Friday, December 29, 2006


"kill me Sarah
kill me again with love
it's gonna be a glorious day"

Not that my luck has changed. Not that I believe in luck. Not that I believe in the supernatural powers of a black mole painted in the centre of my left palm. Not that this mole has begun to dissapear an year after it appeared out of nowhere. Not that I care about its presence or dissapearance . Not that I trust the lucky charm my mother put around my neck a month ago to be my bodyguard. Not that I remember the palmists and other forms of self-obsessed superheros who proclaimed I will get married at the age of twenty. Not that I never considered that prophecy to be punishable under the Child Marriage Restraint Act.

Not that I want to know where I will go during the next decade.
Not that fate has not been kind to me.
Not that I am not scared.
Just that a song is stuck in my head.

Wednesday, December 27, 2006

101 NGOs

Hardly any time left
to collaborate?


aaaaand we can liiiiiive this dream together.... staaaaaaaaaanding strooong forever ... nuuuuuuuthin'sssss gonna stop us nowwwwwww .......

"So I have lost my edge...huh... "

Yes I have... so by virtue of some unknown theory which everyone pretends exists but really does not, as no one really understands Freud but quotes him everytime sex or snakes are mentioned, and I tend to mention him when I pretend to uphold feminist ideals because some teachers pretended that Freud was sexist, and so again by virtue of the same unknown theory, I presume he was a sexist without actually ever reading him....and I thus pronounce that this blog is also going to loose its "edge".

Again let's pretend that it had some of that "edge thingy" without anyone really thinking so.

Now that I have misplaced my "edge" and the key to the terrace, I am less upset about the receding Dead sea and dandruff. After this, my blog will enter the New year which is nothing but countries left of Fiji beginning to pretend at short intervals of time that it's time to break the bubbly, scream, dance and celebrate the arrival of 00:00 hours and then it'll be 00:01 hours and so on. Since, this year has left me with not a single piece of my carefree and arrogant past, I want to pretend that I have no such plans and sleep through the one holiday I get on January 1st.

Sigh... Edge!!! ... please come back.

In the past weeks, I discovered that I enjoy cooking dinner for myself eventhough I spent the last seven years pretending I can't even cook maggi due to sheer laziness, and I love coming home early in the evenings for my little doggie, guilty that she was alone. So when did I become the girl with turmeric stains on her nails, devoid of all desires to stay out after 9 pm?

But, this year has been my favourite inspite of being painful at times. I transformed from a careless twenty-year old to a slightly more mature twenty-one year old girl, making decisions that might have changed the entire course of my next five years and my afterlife. This time the year-ending indeed deserves a bubbly, a cheer and some celebration.

Now that the last missing piece of my perfect photograph has arrived in the form of a friend travelling all the way from Pune to surprise me and ruin my precious sleep on Christmas eve along with me having bought the most beautiful hand-knit black muffler; it's time to trek up to PP's terrace with a lot of cuppa, nachos, Fergie, dirty jokes, friends and freezing toes, so that we can pretend to be primates who will reverse the evolutionary cycle when our un-matched watches strike midnight.

my cruuuuuell deeee-viceeeeee.... yourrrrrr bl-oooooood like ice.... i want to kiss but your lips are..... venomoussssss poisonnnnnnnnn.....

Monday, December 18, 2006

Madam isss-start-isss-start

So the car battery died. Somebody should have told me exides ditch you if nobody bothers to turn the ignition for a fortnight. I think I need a baby-sitter for my car or I cannot go on vacations ever again.

First day at the new job and I was driving around in a car with two people pushing it. The battery proved to be too lazy and I left for office on foot with no socks on.

Yeah! it feels great to be back home, especially if car mechanics don't really dance around like Billy Joel but con uptown girls with the sun deciding to set early.
Huh! I don't need a guy , I can get this fixed myself.
After one hour of leaning over the engine with three greasy men for company, the independent woman residing inside me was promptly evicted and some emergency phone calls were made. The saviours found it absolutely hilarious that I took so long to call.

Armed with a brand new zero-maintenance battery and only 3 grands to last me the rest of the month, I don't think I am ready to get the coolant refilled, the right indicator light fixed and the punctured stepney tyre inflated.

Someone remind me why I continue to obsessively love Decembers.

I should unpack, wear a sweater, remove school's out from the playlist, drag myself to the shower everyday and sleep before 4 am.

