Found it on google. Neat, huh?

I know, I know. I should be studying. It’s about time, and well I know I should get on with it. I've read some few texts of my course already. Meanwhile thanks to the Office Poet, he gave me his copy of Camus' The Outsider. I seemed to found it brilliant.
Not been really well. I missed eM's Halloween party. Almost everyone I know was there and I they all assured the known fact; it was real good fun. The Pirate went as the pirate. Lil' Sam went wearing some fancy stuff, and I don't think I exactly got what he was wearing.
I know she maybe pissed, and I'm terribly sorry.
Last week was pretty hectic. Had a couple of pages, few stories and some junk to complete. Got drunk a couple of times. Chilled with Mr and Mrs Rock n' Roll Circus, Sunday Ed, Chatterati and others... landed up in TC after some heady whisky drinkin and had a beer there. I must say TC has improved greatly; the music was so much better. The crowd looked really swell, but well that was after drinkin'. Omi got an end to the evening by getting a spliff. Couldn't really ask for more. Really.
Also I finally completed one of my short stories, the one I had been wresting to complete for fuckin' ages. It reads okay. I won't say much about it, cause I ain't like that you know. The one's who would go on and on about how good they are and all that phoney stuff.
Things otherwise have been pretty decent, apart from this very slow week. Tonight is William Dalrymple's book launch, The Last Mughal. I'm sure I'll find the whole lot all there. Its good to see everyone in some while.
There's just one small hitch, I'll have to go through some ghazal's, and my listening skills aren't really prepared for such music. But I guess its okay, you know it doesn't hurt to listen to Indian classical music from Bahadur Shah time once in a while.
I've been told by a whole lot of people that City is sinking. I really feel bad now. You know, I worked there for two years. Now I know that people are making fun of the silly stories that appear everyday. The language and the editing is pathetic. City's competitors, DT, are doing bloody well suddenly.
Still got a few friends there, although I don't really meet them. Missed Kaul has left, Wild Child says that she wants to. The Only Reporter, I have heard, says he wants to leave but he's afraid that the City ed would not feel so good.
Anyway, not that I care that much. It’s just a pity, that's all.
What else? Nothing really. Just bored a bit. Working in a weekly can be unnerving at times. But its a lot better. This might be a fucked up week cause my ed is going to the other office, and that will mean that someone here well want to take control.I think I'm settled. Actually I don't give a fuck about that as well, so long as it doesn't affect me too much.

Food for thought

This was a really cool piece on the Oil for Food scam in HT Edit. Ye know when Nat War got kicked out, and the Cabinet had to be shuffled.

Okay, I admit it. I'm late, late for all standards and especially when I am aware that half the country is ahead of me in this matter. I finally watched Lage Raho Munnabhai (the most coveted movie of the nation, at this moment of time) – and this too after few several months of its release. Why I held back was not out of sheer laziness, I was simply amazed at the way a simple Bhai movie that touched a bit of Gandhiism (Gandhigiri) turned the entire nation into watching the film and (even if its for the time being) switched their beliefs.
Did I enjoy it?
Yes. I had to. I love the way simple comedy runs. The satire, the works -- and how everything fits into place. I've also realised that if the comic elements are intact, a comedy flick is bound to do well regardless to the plot or any seriousness to it. Some Hindi comedy, I find brilliant.
This is one that scored far better because it had a plot that really changed things around. Made them appear so much better.
The philosophy of the man (Gandhi), in the movie, was not elaborate but the basics were; no matter how thin they were ruled out, we have to know them and how they are applied. To know Gandhi, as Indians, it is like General Knowledge, a part of our history that is so important and relevant in such times and forever. Like I said, you may not run them. It may not work; see how far we have digressed? Yet we can't do without it.
There are some really convincing moments in the movie that may actually get you to believe that Gandhigari is so easy and just so bloody right. The man, Murli Prasad Sharma, is hopelessly in love with a RJ and lands up learning about Gandhi. That's not it. Gandhi starts haunting him, and because of applying conditions with this spirit, he ends up practicing them. Its not his love entirely that turns him following Gandhi but just how uncannily it makes sense to his ruffian mind. The Gandhi in the movie is his conscience, something he would dare not reveal or give it an opportunity in real life.
What's different is that it’s moving. The tale is woven well, it may sound a bit of a farce if some us rip and analyse things -- in this matter, I don't think that's meant to be done. The movie has to be watched with no surprise. It makes you see things on its own. You can still come out of the hall cursing Gandhi, but the litmus test is whether you actually disagree (if not follow) his practices. Like my previous post, I still don’t see anything in him today. But if nothing else, he is our one major brand. You might not realise it.

