my daily cup of poison

from the eyes of a 20-something

2009-09-11T15:04:00.005+05:30

Comparing herself to a modern day Walt Whitman, is this 20-something woman with the unquenchable thirst to write poems (hate mail really) dedicated to me.

Not surprisingly, it has highly-acclaimed critics raving about it. Here's what one has to say:
"Lolzzz... I'm lovin' it! :D Kudos to her! She's described you almost perfectly in so few sentences. I haven't managed to do so even after such a long time!"
- Ms. N in action

Without further delay, gentleladies and gentlemen, here's:

Alok, I HATE you!

Alok, you make me choke,
and you can't even make a joke.
You get annoyed when I poke,
and your smelly feet need a soak.
You eat noodles with a fork,
and your laugh sounds like a croak.
Alok, Alok, Alok...

You don't smoke,
and you're a dumb bloke.
If you don't save money,
soon you'll be broke.
You drink Pepsi, not Coke;
you'll become stronger if you eat an egg yolk.
I feel like hiding you in an invisibility cloak!
Alok, Alok, Alok...

- Ms. C Elliot

shit happens

2009-03-30T11:13:00.007+05:30

This one's for the guys who came over for lunch yesterday:

Having the b'loos'? Any oxymoronic feeling of having the runs while sitting down? (Tummy) upset over a shitty experience? Or even, the lyrics of '(I've Had)The Time of my Life' from the (s)hit movie 'Dirty Crapping' or 'Can't fight this feeling' going through your mind? Then come, let's raise a stink about this together!

Our tummies underwent great injustice yesterday. And the world should know we won't take this s(h)itting down!

Today, after our tummies settle, let's meat inside Shruti's biggest loo and show our 'soil'darity towards the cause of 'shit happens' (previously called 'can't fight for shit'), before logging the crap out of whoever is responsible. Until then, those with wifi and the OCD to take their laptops into the loo, can fill in my online poll to pass their time (and some gas).

As intimated by sms, please get your own toilet rolls or adult diapers. Ammunition will be provided in the form of Ceplox TZ, Imodium and Dependal. Choose your weapons wisely. Bottles of Harpic are more than welcome.

Please call our dedicated potline (1800-shit-happens) to address all your grievances.

What do you think was inside that curry?

Or if you have any other view (of the poll only please), please share it with us by leaving your comments.

unlucky by chance

2009-02-12T13:08:00.006+05:30

"Love hurts, but sometimes it's a good hurt..."

Brandon Boyd (the vocalist of Incubus) couldn't have sung anything truer in 'Love Hurts'.

Love really hurts - not just your heart (bad!)... but your whole dang body as well (worse!!).

So what's this tirade all about anyway?

Sigh! If you must know.

Love pushed me to the gym.

And the cause of this epitome of my pain? Addlife.

All you out-of-shapes-who-newly-joined-a-gym out there must understand what I'm going through by now.

And when did this start?

Ironically, when monkey and I went to see 'Luck by Chance'.

Yours truly was contemplating joining the gym... cummon, everyone has - Hetch, Moto Moto, Uncle Pai, Papa Bear - and I didn't want to feel left out. So I turn to ask monkey's view on it.

Ooops, I couldn't have choosen a worse time!

Our highness was busy drooling at Hritik & Farhaan's topless (and hopefully CGed) bodies. She managed to peel her eyes off the screen to take a look at the chewed up toothpick sitting next to her.

Next thing I know, she's nodding yeses like a epileptic having fits!

And now I've condemned myself to eternal damnation (or 'gymnation' :S).

Unlucky by chance indeed! :(

Edit: Me love's given me something to mend my heart and body with... Volini! :D

hay! now this is a nice thought!

2009-01-25T12:39:00.003+05:30

According to my office mom's ex CD (who might have heard it from someone):

Serendipity is like searching for a needle in the haystack, and finding the farmer's daughter!

the assumption song - it ALMOST got a parental rating :D

2009-01-20T19:59:00.004+05:30

I'm not saying anything. Just click here. And don't assume anything! ;)

is god really in the details?

