The Brain's girlfriend, also working in the same office; Floyd, said that chicks around like me. They've got crushes. But well it could be a nice-laid plan by the crew to get me all excited and ask her who all they are and allow the cheap-thrill to flush my face. Before it turns into a hahaha-caught-you-asshole-joke. So I generally don't, although she's been going on and on about it for a while. I don't I care much about it, to be honest. But well, even though its always nice to know that somebody likes you without the extent of knowing you. I mean knowing you with all that personal-bullshit, which is quite essential in this day and age.
I suppose one-nght stands happen a lot in chick-lit movies, but back here in Del very rarely. First of all, there's no humour for it. The closest it would be called is a rape. Which obviously you don't want to happen, right? Of course not, pervert.
So what happens when you just haven't been able to push yourself for a relationship and cut the wrists of all possible one's for somewhile, only to want some action or a chick out of the movies? No, prostitution ain't a good answer. I wouldn't consider it, no matter how hard the Bangkok chicks tap their feet and the Cantonese women pull my cheeks. I usually end up smoking cigarettes and drink beers in empty Hotel bathroom tubs where even the receptionist has hit on me.
It all bottles down to grave misery. Misery that I have put upon myself. Misery that I'm telling you; you who I know will kick my ass someday.
I guess this is what blogs are all about. So I tried...

Maxwell's Silver Hammer, now that's the song!

And Cartman in South Park: "Screw you guys, I'm goin' home!"

Helter Skelter! Manson with blood. Caught red-handed! (Sorry for the bad pun.)

Margarita Blues

Pretty much feeling like a rusted can. Kicked about, tossed around the streets by strangers. The sky above is still blue and it takes a long while to become that evening star. Not much on the streets but a few people still selling cigarettes and newspapers to the old and forgotten. Crumbs are being thrown for the birds that will be eaten by cats. Women from balconies cheer the endless fights; the boys know what they will win to the price of death.
What could it be? It all be? The endless horizon or Virgiana Woolf's death. The trained doctors are booked till the end of season, a city's being found to be lost again. If all that glitters ain't gold; why does princess still keep her jewels. There's music of course, the stillness is still her friend. The ancient army has come down knockin', happiness is still as proud. The moon and her sisters look around, they haven't found you as their most suitable bride.
Now the doors are being left open, no one dare to come inside. The philosopher and his cat are drinking vodka and preparing for the show. The mystery will die, while Margarita sleeps in her bed and the Master has gone around town telling tales. Of how the times were, and how they will never be. Ever since Woland's story was told. The same story that was burnt in a furnace till the Devil put things right.
Faust, miserable as he was is he now. Mephistophilis and his conversations are being documented, the case is lost; there is no justice in the story of rich and famous. But none dare ever believe, what the Old Man has to say. he doesn't speak much. But when he does, it puts the crowd to feel the world of sleep. So I'll hum along the whistle that I used to hear from the cottage of the woods, while you write that song.

Not much into advertising but for the sake of beauty and music, I comply:

Delhi based band Crimson(Alternative Rock) are looking for a guitar player who's comfortable playing lead as well as rhythm guitars.The band covers all types of genres from G'n'R to Creed to Nelly Furtado, please contact as as possible. Cheers...

Contact (email) : thesandmangary@hotmail.com & annbsb@hotmail.com

If you ever want to feel the pulse of middle-class Indian journalism, step into the Press Club of India. Its here where you will see the blood, swea and tears of hacks congeal. Went with the Office Poet, had 4 large Rum n' Cokes, peanuts and chicken tikka for 220 bucks. A whole lot of guys (all legends in their own regard) were around. Made me understand the mad, 30 cigarette smoking with a single light, alcoholic, depressed trade a lot lot better.

The Pirate more likely 'The Vandalist' and his team in Maxim are trying to to bring about a column that gives bloggers the space. He wants 350 words on Men and Women relationships. It has to be funny. I've scribbled something, read it and let me know. Meanwhile, flood him with your posts and ask him the way to get it published. Only your links will be mentioned. Cheers!