A friend of mine sent this on mail, pretty neat huh? Its called Smooth Jazz. Now why don't people send me things like this rather than silly forwards?

Hey there, just tied up a bit. Will catch up soon. Cheers!

Helter-Skelter

If I told you that I got employed at the age of 18 in one of the best and recognised newspapers in the country, you would -- even if you are being polite -- still praise me? And if I told you that I for the past two and a half years have been a second division student despite not attending a single formal class of English, you would praise a bit more? Right?
The problem is not this at all. I can, even, despite being a bit of depressionist, cynic and a psessimist, say that I think I have managed. The problem is, if you study or have studied in DU, you would know just how hard the way things work here. In their offices, you know.
Even if they still work, the whole management is a tea-drinking, underarm scratching and relentlessly god-fearing nihilist. Strange I know all this, I still get fucked. What's worse is when you're stuying English under-grad through correspondence. They I assure you have fucked up with my patience, fake smiled face and goodness, a thousand times without batting an eyelid.
How? They send my marksheet in end of October. I can't apply anywhere because of so. Also they gave me a 40 in one paper, 64 in another and 55 in the last. The Hindi subsi I had to repeat, I got 44. My Old Man made fun of me that I knew less of William and more of Premchand ki kahanis.
What more, now I can't even send my first paper for revaluation cause the dates have long passed. More than half the course year has passed, leaving me with six months to know I have to study now and finally come aware of knowing that I have passed.
Being passed, that's a bit dodgy. If some uneducated failed 50 something professor sitting on some rickety chair in backwards of Delhi, with nervous shaking knees, who gets 35.58889 seconds to go through your paper, and is being paid just a bit more than 5 bucks with 2000 papers more to go and a sackful arriving next day. Your marks are very likely to get fucked. What do you do?
Your entire life depends on those marks? If he spills tea or spits paan on your answer sheet, you're a goner man!
The other thing is, have you ever gone to the campus of correspondence in Delhi. No, its no touristy site. But for the heck of it. Try getting some work there -- like getting things signed, paying fees. They are bound to make your walk up in down for hours and hours. You finally end up in the same room with about a thousand students standing on one tile space. The guy will look up and say why didn't you say that before.
Helter-Skelter. If there's a shootout here, I guess nobody would mind.

How To Kill A Mocking Bird

It ashames me to know people. It really does. It gets my goat as well. So you want to know why? Well this asshole from school -- was never my friend and a big sidey -- he loves Orkut cause it has gven him a licence to life (or whatever you call it) -- and he will message you on any fuckin rhyme or reason. I think all he does the entire day -- and I'm surprised that he's not even in India but studying out -- that he starts his day by scrapping people, by saying 'hi' or 'yo'. He's got some 200 odd friends (I think they're sympathisers, really!) -- and whoever reply to him, he picks up a conversations of randomness. I have started ignoring. But I got pissed right now, and that's why I'm writing to you.

On October 23, he sends me scrap at 11 at night, which reads: 'Happy New Year!' I told him to fuck off!

