ladai ladai maaf karo, dash dash dash dash dash

("dash" is used as the proverbial beep here, this being a kid channel and all)

Vinayak Pathak, as we all know by now, is totally famous on the internet, totally. Why, he is such a meme! Nevermind the feminine sound of that word.

Now this very honorable subject of our little discourse here has recently been tainted by this man here. This... man, for the lack of a better word, is known to be a ghastly dastly manipulative schemer. A schemer of no better conscience than, say, an evil paper boat. Censuring any elaboration of that inappropriately explicit analogy in public interest, we tell you, in the next few scrolls, the complete truth about the dash son dash dash bitch that is, dash dash dash dash Dash.

He:

1. has an extra ball in the bag [citation needed]

2. is really proud of his humility [1]

3. loves a mouthful of Truth [one day you shall know, one day]

4. has been known to approach men from behind, if you know what I mean, and push them off the cliff, with the final words, "Boo." [true story]

5. has evolved an extra helping hand [just trust me ok]

References:

[1] - Dash: "I'm really proud of my humility."

As were to be the unfortunate events to unfold, our simultaneously cute and sexy protagonist, V, approached, platonically ofcourse, the Greatly Sleazy One, dash Dash, and asked for some utterly innocent, absolutely natural, lifestyle advice regarding the future prospects of, so to say, getting a girl. And what followed then is a total and naked display of shameless evil stripping away the last of the camaraderie, the sacred brotherly bond of the user and the used between a senior and a junior, respectively, from the face and chest of the earth. A scheming plot to bring down the chances, the prospects, and the sex appeal, of the Cutest One, that one with the nose proud and long, and the One with the Question Mark burnt on his forehead.

Hence it is that we, in all the sacred spirit of justice, try to bring out the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, about this victimized angel of manhood.

He, the symbol of male endeavor,:

1. is gentle.

2. is a symmetric kind of a person.

3. can just turn away and run, when optimal.

4. will make a good computer one day. Or a good barber.

5. does have that extra hand on the shoulder. It automatically waves Hi to people on the road. Pretty nifty.

So guys... just keep away ok. And girls, listen up. You have been missing out, really. And you should totally go out with this guy. Trust me.

If life were a Malai Gola, we would suck at it

It's not life what you're going through. It's not life until you have done what I have done today, not if you weren't with us today when life happened, and not if you've never had a Malai Gola.



A Malai Gola is not whatever you think it is. It's more. So much more that it's just not real life. Your imagination, however highly you may regard it, and however much you may have seen in life, will fail you as surely as certainty itself. It can't take you where life took us. The four of us (Nemani, dude did you miss out on something or what), unknowing innocent prisoners of fate who knew not what was coming for us. The Malai Gola.


What you see here is not a row of colorful bottles. Its not even a row of transparent bottles with colored liquid in them. What it is, is packed happiness. You read that right. It is a part of the undiluted totally adulterated and can't-be-legal happiness that is, yes, the Malai Gola.

So you're standing in Chowpati, looking at the wonder that Mumbai is, taking it in soberly, and fairly confident that you have a pretty comprehensive view of the world now. You know things, been there done that, things don't shock you anymore. It is now, it is now that God, that kid up there having fun with the buttons on his console, will throw at you something to shake you up, to tell you there's more to life than you know, to blow apart your tiredness with routine and its predictability, and give you a new miracle to cope with, a new sun to arrange in your now mishevelled solar system. He will throw at you, the Malai Gola.

So what exactly do you do with a Malai Gola. It's simple. You suck on it. Umm... yeah. You suck on it like you never knew the fun to sucking. You suck on it like you were born to suck. You suck on all sides and take in as much off it as you can and then you dip it. You dip it like you mean it, and then you suck. A good long all-rounded suck gets into your head, makes you dizzy with the pure chemical happiness being secreted all inside your body, and makes you close your eyes and sigh. You sigh with your whole body, and everything around it. You see the shiny, almost guilty satisfaction, floating in the eyes of people around you, sucking on theirs, dipping it with unnatural grace, and then sucking on it again, and looking at you for assurance that its all real, its all happening. They are living it. As you are. The Malai Gola.