To be honest, it’s been a while since I’ve had a successful relationship. Times are such that I would have to correct myself: a romantic relationship with a woman. It’s actually more than two years; I had a few flings in between but all of them went places and crashed with a lousy moan.
To be 20, and be serious is actually being stupid. When I mean serious: it’s more like earning a comfortable salary in a newspaper house, reading books and talking thirty. Chicks my age seem to have got it all wrong, a two-minute conversation makes you head to grab another drink. Their idea of going to clubs is ‘dancing’, something I relate to as aerobics in a dark room. They can say more Hindi curses before you can say the poetical four-letter under your breath; will pick their teeth with your visiting card; and will actually go to the extent of believing that Ayn Rand is philosophy.
Women older – I am mostly around them – take my trip to give them a satisfying ego ride to the moon and back or mother me to the extent to fix the creases of my shirt. The one’s who I seem to get along are the one’s slurring after two glasses of wine talking about Leonard Cohen in a well-lit room batting their eyelids and shaking their heads mildly in disapproval at their younger sister.
They’re the women that are single, early 30s, have a reassuring smile on their face, blow curls of smoke and are attractive in their kind.
Such conversations are often a gamble: if you win its worth putting on your ego card. It depends: you’ll end either up in bed or the conversation will remain in that whisky blur and that last evening will settle untraced in your memory.
So what are you looking for – love or a decent sex-life? Most times they’re confused, if that’s so then you can have a worse headache than drinking vodka from a water jar. Try using pickup lines with a decent looking chick in a bar – even if they are remotely funny or intelligent – you’ll end up being beaten by 20 village-men from the neighbouring state. You can believe that the chick is related to them, if you like.
Go ahead find your way, make my day.

Featured in the Hindustan Times Edit Page today...

Love and Technology

UNLIKE DAVID Copperfield and Holden Caulfield, I grew up in a period of great discoveries. My childhood and adolescence coincided with the turn of the century, and I accepted the technological breakthroughs as they arrived.
A lot of people I know - whether a few years older and younger - underwent a constant, subconscious alteration of their convictions, albeit with some resistance, as they tried to accommodate the change that was gaining an uncanny prominence in their lives. They rubbished it at first, of course, only to secretly watch MTV.
As for me, I grew up at a time in the Eighties when cable TV was making its way into Indian homes. From five minutes of Hindi songs and one hour of Snoopy cartoons (when the reception was clear), TV started producing a smorgasbord of visuals. My younger brother and I tried to make sense of what was Cartoon Network. As if it was not strange enough that things were beginning to be very different, the span of our one-hour cartoon show was slowly increasing.
Then came a time when my cousin saved enough money in his piggybank to purchase… a video game! Compared to the X-Box of today, the Samurai console may seem as if it was drilled out from an archaeological site. But at that time, life revolved around Mario and Contra. A year later, me and my brother bought our very own. But as time went by, dust began to settle on it.
I remember my first computer class: the funny TV-like screens staring at us while we learnt (by now) ancient programmes. I began to understand them better when games were introduced - I played the Duke Nukem 3D version till someone spoilt it by cheat-codes.
Forward many years, and I slowly crept into the world of emails and the internet, when a girl from our 'sisterly' neighbouring boarding school gave me her address on a folded piece of paper, to keep in touch during our two-month summer vacations. So technology not only gave me a chance to make my school-crush turn into something more, it also gave me access to the vast world of Google. Together, their entry into my world made a big difference.
Today, almost everyone has a blog - even I do. Anyone who has the tiniest excuse of an opinion can create one and fill up pages on end without loss of paper or fear of rebuttal.
Maybe, like all my childhood memories, I will let this go - perhaps, forward it to Recycle Bin. And while I sit back and contemplate the deeper meaning of life, my I-pod should help me recover.

The Sunday was peaceful, largely spent with my cousins at their place. On Saturday bought a couple of flicks. The Big Lebowski, I had to purchase. Even my old man was happy to know I had bought it. He told me to look for this flick called The Vanishing Point, which had some great music. Bought Kiss Kiss Bang Bang. May sound porno to ye perverts, but I've heard some great stuff about this comdey-crime. And for curiosity, I bought The Devil Wears Prada. Which I found cool only because Meryl Streep seems to exhibit one of the most brilliant performances. She makes the movie promise what it spells.
The Big Lebowski, like I've mentioned before is the coolest coolest bloody thing. You just have to know one thing before you purchase it. He's the Dude, that's it. Hear this out:
"Let me explain something to you. Um, I am not Mr. Lebowski. You're Mr. Lebowski. I'm the Dude. So that's what you call me. You know, that or uh, His Dudeness, or uh, Duder, or El Duderino if you're not into the whole brevity thing."
While getting off the Metro last evening, was moved to see this chick who was wearing an extremely hot dress. I didn't see her face, it was very likely that she may have not been hot. But from a good enough view she looked pretty, anyway was a bit behind her and she seemed in a hurry. Not that I'm the chasing-stalking kinds, I kept my pace.
As soon as I left the Metro, I saw her on the side of the road talking on the phone loudly. Dark enough not to see her face. She still seemed hot. Two Auto guys were parked along the side just staring at her. Asked both of them if they'd take me, but they refused simply pointing at her as though I should understand without asking. I knew they were pointing towards the chick whose back was exposed to them.
So I walked straight ahead to get one. But I was left with this strange feeling. Even if that chick was going to take an auto it was bound that she was going to face trouble. It wasn't that late, around 7:30 at Central Secretariat though, I felt she had no strong reasons to wear a party dess hanging around India Gate-Rashtrapati Bhawan alone.
Things like this scare me at times. Trust me, as much as I hope yu would like it, I would like to see this city open to the fact that women can look presentable or hot if they want to without getting raped or molested or even the thought of it. But till that day happens, women have to be careful cause the city's dark. Shit happens a lot!