His profile reads like this:

Such Gibberish

{well...where to start with...yeh if u wanna knw me jus scrap me any ques...i mean anything jus cuz my lifez a open book n i dnt hide either...jus drop by ask wtever u feel...m a person who always analyse a gurl 1st en tel her wt c doesn't knw abt herself..m a straight up person..no back bitin...expect the same bt after al gurlz r gurlz n i love 2 appreciate a gurlz beauty as "BEAUTY IS IN THE VIEWER'S EYE"..WAS a flirt..thats wt ppl tld me on face, my back n my testiz...bt in short m a stright up guy who doesn't care of the outcum if m nt wrng n jus do n say wt i feel is ok(nt right)..ppl say m crazy n a big time funny character with a good sense of humor..loyal 2 frnds n nt gf's lolz..!!...cheers!!}

In my mind...

Book:
The Catcher In The Rye by J.D. Salinger
On The Road by Jack Kerouac

Song:
Memphis by The Animals
Dead Flowers by Rolling Stones

Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships.
And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?
Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.
(Doctor Faustus)

Oh well, happy Diwali to all of you!

I’d hate to be this depressive, but really people do get on my nerves. What a perfect way to fuck my Friday evening – come to think of it, wasn’t everything going so swell? – now just bloody buggered! I hate this fucking stupid place and everything about it, and damn my heart has sunk into it. When will it stop – everything? There’s no point, really no. Just pissed. I like the way assholes take the cake. Man, when I grow up I don’t want to be like this asshole, I’d rather die than think that I’m funny, smart and everyone can’t do without me – when the reality is that you’re nothing but a piece of shit that just so happens to go so bloody well with the way this world turns.Maybe the whisky is working on the hungover mind; maybe I’m getting old and I am only getting worse at tolerating people. Oh man… I’m sorry but this is how fucked up this all is…

Is it just Hollywood or funny news reaching this side of the nation:

1) I just got to know that Hunter S Thompson's Rum Diaries, in which Johnny Depp is meant to act, is meant to release this year. WTF, when?

2) Jack Kerouac's On The Road was meant to be released this year as well. Where is it? I'm still waiting for Dean Moriarity and Sal Paradise to give me a hitch till the edge of dawn and back.

3) Keith Richards, which inspired Captain Jack Sparrow (Johnny Depp) Pirates of the Caribbean, never featured in the second part! They say he will come in the third part. Waiting!

Okay, here it goes Famous Blue Suitcase:

Few things about me that are quaint:

1) I look stoned, or so people say. It’s my eyes, but I play along to avoid a few people.
2) Nothing makes me sleep better than reading a book at night.
3) I can starve myself silly sometimes, why I just don’t know.
4) Will get pissed angry with someone, and then forgive them easily.
5) I fall very (very) easily for women that are beautiful, its short-lived though.
6) I wish several times to myself that I could die, like in a flash and it’s over. Doesn’t happen.

Isn't it fucked up to know that the asshole went to your ed and says that you have an attitude problem? He (which means you) doesn't want to do sidey stories, and thinks too much of himself. All because of a column you invaribly do almost every week. And well she calls you by your name, sounds upset. Makes you upset. You go back home. Try and sleep over the matter of fact but you can't cause your mind doesn't rest. Till it thinks it over. There's a poor voice that manages poor advice, its so pathetic that perhaps you could pacify it. No. So you're awake half the night wondering random things. You wake up with the worst mood -- the pleasant weather and the first cig helps but not for long -- you enter off sullenly waiting for something to start again -- how long will it last? Do I have to suffer him till eternity? Answer me, good lord...

There's a piece that was torn from the morning, and it hangs in the gallery of frost.
Leonard Cohen