It breaks if you suck too hard. But that's not so bad really, nothing is much bad in the company of Malai Gola. Even so, there's an art to a good suck. A first timer may not be able to hold it for long, enthralled in the blast of the orgasmic unreal feeling he hadn't even known before. He may run out too fast, and thus miss out on the higher pleasures of a satisfied, leisurely pace of a long drawn out suck. It is essential, thus, to achieve self control if the highest pleasure is to be attained. But don't worry, really, experience is the best teacher. And a secret that I feel obliged to tell you, is that its best when enjoyed in a group. Trust me. Though I must tell you this too that do keep your voices low. For the people around, though they may seem in another universe then, can still listen to your satisfied cries, and the talk that goes with the sucking. And they might just get a bit confused as to what you're really talking about. While you suck away, making the loudest noises of it, and blessing the Gods, the city of Mumbai, and your Malai Gola.

The ice slowly nears its end, sucked away to turn into a satisfied sense of being, all inside you. By the time you reach those last few mouthfuls you will already be feeling drunk. Drunk and happy. Maybe even gay, if you are that sort of a person. And now that the ice is over, you will take a sip of the liquid left behind. You never knew it until you felt it. That sip will go down through your mouth, into your stomach, and you will know where it is, and feel it inside you and it will make you raise your arms and inhale a large amount of happy air like on an early morning. And then you will look around, put the glass to your side for a few seconds, cope with the loveliness of it all, sigh loudly with all your being, and feel large. You will feel like nothing is the same anymore or will ever be. You will feel like you know something the people around you don't and you will feel big and complete, in your very self. You will feel it dissolving inside you to become a part of you, the Malai Gola.

You finish with it, you place the glass with respect onto a bin meant for it, and you walk away, looking back over your shoulder if the glass is still there, hoping it would disappear to heaven and prove that it wasn't really real life after all. But real life just isn't what you knew it to be anymore. You feel it in your steps, you feel high and wasted. And then when you're all high already, it fucking starts to rain. It started raining on the Chowpati Beach, and the commotion. People running away from the beach, sellers collecting their stuff and running with it, and kids shouting in that sharp shrill howl of joy. And you howl too. Because you are happy, and you can't take so much of it, and you try to let it out by shouting in shrill sharp glee at the sky, and you run. You run in the direction everybody is running but its no use. The rain just took the lead. It falls on your body, and soon reaches the intensity that you suddenly feel the awesomeness of it, and let go. You stop running for cover, and you start walking towards the rain. But maybe you have to really go in one direction and its not towards the rain. So what, Ardra walked backwards so she could take the rain on her face. It was high, the whole world.

With all that rain, and all that happiness in the stomach, the human body reaches down to its core and touches it. It does what it feels, and it knows what it wants. And I wanted to stand, facing the rain and looking up at the sky and feel the water on me. It was all water, it wasn't wind it wasn't even air anywhere nearby, water was what there was, up in the sky and down on the road, and us between it, all taking it, the blows of much too great a happiness. And then I wanted to jump, so I plunged feet first into a puddle. And then i wanted to run in the water and splash it on all sides, and I did. And then I wanted to stand on top of a fucking car and raise my arms and shout. And I did.


It was liberation. It was soulful, and we had our high-fives telling us how much we were in love with it. Drenched, full, complete, we were the deal. We felt big, and weren't hiding it. We wanted to gather a group of random people and sit them down in front of us and tell them, "Life is good". We wanted to breathe in, and breathe out, and enjoy it. A drenched tshirt hugging your stomach and shoulders is something to fall in love with. A group of four blown-away minds jumping in disbelief is something to fall in a puddle with. And a glass of Malai Gola, that fountain of joy and surreal sex appeal, is to take home to your mom and marry with.

Suck it, bitches.

Bombay, the Big City

(Picture Courtesy: Ardra Venugopal)

Rains are inspirational.

Rain on a lake, phenomenal.

I am watching it rain on the Powai Lake beside the Hills under the dark-light-dark blue-white-blue sky from a 12th floor wall-size open window. And I am feeling good.