There's nothing more sad than sitting on a Sunday night, hoping this wouldn't end. Time moves on slowly. I think to myself: what a wonderul world.

Some of you may know that I went to Mayo College. Those who don't know whether I went there or what it is; well, its a boarding school in Rajasthan, in the town Ajmer built in the colonial times by lord Mayo. The school spans a beautful untouched 350 acres, the main building is tall and handsome and each houses where we lodged were donated and built in the style for the princes of those provinces.
My folks, both from boarding school, were perticularly keen on sending me to one. I didn't mind the fact or resent it, I had heard too many good stories. There were friends in Del who felt that my folks didn't love me so they were sending me away. But that I knew was not the seen. Why would they hate me at the age of 14; I learnt the word fuck just then and I never told anyone I knew that; I wasn't shooting herion; and I was never the guy who was caught breaking glasses of neighbours or going around with 30 year-old women.
The coolest thing about going to Mayo was that I was the 5th generation from my family, what wasn't cool upon entering was that I found a handful of similar around. The school was filled with Rajputs, so was I but then I was a little different: I couldn't help it, I like the school library.
The other good thing was that each morning at the assembly, I would see at the huge portrait (among the twenty of them) of my great-great grandfather with a sword. Strangely, those were the times that would make me home-sick a lot.
Spent a fuck load of time there. Made few good friends. The school went through a whole lot of changes during my time, got my ass kicked a lot by seniors. Seniors would make us run around the school (remember the school is big), running for odd favours for them. There were work-outs, cross-country and games that would fuck you up.
I had my first real binge of booze, which was basically drinking straight vodka and Sprite from a water jug. I picked up smoking and once had a first try of a chillum in Pushkar got smacked out of my head and somehow made it back. Broke bounds sometimes, but I didn't too many. The House's guard, a lunatic, would get us some grub from outside. Had my first make out, which (okay, don't laugh) was on a train from Ajmer to Delhi.
Now its been -- what -- 2 years out of it. Two years out of a regime of waking 5 in the morning with a ring of the bell to 10 at night. Each and every move of yours managed and regulated by bells and authority. With getting my ass kicked over and over again, cause I took myself too seriously. Today, its sort of a love-hate thing with the school.
I'd hate to go back alone. Too many memories each good one shadowed by a dark one. i don't have to go back. Few friends I gained scattered in the world. Now its even difficult to relate to them. I wrote this perhaps cause was gettin mellow and nothing more. Its a fucked up place and at the same time I found life in pieces of paper and ink.

A colleague of mine in Saturday has written this poem. Its quite nice.

The Rum Drinker

If
he jumped from
the ledge tonight
and died,
would you bandage
his neck first
or collect pieces of
his flesh from
between the cracks
in the road?
Would you cover his
body with leaves
and let children discover
him in play
or would you rather
drink up his rum
before they knew?

For him
to have died leaving
his rum unfinished
was good for us.
But think of him
to kill himself
-- could it mean
death meant more to
him than rum
when he died?

The world is slightly Orkuttish

The entire world for me has gone Orkutia. Partially even I have. I know people, who I trusted for their non-orkutness seem to have also gone as well. So what is the world coming up to? Is this a message about how unreliable and unreassured we are about ourselves. Do we really need to fill in boxes like About Me and What is the first thing you will notice about me? to prove anything, and most importantly bring about a message.
Strangely, I've filled all these to know -- yes -- its a bloody strange thing. Like the conversation I had at the coffee stand in office yesterday, after a rush of nicotine, when we came to this conclusion that these sites only manage to subconsciously find and evoke our self-indulgent side.
Obviously the first thing we do, when we log on, is we look for is our friends, then our old lost friends, then friends who we don't really want to add us, and finally it comes to a point when you start looking at Who's Viewed My Profile hoping that the chicks are checking you out. Sadly, the last one rarely happens really. Even if it does, it doesn't mean anything. And most times, she's checking the guy who checked her out yesterday.
There's scrapping as well, which doesn't seem to cease. Its more tiring than recieving SMSs. Sometimes you can have a page of silly and wannabe conversations. For example: 'Yo there?' I reply 'What's up' 'Cool, what up with you?' 'Work madness' 'Cool, what else' 'Nothing really, dealing life, you?' 'All cool'. The econversation takes a gap of few minutes, and then it picks up again. 'Yo, what's up'. The friend doesn't get a reply. Your email also gets subjected to a whole lot of junk, cause you've obviously quite liberally opened your email address on your profile.
Sometimes its fun, most times its a drag. Lot of people look at it for meeting chicks, business networking and a whole lot of them make excuses for saying 'my friends drove me into this.' Whatever said and done, its okay if you're on it: just don't buy the shit.
Hi5 is now out of style, lot of Hi5 lot are making way into Orkut to find the same old friends. Join the same old communities and make a rare find of that school crush you-never-knew-what-happened-to-her after she snubbed you off.

