cerebrum.. cere...well... um....

Brain-Section 1 convincing Sec.2 that it's a writer's block.
Brain-Sec.3 scoffs at the vain attempt to justify torpidity.
Brain-Sec.4 makes a list of all luxuries that will vanish along with the job.
Brain-Sec.5 shamelessly writes a blog entry.

Say aaah...

Don’t we love to see the line of qualifications following a doctor’s name? Little brackets announcing that the doc’s MD is not from any local college, but from London, Yankee land or Timbuktu… It's a great source of amusement to ask the doc about his experiences practising in Australia. “Being among Kangaroos was a medically enriching experience. And patients there are so refined.” (said with far-away look in eyes)
Oh, note to myself: Next time I see a doctor for pneumonia, I must remember to clean my swollen nose and wear my best dress.
Maybe it’ll be easier if docs just put up a poster spelling out the code of conduct for patients:
“Thou might be itchy, but thou shalt not scratch. Thou might have sinusitis, but thou shalt wipe your leaky nose only with a silk hanky (with monogram). Thou might have a sore throat, but thou shalt address the doc only in the loveliest baritone. And thou shalt leave thine wallet with the receptionist on thy way out. What is thou going to with an empty wallet anyway?”
I have only once dared to venture into a clinically clean, swanky hospital in pyjamas. Though the berating looks I received have scarred me for life, I still prefer it to a half-heartedly stitched up hospital gown that doesn’t leave anything carnal to the imagination. (Why do you think in-patients lie down so much? The stupid back-bearing outfit manages to foil all your plans of running away from the hospital.)
You might excuse a doc’s bizarre idea of what constitutes clothing, considering that he has to remember so much Latin. But hey, one man’s doc is another man’s poison.

the neuter vrroom

There's a motorbike made exclusively for women. Its called black barbie. Ahem. Liking neither nomenclature nor idea behind the exclusivity.
But why should i feel thrilled when i see a woman in salwar-kameez zip past me on on a mobike? I should think it normal, shouldn't i? Aren't i supposed to be worldly?
Damn, forget it... i rode an RD350 some hours ago. So I've kicked ass of enough advertisers who sell bikes as 'Definitely male'. And it was fun riding pillion too. Whether I'm holding the handle-bar or carrier, its just about getting some place, after all.

all for me?

give and take has to be a myth. how can it be real when take-take-take feels sooooo good? unless give means "give me"

celling my soul... not!

i fought hard and strong. honour mattered, nothing else. so people who had them were accessible. i refused to scrunch up my eyes staring at a little green screen (i know they have 'moonlight' and 'bluelight' now. they're imprisoning too).
push-button age. Picking up a cell meant surrendering wonderful day-dreaming. Filling up every unoccupied moment with snakes and bricks. My answer to "whats your currency?" always brought on exasperated sighs. i hear its not "the rupee" anymore. and i always wondered why people said "i HAVE roaming".. like the ability to walk around joblessly was a possession.
i wanted to stay uninfected. news about tariffs and SIMS were arduously blocked out.
nowwwwwwww i bow my head in shame, holding a nokia 3310 in my hand, understanding what pre-activated and recharged means.
but i hereby take this oath:
i will not pace while talking on the cell, just becoz its a 'mobile phone'. i will not dedicate all lunch conversations to 'how to get the cheapest connection'. i will not let something 1/1000th my size rule me.

kitne aadmi the?