Big white flapping birds that touch the lake water and rise away over the trees with fat hazy buildings in their background, traffic that looks like what traffic looks like from the 12th floor (except for that long slender truck with 7 large tractors on it, that one sure looks weird from up here), and the dense forest-like cover that hides away 4 and 5 story buildings beneath it that extends right to the bottom of the Hill. While I sit on the window sill scaring away the occasional house-fly on my hands.

Bombay is Big. Bombay is the Big Daddy of cities. It's simple as a string, but only when looked at from a distance (physical or mental). Stretching geographically elongated in an almost one-dimensional nature makes Bombay easy to travel in. There aren't complex graph-theoretic shortest paths to take you from one place to another, but just the two directions. You're either going up or down, and all the Bombay lies on that straight line from up to down. It's not unlike walking on a string. And the dangers are the same too, a break anywhere would make it disconnected.

Now, Bombay is a romantic city. Not just in that mushy heart-shaped sense, but more so in the adventurous one. People in Bombay walk on slippery edges on the roadside with intimidatingly large buses being driven like motorbikes by their drivers on one side, and a deep pit with brown muddy water and construction workers running amok in it on the other. They stand on the edge of the local-train doors feeling the wind-rush even when there's safer space inside. Girls can be seen walking on railway tracks wearing high heels and oblivious to the world around their mobile phones. And then you would always spot that one guy sitting unmovingly on the edge of the land staring away at the slit-size gap between the sky and the sea. Ofcourse, not to forget that lost guy looking at nothing in general, admiring the detail and the richness of a world looked at from the 12th floor. Isn't that the same truck with those 7 red tractors?

People here don't scare. Neither to nor fro. Its really amazing the amount of coolness you encounter in people around you here, all well settled in the unnatural speed of this particular metro. This cool habitual nature hits you in the face when you are travelling in a local train, standing in the unusually low density crowd one second, unaware of the amount of humanity that lay on the next station waiting to jump on to the hot iron container on the tracks, and suddenly surrounded with this compressed flesh of a hundred people the very next moment, and nobody even seems to notice the change! What repetition can do to your sense of wonder. And the sludge really hits the fan when you haven't really settled yourself yet in this sea of clothed flesh, and the train halts and you find yourself floating in that uncomfortable sea and out of the sink hole into a bigger and wider ocean, whether or not you wanted to get down the train. And you suddenly notice yourself laughing out loud looking around at the wonder of it all. To top it all, nobody even notices you laughing. Even that's pretty commonplace, I presume.

When in a local train once, in a usual high density high pressure packing when the train's just left from a station and the next station is miles ahead, a burly old gentleman suddenly voices out loud, 'chalo chalo utarna shuru karo, chalo'. The people around, rather amused by this, look at the old mumbaiya man, and he says again, 'arey chalti gaadi se utarna bahaduri hai bhai, wo dekho gate ke upar likha hai'. And at that the crowd couldn't help but let out a collective laugh and threw a few laughing looks around at each other. The sense of wonder isn't really all that lost then, is it.

It really warms your heart inside when someone far away notices you looking in that general direction, moves his head in a greeting sort of way as if playfully asking if everything's all right, and you reply to it with a slanted nod and both of you start smiling aloud. Its really not all that rare to spot stolen glances at you with a suggested wink when you make a commonplace mistake or a noobish query. Everybody was a noob here once, and they'll forgive you for it.

There is a culture to Bombay. That culture is work. They are the working class, and they know that you are too. And thats a bond. They will respect your time, they will understand your hurry, and they know that you understand theirs too. And that creates a comfort, a smooth organic speed of business that doesn't tread on your toes if you walk with the same speed too. This speed, though the result of optimality trade-offs between numerous forces, is still too high, and thats because of the most defining factor of the equation. What defines Bombay, to put it bluntly, is it's people. Not the kind of them so much, as the number of them. Its a crowd. And Bombay is just swarming with it.