I woke up today and thought I could still hear my mom somewhere in the house, but soon realised nobody will bang on my bedroom door anymore, force me to swallow almonds or find my woolen socks.

Chaos was not behind the door; it was inside the heart.
independent woman could not move and just lay there waiting to move on.

Hey, Jude, don't make it bad
Take a sad song and make it better
- The Beatles

Saturday, December 16, 2006


We no longer noticed the colourful lights wrapped around the Gulmohar. Sometimes they blinked at us and sometimes we stared at them to hide from another conversation. We know the words that surrounded us and they know our replies. Nobody really cares. It’s just a cup of coffee and the chatter is only for company.

We had stopped recognizing the faces.
We had begun to read minds.
We did not miss the winters gone by.

The cup of coffee was an excuse to escape from the regular until caffeine became regular.

The conversation was flowing, the laughter was infectious and winter smelt of nicotine rather than smog. She walked by as the eyes recognized her while the body ignored her.

Must have been her golden skin, or her wild, curly hair. It was her unattractive face made pretty by the ugliness around.

Now, she was leaving.
I walked upto her.


She looked right through me. I knew she recognized me.

“Oh, I am sorry, Please finish your call.”

I wanted to go back to ignoring her, rather than being ignored.

She returned and we talked.
Small talk.
Another meaningless chain of sentences constructed with the intention of making them the last.

She expertly rolled a joint without breaking eye contact and offered me a drag that was refused politely.

The conversation continued and soon I was staring at the Gulmohar.

I knew I will remember her after tonight.
She was not the girl I never knew all those years ago.
She is the girl, I will be years from now.
The shapeless exchange ended abruptly when she rode away on her bi-cycle with a shiny bell.

Wednesday, December 13, 2006


Stop talking
One day
Don’t speak

Quiet please
In your head

Monday, December 11, 2006


The end of the 20th Century and my brother’s fading guiding light ushered the end of Deck’s immunity to frequent voltage fluctuations, dust, moisture and the never-ending ritual of eject-start-pause-play-eject-fwd-play-hey-play-play-dammnit. First the tuner said goodbye, then I paid my respects to the CD changer followed by the cassette deck B. Soon the buttons turned too stubborn to obey my orders, but me being the humble self I am, was happy and content with one last fully operational cassette deck. I started taking extra care of the ageing beauty, cleaning the head regularly, replacing over-used tapes, and finally putting special attachments of the otherwise useless vacuum cleaner to good use.

Hence, my romance continued in my own company with my parents often walking into my dark room to find me screaming along Simply Red ballads. Also it was time for me to get over the Aerosmiths and the Stings. There finally comes a point in life when you realise that Axl Rose has no hidden depths and Bob Dylan was the original curator of Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door while Everly Brothers proved to be bigger liars than Bush and Blair.

With the complete discovery of Floyd, Zeppelin, Hendrix and Morrison accompanied by Clapton, Springsteen, Cobain, Steve Vai, I entered the twisted world of permanent discontent, emotional avalanches and melodies dipped in poetry. By now, I had retreated into the confused and angst-ridden teenage hell, where Lennon was a pretentious hippie who pretended to change the world and the world itself had let Dylan down.

To add to my miseries, the surviving deck A also decided to enter comatose. I remember that evening clearly, the speakers were blasting away Still Loving You while I was wondering if this song ever made it to the classics list. And then it happened - the tape got stuck, the screen displayed “SEE YOU LATER”, all the lights started blinking, which I later realised was an SOS signal, and I switched off the power. The Deck never played another song and left me with a void the size of erstwhile Soviet Union. I refused to pack it up; hoping that it will return after a brief sabbatical but destiny had different plans for its resurrection.

After my failed attempts of tracing the abandoned Sony Walkman and making sense of new technology namely, Computers, I was still craving to go back to the era of cassette tapes. Besides, in the absence of broadband internet, mp3s were considered to be as elusive as experiencing zero gravity and I was not a resourceful teenager like my brother to find cheaper alternatives. Also, gravitational, rotational, electro-magnetic and all other forms of forces in Pradeep’s Physics book were giving me sleepless nights; hence new technology had to wait further exploration.

