Some nutty philosopher of yore, in a constipated moment of madness, famously declared, “Man is a social animal!” and went on to be profusely quoted, misquoted and over-quoted across all literary texts that cater to the young pre-teen student. The nutty philosopher did try to make amends by claiming that the focus of the sentence was on the word ‘social’ but the damage had been done and feminist groups of the ancient world pounced upon the last word of the now infamous quote and proceeded to poison the minds of all women to come.
“All you guys are animals”, declared a friend of mine making it the millionth time that her sex had conveyed such sentiments to ours.
To lend the statement some perspective, she was had visited my heavenly abode once and was mapping it to a pig sty when her husband intervened and emoted he also lived like me till she came and spoiled it all for good. She had hence concluded that half the human race had missed out on the process of evolution at some point of time and was very, very animal to this day.
“What animal?” I asked just to give it a humorous touch her judgment.
“YOU?! You’re a pig!”
We broke off from the discussion on a pronounced resignatory note. This pig thing from womankind was getting all of mankind down by now... and thinking I am leading from front...its just not Kind.
I decided to get alternate opinions on this.
I asked another woman who always seemed to have something to say about men and never a nice word at that.
“You guys are dogs! Pigs would be too cute and cuddly a way of describing you. You all are just bloody dogs!”
I wasn’t convinced and I ended up thinking loudly“Dogs, eh? I’ll take that as a bitch’s perspective!”
“Excuse me?” she didn’t like hearing my inner voice.
I can still see, which is testimony to my ability to make a timely escape if the situation so demands. I decided I’d talk to someone older and more mature. A friend of mine happily married and well into her late thirties seemed to be the ideal candidate.
“Men? I can only talk of my husband. He’s my world, you know!” she said, all doting.
I remarked that while it would not be the most representative of samples nor would she be the most unbiased of respondents, we would have to do with it for the time being.
“Animal? He’s a boar at times!” she said and chuckled.
“That’s like a pig but wilder...a hog you mean?” I asked, taking notes.
“Oh no! I meant he can be boring. You know… bore, boar! You get the connection?” She chuckled again. “Anyway, he’s a deer, my dear husband is!” she said and started laughing again.
Her phonetic puns were bringing me down.
“Ah! So I think you mean he’s horny!” I concluded, still studiously taking notes.
She seemed to be in a hurry and didn’t let me finish the rest of the lemonade she had offered as she ushered me out of the house.
The market research has proved non-conclusive though a statistically high percentage of the population claim that all men save their fathers and brothers are animals which gives a “frame of reference” angle to the whole problem and hence needs a Darwinian Einstein with some Feminist experience to solve it. One has also decided on discontinuing the research lest such probing questions lead to the “social” bit itself getting removed from that infamous quotation.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Friday, January 23, 2009
SOCKing Disaster
Two is company, they say. What beats me is the consistency with which this universal law fails to apply to my bloody sock collection... One wash and all those pairs become sad and lonely singles... I have realized of late that despite my efforts towards collecting books on literature, philosophy, fiction, biography my single sock collection beats all these collections put together.
My career as a Business Analyst has left me heavily disoriented with the whole concept of collecting single socks. Single socks, unlike paintings, stamps and Madonna’s used toothbrushes, are non-appreciating assets and are hence of no investment value.
It’s odd, I must confess, but the only theory that lends any semblance of logic to the whole phenomenon is that of a disconcertingly fetid fascination for single socks on the part of my maidcumlocalguardiancumsaviour all rolled into one. The only other theory that lends the entire process any credulity is the one about her dating a one-legged pirate.
I shifted to a washing machine. It was a bloody overkill with the maid already washing at an inflated EMI but anything for keeping the happy socks from getting separated.
No change. What was worse was that I’d see them go in together, all happy and paired and out they’d come in singles. No two of the same couple would ever disappear together nor would a pair ever be left untouched.
I tried discussing the problem with a few friends, all veterans in the field of socks with an average of 25+ years of experience wearing them and 5-6years in washing them.
“Your washing machine is possessed by a sock whore,” quipped one of them who’d is an ace in finding porn sites online. You got to find a cheapster which wont catch your sock whore fantasy...
That sounded nearly as probable as the pirate theory on my maid.
“Man, that must really sock!” said a Bongali Brothor friend of mine, “Well, life itself socks!”
I gave him one of those stares which make you want to shut up.
Over the next few days, I was bombarded with theories ranging from the feminist one on the uprising of the sock community to lead an independent single-sock life to the stag-minded one on the conspiracy of single socks to “de-pair” subsequent couples.
The sock community still frowns on the very idea of a widow remarriage since all socks come in happy bright couples praying against the inevitable separation every time they’re sent to the cleaners but spend their post-washing life sulking in a clothes basket waiting for the day their owner wears trousers long enough to afford no glimpse of sock.
One of my roommates at college had also discovered much to his chagrin, that the probability of a pair of socks getting “de-paired” was inversely proportional to one’s personal dislike of the pair. Hence, the Reeboks always disappeared with the first wash while the ones bought off the footpath would stay on for multiple washes developing enough holes to join the Ozone Layer brotherhood.
It’s been a year now and I haven’t really come around to the bottom of the mystery, though the sock-whore theory does give me the chills every now and then when I see antique hole infested socks bought from footpath enjoying a happy married life.
My career as a Business Analyst has left me heavily disoriented with the whole concept of collecting single socks. Single socks, unlike paintings, stamps and Madonna’s used toothbrushes, are non-appreciating assets and are hence of no investment value.
It’s odd, I must confess, but the only theory that lends any semblance of logic to the whole phenomenon is that of a disconcertingly fetid fascination for single socks on the part of my maidcumlocalguardiancumsaviour all rolled into one. The only other theory that lends the entire process any credulity is the one about her dating a one-legged pirate.
I shifted to a washing machine. It was a bloody overkill with the maid already washing at an inflated EMI but anything for keeping the happy socks from getting separated.
No change. What was worse was that I’d see them go in together, all happy and paired and out they’d come in singles. No two of the same couple would ever disappear together nor would a pair ever be left untouched.
I tried discussing the problem with a few friends, all veterans in the field of socks with an average of 25+ years of experience wearing them and 5-6years in washing them.
