tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69786801352534243192022-03-23T01:01:49.829+05:30Laugh. Rant. Rave. Sigh. Cheer.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger41125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6978680135253424319.post-90557886416347918162016-08-13T16:23:00.001+05:302016-08-26T01:13:34.541+05:30

Write. Write, I'm urged. But my fingers don't move. Must all be funny? Must all be pretty? Must all transcend above the madness, the clutter, the noise....so much noise. I don't want to write I say, there is too much clutter, too much junk out there. Everybody's speaking, everybody's ranting, there's too much to consume, too much to assimilate, too much shit to get through to find the gold. So

Unknownnoreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6978680135253424319.post-27258739339641190952014-08-15T12:38:00.000+05:302014-08-15T14:15:22.503+05:30

In a world today that increasingly disapproves of nationalistic sentiments, some of us still can't shake them off. Nationalism may be interpreted as a sense of superiority, but that's not what I'm referring to here, I am mostly referring to the sense of belonging and ownership, and for the lack of a better word, we'll stick to nationalism. I remember how some people thought me foolish to

Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6978680135253424319.post-74683487378811588472014-04-14T15:42:00.000+05:302014-04-14T21:31:18.669+05:30

I was always a boisterous tom-boyish kid growing up. HATED dolls, soft-toys didn't make no sense. Didn't understand the need for creams and such-like until after I turned sixteen. That silly barbie pink made me want to puke. More often than not I was fighting with the boys to let me play with them - cricket, marbles, football; scaling walls, trying to wrestle them after getting inspired watching

Unknownnoreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6978680135253424319.post-55903644400511356702014-02-21T13:25:00.001+05:302014-02-21T13:36:10.097+05:30

I have started to feel rather feline these days. No no, my pleasantly curvy body has not gone all sinuous and lithe. I still can't wear a jumpsuit without the expectation to top that with a sunflower head for my niece's school show. I imagine wriggling into a tight catsuit might take considerably more effort. Ever tried to stuff a pillow into a slightly shrunk pillow cover? Get the picture? :).

Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6978680135253424319.post-69674964799583945632013-07-21T00:34:00.002+05:302013-07-21T13:44:00.714+05:30

If your woman isn't giving you enough Aiyos, trust me, she's faking it! We are not so much about the idli-dosa as we are about the Aiyo. We, the South-Indians that is. Yes, we truly and most completely embody the stereotype. The Aiyo defines us, refines us, and reigns us. It is hard-wired in your baser instincts, it's your first emotion. Listen closely, there...can you hear the baby go

Unknownnoreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6978680135253424319.post-27122452838261269942013-07-17T14:06:00.001+05:302013-07-17T22:23:24.941+05:30

.. or so they will have you believe. You know they? They-y? Like all other people who don't know you. So lots has been written about the Indian girl who has crossed the golden matrimonial age of 25, but nowhere did my experienced seniors enlighten me on this additional phenomenon that surrounds her. But we will get to that in a bit. The thing about moving about in traditional Indian garb (for

Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6978680135253424319.post-60280085963092625302013-07-15T00:05:00.001+05:302013-07-15T17:13:24.623+05:30

Yesterday, my cousins and I went to enjoy the Ramazan food festival in my neighbourhood.In the melee, I found myself wanting to capture photographs of the various sights at the stalls. But part of feeling the female Muslim and traditional Indian is wrapping your dupatta tight around yourself and shifting in closer to the females in your group, so that well, you don't end up squashed in a

Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6978680135253424319.post-71380530265287836332012-07-23T17:10:00.001+05:302012-07-23T17:30:29.551+05:30

Why don't they give us gas tanks before we enter elevators? I mean it only makes logical sense. Particularly if you have to hold your breath for 10 floors at least. I am talking of our Indian lifts. Torture isn’t it? We Indians are odour factories. The rest of the world agrees. The only other competition are the herb popping Chinese. No offense my East Asian friends, but marry your bad breath to

Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6978680135253424319.post-61695710209886158102012-07-11T23:27:00.001+05:302012-07-11T23:30:48.645+05:30

  Stupid people are happier. Don't care if nothing has proven it, but I am saying it. And you know it to be true  --- that is if you are the smart ones. Stupid people are happier. Mostly because they are just too stupid to process anything beyond its face value. It's a great coping strategy I tell you.But unfortunately the crack people brains are trained to peel away every layer and throw all

Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6978680135253424319.post-6285099181597893822012-06-03T00:42:00.001+05:302012-06-04T23:24:01.373+05:30

  A long time ago I read an interview given by one of the kapoor's who recalled that Rishi kapoor was so fat as a kid that "his thighs used to rub together". I found that very odd. No not the fact that his thighs rubbed together, but the fact that it was considered "fat". I'll tell you why. For the bulk of the stereotypical Indian women, that's a fact. No matter how thin you are, if you are

Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6978680135253424319.post-24515163033384681342012-05-03T13:01:00.001+05:302012-06-04T22:57:51.518+05:30

I have fantasies. Rich fantasies. Every part of me comes alive. All my emotions burst forth. Yes, yes - I have fantasies. Ricchh fantasies. Flesh meeting flesh fantasies. In my fantasies --- There’s a massive rush of blood to the head. I jump in the air in slow motion. Crouching tiger. Hidden dragon. --- KHAAAAIIIIYAAAAAA. There is ferocity on my face. My teeth are bared. As I

Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6978680135253424319.post-74690233779425727082012-03-19T21:56:00.002+05:302012-06-03T01:50:05.941+05:30

"When I was in college". When I was in college, the was was enough for me to write somebody off. My big round eyes would roll rounder at the 25 year old aunty who started off reminiscing with that very sentence. Really didn't even 25 seem super old in those days? And really wasn't it super irritating when some baby aunty started off talking about her college days and ended it with what

Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6978680135253424319.post-15271558912876666242012-03-09T23:54:00.000+05:302012-03-19T14:29:17.454+05:30

I have always found it rather amusing that most fervent of all prayers is in the most effusive of urdus. The man considered best to lead a prayer is the man who can speak to God in God's own language - urdu.... Moslem. No no muslim. No no no no musalmaan. There that's the right way to say it. Otherwise we are not muslim. whispers: But God can speak English you know ..... I have always

Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6978680135253424319.post-47873490401947576882012-01-23T21:01:00.002+05:302012-03-19T14:29:17.940+05:30

Dear Mr. Solipsistic What a wonderfully interesting dilemma you pose to me. If that cute little cartoon hadn't hinted at your intentions, I would have probably found you rather interesting - which you probably are, but with that dash of consciously geeky brashy charm that geeks tend to throw about as an offensive but in reality is just defensive. Hey, don't get me wrong but I love my geeks. Take

Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6978680135253424319.post-45172063260777317702011-12-01T10:50:00.001+05:302012-03-19T14:29:17.905+05:30

She leaned forward and pressed her face to her window shield. Cloned tufts of clouds scatterred above - slightly curved ... a psychedelic reflection on the glass. The face curves in unision and it seemed like she was one with the sky. A slight dusk chill blew through the open windows - settling on one arm and slipping into her hair. The heater blowed warm air on her ankles and hands. It

Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6978680135253424319.post-15416257385102314322011-10-08T22:39:00.001+05:302012-03-19T14:29:17.493+05:30

.... and hey if you didn’t notice, you are driving to the tune of her hands yourself! This is the point where I wanna roll down that window and scream LADY JUST STUFF YOUR HANDS IN HIS PANTS AND BE DONE WITH IT ALREADY!! Now that I am back behind the wheel, the road is my video game, and I am winning it! Well, err, only sometimes. Every day on the road is an experience isn’t it? All the out

Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6978680135253424319.post-14208955025296938882011-08-11T23:53:00.007+05:302012-03-19T14:29:17.433+05:30