Soon, I found a temporary escape, in the form of my dad’s car and the Kenwood car stereo which itself was screaming to be rescued from Ghulam Ali. My friends and I would spend hours sitting there, fantasizing about our approaching College days and driving licences and the only utility a car seemed to offer back then was the dream of driving into oblivion listening to Third Eye Blind with the icy rain freezing us in time. Nevermind, two more years of school was still left and puberty had not yet been replaced by maturity.

The new millennium also introduced me to the concept of Modern Rock and Alternative genres. But no matter how entertaining Nickelback, Sum 41, 3 Doors Down, Staind, Puddle of Mud, John Mayer and Maroon 5 were, they never went beyond that one brilliant song followed by a couple of obscure mediocre tracks which only made me go crawling back to Cobain or Hendrix. The metal phase also arrived and disappeared but not without leaving behind some phenomenally brilliant songs which are still engraved on my playlists along with respect for Iron Maiden, Metallica and Rage who have made a come-back on my lists thanks to my relatively recent discovery of the political agenda behind Morello’s incredible solos.

I found further salvation in the contemporary tunes of Goo Goo Dolls, Oasis, Cranberries, Silverchair and the gorgeous Lenny Kravitz. Sometimes, I wonder how I travelled all through the 90s without stumbling upon this man who I believe is the only true rockstar of my generation. It began with the song Again, the video actually, and soon I was whispering Little Girl’s Eyes to my pillow.

Aha, Channel [V] International deserves a mention too, before it too disappeared from the Cable Operator’s Set-top Box in favour of Lashkara Music and other forms of quality entertainment. It was here that I witnessed the advent of hip-hop as it graduated from a weekly niche show called “The Juice” to a mainstream phenomenon within a year’s time and soon the niche shows were called “The Rock Show”.

Ofcourse I understand this joke that music programmers decided to play on me, after all nursery-rhyme styled rap about brothers transforming into dawgs and shawty’s pussy getting wet deserves not only Grammies but standing ovation by the… what the fuck … not you Sir Jagger. But who am I to complain, Bob sang about our changing times and sold his soul to Starbucks the very next day, Timberlake decided he was black without getting tanned on Spanish beaches and Gwen Stefani finally got a Grammy for her one-line contribution to lil’ Kim’s so-called song while Britney committed another faux pas by announcing her to allegiance to rock ‘n roll at precisely this rather inopportune time in the history of mankind.

But wait, [V] Int’s replacement had arrived in the form of unlimited access to high-speed internet and …umm…p2p software. The age-old collection of music was redeemed in the form of illegal mp3s, hundreds and thousands of them and the supposedly dead Deck returned to the services of a girl who was dying to say goodbye to her teenage years. Yup, the speakers were still in perfect condition and the amplifiers were working so the wires disappeared somewhere behind the motherboard, and I created Music. Life was bearable once again, crossfade and Winamp was discovered and Planet M was no longer a priority, nor was Television or Jay-Z.

By the way, something called a “nightlife” had also entered this new dimension and if one decides to judge Delhi by the Paralympics’ yardstick, it apparently has a decent nightlife. But alas, good times don’t last long, as it was soon discovered that beyond the college rock shows in North Campus during winters which were bad excuses for boys wearing Linkin Park T-shirts to smoke-up and wannabe girls with equally wannabe tattoos to headbang while some band named skulls-on-fire played Creed and swore undying love for Pearl Jam with a Dholak, the picture looked rather ugly. So, I restricted myself to one Parikrama show every winter till I got bored of the GnR memorial service they dished out each time. The trips to TC’s or to an occasional gig by some decent and not-so-decent bands could not survive the onslaught of hip-hop and mob mentality.

When clubbin’ offered a choice between smoky pubs filled with pony-tailed and beer-bellied forty year olds or Bhangra DJs all the way from Birmingham, I sought solace in alcohol and Lenny’s Rock n Roll is Dead. To be fair to my graduation years and the designer dancing shoes of my friends, I found myself surrendering helplessly to the whims and fancies of Usher, J-kwon, Ne-yo and the psychedelic-trance-house-weird-as-hell noise masquerading as music. The mindless partying threw up amusing scenes of fair, pink-lipped, bling laden Punjabi boys trying hard to fit in while another lost rocker soul ended up head banging instead of grinding with his pretty but embarrassed girlfriend. I stopped cribbing as I had given up on my generation’s non-existent IQ, and decided that an alcohol induced stupor is a lot more fun as are the 5 am trips to comesum, bund-omelette, parantha guys and other forms of eateries including the abandoned graveyard… to eat the dead ofcourse.