“Your washing machine is possessed by a sock whore,” quipped one of them who’d is an ace in finding porn sites online. You got to find a cheapster which wont catch your sock whore fantasy...
That sounded nearly as probable as the pirate theory on my maid.
“Man, that must really sock!” said a Bongali Brothor friend of mine, “Well, life itself socks!”
I gave him one of those stares which make you want to shut up.
Over the next few days, I was bombarded with theories ranging from the feminist one on the uprising of the sock community to lead an independent single-sock life to the stag-minded one on the conspiracy of single socks to “de-pair” subsequent couples.
The sock community still frowns on the very idea of a widow remarriage since all socks come in happy bright couples praying against the inevitable separation every time they’re sent to the cleaners but spend their post-washing life sulking in a clothes basket waiting for the day their owner wears trousers long enough to afford no glimpse of sock.
One of my roommates at college had also discovered much to his chagrin, that the probability of a pair of socks getting “de-paired” was inversely proportional to one’s personal dislike of the pair. Hence, the Reeboks always disappeared with the first wash while the ones bought off the footpath would stay on for multiple washes developing enough holes to join the Ozone Layer brotherhood.
It’s been a year now and I haven’t really come around to the bottom of the mystery, though the sock-whore theory does give me the chills every now and then when I see antique hole infested socks bought from footpath enjoying a happy married life.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Barack Hussein Obama - Things going right
George bush has fucked up so bad he bloody made it hard for a white man to run for president... People are so done with Bush Plague that they are shouting give us a Black Man or a White Woman or Hindu or Buddhist anything but another white man... this fucked up till the roof!!!...
Who we have running for presidentship John McCain... I don’t know about his policies but what I know is good enough... he is bloody 72 yr old... 72 years old!!! He was bloody very old 10 years back... He was there when they still used to smuggle slaves from Africa... you don’t want a American president... the most powerful man on this planet with a “Bucket List” So old got his nurse running from Vice President.... Americans would be stupid to make him a president and decide their future when he aint gonna be there... He is OLD accept it... and when you die at 72 yrs what ever the reason you die of natural causes...Even if you are hit by a truck its natural cause... because if you were younger you would have moved out of the way.... With McCain its the same old story they are saying since the time America understood war...He is a war hero...He is a war veteran...McCain is a war hero that got captured...Well we have lot who get captured and we don’t want them to come back and become presidents....
And who is he running against Barack Hussain Obama!!!! A Mighty Black man with a Mighty Black name... that’s the most a name could be black in America its like a name next to kbenau Mgutubu or Ouzbe Oduemebe...I mean if it was John or Peter you will still have a doubt of another crazy Texan riding his shit to glory but Barack Obama when you hear that name for the first time you expect a brother warrior in leopard skin holding a spear with a foot on his hunted Lion!!!
Barack Obama... So young so good looking smart calm composed sophisticated... at times you think Barack himself doesn’t realize he is a black candidate for presidency... like he thinks he can win this playing fair!!!
Everyone he knows is being monitored by the CIA to find something anything to make our brother lose... If you know Barack Obama I tell you they are tapping your phones right now...Well they are tapping mine#$@#@%#@%#@$ ....and that’s where McCain has the advantage because all the people he knew died during World war 2....
This whole election they are trying hard like never before to paint it as racial as it can get... How many white people voted for Barack... How many White working people voted for Barack how many white woman voted for Barack... now if you ask a white person he will come with something oh Barrack understand the issues... read his manifesto... his policies... His agenda... his portfolio... now when a black brother votes for him...
Oh well he is Black and he is Black...I guess that’s why...
But for time lets get back to the start again I guess secondary who wins McCain wins or Barrack wins... no matter who wins because Bush is still in charge... and no body gives less of a fuck than George Bush... you think you don’t give a fuck ... you are wrong its Bush who don’t give fuck.... If you were hanging with one hand to a cliff going to fall to your death and Bush is at the top of the cliff and all you need is a fuck to save your life and Bush has a pocket full of fucks...He wont give a Fuck... Good Riddance... that’s what it is
Barack HUSSAIN Obama....Imran HOSSAIN Ashraf prayers goes to him... “May he be the First Black Guy in White House”
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Author - Romantic Novels
I have always wanted to write a romance novel. To use phrases like "throbbing manhood" and "the fire in her loins and smoldering gentle persuasion" and get away with it is just so tempting but I just can't bring myself to do it. Somehow I find myself imposing upon my simple characters seeking the meaning of life and true love these rational solutions rather than deep thought provoking dialogs ruining any chance of drama and conflict. The estate manager longs for the servant girl and pressures her into submission with his charm and subtle words implying blackmail or harmful deeds in the event that he doesn't get his way. She cannot resist his advances for fear that he will . . . what? Kick him in the nuts and tell his wife to kick some more before frying it.
And there you are. I've lost it.
Getting lost in a romance novel is so gratifying. I would love to be a part of taking people on that journey to far away lands where mysterious and intriguing people are engaged in well, mystery and intrigue. It is so frustrating to me that I just can't write one. Part of my problem is that I have traveled a bit in my life and I am not exactly a young impressionable guy anymore... believe it or not I had more than 8 true love experiences till now... The fact is when we do find true love as all characters seem to do at the end of a good romance novel, or everyone dies, we realize that every little thing is romantic, every word, every sight and sound. The passion is tamed and the places are forgettable. All you can see is the one you love.
If I were to write a romance novel this is how it would go:
"The wind swept across the soft green grass blowing over the beer bottles that they had left on the lawn the night before. He woke up scratching his balls to realize although angel till he was awake last but she has taken all his share of blanket to leave his skin red and swollen from mosquito bites. The sun was shining brightly through the trees and birds sang their morning song... and he thought of waking her up with his melodic fart to get some coffee made... but then again if she woke up first she will capture the bathroom for next one hour. So he let his angel sleep while he left the bed.”
You see, my experiences have clouded my ability to conjure up the fantastic and left me with the mundane. They don't make for a good romance novel but they make for a promising life. Of course I haven't given up completely on the idea. Perhaps I should practice by doing some role-playing. I wonder how she will look dressed as a witch...
And there you are. I've lost it.