Another quality that particularly stands out, in the case of Bombay, is this. Bombay has no pretense. It bustles with activity, and so overwhelmingly for everyone in it that there is left no time for pretense. People are not conscious and nervous of other people looking at them, simply because there are too many of them. People don't lower their voices in open because they know no one's listening. Girls on the station would take a really long time to notice that you're really staring at them on purpose, and not randomly to that general direction. And even when they do notice, you won't notice that they have. It's that cool. There is no nervousness on the street. People don't keep setting their hair parting straight. They don't look at their shoes and press the shirt folds neatly when walking in public. You might not really believe that, coming from Delhi or someplace less denser in population, but they're really not looking at you all the time. Or at another of the 7-tractor, all strikingly red, weird looking elongated truck that went by again.

Now by saying that Bombay has no pretense, a few counterexamples may come to mind. Like the horse-carts on the Marine Drive that go all out to look like Fairy Godmother's personal transport. Isn't that pretense? And how can you really say so about the very place that houses the whole of Bollywood. And then there's those buildings by the railway routes that have their glassy and polished facades towards the train, while a time-blackened messily wired adjacent wall with ACs hanging stands in plain view if you're really looking. No its not pretense, and infact rather proves my point, if you look closely enough. Its not pretense, its business.

At night when the sun isn't burning, the lights of the city of Bombay are. And what a sight they make. Drive on the central highway and look at the innumerous sqaure spots of light crawling up the Powai Hill to your left (depending on which direction you are travelling towards). Walk on a windy Marine Drive overlooking the lighted sky line of the city in the distance, amply extending into the sea. And then you would know what I mean. A peculiar thing, though, about these brilliant displays of light is that you don't really see any one of them. You see the whole congregated lot, and that is what is beautiful. That collective of lights makes for the brilliance in the view, not any single one of them. Now take that collective as Bombay, and every light as an individual that makes up that collective. Now you know Bombay.

But then ofcourse there's... wait, not again! What the hell are they doing with all these red tractors!

The Girl with a Secret

A little girl there was who knew a big secret. A secret made of gold and glint that she kept in the depths of her heart. It made her smile with a flush when no one was looking and her eyes sparkled with the pleasure it gave her.

Her waist was thin. Her feet small. She wasn't particulary breath-taking but no one could miss her too easily if she was in the same room. Her hair wasn't messy but just about careless. They described the whole person of her with a fair accuracy. Except for the secret, and the radiance that it brought to her face.

She could barely keep from laughing aloud when someone told her he's probably seen her before. Though she could barely keep the giggle inside when someone asked what her name was, she still told them in as ordinary a manner as she could manage. She never let them know that she knew. She wanted the game to last.

There used to be a puppy in her house. It was just a little white ball of fur with huge glass eyes that she decided were only a shiny veil. She wasn't going to be fooled. At times she looked straight into his eyes and burst out laughing, controlling it fast and turning away to smile in secret. Lest he knows that she knew.

Nobody could really understand what it was that gave her this limitless stream of liquid happiness. What gave her that spring in every step and that jump she seemed to express with all her body, without actually making it. Whatever it was, it was plenty and it was joyful. Whereas actually, it was just a secret.

She had lived with it for too long to remember what gave her the idea. But she had somehow decided it was true. That for once she knew it right. She had decided that the world around her was a setup. That it was there to watch her grow. To see how she reacts. That it wasn't so many people in the world, it was just one outside it. That One person looking at her from all the eyes around her. And judging her. Whereas she had caught the trick. She knew it now and He didn't. He kept acting like different people from inside different faces trying to trick her into life, when all the while she knew. And smiled all inside her, never letting out, never leaving a hint. Or the game might end. Though she did sometimes just for the sheer fun of it, risk a sharp swift wink to the sky.

THUD. .

Like a pink alien in springtime, I wander around all fuzzy and pink. A blue elephant in a fat flying bottle just missed me barely, from somewhere far away where he sits and reminisces, while his tired autopilot screeches and steers the bottle through a dizzy lane that bends and burns and bores like hell.