Didn't get time, so I might as well tell you. Tell you because I truly respect and adore the fact that I now have something to tell you. Would this mean that whatever I've said before, I've never told you things? No, jackass! It just means that I like the fact to have something to tell.
You see I'm young, so you'll have to forgive me. It gets a bit irritating when you have your mind talking to you as though he's your daddy. Its hardly as though some ill-lit is talking incessantly to you reminding you of better conversations you've had with the walls. No but its the darn conscience (split it into two its: conning-science) -- that stupidly travelled the same years of my age.
Anyway, so where was I?
Well last saturday evening went to the Sunder Nagar Mela (that's right, nope you didn't hear wrong), it was a matter of odds. Either go to a concert of Kishori Amonkar (Indian classical goddess who I don't relate to from Adams) -- and well last time that I did go, I had to sit on wet grass patch for five hours to hear a woman go on and on till I pulled out every strand of hair and grass -- or go to this 'most famous mela (fête) of Delhi.' The good bit was that I was going to the fête because I was assured that there will be women there -- I found out later that the entire South Delhi and Punjab Delhi turns out in their mela-best here -- and well I was going with friends, rather than my Hindi-classical-loving cousins.
So I met PC and Chaman and went straight there. It was hell while entering, should've had something to drink before but these guys were in some uncanny hurry which died the minute they entered. Now these two being in Amity (I know it sucks, but these guys are friends), knew almost the entire lot there. Friends from college, school, nursery, birth, death, neighbouring states (Punjab, Haryana...etc) everyone!
I knew a few who were there as well, but to be honest, I had been acquainted to them once. Yes there were a few hot chicks, but when I saw people my age and a slightly older rush towards the Giant Wheel and Merry-Go-Round (its hardly as they were tripping) -- my attention was lost, my heart sank, my hands trembled, and actually wondered how easily I deviated from humanity and Earth-people without the loss of realising atmosphere and gravity.
So well this went on, I convinced everyone that this was not my idea of fun. Some girls were quite sweet and understanding, thought I was a bit stuck-up (didn't hate me, dismissed me for being a 'writer') and spoke to me for a while.
Their conversations were a bit boring. I took great drags of my 'cigi', appearing now completely engrossed of what was being said. But wait! wait! I heard jargons and cliché in a row suddenly, why? Here's the honest bit: if you hear kids highly convinced, motivated and talking corporate lingo (that may please their mummy-daddy), it has to be a bit of a farce.
I was aware that this was a large group of, what is called, AISEC. Basically college-kids-committee that makes all this lot feel as if they're doing something with their life and making a world a slightly better place. Yes, very unfortunate.
So I hung around for some crazy hours. Met a few chicks that I thought were honestly divine-appearing but then it was night (and then at night, even the stars do) -- and that got over.
The next scene:
I'm with Chaman whose glugged a 3/4th full of Vodka complaining bitterly (I say actin smart) that, well, I know its funny: there was no Vodka innit. He then assuming all's well chased the feeling with taking huge pulls of a j (a newcomer), and passed out on a slanting roof that would've dropped him on the drive way 30 feet below.
But whoever this guy's place was, it was a neat pad in GK. He had booze, and was okay of us all getting elegantly wasted.They were all very nice lot, really. Specially when you don't know them well but through a friend who at that moment is passed out. But before I end my you-may-wonder-why-story; the opposite balcony where some chick stayed, divided by a low wall between where we were and well she. I saw her smoking a fag.
I jumped across cause I was out of them, and well I desperation was calling. She didn't have any to spare. But she gave me a few drags from it (it was stale for sure), spoke to me nicely. She works in Cosmo. I returned back wondering about those eyes. Those eyes blurring everything...

Wish You Were Here

So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell,
blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?
How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found? The same old fears.Wish you were here.

So we meet again. You, me and this empty space to fill. A very casual day. As you must now realise that Saturdays, I happen to repeat this so very often. It is a day when I can think of nothing but the week coming ahead all the prize money that has to be lost and gained. In fact, I quite miss the days when I would behave like my 20-nothing self and would start the construction of castles in the air and choose my perfect queen. Those lost days...
But then thoughts can be so brittle at times; how easily they get broken. But this is a moment-of-time when I get to sitback and rest my nervous energy into how everything is. I am sure you do that as well, on sweeter days.
Although everything is clear, radiant and swell there will always be that dark lining in silver clouds. The one's that will always rain on your mind. There were times, I know, and then there aren't as well.
So many times I feel like walking out of doors. Dylan playin' on my mind; rum in my hands, faceless people puttin j's in my mouth and taking them back; lights fading; a thousand women whispers; somebody walking across you know but then you marvel how well you don't know; words of some poets; winter fragrance; fire; and then the vision starts to fade.
You wake up on a freshly washed bedsheet. The sun pours through the bed. Possibly everything that you see is in white. There's a sound of piano, you know that tune but then you don't. You wait to know where you are, but you really don't care.
Someone walks; someone beautiful. You hear her words, words that you've longed to hear. But when you actually come to hear what was said, you know its too good to be over. You fall into a deep sleep again.
When you wake up, you're lying on a beautiful carpet. Designs on it are such that you could possibly spend the entire day wondering about it. You don't. You're in The Dude's house on his carpet, you know how it ties the room together.
Suddenly a bunch of strangers appear. Smack! You've been hit on your face, pounded by a fist that could drive you into a well for a hours.
You lie motionlessly.