Getting lost in a romance novel is so gratifying. I would love to be a part of taking people on that journey to far away lands where mysterious and intriguing people are engaged in well, mystery and intrigue. It is so frustrating to me that I just can't write one. Part of my problem is that I have traveled a bit in my life and I am not exactly a young impressionable guy anymore... believe it or not I had more than 8 true love experiences till now... The fact is when we do find true love as all characters seem to do at the end of a good romance novel, or everyone dies, we realize that every little thing is romantic, every word, every sight and sound. The passion is tamed and the places are forgettable. All you can see is the one you love.
If I were to write a romance novel this is how it would go:
"The wind swept across the soft green grass blowing over the beer bottles that they had left on the lawn the night before. He woke up scratching his balls to realize although angel till he was awake last but she has taken all his share of blanket to leave his skin red and swollen from mosquito bites. The sun was shining brightly through the trees and birds sang their morning song... and he thought of waking her up with his melodic fart to get some coffee made... but then again if she woke up first she will capture the bathroom for next one hour. So he let his angel sleep while he left the bed.”
You see, my experiences have clouded my ability to conjure up the fantastic and left me with the mundane. They don't make for a good romance novel but they make for a promising life. Of course I haven't given up completely on the idea. Perhaps I should practice by doing some role-playing. I wonder how she will look dressed as a witch...
Monday, November 10, 2008
Legend of “One-Legged Crow”
Today I saw a one-legged crow... again... it’s been so many years but I still very clearly remember the last one-legged I saw... I was in school those were the days when a one legged crow would get more attention than a girl showing her cleavage... those days are gone for good now... like any other our neighborhood also was infested with 100 of crows cawing but what other neighborhood I suppose lacked was this legendry one-legged crow.
Seeing this crow flying around with one limping leg had given rise to many legends and myths in the neighborhood. The children who played in the street openly talked about these legends. According to some, the crow lost his leg while rescuing his female from the clutches of a hungry ‘cheel’ (a kind of an eagle)... some said he lost his leg after falling from his nest while asleep, some said he lost his leg while trying to walk ‘huNs ki chaal’ (an Urdu idiom- if a crow tries to walk like a crane, he loses his own place)
I was also part of this legend mongering crowd which believed in so many stories about this crow. Whoever in the street used to spot this crow, they used to shout aloud for the benefit of others:woh dekho, langRa kawwa !! (Look, one-legged crow is here) This made every one in the street stop their work and look for the crow. Drivers used to hang their necks out of car windows to look for it, street cricket batsmen used to tell approaching bowlers: “ek minute yaar, woh... kawwa... oopar?” (Just a minute friend that crow, look up) Within days, this crow, backed by all kinds of legends and myths, grew so much in popularity that he became a household name in the locality.
We saw the crow’s limping flight for few months but the rot had set in. After few months the crow lost his popularity. Thereafter, he just became part of the area landscape and nobody paid much attention to his flight. One eyed black cat... brown striped street dog became more popular. Apparently, the crow didn’t like this fall from fame hood. So one sunny evening, the crow came down on an un-suspecting passer-by and pecked the passer by’s head with his beak and flew away to the nearby tree. The passer-by started screaming, pointing towards the tree and people started gathering around him in sympathy. Very soon somebody in the infringing crowd said what everybody was thinking. That somebody said: “langra kawwa pagal ho gaya hai”(the one-legged crow has gone mad).
From that day onwards the popularity graph of the crow climbed up steeply. Overnight he was declared as ‘one-legged-half-brained’ crow. His status changed from a celebrity hero to that of a devil-may-care villain. The new status also gave rise to new legends and myths about how and why the crow lost his mind. Some said that it is because the crow society made one-legged crow an outcast so he lost his mind, some said it is because rest all the female crows refused to marry him and some again said that it is because he again fell out of his nest while asleep.
The crow on the other hand was becoming more and more carnivorous by the day. Now he started pecking anyone who passed under the street-tree he used to live on. There were a couple of people who were his famous victim. One was a boy who worked in a neighborhood. The crow had some ‘zaati dushmani’ (personal enmity) against this boy. As soon as the boy entered the street, the crow would start screaming ‘kaaeN kaaeN’ and followed the boy home while diving and pecking on his head repeatedly like an air-force jet diving to make a kill. In the end this boy had to become bald and wear dark-glasses in order to fool the crow into believing that he was somebody else. This trick worked and the crow stopped harassing this boy.
Another famous victim was my own aunt. She has come to our place for a vacation and was out on her evening walk and this crow made the mistake of pecking her head. To this she became so infuriated that she started scolding aloud in the middle of the road: “kam-bakht, jhaaroo peetay, kal-moonhe, ek dafa haath aa gaya to tera soup pi jaaon gi?”(You unfortunate, broom-hitted, face-looser, if I catch you once, I’ll drink the soup made from you)Apparently the crow really got scared of such grammatically correct Urdu scolding and I don’t remember if he ever crossed her path again for next two months.
After a while the situation became so worse that the cabinet meeting of street boys was called again. I also had the honors of attending it. In the meeting there were two groups. One was a humane group which asked for mercy for the crow while other insisted on mercy for the people by giving crow a mercy-killing. Luckily the mercy for the crow group was in majority. It was then decided that the crow be caught, taken to some other neighborhood and let free. Some suggested that we should let it free in next neighborhood because they had bigger playing areas than ours but good sense prevailed and we transferred the crow to an unpopulated place. I am not sure how the crow was caught and transferred because I was not part of the ‘action committee’ which was formed to carry out this humane operation.
This happened in early nineties... almost 18 years and lot of water under the bridge has passed since then. I don’t know how long a crow lives. Hopefully he is still alive and peckin!!!
Seeing this crow flying around with one limping leg had given rise to many legends and myths in the neighborhood. The children who played in the street openly talked about these legends. According to some, the crow lost his leg while rescuing his female from the clutches of a hungry ‘cheel’ (a kind of an eagle)... some said he lost his leg after falling from his nest while asleep, some said he lost his leg while trying to walk ‘huNs ki chaal’ (an Urdu idiom- if a crow tries to walk like a crane, he loses his own place)
I was also part of this legend mongering crowd which believed in so many stories about this crow. Whoever in the street used to spot this crow, they used to shout aloud for the benefit of others:woh dekho, langRa kawwa !! (Look, one-legged crow is here) This made every one in the street stop their work and look for the crow. Drivers used to hang their necks out of car windows to look for it, street cricket batsmen used to tell approaching bowlers: “ek minute yaar, woh... kawwa... oopar?” (Just a minute friend that crow, look up) Within days, this crow, backed by all kinds of legends and myths, grew so much in popularity that he became a household name in the locality.