I seem to have recovered well from the unfortunate Dentrite Entanglement Accident last month, or last week, or however much it is to you from where you sit. So yeah, like a pink alien, which I am by the way, I keep sniffing about the road, hit a few Coke cans with my will (which is working fine now thanks for asking), and settle for an icecream.

The icecream was gay, not that I find anything wrong with it. But a gay icecream doesn't respond very well to the licks. Too well, actually. And they're really hard to swallow. As in, all pepped up for it. Gross. So I don't really see a point, really, you know what I mean? Too bloody small I say! Why can't they make 'em bigger and everybody will be able to see one and presumably lead happier lives.

Like you know, when the Battery died, no one really gave a shit. No you didn't I know, no one did. But I knew, I knew that someday we were all going to die because of that. But how clever, oh so very bloody clever of them to have named a day of the week on it. SomeDay just came and went. Nobody died. Nobody gave a shit, and then he was dead. And then nobody did anymore. I gulped the Humiliation, and then Realisation down. You are supposed to take them in order, or there may be gastric disorders. Maybe psychological too, but who cares about them after they put Happiness into every commoner's budget.

So yeah, the days of the week. And then the fetish started. SomeDay, ThatDay, TheDay, WhataDay, ShobhaaDay, ToDay, BirthDay, LauDay, YesterDay, and what not. And the commies even put in a MayDay, so they don't have to wait so long for it. Though I really fail to see the logic since all they do when it comes, is wait for the next one. You know its not normal when a month has a one-to-one correspondence with a week. Just like you know its not normal when its not normal. And hence it is not I say.

So yeah the Battery. It died. Moving on, did you notice the speeding blue elephant in a fat flying bottle approaching me from behind? I didn't. And he didn't miss me. Though he later will. But what good will that be to anyone. There is a right time for everything. Even for

This semester

This semester, I floated.
I dived and I gulped and burst and became a balloon and grew.
I understood. I danced.
I fought with an old friend and became one all over again.
I found a new one.
I walked on stage. I walked in glory.
I won. More than mere competitions.
I clapped and shouted.
I stood with my people in anger.
I realised. I was proud.
I walked in windy nights when trees screeched and turned.
I disintegrated with laughter.
I was in peace.
I made a presentation.
I impressed. I worked.
I was unsuccessful. I was happy.
I was funny. I was loved.
I was disgusted in people. I told them so.
I was transparent.
I was busy. And lucky.
I met people. I was impressed.
I acted. I made a movie.
I let things be.
I slept filled with music.
I saw a little boy who drove a motor cart.
I saw his shirt fighting with air while he sped.
I saw crabs. I saw a running shining swarm of big red scared crabs.
I fed a friend with my hands.
I sat on a chair in beach water and read.
I walked in the corridor a whole night in anxiety.
I saw beautiful girls I don't remember faces of anymore.
I saw a girl dance like she meant it.
I saw someone's tears washing away a whole mountain in me.
I saw eyes glazed with admiration. With surprise.
I was confused about the future.
I was happy with how it looked.
I ran. I jumped in water puddles.
I made a radio show in a night.
I was jobless. I was full.
I was jolly.

This semester.
I was so much.

Quotes by Famous People

Hi. - Oscar Wilde

Hieeee - Girl

I'm Wilde, - Oscar Wilde

I'm Oscar Wilde - God

He's lying - Oscar Wilde

I'm God - Manoj

I'm Oscar Wilde - Anonymous

I'm Anonymous - Oscar Wilde

I'm recursive - This Statement

Hieeee - Girl

Make love, not war - Anonymous

Ok I'm NOT Anonymous - Oscar Wilde

He's lying - Anonymous

He's not - Anonymous

Cheater! You can't quote as me! - Anonymous

Ofcourse I can, you're Anonymous. - Oscar Wilde

No ofcourse you can't. I'm dumb. - Oscar Wilde

What! You can't quote as me! - Oscar Wilde

Ofcourse I can, you're Oscar Wilde! - Anonymous

Hieeee - Girl

Hallelujah! - Pope

I'm out - Oscar Wilde

He's not - out

He's not - not

Oh damn - not

Oh damn - not

Byeeee - Girl