did he really make shoes for gabbar singh? 'Little corner' he calls his shop. 'Fida' he calls himself. sitting in a seedy, wet, overly-mirrored (he said he was in a reflective mood) carton-sized store, surrounded by chappals that mirza ghalib, jahangir, allabaksh of shivajinagar, pooja tandon from vogue fashion designing institute and some penniless shoppers with honest faces would venture to buy. a "14-year-old" boy helps you try on some pairs... you get gingery sugarcane juice (Kempfort, take a hike!)... and the bestest part: unbelievable conversation!!
"oh,these kolhapuris chappals are fully hand-made... hamara (note the royal collective pronoun) export ka business hai. tamil nadu, hyderabad, mumbai, we export everywhere. you know, sholay? haaan... you know gabbar singh's shoes? abhi dikhatha hoon. (rummages in chappal pile at his feet and fishes out a huuuuge shoe, face beaming with pride of possession) we made this. (pause for effect) if you want, we can get it custom-made for your size."
i do some basanti bits, and he does some "arey oh saamba!". before we get to the "jab thak hai jaan... mai nachoongi" part, i quickly change the subject. who is that person shaking mohammed ali's hand in that framed photo? What?? YOU, MR.FIDA?? What?? You've met madonna and micheal jackson? some people just have aalll the luck.
i say this with deeply felt guilt: the conversation got me the chappal for half the rate. but i came back home with more gyan about how married life weakens your hair follicles & how a squint makes you lucky. wonder how i can wear-out my footwear faster...

ticket to heaven

this neighbour of mine passes by the little ganesha temple everyday on his bike on the way to work. unfailingly, he slows down his bajaj scooter, takes a quick peek inside the temple, takes aim & throws a red hibiscus with postman accuracy at the feet of the shrine. As his right hand comes back to the handlebar, his left does a quick salaam, and briefly touches his lips as he mumbles some half-word prayer. Both hands back on the handlebar, he vroooooooms off. All this in barely 5-6 seconds. If that shrine had sight, it couldn’t have seen anything more than a road-runnerish blur.
When I put on my best I’m-in-awe-of-you face and asked this neighbour about his deftness, he said, “You should try to think of god all the time. You’ll get moksha.”
Believe me, I tried. (Hey, I want a shot at moksha too) But the handlebar wobbles and the lip-brush ends up as a hard sock on my nose. Plus, I have to stop a few streets later to wear my helmet. The mini-prayer sounds like a word you can’t utter in church. (I’m assuming same rules apply for ganesha too) About the hibiscus, I don’t think stealing from the neighbour’s garden is the right way to go. Those little flower girls in front of the temple giggle at my antics. One cheeky one whispered that I was trying to get into the circus.
Oh maybe I’ll just burn in hell.

shootout at high noon

Bigtime showdown by boss at lunch. A real-life Western.

Dressed in black, white-hat (boss) casually strolls into the small town cafe. The stranger's entry is greeted by malevolent stares from a seedy group of bar flies. His presence is challenged in a prolonged attempt at provocation. A classic confrontation. Black hatted badguy steps up (me)
Says Black-hat: Lets take this outside
(spits out the slowest burning cigarette stub in history)

They step out. Out= Old West's ghost town, abandoned by miners.
Goodguy slowly approaches badguy out in the dusty street. Their hands are held in exaggerated ready gunfighter poses as they bow-leggedly stomp towards each other from opposite ends of town.

A mouth organ goes buan-buuaaaann baun-baun in the background. Soft drum roll.

Badguy squints as Goodguy Sheriff's badge catches a ray of sunlight and shines into badguy's eyes.

Sheriff goodguy: This town aint big enough for the two of us, kid.
Badguy: Draw, Sheriff.

The two stop advancing, pause for a few seconds to allow the music to set a climactic mood.
Camera focuses on badguy from in between sheriff's legs. Sheriff clicks the spurs of his worn-out dusty cowboy shoes. Frame moves on to his hands. His palm is poised at his waist-belt that cradles the gun. Fingers wiggle in slow deliberation.
Now Badguy does the same wiggling, but his gun somehow looks like it was meant to play unfair.

A bullet suddenly cuts through the silence. Someone falls. We see only the bored faces of bystanders chewing reeds of straw. So who killed who? Did the goodguy win?

Next frame. Zoom to the armpit of badguy. There's a hole in his jacket. You gasp as you realize that he narrowly missed having his arms blown off. It's the code of the West. A man has to stand up for what's right, and a good cowboy knows when to be merciful. Zoom in on Goodguy sheriff's face. He grins unbearably, baring his tobacco soiled teeth.