While Delhi’s nightlife left me more disillusioned than the paper on International Relations did, U2 decided to shed their talent for UN-sponsored grammy winning singles and Greenday became as popular as Jessica Simpson, which obviously resulted in them being labelled as sell-outs by their loyal fan base. Now the Linkin Park loving guys were strolling along their boulevard of broken dreams while I held Basketcase close to my bleeding heart. Ironically, as I am typing this out, Armstrong and Bono are singing a duet called The Saints are Coming while the Marines and Iraqi civilians are competing in a death-toll championship. It’s a pity the world of music ignored the Iraq debacle for the fear of being ignored by the fans of Dixie Chicks and whoever told me that Vietnam owes its communist existence to Woodstock, can wait for another September to end.

All the negativity aside, my last five years belong to the continuing brilliance of Floyd, Zeppelin, Morisson, Hendrix and Company, combined with the tunes of RHCP, Soundgarden, Bush, Cold, Matchbox 20, Deftones, The Calling, The Killers, My Chemical Romance, The Verve, Live, Lifehouse, Vertical Horizon, The Cure, Switchfoot and even Coldplay. Some wonderful new creatures also arose from the leftover talents of the 90s namely Audioslave and Foo Fighters; the former being a historical merger and once again Chris Cornell’s haunting voice plunged my Sunday afternoons into wonderfully melodious dreams weaved together by a tamer Morello’s guitar.

The other incredible invention apart from Pakistani underground Rock was the iPod. More than a decade had passed since the Deck’s purchase, and eversince I had seen an iPod in some techno-gadget supplement, I dreamt of escaping the restrictions of a 20GB hard-drive and Winamp. So when my dad offered to gift me an “i-Pot”, I did not refuse… c’mon this girl deserves a little self-indulgence for being defeated by viruses and Trojans on several occasions. But, technology has never been too kind to the blissfully ignorant and so I failed to grasp the intricacies of operating iTunes. Damn, needed my brother again, who arrived and dumped my selected 347 songs in it and left. It took me less than a week to get bored of this playlist and so, when I connected the white angel to my PC, the angel’s hard-drive got wiped out. Once again,I was left waiting for my brother but this time the wait was too long, hence, I googled “iPod for dummies” and managed to dump every single music file in the damn thing. Next, I electrocuted this brand new piece of Apple’s shit.

Yes it died. A death worse than that suffered by three-fourths’ of the Deck.

It almost came down to me selling the right kidney before parents found out, but the Apple guys took the guarantee papers seriously and replaced it with a brand new iPod in two days. After this I refused to touch this piece of rocket-science for several months and decided to give it to my deserving brother. But being the Samaritan, he is, I received advanced lessons on conquering iTunes and befriending one’s iPod. Today, I am happy to announce that my new best friend is the iPod classic with playlists I can die for and the legendary affair continues uninterrupted.

Its time to end this decade long tale about the deck and it’s musical journey, and so its time to mention Anathema and Radiohead, perhaps two opposite ends of the musical spectrum but their talent and music overwhelms my senses and surpasses any words of appreciation I can offer. There exists a world beyond Creep and Fake Plastic Tress, where Karma Police, Lucky, Angelica and Are you there, have played tricks on my mind and continues to fill my silly little heart with solitude, affection, reproach and unknown emotions. Radiohead has already spawned a musical revolution and Anathema, which has been left struggling in the world of independent production, is definitely the stuff that legends are made of.

Well, when I am old and possibly crying over a dying iPod with the Deck still serving my battered soul, I will read this post and laugh uncontrollably.

Friday, December 08, 2006


There was a time when the only music you ever heard was Shashi Kapoor songs on Chitrahar, owing to the fact that this girl was too tiny to switch the TV off and too dumb to know that Assam was not really a global entertainment village. But that was way back in the late 80s and one was still oblivious to fate’s sadistic designs. Imagine waking up to the screeching of Akashwani dilli every single day of one’s beloved summer vacation but brother and I had left mom with no choice as the snooze button had finally hit Indian shores. The tiny red radio which was also a clock and a pen stand, was some sort of a family heirloom and served my mother with delightfully cheesy radio jingles and mother dairy milk ads interspersed with depressing Manna De songs till the swanky and phenomenally overpriced CD system arrived, which by the way had to be called a Deck, or my brother would have beaten me deaf so as to ensure I was left incapable of listening to the Deck.