We saw the crow’s limping flight for few months but the rot had set in. After few months the crow lost his popularity. Thereafter, he just became part of the area landscape and nobody paid much attention to his flight. One eyed black cat... brown striped street dog became more popular. Apparently, the crow didn’t like this fall from fame hood. So one sunny evening, the crow came down on an un-suspecting passer-by and pecked the passer by’s head with his beak and flew away to the nearby tree. The passer-by started screaming, pointing towards the tree and people started gathering around him in sympathy. Very soon somebody in the infringing crowd said what everybody was thinking. That somebody said: “langra kawwa pagal ho gaya hai”(the one-legged crow has gone mad).
From that day onwards the popularity graph of the crow climbed up steeply. Overnight he was declared as ‘one-legged-half-brained’ crow. His status changed from a celebrity hero to that of a devil-may-care villain. The new status also gave rise to new legends and myths about how and why the crow lost his mind. Some said that it is because the crow society made one-legged crow an outcast so he lost his mind, some said it is because rest all the female crows refused to marry him and some again said that it is because he again fell out of his nest while asleep.
The crow on the other hand was becoming more and more carnivorous by the day. Now he started pecking anyone who passed under the street-tree he used to live on. There were a couple of people who were his famous victim. One was a boy who worked in a neighborhood. The crow had some ‘zaati dushmani’ (personal enmity) against this boy. As soon as the boy entered the street, the crow would start screaming ‘kaaeN kaaeN’ and followed the boy home while diving and pecking on his head repeatedly like an air-force jet diving to make a kill. In the end this boy had to become bald and wear dark-glasses in order to fool the crow into believing that he was somebody else. This trick worked and the crow stopped harassing this boy.
Another famous victim was my own aunt. She has come to our place for a vacation and was out on her evening walk and this crow made the mistake of pecking her head. To this she became so infuriated that she started scolding aloud in the middle of the road: “kam-bakht, jhaaroo peetay, kal-moonhe, ek dafa haath aa gaya to tera soup pi jaaon gi?”(You unfortunate, broom-hitted, face-looser, if I catch you once, I’ll drink the soup made from you)Apparently the crow really got scared of such grammatically correct Urdu scolding and I don’t remember if he ever crossed her path again for next two months.
After a while the situation became so worse that the cabinet meeting of street boys was called again. I also had the honors of attending it. In the meeting there were two groups. One was a humane group which asked for mercy for the crow while other insisted on mercy for the people by giving crow a mercy-killing. Luckily the mercy for the crow group was in majority. It was then decided that the crow be caught, taken to some other neighborhood and let free. Some suggested that we should let it free in next neighborhood because they had bigger playing areas than ours but good sense prevailed and we transferred the crow to an unpopulated place. I am not sure how the crow was caught and transferred because I was not part of the ‘action committee’ which was formed to carry out this humane operation.
This happened in early nineties... almost 18 years and lot of water under the bridge has passed since then. I don’t know how long a crow lives. Hopefully he is still alive and peckin!!!
Love in the year of addiction
January
Love your alcoholic...
Nobody understands this better than Neha. She married one. The extent of her love goes beyond all reason or common sense for me. It's a bloody mystical kind of love in a weird way. It's a love that knows no limits of endurance... He can beat her... cheat her... humiliate her. He can set her up and frame her and then knowingly wrongly accuse her. He can imprison her lock her up I store room bathroom... lie to her... scam her... manipulate her. He can give her a venereal disease he picked up from women he sleeps with. He can turn her children against her, spy on her; ridicule...rubbish and mock her in public. He can threaten to steal her children and run away to another country with them and tell her she will never see them again. He can abuse her in front of those same children. All these things he can do and still she endures. She loves him.
March
Neha's love is a certain kind of horror isn't it? What I can’t decide is if the horror is him or her or just an overall combination of the two. Maybe the horror really isn't him the narcissistic, diseased, cruel, weak, mentally deranged, pathetic alcoholic; maybe the horror is her. She gets down before him on her hands and knees and submissively says, "Kick me." So he does, he kicks her. That sort of thing appeals to his nature after all. Then she gets up and tells everyone how bad she has it; how he kicked her. You poor thing! How can you take that? Why don't you leave?
May
"I don't know... Its for my kids... for my family... in hope of better future...I don't know..," she shakes her head incredulously, "How do I put up with it?" and as she says this she mentaly prepare herself to get down again so he can kick her for the hundredth time that day.
July
He got a notice from his office again, her alcoholic. He is again sent to a rehab. Not because he wanted to be there, but because he was mandated to be there. She is confident that when her alcoholic returns he will be a changed man. He has been registered manier times before also, but she has never felt as hopeful as she does this time. This time he is going away to be cured. She feels freer now, her dark mood lifts and she starts to make plans for herself and her children. Life will be better now. She is positive of this and as the weeks pass she builds her strength in mind, spirit and body.
September
Neha is thinking more clearly now that he isn't around clouding her thinking and she resolves that if her alcoholic returns an unchanged man that she will take her kids and leave him. She does not deserve this treatment and neither do her children. She is a good mother and a good person. These sentiments are reinforced by her friends who continuously tell her she doesn't deserve it and that she is a good person.
November
All Neha has ever done is love her alcoholic. She has lied for him, cleaned him up and done what he's told her to do no matter how irrational, absurd, painful, repulsive or morally wrong, . She loves him so much that she willingly casts her own soul aside to join her soulless soul mate on his journey to perdition.
But when he is away from her and his influence over her is weakened (although never completely gone because of the excessive phone calls) she begins to see that the price of loving her alcoholic is too high. It isn't worth sacrificing her soul and the souls of her children. She makes practical plans to get out just in case he comes back the same man. Neha isn't a stupid woman, just a woman inculcated with loyalty for her alcoholic abusive husband.