2009-01-19T11:38:00.004+05:30

Yesterday, while on the way to the Deccan 1/4 Mile Drag (race, not queen), 'Reserve' had one of his once-in-a-blue moon epiphanies.

How come there were more Sai Baba Wine Shops than Sai Baba temples?

Which made me think; there were far too many wine shops named after Gods than temples themselves!

Conclusion: God is not in the details... He's in the distilleries!

the drunk poem

2008-12-24T18:24:00.000+05:30

Starkle, starkle, little twink,
Who the hell are you I think.
I'm not under what you call
The alcofluence of incohol.
I'm just a little slort of sheep,
I'm not drunk like thinkle peep.
I don't know who is me yet,
But the drunker I stand here the longer I get.
So just give me one more fink to drill my cup,
'Cause I got all day sober to Sunday up.

- Alex Smart

the sad taste of happy meals

2008-10-12T02:46:00.012+05:30

And what brings this rant on at 3 o'-bloody-clock in the morning?

A wayward memory, that snuck into my dreams, sending my 'til now happy mood into a downward spiral. That lilliputian of a memory, which was stuffed deep down in some crevice of my mind, and which is why I am what I am now.

Now this is Zen talk on relationships (or their end?), so pay attention.

1. Never, ever, tell someone you're cheating on them over a happy meal. Not even the free toy will cheer them up. Even that smiling Ronald McDonald will seem to mock.

2. Trust no one but yourself. Give someone your shiny swiss knife, and you never know when they might stab your ass with it.

3. And, finally, be utterly selfish. That's the only way to get out unscathed the next time, if you are stupid enough to allow a next time.

Today, I'm happier than that happy meal. Happier than that shiny new toy. And happier than smug Mr. Ronald McDonald.

Very clichéd-ly, more than anything else, I have no regrets - of the dirty deeds I HAD DONE to bury my secret pain, or the dirtier deeds I pulled to do my dirty deeds.

But that memory is a part of my life I never want to take a trip down again. So will I ever let my guard down? Probably not, and it's probably not worth the pain anyway.

khalo jayanti!

2008-10-03T18:41:00.007+05:30

Sandwich khalo
Burger khalo
Pork (with bamboo shoots) khalo
Idli khalo
Dosa khalo
Pav bhaji khalo
Pani puri khalo
Pomeranian kutta bhi khalo

Par aaj, thoda cake khalo!

Happy Birthday Welou Khalo!

pink - the new black

2008-07-16T14:36:00.002+05:30

He's walking down the road, biceps, triceps and forceps, red tabs hugging his waist, ID shoes, a pink shirt, ray bans... woah! Rewind that please! A pink shirt?! What's happening here?

I'll tell you what's happening. Pink has come to mantown, and is here to stay. Pink has become an integral part of our (no, not the pink Steven Tyler wailed like a banshee about) wardrobe. And most importantly, Pink has become the new Black.

From a man's perspective, it's a colour with a story, some morals (of sorts), and many shades of grey (or pink). And why is that? Well, it's because its shades can divide a man into two very distinct groups. Still not understanding? Well... I shall not mince my words then. The shade of pink a man chooses can tell a lot about him. Like whether he's metrosexual or is happy and gay. Phew... THERE, I said it!

Point being? Well, how much ever 'some folks' overzealously jump up to deny it, all my shades of pink shirts are of the metrosexual kind. And point being, yes Mr. Rocker, your cubicle is metrosexual pink (which like I mentioned is the new black ;)). And the point very much being that your, my friend Mr. Rainbow, overcoat's stripes are distinctively gay.

And the moral:
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a splash of pink.

(Politically correcting late Mr. T S Eliot)

happy birt'her'day bundu

2008-06-24T19:16:00.005+05:30

He is 26, and is running on 27, though he does not want to accept it. No, it's not because he doesn't want to acknowledge his years getting closer to 30, but because he hasn't understood its concept yet.

So who is this 'him'?

Well, the 'him' is a mystery; an enigma, not only to us, but to himself too. He is the West Indian of the South Indian Mindset. And he's none other than the (in)famous superhero of bizarre phrases Bundu, the (not so) secret identity of Sumanth 'James' Mani, popularly known for his bestselling Bunduism 101.