"There” I told her, “You can sleep now”. She nodded through troubled eyes and hugged her body tight. I mentally shook my head in a never mind. I felt so superior for being non-girly and somehow the brave one around. Even more so when the next morning, her friend came knocking. Through sleep-groggy states I ask him how I could help him. The laash he said. Hindi for corpse. For a moment I thought

Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6978680135253424319.post-15922300583181800272011-08-07T23:47:00.006+05:302012-03-19T14:29:17.524+05:30

The womb is actually a drama queen. She hogs all the glory just because of those meager nine months that she goes to work. Yes, the womb may be a heroine – but the real Mother India my friends is the lady standing guard outside the chambers of the theatrical queen. It’s that lady always decked in layers of silky smooth….plump…satin, exuding a warmth that goes straight to the core of your heart.

Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6978680135253424319.post-12776417643613494962011-07-08T12:01:00.004+05:302012-03-19T14:29:17.411+05:30

I met a biryani lech once. Ok I am lying. I’ve met him many times. Ok I am lying again. I have met many leches many times in my life. Actually I meet a biryani lech every other time I meet someone new.  So who’s the biryani lech you may ask?You.Yes. You. Don’t look left and right. I am talking to you, you salivating lech. You. Didn’t like that now did ya? Then perhaps you may want to listen to me

Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6978680135253424319.post-8125632615693094682011-06-25T14:11:00.007+05:302012-03-19T14:29:18.047+05:30

Have you guys noticed how people tend to bond over diseases and ailments? It’s almost like a social convo savior. Like the moody weather or the bad traffic. In fact I think people find it far more exciting. Suddenly there is something concrete and interesting and serious to talk about. Just think about it. I am sure a lot of us have been in situations where medical ailments have been hearty

Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6978680135253424319.post-50448219301467053752011-06-16T17:12:00.014+05:302012-03-19T14:29:17.975+05:30

A true food lover possesses a Shakespearean passion for food. A secretive hot and heavy relationship that sizzles in the dark of the night. Floats in the light of the day. And offers that entire mix of temptations, indulgences, and even a spiritual liberation when you just want to drop to your knees and prostrate to the almighty in fervent thanks for this heavenly pleasure on earth. Food is just

Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6978680135253424319.post-34679597857654068182011-06-13T19:19:00.008+05:302012-03-19T14:29:17.642+05:30

People who have music in their souls can’t ever give it up. I feel all those auditioners who bray their souls on national television. I understand that intense burning desire to stand before a mike and let the world hear you. To feel the heat rushing out your nose like it’s funnelling through a high voltage hair dryer... I am constantly amazed by the amount of musical talent in this world. I

Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6978680135253424319.post-34581670228246527572011-05-20T22:23:00.012+05:302012-03-19T14:29:17.618+05:30

There are two qualities that (if present in a person simultaneously) can be a recipe for disaster, comedy, and supreme embarrassment. Honesty and the urge to always be right. You will know people who walk around with these, or you yourself may be one. I am one such crack and trust me, there is no end to the troubles  I endure because of these two. Take for instance my latest experience. I went

Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6978680135253424319.post-35892337782167545882011-04-27T21:50:00.006+05:302012-03-19T14:29:17.746+05:30

I am here to speak on behalf of the dog-fearing people. We are a neglected, oppressed, and suppressed lot. Nobody cares if we die of fang fright or go into permanent woof shock. There is no awareness and no concept of ‘dog-fear enabled’. The truth is that you know us. We are the people you love to hate. You know the ones who request you to lock your dog up? Well technically speaking we are the

Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6978680135253424319.post-59090772773008646232011-04-26T22:09:00.019+05:302012-03-19T14:29:17.990+05:30

Perhaps it is the apathy of people like me, who have the ability to speak out, that just makes it easier for idiots to randomly pronounce and proclaim so authoritatively about a community. And is it any wonder that over time, reiteration of skewed views by the media, slowly becomes the defacto opinion of the larger society? The newspaper reported about Sila Sahin today. She’s a

Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6