December
She calls it love, but it seems more like mind control. When she is away from his influence she is a transformed woman, but the moment she hears his voice she becomes virtually helpless and devoid of original thought. Consequently, the competence she demonstrates as she devises a plan for her big escape is an unexpected surprise. It turns out Neha has a strong family support system out there and isn't one of those isolated, beaten down, codependent wives. It turns out she could easily get a decent paying job and does just that. It turns out she can pay her own bills and make her own decisions. It turns out that she does look beautiful and she is sociable and interesting to talk to. It turns out she can assert herself and articulate her words well. It turns out that not only do her kids survive without their father around, but they thrive without his brooding, chaotic presence.
Neha feels strong and exhilarated with new hope for her future. She thinks, "Forget your alcoholic and love yourself."
January
Neha’s husband is on his way back home from the rehab centre. He is sitting in a sleazy bar downing his fifth Rum peg. He calls her up while he is waiting for his sixth. He scolds her for not picking the phone up right away and immediately accuses her of cheating on him with the neighbor. He tells her that the house better be spotless and there will be some big changes when he gets home. He is sick of Neha not doing what she is told. Neha automatically apologizes without even considering why she is apologizing or for what. All that renewed hope and excitement she felt for her life and all that resolve to leave her husband if he returned an unchanged man abandons her the moment she hears his voice. Her unexpected competence and strength is replaced by that old familiar mantra:
“Love your alcoholic...”
.
Love your alcoholic...
Nobody understands this better than Neha. She married one. The extent of her love goes beyond all reason or common sense for me. It's a bloody mystical kind of love in a weird way. It's a love that knows no limits of endurance... He can beat her... cheat her... humiliate her. He can set her up and frame her and then knowingly wrongly accuse her. He can imprison her lock her up I store room bathroom... lie to her... scam her... manipulate her. He can give her a venereal disease he picked up from women he sleeps with. He can turn her children against her, spy on her; ridicule...rubbish and mock her in public. He can threaten to steal her children and run away to another country with them and tell her she will never see them again. He can abuse her in front of those same children. All these things he can do and still she endures. She loves him.
March
Neha's love is a certain kind of horror isn't it? What I can’t decide is if the horror is him or her or just an overall combination of the two. Maybe the horror really isn't him the narcissistic, diseased, cruel, weak, mentally deranged, pathetic alcoholic; maybe the horror is her. She gets down before him on her hands and knees and submissively says, "Kick me." So he does, he kicks her. That sort of thing appeals to his nature after all. Then she gets up and tells everyone how bad she has it; how he kicked her. You poor thing! How can you take that? Why don't you leave?
May
"I don't know... Its for my kids... for my family... in hope of better future...I don't know..," she shakes her head incredulously, "How do I put up with it?" and as she says this she mentaly prepare herself to get down again so he can kick her for the hundredth time that day.
July
He got a notice from his office again, her alcoholic. He is again sent to a rehab. Not because he wanted to be there, but because he was mandated to be there. She is confident that when her alcoholic returns he will be a changed man. He has been registered manier times before also, but she has never felt as hopeful as she does this time. This time he is going away to be cured. She feels freer now, her dark mood lifts and she starts to make plans for herself and her children. Life will be better now. She is positive of this and as the weeks pass she builds her strength in mind, spirit and body.
September
Neha is thinking more clearly now that he isn't around clouding her thinking and she resolves that if her alcoholic returns an unchanged man that she will take her kids and leave him. She does not deserve this treatment and neither do her children. She is a good mother and a good person. These sentiments are reinforced by her friends who continuously tell her she doesn't deserve it and that she is a good person.
November
All Neha has ever done is love her alcoholic. She has lied for him, cleaned him up and done what he's told her to do no matter how irrational, absurd, painful, repulsive or morally wrong, . She loves him so much that she willingly casts her own soul aside to join her soulless soul mate on his journey to perdition.
But when he is away from her and his influence over her is weakened (although never completely gone because of the excessive phone calls) she begins to see that the price of loving her alcoholic is too high. It isn't worth sacrificing her soul and the souls of her children. She makes practical plans to get out just in case he comes back the same man. Neha isn't a stupid woman, just a woman inculcated with loyalty for her alcoholic abusive husband.
December
She calls it love, but it seems more like mind control. When she is away from his influence she is a transformed woman, but the moment she hears his voice she becomes virtually helpless and devoid of original thought. Consequently, the competence she demonstrates as she devises a plan for her big escape is an unexpected surprise. It turns out Neha has a strong family support system out there and isn't one of those isolated, beaten down, codependent wives. It turns out she could easily get a decent paying job and does just that. It turns out she can pay her own bills and make her own decisions. It turns out that she does look beautiful and she is sociable and interesting to talk to. It turns out she can assert herself and articulate her words well. It turns out that not only do her kids survive without their father around, but they thrive without his brooding, chaotic presence.
Neha feels strong and exhilarated with new hope for her future. She thinks, "Forget your alcoholic and love yourself."
January
Neha’s husband is on his way back home from the rehab centre. He is sitting in a sleazy bar downing his fifth Rum peg. He calls her up while he is waiting for his sixth. He scolds her for not picking the phone up right away and immediately accuses her of cheating on him with the neighbor. He tells her that the house better be spotless and there will be some big changes when he gets home. He is sick of Neha not doing what she is told. Neha automatically apologizes without even considering why she is apologizing or for what. All that renewed hope and excitement she felt for her life and all that resolve to leave her husband if he returned an unchanged man abandons her the moment she hears his voice. Her unexpected competence and strength is replaced by that old familiar mantra:
“Love your alcoholic...”
.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Prophecies of Smoke-pipe Exploding Baba
Introduction
Chillum Phod Baba a.k.a Smoke-pipe Exploding Baba was a psychic seer who lived in India between 1981 and 2004 before disappearing into concrete desert. He recorded his visions in a cryptic code on bathroom walls of his many abode. I have painstakingly endeavored here to decode and translate his surviving predictions.
Some say CP Baba was the greatest seer since Nostradamus. Some believe he was even greater than his European counterpart. Some say he was a highly evolved bicycle. Some doesn’t say anything...
I say intercourse it! Let Chillum Phod Baba be CP Baba. His work speaks for itself.
------------
1. “When the crow shits at high noon, and the brown corn will harvest, then shall the honking enforcer come and any which way he can swim the dead wagging pool.”