Here are a few examples of his heroisms; excerpts from the book:

Wazzaaaa!

Ada paavi! (prolly how a Tamilian says vada pav?)

Damaar mai! (screwed man!)

What the faark!

I will bundoo you! (I will beat you!)

Pachak (hot chick)

Plauchak (ugly chick)

Hello! Waaat nonsense!

Atlanta. Georgia. Fatango. (don't bother asking!)

Fsk you!

Don’t say me that this is me!

That’s what I’m saying Bob!

Keep quite Bob! (Doesn't matter if you're talking or not)

See this shot now!

She, she, she! (how he says chee, chee, chee)

Wishing you a Happy BirtHERday Bundu.

baba black sheep

2008-06-23T12:47:00.006+05:30

This is what you get when a dyslexic (at least I suspect) sister is given the opportunity to say your name. How in God's name 'Alok' sounded like 'Baba' don't ask me. But to her it did. And sadly it stuck.

And it started a slew of unfortunate events (tragic seems a better word), which left my childhood bruised and battered in its wake. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me they say. Yeah right! I was the victim of 'sheep'ish names callings. From uncles, to aunts, to maids, to cousins, and even to strangers. Everywhere I went I was subjected to various imitations of what a sheep would sound like.

And then I shifted schools. A new school and a new identity. It was my very own Witness Potection Program. And it was my most closely guarded secret, one which I would take with me to my grave. Or so I thought. It was the very same sister who gave me away again. I remember the day like it was yesterday. It was right before our math exam, and R calls up to get his doubts cleared. And who answered his call? My very own traitor sister. She screams out to me (which was totally unnecessary since I was practically next to her), "BABA!!!!! Phone for you." And the cat (or sheep) was out of the bag. The next day, I was running up for a supplimentary sheet, when the whole crowd, like gleeful, vicious name-calling children, started in unison - "Baba, black sheep, have you...". And so the name calling continued. How did it all end? Well, don't even go there!

I didn't have any luck with my real name (it's an absolute riot when you put my first and second name together) either. Everyone had derived their own version of names for me; a different permutation and combination to add to that unholy phonetic list. From Aloo (Aishu) and Puri (Aishu and Su), to Bhel Puri (Mansukhani), Aloo Puri (this was a favourite) and Pani Puri (JS), to some really whacked out ones like Alkaline (Sam) to Alokede (the Late Mrs. Neelam gleefully exclaimed that it sounded like a vegetable).

It's now time for me to move on again. Erase my past and write another story on a clean slate. And more importantly, with a whole new not-so-teaseable name.

P.S. There does happen to be someone with a weirder name than mine - which sounds like 'Oinkdrella' (Cinderella's ugly step-sister I presume?). And kidding you I'm not. Her name sounded like something from a pen! "Heeerrreee piggie, piggie, piggie!"

what's your red indian name?

2008-06-20T14:28:00.003+05:30

The young Indian boy had spent most of his life in a quandry... He felt different yet... couldn't figure why... he was just so depressed. He went to the Chief for answers... He asked the chief how his brother Red Deer Running had gotten his name...

The chief answered in his typically poetic way..."When Red Deer Running was born, at the moment of his birth, the first thing his mother saw was a beautiful deer running off into the forest... and so Running Deer was named. It is the custom of our tribe to name the offspring according to the spirits in nature visiting upon the birth."

Then, the boy said to the Chief... And how did my sister "Thundering Bird" get her name? The chief described again, how at the moment of her birth Thundering Bird's mother had heard a roar of thunder and looking up, saw a bird flying in the sky...

The boy asked again, how his cousin "White Crouching Bear" had been given such a name... And the chief, looking down once more at the boy, explaining the traditions of their tribe.... White Bear's mother had seen a rare white bear crouched over a stream at the moment her baby's birth. Then he asked the boy...

"Why do you ask, Two Dogs Fucking?"

Ripped from here

smoke

2008-06-18T17:45:00.004+05:30

Earth to earth,
and dust to dust.
The lovers lay,
smothered in lust.

She walks out the door,
Hardly saying a few words.
But it's the lamest excuse,
you've ever heard.

