Brother bother

Times have changed. Gone are the days when a couple had a cricket team they called children. By the time my mom and dad decided to have me, We two, ours two campaign was in full swing.

As luck would have it, my parents didn’t have enough money to raise two children. So they decided to stop with me. However, today if there was a time machine that they could get into, they’d have gone back and aborted me.

Now growing up without siblings has its own pros and cons. I wouldn’t know of them because I didn’t have any siblings. Hence, I do not find myself to be in a position capable enough to judge the parameters.

But then, to let me know what family is and to introduce me to my cousins – believe me, I have 22 of them – I was dragged along to every wedding, first birthday celebrations, engagements, birthdays, receptions, baby showers, cross-belt (Poonal) ceremonies, deaths, death anniversaries, 60th birthdays, 80th birthdays, combined holidays, group outings and what the fuck not.

Their relentless efforts resulted in me knowing I have 22 cousins in my immediate family and about thrice as many in my extended family.

There is another problem that the nuclear family syndrome brought along with it. Every family, like an independent pod, migrated to different parts of the country and set up roots of their family tree there. This resulted in meeting them and conversing with them only on any of the afore-mentioned social events. Me being what I always was, could get close to only a few of them who didn’t ask me questions like Which class are you now in?, What rank do you get?, Who is your best friend?, Are you an opening batsman?, Do you want more Kesari?, Do you like Raddish? and people who didn’t pass statements like, That’s a very nice shirt!, Oh, you’ve become so tall!, You should be wearing braces!, That’s a nice watch!, You have become so thin!, You have become so fat!, Ah, you’ve started growing thick leg hair! and so on and so forth. Basically, I am close to only 2 of my cousins.

Then technology happened out of nowhere. We all had cell phones and had all of our cousins’ numbers stored. Yet I’d never call them. Neither did they call me. And when I did call, my pleasant ‘Helllooo!’ would invariably be followed by, ‘Hmph, you forgot about us.’ Well, put that comment up your ass ‘cuz neither did you try calling me. So, fuck you.

So as I take this stand of being content with the limited friends I have in my life and defining family as my dad, mom and me, mom tries to alter that at every opportunity she gets.

Now women, being what I haven’t been able to and will never be able to understand, seem to have this uncanny ability to remember almost every birthday of everyone they ever meet. And not just that, they even wish each and every one of them. My mom, being a woman herself, possesses this peculiar trait by virtue of her gene structure.

And she reminds me of every cousin’s birthday and asks me to call them and wish them. This, my dear readers, non readers and stumblers, is the most daunting task I perform 20 times every year. I do call them. But I call them when the day is over. When they are too tired to answer a call. When they are too tired to talk. And when they just don’t want to talk.

And I do this for a reason. And like always, allow me to bullet them like I do very often on my blog these days.

Here’s the scenario. It’s my cousin’s birthday and I call him/her. Invariably, the following events would occur.

• I call them
• He/she picks up
• I shout all excited, “Happy Birthday!”
• He/she manages to whimper out a meek ‘Thank you.’
• Awkward silence (Understand that the last time I spoke to him/her was the last time he/she called me for my birthday or when I called him/her last year to with Happy Birthday. So there apparently is a possibility of 6 months to one year’s worth of information to be exchanged.)
• I ask, ‘So, when plans today?’
• Reply, “Urmmm, nothing special. The usual’
• Awkward silence
• I ask, ‘So, what have you been up to all these days?’
• Reply lasts for over 5 minutes. Information that won’t do me or humanity any good. But it is necessary to do this nonsense because when I do call the next year, I would have to listen to 2 years’ worth of crap. So might as well divide the torture to last you in bits for a lifetime than to die all at once.
• And there I am, holding on to my handset. Shaking my head. Bored out of my wits. Not knowing when to end the call. And worried about my STD bills.
• Finally manage to cut the call. And if I happen to be around my mom when the call gets cut, mom follows it all up with “See? I had to remind you of YOUR cousin’s birthday!… Blah… Blah… Blah….“

So what if I don’t remember birthdays? What’s the big fucking deal in celebrating an event where one was expelled from a vagina on this very day a few years back?

Ta ta, Chennai

I leave you with a million doubts in mind. You’ve been nothing but good to me. Will miss you. And will always love you. Welcome me when I come back. Bye, bye.

October Round-up

Month stated with a suicidal trip to Bangalore. The events of which have been covered here. Very lazy month as far as blogging and tweeting and facebooking is concerned. Started looking out for a job just after a month of joining the new place. Made a note to self that small places are made up of small men who are big in their own world. And also that I don’t give a fuck about them. Second trip to Bangalore in the  same month. This time for cousin’s baby shower. Attended an interview. Drunk, I should add. Got the job too. Thanked every God I knew the name of. For the first time, saw the light at the end of the tunnel in real life, metaphorically. Also experienced in life for the first time how it pours when it rains. Metaphorically again. Chennai still didn’t see even a drizzle. Wrote just 3 posts in October. September Round-up happened to be the last October post, ironically. Month ended. I quit. Realised grey too is a colour.

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!