Escape Velocity

A new way of life catching up on some of us is renouncing our boring, prosaic, uncool, worldly duties (such as a 9-to-5 job, having kids, visiting our parents etc. etc.) You are considered low on the cool quotient if you don’t deny some of the tiny little things that if enjoyed can actually make a world of a difference to your insipid, lackluster and totally directionless life. Things like the smile or gurgling laughter of a two year old toddler (no! not for the new age yuppie – kids are uncool totally!), wrinkled hands feeling your cheeks (naa! not for me! I hardly talk to my maa; paying a visit to her is totally out of question), or the soft embrace of your partner (Pete’s sake – are you nuts? Do you really know what that means? I prefer my dog to a living human! A mummified corpse works for me too!)

We live in an age when it’s uncool to commit, out of fashion to fall in love and outdated to value people.

Solipsism defines the new us – it’s all about me and no one else! I don’t care for friends, family, lovers, exes, strangers, etc etc. We prefer camping in the Amazon all alone surrounded by piranhas (yeah I am a solo rider of the storm; I eat solo, poop solo, ride my bike solo; I hate pillion riders and if ever have one I swear I will mow them down) to enjoying tandoori chicken with now long forgotten friends in a quaint hill station (my body breaks up in hives in a place with population exceeding 20; I will dissolve like acid in water If I breathe the same air being breathed in by 40 more people when on a self-discovery trip; you said a trip to Manali? Are you nuts? It’s so obsolete!).

We are alone but not lonely! We got trees, hills, sheep, boulders, trout, and an air of absolute independence for company!

A Riot of Emotions with Emojis

When was the last time you actually laughed out loud? Any memories of a joke which made you laugh so much that you cried?

Any recollection of when you contorted your face by brandishing your teeth in grimace? Or the last time you appreciated someone by actually applauding them? Or showed your contempt by sticking your tongue out?

Did you ever wish your eyes turned in to hearts in a display of affection, love or raw lust? Or the devil’s horns grew up on your head to finally unravel the darker side of you? How about throwing your throbbing heart at a long lost friend now found or a plan you thought was divine?

Remove the word “actually” and you will know how inherent a part of our life the virtual manifestation of these emotions are. Emojis, smileys, emoticons, or ideograms – call them anything and let’s give that to them – are all-pervasive and indispensable. A virtual conversation no matter how grave and real would be insipid and boring, and lack punch and traction without these majorly yellow-coloured cute little things.

Emoji addiction is fantastic. There is this tribe of people (including myself) which cannot type a single sentence or end a conversation promptly without sending an army of at least twenty puny emojis.

And they have taken the world by storm. Like the ISIS they are going to be all over – running down our shoulders, into our bowls of soup – screaming “I am happy”, “I am sad”, “I am horny”, “I am constipated”, “I am delirious”, “I am a Buddha boy”, “I am a Buddha girl”, “I am Zen”, and every possible emotion your heart can experience. (Trust me – constipation and other matters related to your digestive system can take you on an emotional spiral and trouble your heart.)

Let me test if WordPress allows emojis here :P :) :D

(Yeah it does! :P)

When Mind Rambles

My favourite pastime is aimlessly wandering about – on hazy clouds of thought, sandy beaches of fear, verdant jungles of happiness, dark caves of fantasy, and lofty mountains of ambition. In a quiet corner of my dusty mind, I crave for solitude. The kind of quiet disrupted by the jingling laughter of a kid; the kind of quiet interrupted by a trickling sound of a brook in a hill; or the kind of quiet shooed away by an old hand on my shoulders. An old hand on the shoulder is very reassuring. An old hand on the shoulder gives  me comfort and makes me think I can lead a life like a kid – nonchalant, with no worries and burdens, like a free bird.

Talking of shoulders – they are a symbol of resilience – pulled back, upright, strong, never stooping under the burden of the world. And yet these do succumb to the harsh reality of this world. The more acquainted we get with this harsh reality as we age, the weaker our shoulders grow. Yet their spirit doesn’t flag. It’s marvelous – the indomitable spirit of these weak shoulders, which first gave me a bird’s eye view of my tiny little world.

I miss my grandparents. I miss their weak, tiny little bony shoulders.

Shark’s Bait

Shark’s bait

always in wait

Ready to be devoured
“only me”, she vowed

Surrounded by sharks,
with ancient wounds and marks

Glisten in the sun,
never come undone

They gnaw at the bait
life is never a waste

Their next catch is the horizon
That’s where they are headed

the bait long forgotten

Zany Lover Boy

My boyfriend’s quirk,

no laughter, only a smirk.

Always a bottle of rum,

and some wine in delirium.

Eyes on chicks,

tongue that clicks.

Craves for more,

calls life a whore.

Wishes for death,

when out of breath.

Got a large hole,

in the middle of his soul.