If you ever are pissed -- which I suppose happens quite often -- try playing Its all Over Now Baby Blue by Dylan really loud and vent. It always helps.

Its Friday the 13th. Howcome nothing's happening in here? Why aren't people dying? Where are the ghosts, the witches, the darkness, the evil death-wishers... now you know what I mean, the RL Stine-world? I'm bored, I need a few people shot here. Is there anybody out there...

I'm tired. Its definitely late. I wrote a long piece on why I find women obsessed with being fat and going on and on about it worse than they actually look. This whole I-only-drink-Diet-Coke, a big facade. Anyway, I gave good points. Talking about seeing women look ugly fitting their fat asses in tight jeans and women always pulling their dresses down. The fact of looking 'natural' turning into a big bullshit. Hey fems, I made sure I didn't sound sexist so I put in a word on metros-fags as well. And then it crashed, I had to run, run, run, but hey for what? Fuck, I went running to the MCD office to get an interview with a chap at their Malaria dept.
Sarkari (Govt) fucking-bloody office, the guy made me slurp some profoundly intoxicating tea, repeating every sentence rhetorically of no consequence, and finally after waiting for a fuckin' hour not being able to meet the guy I had come for. Was I pissed?
He kept saying wait for 20 minutes more. And what started from 2 minutes turned into one and half n' hour length of boredom and sypmtoms of death! Finally, I junked the story. The day was long, extremely. Yes there were factors again that were pissing me off, but then I shrugged them off. You see I'm a good guy. I only seem to crib here, but outside, in this very dark world, I keep quiet. Listen to how people rape my case and who those make it all okay. Goodnight, time to read...

The trouble starts when you get up in the morning and don't know what day it is. That's not all, its when you genuinely don't know what day it is and along with neither the day's date nor year nor month. The last evening that you may have spent in some fashion doesn't not stick in your head, and to this particular detail whether which drink you drank or in whose mouth your tongue was lost.
The tale turns Kafkaish, and emptiness pours in your mind.

Good afternoon, everything is fucked up as usual! Thank you.

Oh yes thought I might tell you -- as this is space where we be honest, don't we? -- that I read Marquez' Chronicles of a Death Foretold. Its on my course this year. Yes it is fucking brilliant! Also, I would like to say that I'm pleased Kiran Desai has braced the Booker. had interviewed her when the book was released. I feel damn happy.

In this empty room in my head

I've been in this room before. I never knew when you entered or left. What words you sang or the wine you made me drink. But I felt the windows were left open, and the evening sky came in. The walls had shadows dancing on them. I heard that familiar cry. The music from an old beaten piano, and I felt that kiss. The kiss that would've taken me places, like you said, but I landed on this cold bed. The sheets were the works of artists that sketched faces of woe and left them to be admired. Their bleeding hands besides their art.
Then there was a time. A time that would've made me stronger but I left the curse with the clairvoyant who once gave me what few have ever dared. I sang to her a hunderd times, and the doors knocked for a while. The bells of a few thousand temples in my head. I woke up in the middle of a dream to see a thousand women blow kisses at me and then I plunged into the night and I never saw them again.
But I know that feeling...

Ten things Delhi will never let you forget:

1) Never ever ask an Auto driver where he belongs from.

2) Never ask an old ancient of how the times used to be and how they are now.