She says it's not you,
but you don't believe her.
She wasn't worth it,
yet you grieve her.

Would you trust
the words of a liar,
Though without smoke,
there's never fire.

It's the truth of life,
and it shall remain.
For today,
and ever again.

bullet mein mil gaya - i rode, i scored and i conq'her'ed!

2008-06-17T16:34:00.004+05:30

With "The man with 3 b***ls" (read here) already running houseful from Lakdi-ka-pul to Leh, here's its prequel, another blockbuster from our production company - Creative Briefs. This one's called - "Bullet mein mil gaya - I rode, I scored and I conqHERed!".

The plot
Hetch and Bullet standing on mountain top, one peeing off cliff, and the other leaking oil. Cute kitten in uniform passes by in 4x4. Hearing racket of the Juggernaut, Hetch and Bullet turn around... and while one cracks lens of his "authentic" Oakleys, the other squirts engine oil all the way into the next valley. It was love at great height! Love enough to make them stop picking up men.

They both vie for her attention, from performing wheelies up Magnetic Hill, to cartwheels down Rothang Pass. But she is oblivious to our heroes' advances. And so they persevere even more. One fateful night, Hetch hatches a hideously ingenious plot to get her heart. They kidnap and subject her to techniques from the bestselling 'Hyderabadi Nawabs - A Dummies guide to a royal torture', which include many deary sessions of hypnotism by steady humming of Bullet to Hetch slowly breaking her spirit by his psychobabble bullshit. At the end she gives in and joins their polygamy relationship.

Soon wedding bells ring across the mountains, and cold teeth chatter in rhythm. Both the heroes look handsome, one in a tuxedo, and the other with a trail of beer cans strung behind him. After they all share their holy kisses of matrimony, the threesome set into the sunset (who's riding who don't ask), one horning, and the other horny.

god save the cuisine!

2008-06-11T12:48:00.004+05:30

Here are some food for thoughts:

a. Why does our Chinese food not taste anything like CHINESE Chinese food?

b. Why does butter chicken taste vastly different everywhere you go, even if they follow the exact same recipe?

c. Why isn't French fries and French toast French?

d. Why do you 'eat' soup?

e. Why is the Indian hand signal for 'eat food' eerily similar to the 'WTF' hand signal in Europe?

Anymore to add to my list? Fork it out to me, and I'll include it!

P.S. Here's a post 'cleaner' than a China plate, served up especially for you N.D.!

a cruel addiction

2008-06-10T18:29:00.004+05:30

Addiction is good and bad. It can drive you to achieve impossible goals, or drive you to the brink of bankruptcy, and sometimes even death. Whatever it may be, the fact remains that you can't escape its clutches.

I will now share with you a great truth in life that I learned from some random 70mm - There are three things you don't mess with: Mother Nature, Mother-in-laws and Mother-effing Addictions!

Coming to I, Me & Myself, I can't decide whether my addiction is good or bad. Because I happen to suffer from the worst of all addictions... an addiction to addictions. It sometimes drives me insane... like I just HAVE TO finish the damn job I started, however unproductive it is. Which is good, because I end up finish whatever I've started, a brownie attitude for my work. Or like if I get addicted to something I see, I need to have it, however broke I might be. So I work towards scrooging till I can buy it. Which is good I guess, because it teaches me to save... See what I mean? I can't figure out if this damn disease is good or bad! Case in point - this post. Some unknown force is just compelling me to finish it, however retarded the topic may be. I'm lucky that drugs haven't caught my fancy, yet.

But here's the twist to my sad little story. For a person suffering form an addiction to addictions, I also suffer from a serious case of ADD.

Now many don't know what the acronym 'ADD' stands for. Well it's Attention Deficit Dis... hey! Let's go grab some ice cream! :D

on the after - a tribute to hetch (the end)

2008-06-08T15:33:00.006+05:30

Our horny man in Leh,

Was smitten by a uniformed kitten, they say;

But she shot his bum,

to kingdom come,

And back to Hyd. he fley!

at the present - a tribute to hetch (continued)

2008-06-08T15:31:00.001+05:30

There once was a tourist in Leh,

Who learnt much to his dismay,

The girls dressed in layers of clothes.