I was the lucky kid who had a technology savvy elder brother, eventhough technology was still considered to be some sort of a dish in room service menus of Paanch Sitara hotels and owning a CD system was an open invitation to Income-Tax sleuths. I remember learning all about LCDs, CDs and karaoke when everyone else was still buying Baba Sehgal Cassette tapes for 25 bucks. I was obviously not allowed to touch this four-storeyed black beauty or even dare to bring a Backstreet Boy or Aqua cassette near the devil’s soul. I won’t lie; I would just listen to my classy collection of one Aqua and one Backstreet Boys tape in the sad little Walkman and rewind the damn cassettes with a pen in order to save on battery power. I was only 11 and only had 11 bucks under the mattress so could not afford Duracell. Luckily, Aqua and BSB were musical trash and soon enough I voluntarily exposed myself to the eclectic sounds emanating from the Deck.

Thus, began my longest and most cherished affair with… well… music…just like everyone else’s, but….err…ok…I exaggerate and I will turn this post into a fairy tale, if I so desire as this is my blog and it is called ANKINOTION for crying out loud.

I had already been in love with Ace of Base and Bon Jovi, much before those wretched boy bands came around, and I remember running to Rhythm Corner in South-Ex to buy English cassettes ordered by my brother while my parents shopped around for stuff I didn’t care about. I remember asking for Macarena, much before it became a freaky plague and the fellow decided to fool the foolish little girl by selling her the first ever NOW compilation. So, I ended up embracing Seal, Annie Lennox, Snap Attack (wonder what happened to those guys, Rame was simply brilliant) and Take That, which by the way was the only boy band with a slight semblance of talent. Audio CDs were still a distant dream, a territory controlled jealously by my brother, though sometimes I was allowed to operate the remote control while the expensive CDs played and I welcomed the world of Queen, Billy Idol, Roxette, Prince, MLTR, who were big back then and lots and lot of quality stuff on Times FM with open arms, unclogged nostrils, non-sebaceous ears, awe-stricken eyes and a blank-slate for a brain.

I have to pause for a bit here and talk about Times FM; it was the best Radio station… everrrrrrrrrrr!!! Yes my dears, 102.60 Megahertz were the first and last “cool” frequency modulated waves to hit our receivers. Since its demise in the late 90s, though it still exists in the form of government owned AIR FM, I refuse to tune into a single radio station in Delhi and I don’t think I am losing out on anything, given the pathetic array of channels available… RED…Mirchi…excuse me... I ordered music, not gobhi masala.
Perhaps, I owe my present insomnia afflicted state to the years of staying up for shows like Wicked Hour and Live Wire, tucked cosily in my white quilt, pretending to be buried in snow while I waited for the latter show to end with Celine Dion singing less and crying more about her dead lover or Michael Bolton craving to touch some undisclosed location of a female body or that remix about the poor guy still wondering why Alice was moving out and we were wondering who the beep was Alice. Eventhough I hated that song, I still had to hear the whole show, including the mother dairy and ECE bulb commercials, solely for Roshan Abbas and his charming ramblings. It’s really sad that he has ended up hosting crappy shows on Television, but I will always love him for seducing me into enjoying unadulterated good music and some sleepless Sunday nights.

Soon my cash strapped brother discovered the joys of music piracy which was still in its infancy. The precious recordings off Times FM on those expensive Sony and TDK blank tapes, since the cheap T-series variety had been rejected by my brother’s strict quality-control measures, were no longer good enough and the compact discs were still reserved for extra-special artistes. But Western Recording labels’ corporate monopoly could not deter him, hence an obscure shop in Chandni Chowk was discovered, where Audio CDs were sold at wholesale prices and yeah…Palika Bazar was still limited to cheap clothes and video game cartridges. Wow, 300 bucks for Western labels and cheaper pirated compilations probably headed for Mumbai, it was a gold mine! Stupid me, remembers picking up that stinking Channel [V] compilation, ok fine, I liked cotton-eye-joe and Scatman…kill me.