3) Never get drunk and send SMSs to people however much you love or hate them.

4) Never ask a DJ in a pub to play your song.

5) Never ask a chick, who you fancy but do not know very well, out.

6) Never ever crack a weird one with a cop.

7) Never appear intelligent in a group of friends.

8) Never abuse loudly in a public space, someone is bound to take it personally.

9) Never ask for directions no matter how lost you are.

10) Never smoke a cigarette in a posh market-place, there's bound to be someone you know around.

What's pissing off, and happens every bloody Monday morning, is to see the bus you get on to reach Delhi leave right in front of you. The one that goes every 15-minutes, well that's the one. You can't run cause you'll never make it and they'll never figure your intention of getting on it. Uggh! Fuck it.

A perfect line

Here's to the few who forgive what you do and the fewer who don't even care.
(Leonard Cohen)

Another Saturday returns, and yes I'm doing fine. No I got no stories to tell apart from the fact that I'm thoroughly pissed. Pissed with working for this while. The asshole has managed to piss me off so fucking well, I couldn't even begin to list out. What surprises me is the extend of how one ordinary human being can instil so much bitterness in another. The Brain says he feels hypocritical when he even says hi, or returns one.
Anyway, I should think better. So what did I do last evening? Was that better, well enough to make me think about some other thing.
Okay, I watched Sense and Sensibility, needless to say my sensibilities were insipid to the affairs of Victorians, the woman, Jane Austen, brought up on this world. I quite love the language though, but just the tales of seeing men and women centralising their lives on marriage and fuckin' drama gets my goat.
Although to be honest, I quite like the English actors as well (Emma Thomspon, Kate Winslet, Colin Firth and the others). I know people think Hugh Grant does the same role over and over again, but I think he's pretty good at what he's doing (remember: About a Boy). Would you then say the same thing about Shah Rukh Khan, the pin-up-thirtyish-metro-fag-something, doesn't he do the same roles over and over again? It's just Indian cinema's big facade that they don't have that many actors, and even if they are they don't do really well cause hey get half-worked scripts.
I can't even bring myself to watch Don reinvented with this panzy hanging around. How long, will this all take?
Anyway so where was I? Oh yes, madame Austen. Well she did one thing, and that is, she reminded me of love. Now if you've been hanging around this street regularly, you may as well know, that your writer here adores the fact of being midst women. But hey, love here becomes a touchy subject. Not that I have got any of it for a while, and not that I'm seriously looking out for it.
But then yes, would like it to come along. Now wouldn't you?
And then last night: slept at fuckin' 4, woke up at bloody 12. I had quite forgotten what it was like to wake up at 12. But then those were days when life was weird and wicked.
Oh yes, one more thing: the office-poet showed me the 'spirit-lane' where all the booze shops are lined up and down. We slipped out while the edition was heavy on us. Somewhere in the back-lanes of never-dying CP life, where the good and bad shake hands. It's always good to hang around with the Office Poet, he's so fuckin huge, he looks like as though he will kill ya (Luca Brassi-kind). And well, dear readers again, I don't have the courage to go to glittering-shady places alone for a drink.
But then, spoilt that I am of fancy of pubs and bars of the city, I completely forgot that a pint of good beer costs 20 bucks, as opposed to gettin ripped off at 150. (Its jus a fact, I'm not stingy.) Had three -- or wait a minute was that four? -- downing them as though there was no tomorrow. Gave the bottle to the chap hanging around us, on the street itself, and he lost it in his jhola and we marched back as though nothing at all happened between. Well, he went for a doze in the photo-section, while I released an error-free page. And things were settled.

I remember reading this poem, a very long-long time ago. I was a lot younger then than I am younger now. But my senses picked the lines, and fed them into my soul. It was neither celebration nor loss, I found tranquility and related to it. My crippled childhood perception like the shadow of Hamlet ghost found a meaning to survive at thoughts. Its through words, I hink, I find my way in this labyrinth that I love-to-hate and hate-to-love.