Will deny and refute,

and pick lies over truth.
That’s my quirky lover,

like sunshine in summer.

Been a Great Year for Me…Not!

“It’s been a great year for me. Thank you my friends, family..blah blah…crap crap creep creep.” That is what FaceBook wants you to shout it out loud to the world while you usher in 2015. Peep inside you. Seriously? Do you need to declare it to the world (yes, 250 friends is your world!)? Does anyone care for your happiness? Are those pictures of yours in which you are gamboling like a chimpanzee actually funny? No, they are not. No one cares for them. No one cares for your unwanted, unsolicited two cents.

Don’t you get it? No one cares!

What Makes Me a Pathetic Writer?

A lot of things. Here is a quick run-down:

  • I suffer from hyperbole.
  • I make the simplest of things complex.
  • I  like showing off my vocabulary (I am deluded into thinking it kicks ass).
  • I make sure each sentence I pen down is more than 30 words (readers often forget what the sentence was about by the time they finish reading it).
  • I believe I am incontrovertible.
  • Proof-reading? What proof-reading?
  • I write for people with an IQ of Einstein’s.
  • I assume every one gets my jokes and intentional puns.
  • I feel fantastic allegory is everyone’s cup of tea.
  • I stick to grammar rules; I am a purist. Even if one weird grammar rule makes my sentence look odd to the average reader (who necessarily doesn’t hold a degree in literature), I will stick to the grammar rule.

(The above sentence is an example of the disease called wordiness I suffer from.)


I am aware of my writing follies. I will get over them. At least I will try to.

Are you sure you want to delete?

Hitting the “delete” button. That’s all it practically takes to sever ties now. Thinking of nipping the negativity in the bud? Look into your phone. The solution to a fulfilling life sans any negativity and replete with optimism lies in there.

All you got to do is remove the negatives – applications, people, games, names, faces, friends, knowns and unknowns who seem to sap the energy out of you. Life will be great after you have purged your phone. Instant phonic purgation and mobile catharsis!

So are you sure you want to delete? Yell “hell yeah” and hit the sucker. Boom!

Of Frizzy Hair, Incorrect Fashion Sense, and No Make-up

Y with X

X – Hello, Miss Frizzy Hair!

Y – Hey, what’s with the frizzy hair?

X – You know something – you are ruining that pretty face with that frizzy hair of yours.

Y – Ummm. So what should I do?

X – Get it tamed. Get it flattened. Will help you look more groomed. And please add more colours to your wardrobe. You have such a boring wardrobe. Dump those full-sleeved shirts and boring denims. You can pull-off anything with that body of yours. You have the right body, you know. My girl got to be the best – the hottest in town.

Y – *Smiles* But I like wearing that kind of stuff. And seriously, I appreciate your concern for my lack of sartorial skills, but I would prefer not being told what to wear and not to wear.

X – I feel that in a true relationship we need to bring out the best in each other. It’s a process that works for both us – I tell you things that will have you as a better person. And you tell me things which you think will make me better.

Y – So you think wearing fancier clothes and “taming” my hair will make me a better person?

X – Now you are getting me completely wrong! Did you even pay attention to what I said? I said that you are ruining a pretty face with that unkempt hair. And that you have a body that can carry off the hottest of clothes! Pretty and right body! I wasn’t belittling you, duh!

Y – But I would prefer someone who accepts and appreciates me the way I am. For them, I would voluntarily, and even without being asked to, work on making myself better.

Y With Z (And not X – About a month later)

Y – So what kind of clothes you prefer to see me in?

Z- Anything that you are comfortable in…

Y – But I wear jeans most of the time. That’s what I am comfortable in.

Z – I am fine with that. What matters to me is your comfort. I don’t think you will enjoy my company to the fullest if you are not wearing something you are comfortable in.

Y – And do you like women in make-up?

Z – I don’t like heavily made-up woman.

Y – So what attracts you in a woman?

Z – I get drawn to her if I get the right mental vibes.

Y – Why were you drawn to me?

Z – I find you cerebrally stimulating.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Y is a 28 year old woman, while X in his early thirties and Z in his early forties.

Of course, you must have guessed it by now whom Y gave the boot and whom she embraced gladly.

We like reading such happy-ending tales where the plain-Jane protagonist ultimately finds her prince charming –  sadly only in blogs and story books. But are we actually accepting of plain looks and bright brains? I would be wary if someone told me their preferences were the other way round.

But then who would not want Aishwarya Rai eyes (wear coloured contact lens for them), Megan Fox nose (did she not get a nose job?), porn-star round boobs (let’s search breast implants), Beyoncified buttocks (they actually have gluteal implants for a bigger behind too, I swear), waist the size of your 5-year old niece (corsets help; if you can’t breathe in them get a tummy tuck), and poker-straight hair (with a poker face, enter a hair salon now!).