Years passed by, CDs became too scratched to play without skipping while the Deck’s beauty was also marred by some unaccounted-for scratches and also suffered an attack by an adventurous lizard but the cassette collection was huge enough to beat the Nuclear pile-up of Cold War years, thanks to the million pirated-recording shops that had sprung up in every nook and corner. They made mixed tapes from the originals for a mere 2 bucks per song. My brother had discovered heaven and my parents were relieved that the hellish trips to Chandni Chowk were history now.

By now, satellite television had cast its spell on Indian audiences and the Generation-X, Y, Z, A, B… whichever it was had been successfully enslaved to the Hindi music dominated MTV and its brothers. On the other hand, my brother had left for engineering college and I was a brand new teenager with a joint-partnership of the Deck. Yeah baby, equalizers, bass, treble, surround speakers and the radioactive pile of sinfully good music was all mine. I secretely loved the long tiresome exercise which involved the division of cassettes under the shadow of life-threatening fights and then duplication of the disputed cassettes would be carried out followed by another fight over who gets to keep the original as the cheap T-Series tapes were now being used for this purpose. Needless to add, I always lost and consoled myself by fantasizing about Robbie Williams and the temporary absence of experiments performed by my brother and the Deck’s loyal speakers on my mom’s delicate cutlery nestled in different corners of the living room. They shook and trembled in response to the powerful sound waves as did the front door with the banging of annoyed neighbours while I received advanced lessons on tweeters, super-tweeters, sub-woofers, watts-PMPO and the appropriate positioning of various speakers in a given setting.

Oh God, this is turning into a long dissertation and I haven’t even wrapped up the 90s!!! Ok this one will be divided into parts as well… Sigh!

Anyhow, the first half of my painful teenage years were spent discovering the hidden joys of classic, pop, punk, hard rock and puberty … hey… not in a perverted way…damn you filthy minds. Bryan Adams and Richard Marx were replaced by GnR, Def Leppard, AC/DC, Pearl Jam, INXS, The Scorpions, George Michael, Don McLean, Simon & Garfunkel and Oh! Sweet Lord of everyone else’s religion, U2.

I was a young girl, so trust me, U2 was God and REM was still considered inferior to Bono’s mythical powers. Considering the first ever U2 song I ever heard was that disgusting track called Staring at the Sun, it’s surprising that I actually gave them a second chance. This was also the time when Rock was old enough for Alternative to kick in and Alanis Morisette arrived with her Jagged Little Pill who will always remain the refreshingly addictive talent of the 90s, Ok maybe not…Grunge Rockers take that title. However, it’s a pity she lost her edge after that though she continues to shine sporadically but I just hate the way everyone sings Ironic nowdays. It was a song I owned a decade ago and commercialisation including Avril Lavigne simply ruined it for me.

I also remember enjoying the occasional sprinkling of Old School Rap, Soul, Reggae and RnB, who knew the earlier talents of Lauryn Hill, Faith Evans, Whitney Houston and Notorious B.I.G would give birth to Snoop Dogg, Nelly, Cassie and their trashy homies. But still, there was a time when RnB was a real art form and Black music was considered elitist. I even remember suffering from a brief ghazal phase, again thanks to my dearest brother, who had decided to graduate to Country, Jazz, Blues and ghazals… I have observed this behavioural pattern in several people of his generation, and I know he will be so pissed reading this, as we have had unending, pointless, winding and often hilarious arguments over, why he and I have a so-called generation gap. He still insists a five year difference in age does not mean I am not eligible for membership to his country-club. Atleast the fights over Roxette (of all things) and AR Rahman movie tracks were over. I remember being terribly disappointed when I was in love with the song Chandralekha and my brother made me listen to some Michael Jackson track to point out the obvious similarities, damn…even Rahman took inspiration…that too from Jackson!

So while I gave up on Rahman’s music and he too gave up on creative independence and moved over to mainstream Bollywood music, my brother gave up on the irrational notions of his crazy little sister, who still believes that the best gift anyone ever gave her or will give her during the remaining course of an inconsequential life, was the gift of that collection of two hundred odd audio cassettes which is still lying in our basement, probably rotten by moisture but complete with colourful jackets, priceless cover art, hand-written lists of songs and artistes and cracked plastic covers with my brother's signature car designs sketched on them … who by the way is the most brilliant professional car designer today… Ok… he will definitely kill me now!

