like the product of a microwaved pigeon, but it's not. That much is obvious. It's more an Anglicization of the Taandav, which happens to be the final dance before the world bakes in a blaze of glory. We're only human. We like pre-heating our ovens to set temperatures. Only, the oven is 12756.1 kms wide - end to end. That was the diameter of the earth and it referred to global warming. Only this post is about neither the earth nor global warming. I'm not even sure what this is about.

But this heat is more of the sparking variety that comes when you pull out wires in a rage of composed frustration. You know, when the internet isn't working, when the wires are tangled and you suspect it might have something to do with not tipping the telephone guy when he came traipsing last time around wearing an expression similar to a voyeuristic teenage boy.

And I know what that expression resembles, so there.

Bottomline: If you're hopping mad, don't dance. Chances are you'll step on a few toes with your two left feet. And if it's anyone of consequence, you'll have two toes left. My internet is sucky, can you tell?

The alternative to being dead would be being employed.

That, perhaps, might be the reason why I spent friendship day at work with two equally luckless colleagues instead of gorging on bony chicken and melted rice. Just for the record, lunch consisted of a single cheese sandwich accompanied by mango juice. Not the tetra pack or bottled variety mind you. This version was literally squeezed, packed and oozed out the edge.

We were in Salt Lake at a printing press making sure the heaviest of our award winning anal reports were being done. Did I say anal? I meant annual.

The ride to the place was in an auto. It's weird the way everyone in the auto will hang on to the metallic rods that have an affinity towards the softer parts of the cranium. One jerk on the road and daytime stars materialize. One jerk in driver's seat and.. you get the picture. The passengers take a perverse pleasure in putting their hands, legs, arms, extra appendages wherever it seems to fit. Maybe everyone has acrobatic tendencies. It is said that we have abilities we aren't aware of...

But this post is getting longer. The press isn't set to function on a Sunday. I'm not too sure about the remaining six days either. However, they do have malt biscuits for every occasion. And on to City Center (touted as India's most favoured mall on some obscure billboards in India), for an attempted lunch.

Sunday afternoons at a favoured mall favours a lot of unfavourable crowds. The most entertaining of which can be found in Kookie Jar wondering aloud whether the nut corner cookie will contain nuts. By the same logic, there might be death hiding in the death by chocolate. Actual chocolate might not be there - don't ask. Don't wonder. Don't eat. We did eat a nut corner and shawarma. Two actually - the girls don't eat much. Washed that down with 25 bucks worth of crushed ice and grape juice marketed as international quality slush.

Footnote: my colleagues are all female. My boss is a male. Repeat previous statement.

From City Center to the Salt Lake Barista. There are lots of Baristas in Salt Lake. Barista is a coffee joint. If you didn't know this, then you probably don't know that they've come up with thirstbusters. These are incredibly expensive items that taste incredibly expansive. We'd come for, presumably, coffee which took 1 man to make and 4 men to put the cover on the paper cup. It was take away.

Speaking of take away... the thirstbusters have a very interesting menu card. My colleague filched it. And all in the name of design and print. No wonder I write anal reports.

Chip on my shoulder

And I'm not talking about the salted and packaged variety.

Whoever said that there's something new to be learnt everyday either had a really lousy day, or was under some divine grip. But divine grips have resulted in a few sudden floods and swallowed cities whole, so let's not go there.

It's more of the unacceptability of the fact that you're 21 going on 13.7 billion. That's the age of the Universe. But then given the fact that we reside in YOUniverses (I niverse maybe), it might as well be 21 years. And today is friendship day, so that's another universe of business and flooded inboxes. (I can hear my neighbours' phones beeping as this is typed)

No, right right now the thought is more towards the younguns who know more than we did. An ex colleague's daughter would be a good case study. ( A five minute break was taken at this point in which MY mobile started dinging. The sms beep is set to ding)

So, the case study:

Take one colleague who worked in JWT. Take same colleague and put her in a different organization. Take colleague's daughter who is 5 years old. Take daughter and put her in LMG from her old school.
Take an instance when colleague was contemplating leaving current organization and rejoin JWT. Incidentally, JWT has a crazy pay package and crazier work hours.
Colleague asked daughter if she would mind if she returned to her old job. Daughter looked thoughtful for a couple of minutes and asked, "Do you want me to return to my old school?"
Colleague was sent into a startled silence.
"No, I don't."
"Then why are you asking me this?"

So there you go.

This girl has more siglets of thought to her credit. Like in one of those social dos where old ladies make it a priority to squeeze every cheek in sight. If the lady in question is a spinster, other cheeks are at risque. That's a different story too. So you have an old lady with jingly jangly ornaments that sound like three out of tune tambourines sitting the kid on her lap. And cooing. About her jewellery.
"I've got two shiny earrings, one biiiiig shiny locket, fifteen bangles, toe rings and a hundred other squigglies. What do you have?"
I'd have been tempted to say "mere paas Ma hai", and it would be true too. But since I wasn't there, and this is not my story...

The kid looked contemplative.
"I've got lice", she said.

Truth, Justice and Moronic Delay

Quite a jump from the American way. Perhaps we're riding the paranoia wave. Perhaps we're just doing a 21 gun salute and waiting for the easel to pop. For all that it's worth, the sentence has generated a lot of divided opinions. Keyboards nationwide might complain of back problems. Bleary eyed journos might sift through megabits of material to find the $ 0.02 of information that might make sense.

What's the point of the pronouncement? To prove a point? To garner publicity? To show that in spite of every dirty thing that's been said about the speed of the judicial system they still function? No one's debating the guilt of the man. He is guilty. Period.

But of what?

This might raise more questions about the entire logic of the thing. Rest on cliches for a moment. We're wont to do it anyway...
They say justice delayed is justice denied. Pray, what justice are you donating to the devastadees? The dead don't come back. The pain which was forgotten over 13 years of mourning and mundane existence has been clawed again. It would be unfair to call this a publicity stunt, but isn't that what it is?

How exactly is it justice to showcase illegal gun possession and make a blitzkrieg of it. Maybe not as entertaining as showing a crusted criminal slitting a few throats, or drug money being peddled away in arms, or preteens screaming invective in the backwaters of the country on their firepower. These things don't just happen in movies.

You don't become a criminal if you dine with one. By those accounts, the chosen one's followers would have become saints and the sole turncoat would have induced cowardice. And this would generate further controversy.

All a lot of questions.

I'd promised myself I wouldn't blog. This post is a testimony to the fact that it was egg shellical. Maybe it should be testimoney. More on that later. Or not at all. There are some deals that shouldn't be disclosed.

Like the one with myself. But that isn't working anymore, touchwood. Or touch woody. Never touch woody. It's the British equivalent of the American weiner. Good grief, my sense of humour seems to have taken a permanent squatting position.

So a cheer to the pal who paid more in terms of attention. And the double essed techie who got the first glimpse into the spot anyway. But here's to some more irreverence, siphoned memories, untouched woods and copping feels.

Feeling cops is never a good idea.

It wasn't meant to be. The creation took infinitely longer. Far from passing off as divine bovines on the social networking website that shares its name from Finnish orgasms, this took more time than the prescribed 7 days.

And the colours aren't even chosen. Does this page use American spelling or British? Do I have access to different fonts? What's the bubble that says my drafts are saved automatically. Can i siphon thoughts here directly? Why doesn't my mobile show this page?

Wait, no comments on the mobile.