September Round-up: An apology

This apology of a post is actually an apology.

I for the first time in my life failed myself (what a fucking lie, first time in my life it seems!) and kept postponing the round-up till I could postpone no more. And now that I am forcing myself to write last month’s round-up, I am just not able to recollect what happened last month. Still I will try.

New job. Understood change is not always good. Money, sometimes is NOT the main criteria in life. Peace of mind always is. Learnt a few things. About people than about work. Understood the importance of association. Realised the value of people I had left behind. Water problem at home. Dependent on corporation tap water. Days started with bringing home 15 buckets of water. And cleaning the floor after spilling about 3 of those. New people in life. Same old loneliness. Frequency of alcohol consumption came down. So did that of smokes. Wished ex on her birthday. Surprisingly didn’t feel a single pang of hurt. Not even when I am typing about it. Lost phone to the shower. That, will make a good blog post.

P.S.: Here’s the real reason why there haven’t been many posts this month. And also why the round-up was delayed.

Wishes for the Clothes of Heaven

WARNING: This is a soppy post.

Was listening to songs by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. Don’t be fooled by the name. Their songs are really awesome.

And one particular song caught my attention. And I listened to it for over 200 times in less than 24 hours.

One of my friend pointed out that a verse in the song was actually the last line from a poem by William Butler Yeats. I read the poem.

And I have been reading it over and over again. Next month, Landmark will have one less copy of Yeats. I am in love with the dude’s poems. I had read a few long back. But I guess I wasn’t mature enough to understand or appreciate them then.

Here’s the song by BRMC. It’s called Promise.

And here’s the poem by Yeats. It’s what the post is called.

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

F5

I don’t think anyone would relate to this post. I don’t think I am putting this down for anyone to relate to. So don’t mind this one odd post.

F5. Almost everyone who has worked on Windows knows what that means. For the first time in my life, I think I found that in my life.

And for the first time in my life, I wished I didn’t have a life to get back to.

Beer and Loathing in Bangalore

It was Gandhi Jayanthi. And it fell on a Friday. 3 day weekend. Beginning of the month. Salary in bank account. Need I say more?

So, I and my friend G decided to head to Bangalore to celebrate Gandhi Jayanthi with wildlife – Royal Stag and Kingfisher.

Below are a few of the Dos, Don’ts, Bad ideas, Observations and Notes to self I have put down from the events that I managed to remember over the weekend that was nothing short of a perfect concoction of “pure fun” and “suicidal drinking”.

Have fun. And do not try this at home (when parents are around)

Things not to say just before leaving house for lunch, “Let’s have a quick drink!” You might end up skipping lunch and ordering-in dinner.

Bad idea to mix camera and whisky. Might cause irreversible damage to the camera and your reputation.

Bad idea to get drunk in a pub that has a tattoo parlour next door.

Bad idea trying to be Nicholas Cage from “Leaving Las Vegas”. He was just acting.

The filter end of the cigarette goes in your mouth.

Beer is not a substitute for water when you wake up completely dehydrated at 4 in the morning after a night of crazy drinking.

Neither is drinking whisky straight from the bottle.

When your friend gets drunk and starts puking in the middle of the road and says, “Leave me alone for 5 minutes. You go home. I’ll come in some time.” Please do not listen to him.

Do not try throwing eggs from the 12th floor balcony at the sleeping security guard. You’ll miss and the eggs will hit your car, in all probability.

The filter end of the cigarette goes in your mouth.

Do not drink with people if you have secrets that you don’t wish to share.

Hitting on your friend’s girlfriend will have him hitting you.

Walls don’t give way to you. You can’t blame them for broken glasses.

Bad idea having 4 samosas for breakfast.

If you are drunk and in a tea shop and smoking and someone asks you, “Are you having match box?” Please don’t laugh at him and say, “No, I am having tea.”

The filter end of the cigarette goes in your mouth.

Never initiate a conversation with an auto guy. The experience will leave you sober.

Using the map as a toilet paper is all fine. But make sure your return tickets are booked if you have to haul your ass back to work on a Monday.

There are certain luxuries I have gotten used to. I can’t travel by cattle class. Have money —> Will afford.

The filter end of the cigarette goes in your mouth.

Why make a mountain out of a mole, chill!

Ok. This post that I am about to write is going to get me slippered. But at the risk of losing my self-esteem (and my penis), I will anyway go ahead.

I haven’t dated a lot of women (read, girls). Let’s say, ummm, 7 till now? Or was it 6? Well, whatever. The thing is, I have seen a pattern that has emerged quite constantly in my relationships. Now a lot (women, and guys who want to appear all self-righteous and Dettol washed and bathed in cow’s milk) may disagree, but I have to say… guys talk to each other too. And the feeling about the pattern has been quite collective and mutual.

Here’s how it flows.

After spending a little time (about 50 hours on the phone, 12 in the coffee shop, 10 at your place, 5 at hers and then some more at random parties, cars, bikes, friends’ houses, etc. – give or take 40 hours – it all depends on how you play it, well, with one of mine, it took a little over 3 and a half years to see the pattern surface) there is an urge to make the relationship a little special (read, hormones acting up). This is when, the kissing happens. The making out happens. The fooling around happens. The sex happens. And at times, when it doesn’t lead up to anything, phone calls happen and intimate details are shared (which give a lot of ammo for the guy to do his guy activities and God only knows what it does to women).