Have you seen the Nokia N-series advert with Gary Oldman? Its done so bloody well. Its doing rounds on TV. Catch it if you can.

Willie Dixon, John Lee Hooker, Robert Johnson, Buddy Guy, Eric Clapton the list goes on and on...Damn right, I've got the blues...!

Raymond Carver, anyone?
(Your Dog Dies)

it gets run over by a van.
you find it at the side of the road
and bury it.
you feel bad about it.
you feel bad personally,
but you feel bad for your daughter
because it was her pet,
and she loved it so.
she used to croon to it
and let it sleep in her bed.
you write a poem about it.
you call it a poem for your daughter,
about the dog getting run over by a van
and how you looked after it,
took it out into the woods
and buried it deep, deep,
and that poem turns out so good
you're almost glad the little dog
was run over, or else you'd never
have written that good poem.
then you sit down to write
a poem about writing a poem
about the death of that dog,
but while you're writing you
hear a woman scream
your name, your first name,
both syllables,
and your heart stops.
after a minute, you continue writing.
she screams again. you wonder how long this can go on.

If there's one thing I really wish would happen: I would wish that someone burnt that fucking RPM in Vasant Vihar down. You know why? Its pathetic. Every Monday afternoon, you see dozens of school kids (in their uniforms) getting drunk and fist fighting outside while the cops are breaking them up. In evenings, if you're standing around you see the weirdest of the lot abusing loudly and making passes at almost anyone from an aunty of 60 to a 6th grader chick.
I went there once, what led me into that madness I don't know. One thing for sure: I knew I would never get back there again. It was 12 at night, I remember, I had polished of two whiskeys which hadn't made me feel worse than drinking Rasna. There were few people around. A very vague crowd. Three guys 'dirty' dancing, one chick sauntering in and out with her phone, one Russian chick sitting with four guys that looked straight out of Hindi movie-song dance troupe. Teasing her between gulping their beers. The music was Hip-Hop, and you could kill the DJ, for not understand English.
I had to rush out.
I know good people who wish the same. I know we all get wild, with all that we do. But hey; this is one heel. Where Lucifer may say is not in style. Just a warning, in case.

I'm bored. Hell bored.

Great works

A very great person I know wrote this ages back in the magazine. See how it reads:

You have your recurring dream. I have mine. I’m sitting on a high stool in a dark’n’smoky bar in which someone’s playing a bad jazz track in the background. I’m in a collared-up coat — it’s cold and European outside — and am smoking a million Gauloises without once using a matchbox and drinking two Martinis at a time.
In this dream, the lady behind the bar looks straight into my eyes and asks in her Drambuie voice whether I would care for a Manhattan. I blow some smoke into her face and say ‘Sure’ without speaking, all the while humming that Jimmy Buffet tune in my head that goes:
"I really do appreciate the fact you’re sittin’ here
Your voice sounds so wonderful
But yer face don’t look too clear
So bar maid bring a pitcher, another round of brew,
Honey, why don’t we get drunk and..."
Which is when the needle scratches right across the record and I find myself back inside the top-floor drinking grotto at Moet’s Bar-Be-Que in Defence Colony, drunk as a rubber dinghy on the South China Sea. "Last orders, sir?" asks the waiter in a manner as distant from the girl with the Manhattan as Casablanca is from Pitampura.
Another evening of bar-crawling in Delhi ends in style.

In the madness of Soho

Thursday night couldn't have been better. Truly, one of the best things you find about this City is that you find all the right minded folks in the right place.Three bands were upto work: Soap, Menwhopause and Parikrama. I got ripped off by the bar guy, the fucker overcharged me a bitch. The music was brilliant: Soap played the blues and so bloody well. They got this guy from the audience to play the trumphet, and man did that guy know how to play. The band played some Stevie Ray, the vocals by Michelle were sounding better than what I had heard her sing somewhile back. Not to mention the harmonica which went bloody good with the music.
Menwhopause's is turnin' more grunge. They've lost all that rawness they had, and are belting out the sweetest trip you've ever taken off in a short while. Sarab was sounding better than usual, I think the band's short visit to the hills to crack their new album rubbed off well on them.
Parikrama from a change sounded better than recent times. When they played their original But It Rained , it felt like some other band was covering for them. They played some good set of rock n' rool and matched up the the perfectness of the first two band. Amaxing for a band for whom I lost good respect.
The Pirate was around, and I took huge gulps of his rum n' coke, met the city gang and took gulps of their whisky, and hap a couple of beers on mine, and it was good. Met a whole lot of people, don't know where they were coming and where they were going. But it was all good, just a spliff was needed. Left soon after. Had a tiring fucked up Friday. Mumbai issue spoilt it big time for me, taking my hungover mind to the moon and back. But then again it was all bloody good!