Why he took so long no one knows.

And he remains a virgin to this day.

(courtesy, click here )

in the before - a tribute to hetch

2008-06-08T15:17:00.003+05:30

There was once a man from Hyd.,

Who's bullet was always by his side;

Planned a trip to the mountain,

But it went there without him,

So he sat back, scratched his balls and sighed!

a night under the sun - a true psychedelic story with morals

2008-05-30T13:58:00.010+05:30

"Ahh! A perfect night under the sun!" said the kid, spending the hot summer day laying dazed under the shade of the mango tree, and seeing stars as he chewed on pieces of magic mushrooms.

Actually, those bloody 'shrooms' (as the 'yo dudes' prefer to call them) make you see more than just stars. For me, I was in my own version of Alice in Wonderland. Alok in Wonderland I'd like to call it. Though I didn't see stars, I did see our house get up and walk up and down the street a couple of times, to come sit back down again. And this was while my darling 'P' was having an amicable conversation with the neighbourhood trees. Funnily, at that point of time, it all felt so real. Like I said, Alok in Wonderland. :)

If this was not amazing enough, you should hear about a friend, his friend, and his friend's friend's trip to Wonderland. The friend, his friend and his friend's friend were in a certain hill station infamous for taking its visitors on a really colourful trip. One night, as the clock struck 12, and high on some local liquor and their faithful shrooms, our brave men braved the chilling chills of the climate to break into a golf course. Trampling through the greens they trudged ahead, slaying every imaginary dragon that came their way. This was until suddenly the friend's friend's friend (let's just call him f3 for convenience), fell victim to hunger. Luckily a bunch of bananas came to his rescue. Telling his friends that he'll catch up with them, he plonked his arse under a tree to devour the delicacies.

Now, the REAL facts according to f3 (from his secret hideout): After seating his tush under the tree, he peeled a banana to relish its ripe insides. This is when he noticed a cow having a midnight snack close by. Feeling a rush of responsibility towards his fellow living being, he offered it his peel, which it tongues up cheerfully. But mice were still crawling up his stomach walls, so f3 satiated his hunger by peeling another banana, while offering the peel to his new found compadre. Another banana. And another. And yet another, till just one remained. After he gulped this down with just as equal a fervor as the others, he turned to throw the pale peel to his dear chum. That's when he saw the cow staring him right in the face. And it asked him in a low menacing moo, "Brudda, why are you throwing me JUST the peels?!"

The last my friend and his friend saw of f3 was of him running past the 18th hole, faster than a speeding golf ball struck by Mr. Woods, with a cow hot on his heels.

Morals of the story: Kids, stay off drugs! And don't feed cows banana peels!

the start and end of my aromatic affairs

2008-05-28T18:18:00.009+05:30

My romance with fragrances started with this cute, peppy little thing called CK One... who I was faithful to for many years. We were blissfully happy in our scented little world for a long time, until that fateful night I met the vivacious and lusty Ms. Hilfiger in my ex-best friend ZR's loo. I had a drink too many, and went to the restroom to make space for some more. I was busy trying to keep my balance, aim 'mini me' right and get the hair out of my face, all at the same time, when I noticed her longingly peeking out from the open mirror cupboard. Our eyes met, and so began my secret love affair with her. It was a passionate one, with subtle fruity undertones. But CK One soon found out about it, when I went home in a drunken stupor, with a faint felt of Hilfiger on my clothes. We parted ways amicably, though I must admit, we did have a couple of one night stands over the years (you can't forget old lovers now, can you?) .

We were together through most of my early school years, happy in our respective smells. But sadly, I have a rich history of fragrance philanderers in my family tree, and it wasn't long before I succumbed to my dormant instincts. I cheated on Hilfiger with OP Juice, who my dad introduced me to... but boy what a tantalizing shape she had!

By then I had tasted blood (and a variety of it at that!), and was craving for more. So it came as no surprise when I unceremoniously dumped OPJ in favour of Perry Ellis Portfolio. She was by far my favourite companion, though I did have a couple a brief flings with Ms. Ralph Lauren, CK's siblings - Truth and Eternity (the sexy twins who I'd met in the perfume section of Shoppers Stop), and dated Coolwater, Silver shadow and Ferrari (not in any particular order) for some time.