Translation: CP Baba is foretelling the population explosion in India and extinction of street dogs due to road kill.
2. “When Pisces jives through the ides of March, and uterus rises at the thirteenth zodiac sign, then will the concrete bitch scream through the hairy pajama wearers.”
Translation: CP Baba is predicting the fall of United States when they offend the gods by actually electing a woman President.
(Or)
He may be predicting the rape of the Statue of Liberty by King Kong.
3. “When the lion in gold rivals the sun and the three brothers turn from rock to Mujra(Indian exotic dance to entertain truck drivers and losers), then shall the screaming eagle lay an egg on her maiden flight and it shall fall on the head that has already been shit upon.”
Translation: CP Baba foresees that George W Bush will have his butts shaved by St. Ashraf and paraded through the wall street chained to Osama Bin Laden.
4. “When the moon is in the seventh sky and Jupiter aligns with Mars, then the bookworm of scriptures will have its intercourse with hookah smoking caterpillar”
Translation: CP Baba prophecies Junkies and dopers will have a long healthy life and science will confirm that codeine and cocaine are actually good for healthy happy living!!! Ya ya Hippi Hippi
5. “When the snake slides back into its hole and the river flows back to the spring, then shall woman show their back at bazaar and peace be back in hand.”
Translation: CP Baba is just having a bad night.
6. “When penises grow in potted plants and vaginas are available in disposable 6-packs, then shall people have sex by email and virus will born in brothels.”
Translation: CP Baba is trying to say that with the second coming of Christ, the message of the kingdom of heaven shall be: Why prey, when you can Pink Slip?
(OR)
CP Baba is predicting the revival of global market.
(OR)
CP Baba is just being sarcastic and saying bloody hell keep on dreaming...
7. “A man shall rise from the ruins of Olympus and run madly through the streets waving his penis at screaming woman.”
Translation: CP Baba foresees the inclusion of nude marathon in Olympics.
8. “When sun reaches its orgasm and earth sleeps naked, then man shall drink her urine clean with adultery.”
Translation: CP Baba foresees global warming and end of all natural resources.
9. “"Kada hram djevičanskih boginja orgija koje savitljivo drže hram bude opijen komarcima, tada će slatke pite biti rezane i služiti za pse ludila."
English translation: “When the temple of the virgin goddess of orgy who holds a limp stick is stung by drunken mosquito, then shall all cutie-pies be sliced and served to mad dogs without mustard.”
Translation: CP Baba predicts HIV+ would be named a new blood group
(OR)
CP Baba is trying to woo a Croatian witch
10. “When...”
Translation: Most probably CP Baba is having a bad hangover.
(OR)
CP Baba is caught scribbling in the loo....
(OR)
CP Baba’s Chalk got over
Chillum Phod Baba a.k.a Smoke-pipe Exploding Baba was a psychic seer who lived in India between 1981 and 2004 before disappearing into concrete desert. He recorded his visions in a cryptic code on bathroom walls of his many abode. I have painstakingly endeavored here to decode and translate his surviving predictions.
Some say CP Baba was the greatest seer since Nostradamus. Some believe he was even greater than his European counterpart. Some say he was a highly evolved bicycle. Some doesn’t say anything...
I say intercourse it! Let Chillum Phod Baba be CP Baba. His work speaks for itself.
------------
1. “When the crow shits at high noon, and the brown corn will harvest, then shall the honking enforcer come and any which way he can swim the dead wagging pool.”
Translation: CP Baba is foretelling the population explosion in India and extinction of street dogs due to road kill.
2. “When Pisces jives through the ides of March, and uterus rises at the thirteenth zodiac sign, then will the concrete bitch scream through the hairy pajama wearers.”
Translation: CP Baba is predicting the fall of United States when they offend the gods by actually electing a woman President.
(Or)
He may be predicting the rape of the Statue of Liberty by King Kong.
3. “When the lion in gold rivals the sun and the three brothers turn from rock to Mujra(Indian exotic dance to entertain truck drivers and losers), then shall the screaming eagle lay an egg on her maiden flight and it shall fall on the head that has already been shit upon.”
Translation: CP Baba foresees that George W Bush will have his butts shaved by St. Ashraf and paraded through the wall street chained to Osama Bin Laden.
4. “When the moon is in the seventh sky and Jupiter aligns with Mars, then the bookworm of scriptures will have its intercourse with hookah smoking caterpillar”
Translation: CP Baba prophecies Junkies and dopers will have a long healthy life and science will confirm that codeine and cocaine are actually good for healthy happy living!!! Ya ya Hippi Hippi
5. “When the snake slides back into its hole and the river flows back to the spring, then shall woman show their back at bazaar and peace be back in hand.”
Translation: CP Baba is just having a bad night.
6. “When penises grow in potted plants and vaginas are available in disposable 6-packs, then shall people have sex by email and virus will born in brothels.”
Translation: CP Baba is trying to say that with the second coming of Christ, the message of the kingdom of heaven shall be: Why prey, when you can Pink Slip?
(OR)
CP Baba is predicting the revival of global market.
(OR)
CP Baba is just being sarcastic and saying bloody hell keep on dreaming...
7. “A man shall rise from the ruins of Olympus and run madly through the streets waving his penis at screaming woman.”
Translation: CP Baba foresees the inclusion of nude marathon in Olympics.
8. “When sun reaches its orgasm and earth sleeps naked, then man shall drink her urine clean with adultery.”
Translation: CP Baba foresees global warming and end of all natural resources.
9. “"Kada hram djevičanskih boginja orgija koje savitljivo drže hram bude opijen komarcima, tada će slatke pite biti rezane i služiti za pse ludila."
English translation: “When the temple of the virgin goddess of orgy who holds a limp stick is stung by drunken mosquito, then shall all cutie-pies be sliced and served to mad dogs without mustard.”
Translation: CP Baba predicts HIV+ would be named a new blood group
(OR)
CP Baba is trying to woo a Croatian witch
10. “When...”
Translation: Most probably CP Baba is having a bad hangover.
(OR)
CP Baba is caught scribbling in the loo....
(OR)
CP Baba’s Chalk got over
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Magician I never met...