A very good afternoon, to all ye gentle people out there. I hope you're doing very well? I'm doing quite well, living in that old fashioned world of mine. Apart from a rainy day, and a comment from one of you saying its a wonderful day; I really can't help but agree. Got some money in my pocket, think I've got some luck coming. Just don't know from where. Will be going out in the evening to listen to a gig at Soho, have to write about it in the Culture Vulture column. The usuals and some unusuals will be supposeldly there. I think I'll go and work now, and I'll see you gentle people again. In some while, when I 've got my reckless nerves a bit settled and I meet that darn luck of mine. God knows where.

The murder on Hailey Road

I didn't tell you about it, so it might surprise you as much as it did to me. Recently, I've been in touch -- thanks to Orkut and Hi5 -- with some of my old school friends whom I had lost in touch for a good 10 years time. I had left the day school in Delhi to the boarding school in Ajmer.
Meeting them was great, I was also surprised to find that if I had got along with them when I was a kid I was still getting along with them the same way now. Nothing seems to have changed. apart from our views; so there was a time we liked to play table-tennis and hand-cricket and now we enjoy drinks and music. Some of them are good lot. I actually never expected to find them all together, apart from bumping into one of them somewhere some time.
Last Saturday night, Khumba invited me over to his place. I knew the gang was coming, even though I suspected that women would be very few. I reached Def Col to the Chef's place and headed early to his place.
The music started with Stones, the bridge was filled with chilled beer and on a balcony with decent seating arrangement everything seemed peaceful. People poured in, they were more faces and I slightly was taken aback to see how distorted childhood memories were.
But there wasone chick who had come with one puny dork, who actually flunked his twelfth and plays the drums in his DLF flat. The chick seemed interesting (since she was the only one), so I striked a conversation. We knew people in common. The moment she said she was studying Political Science and is studying in LSR, I grew more interested. Then she blew it all away, she said, she believed in Communists. So I asked her quite gently whether she had read Orwell, and what she thought of it. She mumbled something, so I gave her an entire description of a theory. she fucked up with her point, so I chased another drink. Mumbling to myself of this pretentious chick.
Amongst the friends was Shiv Khanna. Amongst all these folks, he was the only one I had studied for in the same class. He was always brilliant in sports, good in studies and a polite guy. One knew that his folks had split, and he used to stay with his mom.
At the party, he hung around till the end and we all left together. Today, I get a call from the Chef telling me that the man who was murdered at Hailey Road was his father. He was stabbed several times, and Shiv and the chef found him lying there.
It was sad to know.

Another brilliant day. Its so bloody hot. I'm dying for winters to come. Its bloody September now, the monsoons was hell eccentric. A few drops here and there, and now they're gone. Work's becoming a drag when you have to come from the other side of town. Takes me a good fuckin' hour.
My luck is screwed as well, everyday I get up around 9 in the morning with a darn headache. While walking to the bus stop from home. I see my bus driving past me when I'm a few feet away. I have to stand in the sun for the next 15 minutes till the next one comes along. I always get the seat which has the sun pouring on my head. It gets difficult to read when your head starts spinning like a wheel.
From the bus stop in Delhi to office is a ride in a rickety auto. Most times its spent taking deep drags from my cigarette, listening to the I-pod and carelessly messaging people. My shirt is damp with all the sweat when I reach. Most times there's a jam in front of the office, so I stop a little before and pay the chap.
When I reach office at a decent time, I realise its god damn to early. Nobody's heare by 12:30 pm. So I start checking my mails and the blog. Now I know these details aren't important; but hey, this is an important part of my life.

Some of these are extremely depressing songs. They deal with drugs. Some of them heighten their psychotropic experience and some bitterly warn us about what we're plunging ourselves into. As a reporter, I've done some stories on dope in the city. To be honest, I don't sympathise with potheads. Not at all. They are extremely peaceful lot, they know their good times. Most of them are very close friends. Others I tremble in fear to think about. They are a young lot who visit raves, pop pills for a 'good time' and in little time they begin to whither. the difference between your neighbourhood pot head and a punk is cut across a fine line. Anyway, go through these songs. Some of them are so beatifully crafted, you may like them. Cheers...