Thursday, December 07, 2006


The Alien Heir

Every time I watch Men in Black and commit the cardinal sin of searching for deeper meaning in Hollywood motion pictures starring Will Smith, I get completely convinced that Prince and Michael Jackson are indeed aliens belonging to rival galaxy kingdoms. Having said that, I still swear by Prince and his phenomenal repository of talent and weirdness. And as for Mr. Jackson – the wannabe King of pop, (why do you think Prince named himself so, he was supposed to be the king) I only like him with Jackson 1, 2, 3 & 4 accompanying him. I am adding Oprah to the list because its time ‘Mother O’ returned to her mother-ship.

Evangelism for Atheists

Every time I ponder over the largest propaganda machinery brain-washing the human race, namely religion, I wonder if its absence all together will plunge us into anarchy and barbarism. No wait, America already achieved both in Iraq and the rest of the world agrees that America is God, Amen. Are we genetically irrational or was Renaissance just a brilliant piece of European advertising? On second thoughts, I don’t want to dismiss Christian rock bands, not that I care about them, they can go to hell, but I don’t want “hell” to be erased from our vocabulary either.

Children of Boredom

Every time I am exposed to the invincible and evil powers of children, I decide to run for my life and start looking for that ugly pair of overpriced Reebok sneakers I bought for the sole purpose of replacing the “uncool” black leather school shoes, which I later discovered were still not as “cool” as a Nike pair. Wateverrrrrr, gimme a break, don’t expect me to be “cool” in 8th grade.
So, returning to the hated species of children, I am really worried about my lack of natural motherly instincts. My sexual energies are functioning at an optimum level, but I can no longer ignore the feelings of pure hatred towards my own unfertilized seed? Therefore, as part of my boredom-induced-self-healing therapy, I hereby produce a list of names for anything I might accidentally reproduce.

Boys: Iris, Isheer and Vincent, Girls: Ayesha, and I am not sexist, just that my uterus is screaming for mercy. Eh! Fuck it, pregnancy is too much pain and children rob you off all pleasure.

Rites of Madness

Guess what is next on my list, no, not hip-hop, but the sacred and grand-dad of all patriarchal institutions that inflicts our civilized world - Marriage.
Now I know, lately I have become quite a cliché, but who the hell gave you the authority to define cliché in the first place. Hmm, ignoring the intellectual banter of feminist literature or Orwellian prophecies, the establishment of marriage as an institution is not a result of land becoming an asset or procreation being a necessity but it owes its evolution to the maggots that feed on free ideas and mind. The society refuses to acknowledge sex as being supreme, so it continues to insist upon the exchange of pretentious vows after which a drunken mob of five hundred odd blood relatives, elders, elderly spirits of the fortunate few who fell asleep or passed away during the epic wedding ceremony, friends, strangers, friends of friends, friends of strangers, transvestites dressed like girls, girls dressed like transvestites, ex-boyfriends/ girlfriends and of course the omnipresent priest, give you the permission to fuck.

Hypocrisy you say, lack of functioning brain cells I say.

Boywatch in the Monsoons

Every time I romanticize about a perfect lover, I start drowning in the ocean of despair and hopelessness. Seriously, is there any mortal out there who is too intense to be passionate, too intelligent to care about education, too good-looking to be vain, too arrogant for love, too talented for success, too well-read for words, too unpredictable for imagination, too cynical for pessimism, too stubborn for patience?

Someone, who twists life the way I live it, who laughs his ass off when I hum Coldplay tunes, who smokes without parting his lips, who waits for the rain to smile with me, who strums along some godforsaken melody which wikipedia fails to list as a true genre, who whispers secrets I already know, who walks away when I am all alone, who hugs me when no one is watching, who hides my tears in his soul, who falls asleep next to me while I think about all the beautiful women he will sleep with.

Someone…too imperfect to be real.

Ok, ocean of wishful thinking here I come. Lifeguard(s) with the above mentioned qualifications and notions, please be there.

Song for Coke without Rum

Did you lose yourself somewhere out there, did you get to be a star
Don’t it make you sad to know that life is more than who you are…
…Think about you all the time, but I don’t need the same
It’s lonely where you are, come back down ‘n I won’t tell ‘em your name

-Goo Goo Dolls

Tuesday, December 05, 2006


To think I might not see those eyes
Makes it so hard not to cry
And as we say our long goodbyes
I nearly do

- Snow Patrol

I can’t believe I still cry every time I listen to Run
I can't believe its raining