Unlike most people I know, I don't believe in love at first sight... but I do believe in magic. The world being as mad as it is, somehow manages to make you run into people so unusually breathtakingly magical that when you see them, hear them or feel their virtual presence in your life even for few moments fragrance of their persona remains forever etched in your memory. Living in a world of countless and crossing paths with so many every single day, there are only but a few that truly bring life to the term “Beautiful stranger...”
I don't quite know how her voice sounds, neither do I have much idea about her likes, preferences, what makes her happy or what get those eyes red...But sometimes, in this mad world with a crazy life, one needs to imagine something perfect on a long, lonely day. And in my mind... that's what she'll always be - perfect.
.
I don't quite know how her voice sounds, neither do I have much idea about her likes, preferences, what makes her happy or what get those eyes red...But sometimes, in this mad world with a crazy life, one needs to imagine something perfect on a long, lonely day. And in my mind... that's what she'll always be - perfect.
.
Monday, October 20, 2008
GROOMing Dreams
Like all kids I also had aspirations of becoming someone when I grow up... but unlike others who wanted to be engineers, physicians, actors, pilots or as a friend of mine said sucking up to his boss that he dreamt of being a Oracle - Business Intelligence – Onsite - Business Analyst ever since he was a child; I never aspired for such superficial goals. Being mature beyond my age, I always dreamt of being a Groom...
During school days, when nobody thinks of their career in terms of amount of money or salary they are gonna to earn, I had done all my calculations. Based on the average height of my nuclear and extended family I had mentally calculated how tall I would grow and how big a garland made of ten rupee notes I can wear. Add to that the money filled envelopes I will get for 'salaami' I would be raking in hell lot of moolah while my classmates would be making pittance as doctors, engineers, analysts....etc. However, as I grew older and became more mature, I realized that with inflation as it was, this strategy might not work. I would have to wear a garland made at least of fifty rupee or hundred rupee notes...
But by the time I finished my school, three things changed. One- I became more mature. Two- Inflation increased. I calculated that at current rate, I had to do the Islam allowed four marriages with five-hundred rupee note garlands to maintain the lifestyle. Three- A bloody change that shattered my dream, rupee note garlands became out fashioned in our society... I was bloody devastated.
I might have gone into depression had I known what depression was. Because of naiveté, and not knowing what else to do, I picked the broken pieces of my dream. As sailors focus on distant objects when sailing to keep from feeling sea-sick, I decided to focus on a (superficial) career like everyone else, while turning the pieces into a flame and burying it deep inside my heart where reality can never extinguish it. Even dead bodies don't remain below the sea for long and here dream was broken... yet alive... time and again, the dream would break to the surface.
The current generation of young men has mapped objectives as milestones in their life such as complete higher education, find a job, make a career, earn some money and then get married. Being a non conformist since childhood I had no such road map. My top priority was to get married at the first opportunity whereas other objectives were secondary in no order or priority. Fate had been cruel during my childhood hindering and rebuking my dreams through rising inflation, changing fashions etc... now it had declared open war.
First year college crush... coming years multiple crushes... job crushes... neighborhood crush... flight/train/bus journey crush... monthly crush...daily crush... wannabe crush... I never looked at any girl for friendship or companionship... it was always an honest and pure intention of marriage. Needless to say my mature and sensible thoughts were not reciprocated in the same way by this crazy world. Rejections were plenty... battles were lost within hours.
The nearest I reached my goal was with this magical dame who found me outdated, not so fashionable and hard to adjust with my conservative leanings, beside she wanted space and creative freedom which she felt my lifestyle cant provide. Reasons a plenty for a absolute rejection its a different story that she got married in a joint family big enough to have their own zip code straight out of Suraj Barjatya’s movies....
Few days back I met this elderly person during my daily evening walk. After some small talk, he asked me “Are you married?” At first I was taken aback by this personal question coming from a stranger. I said “No”. He sighed, “I don’t get why this new generation delays getting married. I have a friend who married late. Its not that he didn’t want to get married, but belonging to traditional family where marriages are arranged, he was waiting for his mother and sisters to find him a suitable bride. His mother was old and sisters were married off so no one was there to do the bride hunting. The progress was very slow. To cut the long story short, when he finally got married, his bride was WAY PAST HER PRIME!” (With special emphasis on last four words). Since then I am missing my mother and sisters who were never born...and till the issue is resolved I am taking a different route for my walks....
.
During school days, when nobody thinks of their career in terms of amount of money or salary they are gonna to earn, I had done all my calculations. Based on the average height of my nuclear and extended family I had mentally calculated how tall I would grow and how big a garland made of ten rupee notes I can wear. Add to that the money filled envelopes I will get for 'salaami' I would be raking in hell lot of moolah while my classmates would be making pittance as doctors, engineers, analysts....etc. However, as I grew older and became more mature, I realized that with inflation as it was, this strategy might not work. I would have to wear a garland made at least of fifty rupee or hundred rupee notes...
But by the time I finished my school, three things changed. One- I became more mature. Two- Inflation increased. I calculated that at current rate, I had to do the Islam allowed four marriages with five-hundred rupee note garlands to maintain the lifestyle. Three- A bloody change that shattered my dream, rupee note garlands became out fashioned in our society... I was bloody devastated.
I might have gone into depression had I known what depression was. Because of naiveté, and not knowing what else to do, I picked the broken pieces of my dream. As sailors focus on distant objects when sailing to keep from feeling sea-sick, I decided to focus on a (superficial) career like everyone else, while turning the pieces into a flame and burying it deep inside my heart where reality can never extinguish it. Even dead bodies don't remain below the sea for long and here dream was broken... yet alive... time and again, the dream would break to the surface.
The current generation of young men has mapped objectives as milestones in their life such as complete higher education, find a job, make a career, earn some money and then get married. Being a non conformist since childhood I had no such road map. My top priority was to get married at the first opportunity whereas other objectives were secondary in no order or priority. Fate had been cruel during my childhood hindering and rebuking my dreams through rising inflation, changing fashions etc... now it had declared open war.
First year college crush... coming years multiple crushes... job crushes... neighborhood crush... flight/train/bus journey crush... monthly crush...daily crush... wannabe crush... I never looked at any girl for friendship or companionship... it was always an honest and pure intention of marriage. Needless to say my mature and sensible thoughts were not reciprocated in the same way by this crazy world. Rejections were plenty... battles were lost within hours.
