Wednesday, April 12, 2006

And everything I had to know, I heard it on my radio

"And next up, we have Mr. Himesh Reshammiya who is a rock star in his own head!"

- Tarana (Good Morning Mumbai on Go 92.5 fm)

I have never come across a description so *wonderfully* apt.
Don't you just love this woman?

Monday, April 10, 2006

Taxi No. 9211*

There are certain movies that should be watched only under the following conditions:

1. The tickets are free. Supplied by your office in a fit of misplaced, misdirected goodwill.

2. You are a trio of women, none of whom get jelly-kneed over John A.
3. You have managed to smuggle a half of cheap whiskey and two small bottles of coke (the drink, not the other stuff) into the hall.

Proceed to Step 1.

Step 1:
All three of you must make a dash for the ladies' room while loudly proclaiming, to anyone within hearing distance, that oh my god you so have to go!

Step 2:
Amidst guarding the loo door from other users, and frantic whispers to 'hurry up and mix it already will you!', you must empty out more coke into the sink than you intended to, and end up with a disproportionate amount of whiskey.

Shrug and continue mixing.

Step 3:
Guzzle down the potent cocktail within the first fifteen minutes of the movie, then spend the next two and a half hours guffawing at Johnny boy's oh-so-sincere-yet-SO-tragic attempt at acting. Point out, at every 'emotional scene', how he looks like he's just about to sneeze, then say 'gesundheit!', loudly, when the scene is done. Be the recipient of dagger-eyes from indignant women all around.

Be partially subdued until Sameera Reddy's bosom makes it's appearance on screen, then sit up with a start.

Critically, and more importantly, loudly, debate between yourselves, about whether Sameera Reddy's bosom is more expressive than her face. Arrive at no conclusions. Continue debating.

Step 4:
In the last scene, when Nana Patekar's family starts singing 'Happy buurdayy to yoouu', join in lustily with your alto, mezzo and undefined voices. Clap loudly to what you think might be the beat to the birthday song.

Step 5:
Walk out of the hall cribbing about how some people just shouldn't be allowed into cinema halls. I mean did you see those girls?! Shameless I tell you! Absolutely shameless!

Step 6:
Collapse on sidewalk laughing. When sufficiently recovered from bout of hysteria, pick up self and two drunken friends, hail a cab and direct to nearest bar.

*Just in case the post is misleading and indicates that the movie is bearable, It's not. Not unless you brace yourself with a couple of large pegs of something strong.

Thursday, April 06, 2006


I am irritated by my own writing. I am like a violinist whose ear is true, but whose fingers refuse to reproduce precisely the sound he hears within.

- Gustave Flaubert (

And he's even said that so much better than I *ever* could.

And you know what's worse? If I attempted to verbalise that same thought? I would write word. after. painful. word. I would struggle with sentences, pythonic, constricting, squeezing the breath out of that small idea, which (as ideas are wont to be) is defenceless against the twin WMDs of verbosity and vocabulary.

See what I mean?


Monday, April 03, 2006

Pinky and The Brain Brain Brain Brain!

Hel-lo Internet!

How HAVE you been?!

We, as is evident from the hyper-punctuation all around, are in a jolly good mood (and
thankfully, THIS time, it's not the PMS monster raising it's many-moody-heads)! Jolly enough, as a matter of fact, to be buffing our nails on our ever-so-raised collars.

The reason, you ask (and you know it doesn't really matter that you didn't, don't

It is because, we have discovered that we are a handyman par excellence. *We*. We,
who are five feet tall and know zip, zero, zilch about hardware-y stuff. We would be squealing and clapping our hands excitedly at this point, except that we know that that's not what handymen (especially the ones P.E.) do.

So we shall content ourselves with looking down our nose at anyone who cannot fix
kitchen cabinets, because that, internet, is what we did do.

Kitchen cabinets with doors, which were, in falling off of their hinges, becoming potentially deadly weapons, because of
their sharp edges and absolute slavish adherence to the laws of gravity.

Be banished then! From this household, O ghosts of bloodied toes! No longer shall
ye haunt this kitchenette, which has it's doors firmly screwed-on, thank you very much!

We fixed 'em up good an' proper. With an hour (oh all right! five minutes) of
study, and a small electrical screwdriver (which is the only hardware tool this household currently possesses).

We are absolutely *the* coolest.

Today, kitchen cabinets, tomorrow, the world!*

*And this (the whole post actually), kittens, is why we should NOT blog right after coffee!


In other news, The Brain has turned traitor to the cause of carry-on-being-sane,
and is doing it's damnedest to think us all the way to crazy town. It's even promised us a nice little house with a view, white picket fence, padded walls and a lifetime supply of straitjackets.

The Brain (crafty bugger that it is) knows, that what we hate more than anything in the world, is not knowing. Ambiguity in anything, drives us absolutely batty and that is what The Brain is driving home again and again, with all the blasted questions.

It questions and questions and then questions some more, and then sits and rubs it's hands with glee (it's cheaper than hand cream) because it knows we're about to blow a fuse from all the thinking.

Will you just stop with all the questions, Brain?!

It has, in it's most diabolical move so far, forced us into reading What Should I Do With My Life** by Po Brosnan, who, for a living, writes books which tell people what they should do with their lives. And like it's not bad enough that we're reading...the-book-title-which-must-not-be-mentioned (suppresses shudder of revulsion), the book tells you everything but what you furtively picked it up, hid under your jacket and read by torchlight to find out.

This makes us very sad indeed and we are *this close* (imagine thumb and forefinger a millimeter apart) to turning to religion.

And the day that happens? Internet, be a sweetie and put a bullet through our head, will you?

In the immortal words of Calvin (The Bold, NOT the stoic), My brain is trying to
kill me.

**And when you're through jumping back from your screens in horror and revulsion, and
if you have a vague-ish idea that you're doing what you were *meant* to do, will you be nice and tell us how you did it? Discovered your calling, that is. Blog People, please...I'm on my knees here!