Tuesday, January 25, 2011

morning blues

Feeling hungry first thing in the morning sucks. First thing, not like in, when you just wake up. Then you can do something about it, like have breakfast - for instance. But feeling hungry well after you've shined your shoes, done with your first round of cribbing and griping about having to go to work and officially begun your day - reconciled to the fact you must earn your daily bread so you're sharpening your pencils to write some piss-in-your-pants-great copy - that sucks. How on earth are you supposed to focus on the aforementioned history creating copy when your stomach is staging its own dharna and non-cooperation movement inside you? It hogs the media space of your attention span. But of course, you're made of sterner stuff. So we steel the nerves and put up resistance. Mental police do the danda and lathi charge and the teargas thingy. And then things start to get dirty. Very dirty.

Hunger takes the guerilla warfare route. And attacks you where you least expect it to - far from the source of trouble. Aaah, very sneaky! But this is guerilla warfare, remember? Expect the unexpected and all that jazz! So while you're sending reinforcements by focusing mental energies to the most obvious place like every other fool government in the history of guerilla warfare has, hunger launches its line of attack elsewhere. Begin grenade attack on the prime fortress where the king and queen and the prime minister are. And you have a fucking headache. Now you're superscrewed. For, now you have two things to focus on, instead of one. The head's not working so good anymore, people! So with this lack of judgment, you make a lot of unwise decisions - like being prompted to try drinking the gook they pass off as coffee in the flask. BAD MOVE! God in heaven, have you felt this pukey before? Now you know what battery acid or Surf Ultra water probably tastes like. Only thing is, this new experience doesn't work well on an empty stomach. AND THIS IS NOT THE RIGHT TIME FOR EXPANDING YOUR HORIZON OF NEW EXPERIENCES. Malayalees the world over call this the "Veyndairunnu" situation. It's your regular SNAFU situation with a good measure of regret.
By now you need your fingers to count all those things you're trying to counter - hunger, headache, pukey-feeling and Veyndairunnu (inclusive of regret). As you might have noticed, work or deadlines or a sense of duty don't even come in the picture. Not that you have any business countering those sentiments at work. Let me make this clear - they don't pay you for that. So you're bereft of any enthusiasm to work and you feel like shit and you've forgotten about history-making copy. And to top it all off, if you're anything like me and have a clinical condition of being distracted, you might as well shut down your system and call it a day. At 11.30 am.

Friday, January 21, 2011

silly poem time, people!

i found 'em goody-two shoes
And i tried 'em on.
I found 'em goody-two shoes
And boy, I shouldn't have tried em on.
The beastly things pinched much
tore my ankles and ripped my toes.
Scalded my soles and turned them into mulch.
They were uncomfortable, and
I couldn't take two steps without wanting
to throw them far, far away.

Those goody-two shoes,
well they didn't get me far.
Those Goody-two shoes.
man did they scar!
I yelped, winced and twisted in pain.
So bad, that i thought i wouldn't walk again.
I tried em bloody goody two shoes
They were the tightest things ever.
Worse than constipation and worse than having my nose stuffed with cotton wool.
And sweet lord, it was even worse than Sunday school.
Them shoes, with their ugly buckles
and their tattle tongues
trying to fit me in places where i never would be.
shoehorning me into a typecast - someone else's idea of who i must be.
Those goody-two shoes with their sensible heels
made me shorter than everyone - so that i would learn to feel less than my self.
Those horrid shoes, that belonged to everyone else but me.
My supposed lesson in empathy.
Fuck em goody two shoes.
Give me my good old, worn ones -
covered in the dust of all the places that i've been.
Give me my terribly but unapologetically dirty ones.
Those size 4s you'd recognize anywhere as mine,
Be it heaven, hell or hunoswathallidisis!

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

the cold

during those days, the cold would wedge its icy fingers in between windows and doors. Making them so hard to close, that people often choose to leave them unlatched. Locks never clicked into the assurance of safety, bolts never reached the protecting embrace of their other halves and latches, despite their best efforts, despite stretching their desperate arms and reaching out, failed to find their way home.
Yes, during winter, the cold was an unwelcome guest, an intruder,who found its way into houses. It settled under sheets, jammed cupboards and chilled bones. But the real vileness was that, in winter, the cold wedged itself between people, making it impossible for them to get close. Half-closed, unsecured, intrudable. Left open to the outside world. The cold settled between people, making them fall apart with a jump and thud that startled a deathly quiet room.

Monday, January 3, 2011

quizzical

I’m dying to do a lot of things. I'm dying to be famous. I'm dying to travel all over the world. I'm dying to make the best cheesecake in the world. I'm dying to have my own place. I'm dying to shove a grenade up a certain-someone's ass. I'm dying to go on an all-girls trip. AGAIN. I'm dying to eat some fried sardines. I'm dying to be richer than death by chocolate cake. Okay that's a lot of dyings. I'm sure you got the message! But one thing I’m really dying to do is meet someone who has won one of those moronically simple SMS contests. I would really like to meet one in this lifetime. What are the odds huh? First of all, that someone would be sucker enough to reply to those messages. And then, winning something other than an education in why-you-should-never-answer-easy-questions-cos-easy-things-come-with-a-bigger-catch-than-a-cardiac-arrest! Remember how in school, our teachers would get so offended and bark at us "Don't ask me stupid questions!" And someone would be actually, truly, genuinely be having a doubt if the colour of the sky is blue or purple. Colour dyslexia wasn't fashionable in my time! Anyway..stupid questions never had too much of a career. Have you seen Amitabh Bachchan doing his "Bol raha hoon" act about whether TATA is a manufacturing giant or a way of saying bye-bye? No you haven't. Forgive that stupid question there, but I had a point to drive home! And here you are, bombarded by fool operators with questions like this.

Hmmm…so i get this SMS. Sachin Tendulkar is :. A construction worker. B: A cricketer. Answer this question and win a brick of gold. Oh, that is a toughie. Who is Sachin Tendulkar anyway? After much scalp-searching, sorry scratching… I venture Sachin Tendulkar must be a cricket player. Why would there be SMS contests about construction workers? Unless he lays bricks at the speed Asterix beats the shit out of the Romans after he's drunk Getafix's potion. since there is no potion, it must be genuine talent and he deserves to be VERY, very famous, no? Oh damn. Now I'm in a fix!! And i want to win that brick of gold so bad. Only three rupees it'll cost me. Yesterday also i let go of the chance of winning a diamond hawaii chappal by not answering if TV stood for Television or Terrorist Van. I was at such a loss. What do these people think? Everyone prepares for the civil service exams? SO WHO IS SACHIN TENDULKAR, dammit! Can i call a friend? Or could i have a clue? ONE TINY CLUE? Please, please, oh pretty please! And i simply must know the answer to this. Is New Delhi or Pattikad the capital of India? And is the Red Fort red or blue in colour? Now this one gave me sleepless nights. Is the tiger of the cockroach India's national animal? The cockroach isn't even an animal..but it's seen more often than the tiger. A lot more often. Can you imagine, the prize was a platinum nose-digger!! An actual discover-your-platinum-moment-of-love platinum nose-digger! And how many days are there in a year? 365 or thirty five thousand seven hundred and two? Help me. I’m so confused!

I'm honestly eager about meeting one of these 3-rupee costing stupid SMS contest grandmasters. Like I said - SIMPLY DYING!