Perfect Day: I heard this song in the movie Trainspotting. Mark Renton has a bad trip because of terrible smack and is seen sinking into the floor. The songs ends in an empathatic way, he lands in a hospital. The songs deals about drug withdrawl symptons. Its sad. I started listening to a lot of Lou Reed after this.

Codine: If you think Donovan is good and Sunshine Superman and Seasons of the Witch are his best, try this one out. It can be argued that Dylan sung this. The vocals are strong, as if pained with misery. The song warns the world about the misery about the drug. "Try it just once/and you'll try it again."

The Needle and the Damage Done: Sung by Neil Young, this one supposedly is based on Young's own experience of how his band member died because of Heroin. One of the brilliant line in the song is "Every junky is like a setting sun."

Heroin: Velvet Underground, Reed as the vocalist with Nico, sang this song taking on America. This one glorifies the use of Heroin. If you read the lyrics you will understand how simply wonderful it maybe (but then you remember Requiem... right?) Its painful, the music is strong and the song just doesn't end.

White Rabbit: In a period called of "Summer of love," when drugs were just a bet of mind. Jefferson Airplane, great influenced with Lewis Carrol's work, interpretted the song with a drug influence. The song is not that long. It’s very trippy and gives you a brief version of the text.

Tambourine Man: Everyone knows the song; well, all those who know Bob Dylan actually. The song is fun, and gives a poetic account of a man and his dealer. He joyfully narrates the incident with experiences that are surreal, and almost invites you into a world where the poet/singer dwells in.

Sister Morphine: Rolling Stones planted it in Sticky Fingers, apparently written and sung by Marianne Faithful as well. The song talks about an OD, and the problem is given light. Everything is blurry; he's dragged into a hospital. In the middle there's a reference to "Sweet Cousin Cocaine."

Across the Universe: Written by the Beatles in India on their trippiest White Album. You can see how the Maharishi has influences these fellows, the chorus is "Jai Guru Deva." The Beatles shortly escaped the compounds of Rishikesh, but the music is about a trip that is laced with spirituality. A very common chant for the 'Harry-Krishna' lot.

Comfortably Numb: Pink Floyd's The Wall was a brilliant concept album. So brilliant that Waters went mad after that and wanted to go solo. This song has become a cliché just like Hotel California and Roadhouse Blues. This song can be seen in million ways, the movie does give you a good glimpse. But it’s wonderfully done, and has a brilliant solo by Gilmour.

Why do people (who don't smoke) get offended when you ask them for a light? Its hardly as if I'm asking for their girl's number.

The day is busy, and is getting busier by the hour. Its been months since the edition has been launched, I've been here since the start. From what began as slight awkward time is now simply a routine. My pages have been cleared early, the next drift will come sometime later in the evening when the ads begin to shift.
Working in a newspaper house can be fun at times. People around you are fairly laidback, its only when they get after your ass, life turns unplesant. Otherwise, you see them Googling away, smoking ciagrettes, drinking tea, listening to music, gossiping and rarely some romance lights the huge hall.
In that way, city was more fun. Time could easily pass by and your work would get done. The senior editors wouldn't care that much about the paper anyway, unless of course some faux-pass or plugging appeared. The latter was more or else alien to me, fuck ups would happen all the time and you were used to hearing one panic call. But in general, everyone made a face when you told them that you worked there. Labelling you with the 'Page3' -- even if you wrote on art, culture, booze and books.
I remember one senior chick who was there, on our listing page, changed the President's name to APJ Kalam 'Azad'. The next day's meeting was bitter, she was on an off and I got my ass whipped cause I had contributed some small element to another column.
Like I've said before, I don't go there now like before. The Pirate is not around, he's joint the fancy mag Maxim, there are whole lot of new people and I figure I'm not really wanted there.
The main paper, is bloody huge. All sorts of bureaus, departments and beats -- the features are simple sometimes turned hectic life. Its tough adjusting if you've come from soft-features to hard-features, without a hardcore beat in the middle.
But life as a sub is good. The ed is sweet. The seniors are most of the time good, apart from the office suck up running around and spoiling the show. I get to read and be perspective as well.

Thanks to the Old Friend, I've been lucky enough to watch some of the coolest movies. This one in particular, The Big Lebowski, is all about The Dude. The man is your typical middle-aged unemployed American that finds his way through a surreal set of troubles. Largely because his prized-possesion, a carpet, gets peed upon and then stolen. He loves bowling and drinking White Russians. You also see him smoking his J. Like the Old Friend says: "Go ahead" -- you must, at least once. Remember: The Dude abides.