An Irish Airman Foresees His Death

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above:
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love:
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behindIn balance with this life, this death.

Last evening was more pleasant than what it was turning out to be. Bombay Black -- a band whose claim to fame is that they opened up for Aersomith somewhere in the world -- and HFT, a cull-style of Jazz-Blues-Rock, and a great reputation for their 50-something hippie looks -- were meant to play.
A plan I was fixing since a week ago. Seemed half n' hour before the show that no one was likely turn up. Called Vaz and his brother Chazz, and luckily they promised they'd come (good ole' Mayoites). But they arrived a bit late.
The show didn't start for quite some while. Luckily for me, Trip, who I absolutely adore landed up after a message that she would be there in 'ten'. Now what could ten be, 'minutes' or '10 pm'? It was something in between, but I didn't care. She was there all right, and the brew on empty stomach was hitting the head.
Turquoise Cottage -- after abandoning them for almost ages -- seemed a good surprise. Also, I noted, that if you attend a music show here as opposed to the 'Media Nights': you are bound to have a better time.
First of all: Delhi doesn't and seems never will understand good music. So in a music show (damn right, you can't ask them to play your fav Punjabi number), they don't have the patience to sit through some quality music.
Two: Nobody in a music show gives a shit about the dancefloor.
Although the first band wasn't that good, and they weren't Bambay Black which we figured half-way through. Trip seemed to like the jazzed-funk, while the beer now more in my head than in my stomach seemed to like the drum beats.
Somewhere, out of nowhere, a spliff came to me. Now how that happened, I don't know. I never will. Its like you're in the middle of the Atlantic ocean almost drowning, when a Baywatch lifeguard saves ya, you know that feeling? But that's also Delhi for you: expect nothing, and it all comes to you. I saw Warrior' (who passed the j to me) face turn into a blur. The people who were pushing me here and there, I didn't seem to mind. The beer felt even better, but dry (now wait-a-minute, I know it wasn't wine, then why?).
Vaz and Chazz landed up, Trip's companion also landed up.
Her boy-friend seemed like a nice guy. He handles the Defence beat at Exp, and he seemed to have the reporter-look about him. That one, dear readers, is a lot lot different from that of an ordinary-looks of a sub.
But what surprised me, the guy had a fuckin' good idea of music. Now there aren't very many people I find who say that their favourite Dylan song is Desolation Row. He knew Donovan, he even knew Cohen. So I should say, well-done.
Bombay Black was haze of new sound, I didn't like them but then at the same time I didn't hate them. When HFT came, I knew that everything would be more 'mellow' and settled. Even voices in the handkerchief-spaced bar quietened down. The riffs were jazz, not blues (damn!) -- but were assuring that they were brilliant.
By this time, all the pseudos had left. Only us were left, with some fuddy-duddies, two fat look-alikes, some hot chicks, and some weird rockers. Trip and her bf left sometime later. But I was happy at least she was around. Out of 15 people, at least she turned up.
The evening ended in style, real style. My misery and depression was lost in a Kingfisher-Happy-Houred-drunken-stupor, waiting for morning to resurface again. Cheers!

Graveyard Mind, anyone?

If you're into Blues-Rock, see if you can get your hands on George Thorogood and The Destroyers! His version of Johnny B Goode and Who Do You Love?, and his singles Move It On Over and Bad To The Bone -- are killers. Trust me you won't regret it, and you'll like me a whole lot better. Cheers...

The taste of a neatly rolled tobacco stick...sweet!

I find at most times, my brand of cigarettes -- Gold Flake Kings -- criticised, and humiliated in society. People, if you don't want to smoke, don't; if you want to and believe that there's nothing below India Kings and Classic Regulars then that's your issue. Navy Cuts, Charms and Charminar... maybe its not as tough, but my nerves are settled. All those smoking fake Malboro and Dunhill from your local "Jain Paan-bhandar," don't ever show your faces again, hypcrites! But please don't scorn my brand. And well everytime I see such people humilating my object of sin, I have the lines of Satisfaction screamin in my head: "When I'm watchin' my tv/And that man comes on to tell me/How white my shirts can be/But he can't be a man 'cause he doesn't smoke/The same cigarettes as me." I can't get no satisfaction.