The nearest I reached my goal was with this magical dame who found me outdated, not so fashionable and hard to adjust with my conservative leanings, beside she wanted space and creative freedom which she felt my lifestyle cant provide. Reasons a plenty for a absolute rejection its a different story that she got married in a joint family big enough to have their own zip code straight out of Suraj Barjatya’s movies....
Few days back I met this elderly person during my daily evening walk. After some small talk, he asked me “Are you married?” At first I was taken aback by this personal question coming from a stranger. I said “No”. He sighed, “I don’t get why this new generation delays getting married. I have a friend who married late. Its not that he didn’t want to get married, but belonging to traditional family where marriages are arranged, he was waiting for his mother and sisters to find him a suitable bride. His mother was old and sisters were married off so no one was there to do the bride hunting. The progress was very slow. To cut the long story short, when he finally got married, his bride was WAY PAST HER PRIME!” (With special emphasis on last four words). Since then I am missing my mother and sisters who were never born...and till the issue is resolved I am taking a different route for my walks....
.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Vegetarian is a nobody
My folks (family...relatives...community...countrymen...?) are often offended when I tell them I’m a vegetarian. It is an insult to their intelligence -they think so... (Actually I was a veggie for long time but a carnivore now... I guess I just love insulting once intelligence at times -I think so...).
Many times people do not really comprehend what it means when you tell them you do not eat meat, and respond with, “So have chicken, at least.” Eggs I can still understand but chicken??? My befuddled expression is met with eye-rolling, sneers and all sorts of judging. Some look down on you from their meat-eating position of superiority, while others resent you for being snobbish, elitist or just plain weird. Mr. Ashraf’s younger son doesn’t eat meat... what kind of Muslim he is?
Veggie is a high suspect, terrorist -like; even though most terrorist I know ask for beef kebabs first thing after completing their training (Bloody hell just kidding #$#%#$%! half the people I know cant kill a mosquito in one clap). Yet in our minds vegetarian = weak. The popular thinking is that meat gives us an edge over grass-eaters.
Carnivores are stronger and taller; even light-complexioned than herbivores. Isn’t that so? It has to be!!! The ultimate argument is of course that healthy children, growing bones and intelligent minds need loads of animal protein and animal fat.
There is no way you can pass the “Why are you vegetarian?” test. When God has declared it okay to eat certain animals, how dare you refuse goats feet, cows butt and buffaloes brain? All your spiel about animal rights, health consciousness, environment-friendly practices, greed versus need, cost-benefit analysis, simplicity, self-restraint, feelings of guilt, blood, anger and shame over economic disparities. All your arguments will meet with the ultimate roadblock: “How can you?? It tastes so good!”
I guess my folks never learnt to love their vegetables. Greens are usually seen to be a curse, a last-resort, an enemy. Khichri (rice and daal mixture) for example is only for when you have an upset stomach. Karelas are for the diabetic grandparents. Children are fed concoctions of peas, carrots and potatoes with methi leaves thrown in throughout winter because those are the only vegetables in season. Of course vegetables are not worth mom’s creative innovation in the kitchen.
The fact is if you are vegetarian, you are pretty much a social outcast. So you may as well throw away those wedding invitations, name giving ceremony...anniversaries and stop going to any dinner parties. You’re just going to be a source of annoyance to your hosts. Even staples like rice and bread are usually meat-nourished – Keemay Wala Naan and a dozen varieties of biryani and pulaos.
I am a carnivore now... guess I started eating flesh because I can’t stand those irritating bleats and moos love alone their shitting etiquettes... I hate animals which can be eaten and are still not cooked... this one goes for my friend who usually takes sabbatical leave for months together from eating meat..
Behold the mighty Englishman
He ruled the Indian small.
And cause he was a meat eater,
He was six cubit tall.
.
Many times people do not really comprehend what it means when you tell them you do not eat meat, and respond with, “So have chicken, at least.” Eggs I can still understand but chicken??? My befuddled expression is met with eye-rolling, sneers and all sorts of judging. Some look down on you from their meat-eating position of superiority, while others resent you for being snobbish, elitist or just plain weird. Mr. Ashraf’s younger son doesn’t eat meat... what kind of Muslim he is?
Veggie is a high suspect, terrorist -like; even though most terrorist I know ask for beef kebabs first thing after completing their training (Bloody hell just kidding #$#%#$%! half the people I know cant kill a mosquito in one clap). Yet in our minds vegetarian = weak. The popular thinking is that meat gives us an edge over grass-eaters.
Carnivores are stronger and taller; even light-complexioned than herbivores. Isn’t that so? It has to be!!! The ultimate argument is of course that healthy children, growing bones and intelligent minds need loads of animal protein and animal fat.
There is no way you can pass the “Why are you vegetarian?” test. When God has declared it okay to eat certain animals, how dare you refuse goats feet, cows butt and buffaloes brain? All your spiel about animal rights, health consciousness, environment-friendly practices, greed versus need, cost-benefit analysis, simplicity, self-restraint, feelings of guilt, blood, anger and shame over economic disparities. All your arguments will meet with the ultimate roadblock: “How can you?? It tastes so good!”
I guess my folks never learnt to love their vegetables. Greens are usually seen to be a curse, a last-resort, an enemy. Khichri (rice and daal mixture) for example is only for when you have an upset stomach. Karelas are for the diabetic grandparents. Children are fed concoctions of peas, carrots and potatoes with methi leaves thrown in throughout winter because those are the only vegetables in season. Of course vegetables are not worth mom’s creative innovation in the kitchen.
The fact is if you are vegetarian, you are pretty much a social outcast. So you may as well throw away those wedding invitations, name giving ceremony...anniversaries and stop going to any dinner parties. You’re just going to be a source of annoyance to your hosts. Even staples like rice and bread are usually meat-nourished – Keemay Wala Naan and a dozen varieties of biryani and pulaos.
I am a carnivore now... guess I started eating flesh because I can’t stand those irritating bleats and moos love alone their shitting etiquettes... I hate animals which can be eaten and are still not cooked... this one goes for my friend who usually takes sabbatical leave for months together from eating meat..
Behold the mighty Englishman
He ruled the Indian small.
And cause he was a meat eater,
He was six cubit tall.
.
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