Sympathy (always) for the Devil

This is one of the coolest episodes of The Simpsons. Bart has been hit by Mr Burns car. The 10-year old makes a short visit to hell and back. The devil, when he sees Bart entering, gets up and says: "Please to meet you, hope you guessed my name?"

Extremely boring days. Almost nothing seems to be working out. Got my salary, which is the only reason that has brought upon a smile in the emptiness-feeling. Have two good books in my bag, but need a better day to lie back and read. The old man gifted me with an I-Pod day before, I think he's happy with me despite my reclusive antics. He's actually a very cool guy, I would have got along much better if he was just a bookseller in the bookshop at the corner.
The office suck-up is doing okay, and better at what he performs the best. The ed seems as though she knows the guy is weird but is happy cause he is over-enthu about every sad story he thinks about and even more about others. Sometimes he even calls you and asks if you're giving the story or not, or how its figuring out -- worst when it doesn't even concern him.
Met the lit gang last evening, bumped into them at the Edward Luce book launch. Chased a couple of beers, met all the good people and split to catch the Metro to the other end of town. At Granny's had a good dinner, chilled with my cousins (who have a brilliant flat to themselves, next to the house) -- watched some of the Simpsons on their DVD and slept. Had a fucking horrible nightmare (something quite common in childhood) on snakes.
Apart from all that, its the same ole misery. The days are gong slow, nights twice as fast. Still waiting to get paid by Roli, I think Mr Rock n' Roll Circus' warning is coming true.
Will just have to wait.

Went through my old emails, dug out this rendition of Hotel California. (In case, you haven't heard this brilliant song; you must visit Turquoise Cottage) Its in Punjabi.

Hotel Karnal-a-fonia

On the dark GT highway
Pagdi patka in my hair
Warm smell of some dhabas
Rising up in the air
Up ahead in the distance
I saw a ttharra joint.

My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim
I must have drunk over a pint
There he stood in the drive way
I heard his truck helper yell
And I was thinking to myself
This had to be Devinder Singh Behl
Then he belched, and scratched his head
And he was on the highway
And the other drivers leaning from their truck car doors
I thought I heard them say

Welcome to the hotel Karnal-a-fonia
Vaddi changi place (vaddi changi place)
Vaddi changi place
Massage, manicure, pedicure at Karnal-a-fonia
Any kind of ear (any kind of ear)
You can clean it here

His car's grill was definitely twisted
He's got a Maruti-Benz
He's got a lot of petty petty MLAs
Whom he calls friends
Dancing bhangra in the courtyard
See surdie sweat
Some dancer is this Devinder
Armpits stinking wet
So I told the bell captain
I's made a reservation online
And he said, oye khoteyya our internet hasnt worked at all Since Y2K - 1999
And still those drivers were calling from the drive way
Woke me in the middle of the night
I know I heard them say

Welcome to the hotel Karnal-a-fonia
Itthey karlo rest (itthey karlo rest)
Itthey karlo rest
Aish karo at the hotel Karnal-a-fonia
Kudi umr bais (kudi umr bais)
Will serve you nice

Daler on the ceiling
And on the walls in every guise
And waitresses dressed like actresses
From flicks of Subhash Ghai's
And in the downstairs canteen
\I sat down for my meal
Butter chicken, and sarson da saag
Had a shock when they showed me the bill
Looking for help I saw Devinder
Dancing wildly on the floor
I had to find my hostess back
Oh where is this Gurpreet Kaur?
Relax said Milkha Singh
Play golf with my son Jeev
Tu ban gaya Punjab da puttar
Now you cant ever leave

So here I am,
Wasting life at the Hotel Karnal-a-fonia
Vaddi changi place (vaddi changi place)
Vaddi changi place
Converted to member of Hotel Karnal-a-fonia
Whoever arrives (whoever arrives) Stays till he dies !!!

Monday Blues

A very good Monday morning to all of you. I hope you're doing well. Not feeling like chucking your jobs away, and going back to bad. Not feel low, but bright as a Saturday evening star. Cause I'm feeling fucking good. But you know what: I just wish my head wouldn't stop hurting and it would go away. I hate Mondays. I hate the fact that the office suck-up would get after me the moment I step in. Run me down, plant me with superfical work that wouldn't benifit KK but him and his ego.
Its such a nice rainy day. Aww man, saw Requiem for a Dream yesterday. It tripped me out. It was a great film, but scares the shit out of me. Its dark and expands the various addictions and brings about the death of it. Watched it actually cause the Sweet Lady had told me and insisted about it. I was curious, really. Worth the buck, definitely. Awwright, I'm off to fuckin' work.

10 reasons why ye may be a Delhiite

1) There's a Fashion Week at The Grand and you're desperate to get in, and be spotted by some designer for his next collection. Or be desperate enough to think a model will sleep with you.