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Have you ever wondered: the cigarettes you first tasted never taste the same? Its quite amazing, one really has to be stubborn about picking up the habit.

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I love smoking in the winters outdoors.

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I know all that bull, I'm just hooked!

Whole lotta love

So its a busy Tuesday. All the mouses are clicking, hacks and hackneyeds are cackling and well there's work to be done and completed. The new ed-in-chief is in South Africa and will heading his way back tonight. And ever since he has got his post, all the sloppiness is drying. He's giving a pretty tough time to all the dept heads to get their act together. Breathing fire, and well drinking blood. I'm happy he's here.
Not been up to much good, finally got down to writing the past Sunday. Drank couple of beers, watched some movies and finally spent time with myself. Something that's been missing since a while. Dying to get out of this muck-town, take some time out and head to the hills to fish Trout. Drink besides the river's sound and smoke the mountain rings.
Even though its October, a tiny whiff of winter seems to be heading. I'm almost looking forward for the winter to smile, where all's swell under the sun. I'm not very fond of the festive season though, watching herds of people practicing religion religiously scares me. I don't feel a part of it. Saying prayers is something I quietly do before sleeping, and I keep God aloof for lonely moments and scary times.
He seems to do well with that, and doesn't keep knocking on my religious-trip/trap-door too much. My folks have never urged me to keep a fast, and I don't see why I should voluntarily part with food. In fact, I don't see even see the science or philosophy for pleasing God. Its hardly as though we're Christians and have to repent; I hope he's up there and all is good.
I'm learning my way to become a better sub. I suppose I won't be a good reporter, too much of a thinker for that sense, at least this way I keep fine.
Life is cheerful; not demanding! As far as I can see, even you seem to be settled and well all is rosy. No no, I'm not in love. I'm just watching the wheels go by. Trainspoting under a lamp. Thinking of better times, and my rare-trip of feeling good.
Read a funny piece on TOI on bloggers, on how we (am I part of this, damn right I am!) -- bloggers -- are failed writers, and a twisted urn of journalism and what-nots. It was amusing, I guess its okay. Being in this trade, I know stories are often filled to wipe that white space.
And well here, at least I'm not harming anyone in any which way. This is a plesant room in the crazy mansion. You come here, read what you like/don't-like, smile/curse, and walk straight into an other one. You are as much wanted as much as you aren't. Everybody I know, would like you to enter, as well as I would. If you find yourself here arrived and feeling better, then its not only your luck as much as its everyone's goodness.
So I think we're settled.

Gandhigari

What an afternoon. For this very moment, I can't even remember what Gandhi looked like. Whether he mattered, or whether he made a difference. The Bapu is now a popular myth. No matter how many times we watch Munnabhai or read My Experiments with Truth, we still can't understand any better of him. My grandmother met him few days before he died, she has always been in awe of him.
I would have been too, if he was around. The clever man was perfect to moralise a country as big ours. At the brink of our independence, India was suffering great bouts of depression. The Britishers had drained us out of our resources, and there was no form of communication. A large large per cent were uneducated, they needed someone like him to come up with a simple philosophy to change their unorthodox-sounding views. One's that sounded so brilliant and clear, tell me wouldn't it be wonderful to convince people to be good?
Old Bapu, I swear I would have never got along with him. If he wouldn't have been assissinated, then he would have died with mere unhappiness and saddness. The world became everything, he didn't approve. Modern day India would never have been able to tolerate a man with such facile point of view.
I don't mean to underplay his extraordinary beingness, I just don't relate to it. I don't believe much in him, however much I'd like his ideals to be practiced and believed. But the cold world ain't like that, you know that only too well. You see, now we aren't abducted and colonised, the biggest demon is the one inside us (cliched as that me sound). It may have been simpler then (or difficult) but now the country must fight within to strive for the better. To make a difference... however it maybe: Machiavillian or Kautilya.