Trackback to real life. It really plays like any old Western film. The good guys and the bad guys are clearly defined. There are themes of honor and courage at play. And the key scene is a man to man showdown.
And boy! did that happen... Me back from boss's cubicle, trying to hide my amused grin. Little does she know what a perfect John Wayne she makes.

like shrugging it off helps...
just makes me more aware of how i never had to do that before.
slacking is the word. but how easily it can be justified as "taking it easy"
urgent! damage control ambulance required!
but the more the "i'll show THEM!", the more the no-show.
worry is the word. but i like the variant "on my toes"
i lie well to myself. (right hand shakes left)

shiva thaandavam

small, dingy room. bedsheets and forgotten coffee cups strewn around. unnamed tapes and Cds that you want to steal. among them is a bearded giant who owns rhythm. he talks of tunes and the impossibility of their death. listen, he says, and tunes his mridangam. dhong-dhong. thuk-thuk. dheem. TA! dheem.
i yawn. he doesn't care. he plays.
eyes tightly closed. little gleaming beads of sweat taking flight as the head moves violently. a mental world of dancing shiva, wild hair and ashen face. whether i believe in that form of divinity or not, the sound i hear is absorbing.
he smiles at the end of it all. anoor anantha krishna sharma.
shivu, the giant calls himself. close.

daddy kewl

I have a deadline to meet. One of my parents is going to claim his due on Sunday. What do you give a man who thinks watching a telugu movie song without the volume on is fun?
“here pa, a book!” “books are for people who have time”
“pa, here, you’ve always wanted a white shirt” “clothes… does it really matter how I look? I’m dashing even in a lungi”
“how would you like a pair of sneakers?” “To sneak off to a hill station for a second honeymoon with your middle aged mom, I suppose?”
“ok, what if I buy you a tape of ghazals? (not CD. To avoid the “are you kidding me? I’m not a dj!” (?))” “Sounds good, but are you sure you want me hear a bunch of songs about women and wine?”
“pa, what about a free hair cut with your regular barber?” “hmmm… I’ll try colouring the first row of grey hair blue” Errr… No way!
Oh, maybe I’ll just not remember father’s day. Will postpone the sarcasm-invite for his birthday.
Hmmm...funny how dad-day is on son-day

cradling the phone

burp!
hmmm... just tasted bits of yesterday's conversation.

hue who?

riddling into metaphor after metaphor.
too many mind-snapshots that are incompatible with lettering...
26 loses to 4 primary.

:)

office romances were written about today.
knew that quick kisses are stolen on evelators.
i'm going to use the stairs today.
go colleagues go!

thought decaf

went to barista with tongue hanging out and nose sniffing the air to steal a whiff of coffee.
"no press meet madam, would you like to try our new flavours?"
err.. sorry, left my wallet at home.
oh how bliss always comes at a price!

midtown madness

Who is the girl wearing nothing but a smile and a towel,
In the picture on the billboard in the field near the big old highway? (Big old highway.)
Rolling down the highway in my Jimmy, hauling freight,
From Chicago to St. Louis, Lord, I see her every day. (See her every day.)
Double clutching weasel like me can hardly ever get,
A girl to look at him that a-way. (That a-way.)
Smiling like a girl wearing nothing but a smile and a towel,
In the picture on the billboard in the field near the big old highway. (Big old highway.)

Doggone, that girl wearing nothing but a smile and a towel,
In the picture on the billboard in the field near the big old highway. (Big old highway.)
Sleepy headed, said the girl wasn't real,
Better get the hell on my way. (My way.)
On Route 66 from the billboard to Chicago,
You'll find tiny pieces of my heart scattered every which way. (Every which way.)
Shattered by the girl wearing nothing but a smile and a towel,
In the picture on the billboard in the field near the big old highway. (Big old highway.)

Ah, honey, I don't know who painted you.
But he must have had a broken heart.
You break my heart every day.
You break every other trucker's heart,
That travels this lonely road.

-The girl on the billboard
Boxcar Willie

woken up to a comforting rut.
good morning.

drip therapy

draw curtain.
open window.
place chair next to window.
sit yourself on chair.
put legs up.
let hands go limp. and mind too.
stare out at rain.
wonder what profundity to think up.
sigh. give up.