2) There's a new club in town which has just opened, and the city papers say that its 'hot and wild', and the socialites and celebs where all getting soaked in syrup and Manhattan in there. The next day you show up, you have to shuck up 2,000 bucks to get in.

3) You and your girlfriend are spotted in a McDonalds eating house, whereas you were supposed to be on this hot date that you've been raving on and on about to your bunch of like-minded friends.

4) If you haven't read a single book and don't show an iota of interest to ever read; that is if you don't count your school/college study books. If you ever start, you'll pick up the hottest bestseller (perhaps the Da Vinci Code kinds) and not stop raving about it -- till you're asked to fuck off.

5) If you think smokes, booze and drugs are cool and people take them seriously only to be noticed.

6) You will listen to any noise from the radio, tv and flick and wait for a friend to tell you that its the 'happening' these days -- and you'll agree with that a faux-glint of enthusiasm.

7) If you think speaking in a terrible and crass Hindi (instead of English, of course) is good; and is only proving your originality.

8) No matter what you play in your car, the sound outside will always reverberate dhink-chik dhink-chik.

9) Driving like a maniac in a car that is packed with a population of a 99.88 per cent male ratio.

10) If you're reading this, and wondering who the bhenchod 'Jeery' is.

The party that we all know that happens

It’s not bad, I'm learning it seems. A senior schoolmate of mine called me over last evening for his house warming plus his younger bro's birthday party. The kid was turning 18, so it was a pretty huge affair for the family. Most importantly, there was beer as well and I had reasons to go.
So I went there really because I've been on a trip of going to every party these days, to seek new and unfound adventures, I’m keen to try once.(I have to write something here everyday, geddit?)
What surprised me as I walked in was to see these kid juniors of mine holding cigarettes like Paris Hilton would perhaps hold the leash of her poodle, with her palm facing above her right shoulder. What more, these guys were downing whisky shots for some reason without a second of halt. Something about them made me think a lot, I knew there was something wrong. It wasn't the fact they were drinking, these days, kids are experimenting and why should I put on that holier-than-thou look. Maybe it was something to do with the fact that the art of 'peace drinking' was declining, I suppose it’s perishing with these kids hanging around.
One junior came running to me with his phone behind his back asking me where should he be exactly if he was on his way from the airport to noida. I took pity on the fibbing prick, who was talking to his concerned daddy, and I told him one convenient place in between. It goes without mentioning that this guy is beyond gentle words a dumb fuck, he tells his dad that he is crossing the DT Mall. Now respectable folks of Delhi know that there is no way, one would ever cross the malls to reach the other way to town. His dad muttered some quick abused to him, and his face looked as though, he was in big shit.
Anyway, there were these two chicks who were hanging around together and attracting these kids a lot. One was a chick was those singer kinds. She would cock her head and sing some of the lousiest Hindi songs I’ve heard. The one’s I wouldn’t even listen to on a auto, in desperate times. The other chick, made me look the other way and shake my head in disapproval. She was very dark (which is besides the point) she was wearing a extremely low low-neck, that pushed her tits right out to the kids faces and spoke as though someone returning from America picks up an English accent.
I headed downstairs, with a couple of beers humming in my mind. There was The Doors playing, and I thought to myself. If I have to get pasted, I might as well do it with style. A couple of minutes more the rain began pouring and every one of those dorks came down from the terrace. By then vodka appeared from nowhere, and was downed by every burning neck in that claustro room.
Some wise guy said it’s twelve, so the birthday boy had to get his bumps on the raining terrace. Beer was being sprayed above, the kids were now dismayed that the girl who was singing had stopped cause she was worried that the rain may spoil her voice. The dark girl looked worse because she was wet to the bone.
The birthday kid was pissed out of his mind. Somebody broke a cake fight, and most of them were caked. The kids mother walked up that second, he saw his mom and fell a few steps. His mother half-amused asked him what’s happening. Sheepishly he replied, someone’s smashed cake and she wittingly replied I think you’re smashed.
The moment his mother was about to step down, the kid’s best friend came running behind him and splashed a cake on his face shouting, MOTHERFUCKER’. The kid’s mom left her son to enjoy his 18th birthday, with an I-will-see-you-tomorrow look.
There was one cute chick, and believe me she was he only one. She lost interest in me the moment she knew I was a journalist and I lost interest in her the second she told me, she knew the music critic in city. But I think more than that, she was amused with my performance of taking people’s trip. She passed a good smile, a sympathetic one to be honest.Almost everyone I knew around was hammered well by the end; there was also this slush of rain, cake and beer on the ground. But despite everything, I felt the whole trip was educating. You can blame it on the alcohol.