Among the details shared, there are small, insignificant little black things on which every relationship finally hangs on to: moles.

Now, moles and birthmarks, if you actually look at them, are defects. Would you ever buy a gleaming white Porsche with a black dot on it? No. Would you buy a potato with a black patch on it? No. Universally, black spots and scars are imperfections. Why, even the moon is scarred. It isn’t perfect. (Hey, don’t look at me like that. I am not perfect. I never said I was. I’ve got pimples on my fat ass. So, there you go.)

But then, when it comes to women, we (men, in particular) have made these birth defects, flaws, short-comings a thing of beauty (what all we do to get some in the shack!). Well, if you ask me, I personally feel moles are sexy (yes, laying the foundation right here, right now). Wherever they are.

The only mistake I do? In the heat of the moment, I tell the girl the truth. I end up telling her that her mole turns me on. I never think about the consequences.

Consequences come after a few days when the girl asks me, simply out of boredom and for want of something mundane to keep a conversation going on and not because she is testing me or anything, “So… which one of my moles turn you on the most?” with a naughty tingle to her voice.

And there I am, sweating my palms and shitting my pants because I DON’T REMEMBER! Quite frankly because my brain doesn’t really function as a storage device when she is naked in front of me. I can’t say, “The one just beside your left boob.” What if she doesn’t have a mole beside her left boob? What if it’s on the right? What if there is no mole beside any of the boob? She’ll end up thinking I am thinking of some other girl when in actuality, I freaking don’t remember at all if she has a mole or not!

And so, I accept I don’t remember and I get another 45 minute education on where the moles are located on her body. Which, otherwise would have been a turn on. But this particular educative conversation disregards every possible reason why I found those very moles and birthmarks sexy.

Women, don’t you get it? If I don’t remember your birthmarks and moles, it is an entirely new discovery for me the next time I look at them! And THAT is a turn on! Not MEMORISING it!

And for Christ’s sake, you are not a wristwatch that would just get lost and if you were and if you did get lost, I can’t help the police identify you by LISTING OUT THE MOLES!

Now that I am done with the post, women and ex’s and currents, please bring on the slippers (or the knife).

Sigh, in relief.

Every once in a while, about 3-4 times in a month on an average, I am struck by this overwhelming urge to weave thoughts that cloud the deepest bounds of my shallow heart through the power of words into a colourful blanket with a million shades of grey which if went on sale would remain on display for eternity.

Today, I was in grip of such a feeling when I sat down to write. Thankfully, the feeling has passed now.

A post you’ll see very often. Starting now!

Happy birthday, FartingPen.

It has been one year. And you are still pretty alive. And today, I will tell you a few things because I think you are mature enough to understand and not judge.

I never had the faintest inkling that you’d last beyond the time it takes for me to finish a bull’s eye when I am pissed drunk as your conception had been quite unplanned and not to forget, pre-mature.

I still remember sitting alone in my room at around 2 in the night, with nothing to look forward to the next morning, and nothing particularly spectacular happening in my life.

I loved doing what I did for a living, but hated doing that at where I was doing it.

I had just about broken up with my girlfriend of 4 years and didn’t know for sure what to expect, now that the dreams of marriage and kids and buying cars and building houses and painful family get-togethers and added relatives and weekend getaways and sex and cuddles and family planning and Bollywood and Saif Ali Khan and pretty shoes and cute nieces and cuter ‘me’ and a million other suffocating-ly nauseating  details were no longer being pushed down my throat through phone calls that kept me awake till 4 or messages that made my thumbs want to file for a divorce with the rest of me.

The people I called friends were busy migrating to other cities or better paying jobs or new girlfriends or newer addictions.

Basically, I was taking stock of what I was and more importantly, why I was. With a freshly lit Navy Cut nestled oh-so-perfectly between my lips. Eyes closed. I drew air in through that roll of paper which contained within itself a million chemicals known to do no good to the one taking it wilfully. Or otherwise. And then I let the poisonous gust of air out. Through the other hole couple of feet below and on the other side. On which I was sitting. I almost passed out. No, I almost died smelling my own fart.

And that’s when I figured, one year down the line, this would make a brilliant blog post if I did start one. And then I did. And here I am, writing it down just the way I thought I would.

Just that, I am no longer the guy I used to be when I started you off. And I can see that clearly now. Just because you are still around. As a reflection. As a mirror. As me.

Happy birthday, FP.

Lost. Lonesome. Loved.

One of my dearest friend’s sister made me sit and watch this short film yesterday. Couldn’t stop thinking about it from then. Made me wonder if love really didn’t take all that much. And if love was all about serendipity.

Calling this short-film beautiful would be an understatement. Enough with my rant. You watch it now.

Hello, is there anybody in there?

It’s strange, and ironical, when you think about it. And quite laughable if you are a fan of dark humour.

Loneliness, perhaps, is the only thing that never leaves your side.

And speaking of dark humour, I realised that He is the best dark humourist I have ever known.