I finally had enough of my evil ways and found my life partner in BVLGari. I thought I've settled down for life, when 'pumpkin' introduced me to Perry Ellis Portfolio Green, Perry Ellis's younger and hotter sibling. My dormant playboy instincts once again awoke, and I rekindled my romance with the Perry Ellis family.

Sadly my affair with fragrances ended in a sniff. I was flirting with my latest body candy - RL's Romance Silver at J's place, when my dear friend J let go of a particularly smelly one (what was known as an SBD back in school). Its odour was so traumatising, that it scarred my love for fragerances forever. A tragic but swift end to my parfuminizing ways I suppose.

But what left a really bad taste (or smell!) was when he tried getting away with it by blaming it on his dog!

al pacino... the cooler brother of cap puccino

2008-05-26T17:14:00.011+05:30

They are both conversation starters. They are both equally craved for around the world. And they are both from 'the land of young cattle'. Yes people, I'm talking about Cap Puccino and his eeeevil (as Mike Myres would put it) twin Al Pacino! You know them, but how well do you REALLY know them? Well, drawing inspiration from High Fidelity (again), I'm taking the GUESS out of GUESSwork for you folks!

First, their Top 5 similarities:

1. They can both trace their ancestries back to Italy.

2. They are both brown.

3. They both have close associations with insomnia.

4. One has a porcelain face, and the other is best served in porcelain.

5. One is the Godfather of cinema, while the other the Godfather of coffee.

And now, their Top 5 differences:

1. While one is rich, hot and brown, the other is just rich and brown.

2. One is attracted to the scent of women, the other has women attracted to its scent.

3. Al's famous for killing people (ala Godfather), and Cap for breathing life into them.

4. While Al Pacino is full of gas, his expresso'ed sibling gives you a stomach full of gas.

5. And lastly, you'd love to taste Cap first thing in the morning, but I'm sure you couldn't stand tasting Al right out of bed!

Now don't you feel as if you've seen, smelt and tasted them, like forever?!

as safe as sunscreen

2008-05-23T14:48:00.011+05:30

So what makes you feel safe? Your security blanket, your diary, your bed or your loo? And what do you call this safe 'place'? Well, I call mine sunscreen... my very own corner of safeness, security and an unlimited supply of emotional SPF 15.

My sunscreen has no physical form. It's just this cute little brightly coloured tube tucked away in the remotest part of my brain, bottled up, away from prying eyes (God forbid they find what's in there!). It's inside this tube where the most devious plots of mine come to life when I'm high, and it's the tube I open to find solace and short-lived euphoria during those low times (it's like opening and taking a deep breath from a cherry blossoms-scented bath & bodyworks handwash bottle). It's where I've bottled up all those cuss words I called my teachers, and hide forever those sweet nothings I used to call all my previous girlfriends (each one had their own set of sweet nothings :p). It's also where those callous remarks reside, which people make me take back, and which I don't have any intention to. But most importantly, it's like my own piece of freedom, or more precisely, paradise, which ironically is locked up inside my head.

Everyone have their own special SPF 15 (and SPF 30 for the overtly emotional ones) sunscreens. But for those who don't, I recommend you to get yourself a tube of it too. Like Baz Luhrmann's song 'Everybody's free (to wear sunscreen)' goes - "If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it."

a picture a day...

2008-05-22T15:07:00.003+05:30

When you die, how would you like the world to remember your life? More importantly, how would YOU remind the world about your life?

One thing's for sure. There's one person the world will remember for a long, long time to come. And that man is Jaime Livingston - for the very unusual, yet heart warming memories he left behind for us.

Jaime, from the year 1979, started taking one polaroid picture a day, till the day he succumbed to cancer, in 1997. And though the pictures were nothing spectacular, just random ones of friends, family, dinners, picnics, his loss of hair during the chemo sessions and the slow walk towards his grave, their impact is extremely profound. The kind which makes you sit up and think - how do I want the world to remember me?

Click here and here to know more about his life's album, and share with everyone else his joys, sorrows, despairs and hopes.