Are women and beauty product companies entirely to be blamed for skewed body images that we carry? Is it just because of that hoarding of Aishwarya Rai on the traffic signal signalling us that we want better hair? Or is it the constant pressure of our spouses and loved ones to look better?

Also, is the idea of bodily perfection only that of people belonging to a certain age-group (more so of people below 35)? I personally find slightly more mature people more practical and less rigid on matters of weight and waist. Most of them want you to be of a healthy mind and body.

The idea of beauty has changed over times. What was once considered voluptuous and beautiful is your present-day fat. Curly is your present day frizzy. Too fair, then don’t be surprised if someone calls you as bloodless as a vampire. Dark, then someone might suggest you rub oatmeal mixed with bird poop for instant fairness. If you are slim, they call you anorexic. Plump, they call you emotionally disturbed on your back. Receding hairline, rub onion juice on your pate. Thick hair, get them pressed.

And the non-sense continues till you feel like declaring “this world is ugly as a f**k”

Even worse is our constant endeavor to fit into the conventional stereotypes of body-image right. We hit the gym to look like a porn star in bed. We workout so that we can wear that black dress that Halle Berry wore on the red carpet. We zip our mouths even on festivals — which were originally thought of to enjoy the smallest of pleasures to our senses (including that of taste) — so that we look slimmer on our dates. It’s surprising the number of articles and blogs which come out during the festive season which tell us how to control our tongues literally eating during that one day of feasting.

Mind it – it takes 3,500 calories to make up one pound. That’s almost 7,000 calories to make up one kilo. If you are not on a record-breaking spree, with a decent appetite and a luxurious spread in front of you, gulping 7,000 calories in a day of celebration is an almost impossible feat.

Why can’t we think of having a better body only for ourselves? Why can’t we tell ourselves that two inches lost from our waistline would do us good by reducing the disastrous belly fat?

Why can’t we think that  running helps our cardiovascular system run right? And not just helps tone our thighs and increase that thing called thigh gap.

That moving our body makes it better, not just looks-wise. That building muscles sans the scary powders and steroids  helps us stay healthy and not just attracts chicks looking for Hulk Hogans in bed.


Y with her BFF (Few Days Back)

BFF – Reconsider your decision to invest so much in a smartphone.

Y – Why?

BFF – I suggest you buy a cheaper smartphone and get your hair treated.

Y *Facepalm*

Thursday Mornings Gone Bad

You wake up feeling all groggy and worn out a couple of hours before your alarm is scheduled to blast off sleep from your brain. Those 1 hour and 58 minutes pass off in a jiffy. And in that greed to not miss those last two precious minutes of dreaming about your crush, you end up sleeping 15 minutes more. The result – a Thursday morning fiasco.

You did your maths correctly the previous evening – a total of 40 minutes in the washroom doing your routine everyday poopeeping (that was gross and graphic alright), brushing, washing-scrubbing stuff; four minutes to clothes, hair and perfume; two minutes to putting on socks and shoes — and you felt you were the present day Aryabhatta.  Not so fast. That avarice to grab more shuteye made a plain”I-stick-my-tongue-out-on-you” mockery of your math or lack of math skills.

In that confusion and panic that ensue, you forget taking your towel to the bathroom. Or worse your mother or wife or sister or whatever towel-relation is applicable in your case lovingly keeps it in the other bathroom. And then you open the bathroom door and shout for your towel. And everyone seems to have stuffed their ears with airplane-styles ear plugs or worse, simply put you on mute. And then you walk out of the bathroom all dripping and cold. In full monty.

Your thermal wear seems to have entangled with your quilt (this is January North India cold). Your socks seem to have been gobbled up by the elusive thermals. You head back to the drawer and spend another 15 seconds finding an alternative set of inners and socks.  And then your favourite belt disappears. *Poof* Magic. Vanished into thin air. And that’s when you finally realise the importance of having your denims altered to fit you right.

Alternative belt or no belt, you ask the lady of the house to pack your breakfast so that you can have it at work. That’s because the mathematician in you calculates the time taken to pack your breakfast is equal to the time it would take to put on your shoes and stuff. Another five minutes for making it crawl down your esophagus (my Biology rocks).

You grab your stuff and run down the staircase, only to find you forgot your keys. You sprint up again, get hold of your keys, and finally hit the road at 20km/hour + the usual speed you drive at. Suddenly you feel you are the focus of everyone else on the road. You feel you have become a magnet for pedestrians, dogs – both mongrels and fancy pets, rickshaw wallas and their auto brethren; they all seem to have taken a liking for either you or your car and  are perpetually attracted to you. Or they have gone suicidal and want you to add them to the accident mortality rates of the country.

You honk, break and curse. In English, Punjabi and Hindi.  And finally make it to your workplace intact – in one piece. Like a succulent piece of steak ready to be devoured by your workplace. Bad Thursday.