Thursday, November 3, 2011

The sound of a man

I snore.

So they say.

I have never heard it. Never been woken up by it. Never lost my sleep because of it. Never wanted to smother a pillow on my own face while screaming 'Stop snoring you bastard'. That part is also kind of impossible to do.

But they say I do and so it must be true. I am a very trusting guy. I never doubt what others say about me. Most of the time what I hear from them about me is a revelation even to me. It’s always nice to know what others think about you. Giving a fuck about it is another story.

Back to snoring.

It was first brought to my notice by my wife.

She had one day woken up to the sound of a Harley Davidson in her bedroom and discovered that the sound was emanating from a large piece of human lard, her husband, who had also stolen the blanket.

Jesus said that faith can move mountains. But then he hasn't woken up next to me.

10 years later major sleep deprivation have made an energetic lovely woman into a bundle of nerves.

Scientists have recently done a study ( on the same line as the research to find if the penguins actually look up to watch a plane flying over them until they fall over. They don't. They actually cross their three toes, since it’s considered unlucky by them to watch anything that stiff fly) on women and men who are sleep deprived.

The studies have shown that women can be dangerous when sleep deprived.Even murderous. Sleep is a necessary part of their make up. Men on the other hand do not seem to suffer as much. Aren't we the lucky ones!

I believe this research.

A woman who is not rested is an evil thing. They are down right scary. Ask any man who had to deal with a woman, who had been kept up all night by a colic baby, the next day. Deal with that and man, facing a firing squad will seem pleasant.

Go on, tell her what a beautiful day today is and ask what’s for breakfast.

Then watch your arse explode beneath you.

Sleep deprivation is a bitch.

Ask any woman. Now they got science to back them up.

Another step down for men. So along with chest hair, lord of all he surveys status, non existent emotional IQ and other sundry things that gives having a penis such a pleasure, we lose the I am more tired than you battle.

Well we still have the stand up to pee bit.


Back to snoring.

Last time my friends and I went camping, I woke up to find a lynching crowd gathered around my tent the next morning. I had a wonderful sleep. Mountain air is so refreshing. I had apparently also cleared the place of all wild animals in the vicinity, who had gathered around the Al Ain zoo wanting to be let in.

My friends exaggerate.

I have always had great flights. Never have I had to face a rude hostess. Never have I not been helped to stove away my baggage into the overhead cabin (which is every time), never have I been insulted, cuffed or had hot scalding liquid poured on my lap.

That’s unless I sleep.

There’s always a chill in the air when I wake up on a flight. Nobody is actually rude. But there’s definitely a change in the attitude. I get these looks from my co passengers like I was responsible for something bad. The same looks you get from the guy who steps in when you exit an elevator you had farted in. It’s that look which that girl gave while she slipped off Stallone's grip in Cliff Hanger.

Oh, come on. You know that look. It’s the one that says: How could you do this to me?

Actually the look I get on the plane is the same as the one the guy who I met in the lift would give if he saw me again another day. In the same lift.

It’s the post betrayal look.

It’s cold. It’s accusatory. It’s judgmental.

And I would be wondering if there was an alien takeover while I slept.

Now I know.

It’s the snoring. It must be. Aliens’ taking over people’s body while I slept is so far fetched. It has to be my snoring.

Thing about snoring is that it’s a lot like demonic possession. You have no idea that you are doing it. You cannot be held responsible for something you are not aware of. Our justice system supports that. That’s why you can kill thousands and say God made me do it where the judge will go like, oh why didn’t you say so? Now off you go.

Technically I cannot be held responsible.

But try saying that to that woman who looks like that girl from Grudge, who is sitting at the foot of your bed staring at you when you opened your eyes.


You should be.

Thursday, October 27, 2011

Gay pride and me

Having studied in a boy’s only school for a major part of student life, I would have thought that I will be fine with gays.

I am fine with gays. But I think thats because I don’t know any.

Of course we did have the occasional touching feeling and in some case boys who went about as couples in our school, looking back I think it was more a case of making do with available resources. And like prisoners, when they stepped out of the restrictive situation, everything fell back in the right places and things went where they are meant to go. It seemed like a temporary lapse, nothing more.

Except even now, I shudder when I drop the soap in the bath and bend down to pick it up. Hopefully it will pass with the unavoidable Alzheimer’s that is due to make its presence felt in the next 10 years or so.

Age brings along with it certain mellowness. I would have loved to say wisdom but that seems to be elusive. You tend to recognize that most of your ideals and prejudices were all handed down to you and that you been just chewing someone else’s cud. Being a jerk, I tend to avoid the popular thought that is prevalent just because I can.

I do realize that now it’s all about right of freedom to do what you feel like. I have not problems with that. As long as it’s not my arse on the line, I don’t have any problem who is shagging who.

But by god, am I curious.

I want a gay friend. I have so much to ask.

You do too, don’t you?

That’s the problem when you start patronizing people. You make them into strangers. You might think you are on their side but your very support is the wall that separates you and them. Because in reality, your acceptance doesn’t require any expression. And if that acceptance is there, they would not be feeling like freaks.

Personally I find naked men nasty. Especially if I find one in my bed. Sex would probably be the last thought on my head. Whatever doubts I have had about my sexuality disappeared the day I was introduced to Adv.Anjali in the Debonair magazine in school. I was hooked. Fat bottom girls made my world go round since.

Then came today.

Everyone’s coming out of the closets. Hell, I think there are more people in there than clothes. There are parades. Sexuality is celebrated. It is now shown in mainstream movies.Basically people’s sexuality will soon become a non issue. Its really great.

Nope. You still can’t fuck a goat.

Yes, I know you think that it’s unfair but if you wait maybe a decade longer, we perhaps will get our head around to it. Yes, we do see your point. Yes, we do notice that the goat is really attached to you but somehow it’s not bringing good vibes to me buddy. That’s my food you are fucking.

I really think sexuality should be a non issue. Like the color of peoples skin. I mean, it’s really stupid if you think about it. It’s amazing how it lasted so long as it did. But then stupid ideas have a tendency to stick. Eh, god? You concur?

But for all the gays out there, I know absolutely no one. I mean personally. I have no gay friends. Which is a shame. I do get hit on once in a while. It’s kind of flattering. And I feel very weird when I say that I just want us to be friends. And the sound track in my head is going Man, feel like a woman...

We did have a college friend who was very feminine. Then we realized that he is a bhartanatyam dancer and a real sneaky womanizer. He catches them unaware. They all assume he is gay until too late. Almost like Jaws.

Well the truth is it would really not matter if my friends are straight or gay (why can’t it be straight or zigzag?). The way I am going, I doubt if I have any friends left.

Thing is I believe that a gay friend will be my ticket to finally understanding women. Of course this very inspired thinking came from my assumption that since a gay is a man who likes men, then it stands to reason he will be like a woman.

Brilliant deduction I must say.

Now to find a gay who will hopefully help me with this and will not try and seduce me.

This brings me to the next question:

Can a gay and straight be just friends?

Watch this space for the answer to that question.

Gay? Call me.

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

I dont do curtain calls

I am not into self analysis.

I love myself a little too much to indulge in such fool hardy pursuits. The hesitance could also have stemmed from previous futile attempts at trying to understand my inner nature by ticking all the relevant boxes in those - Are a real man or How to know if you are satisfying in bed etc. - columns in my sister in law's ample collection of Cosmopolitan magazines.

Yes. I read women magazine when I get a chance. Understanding the enemy is always a good strategy. Isn’t it weird that in men’s magazine we have girlie pictures and in women magazine, they still have girlie pictures. You would have thought otherwise, but no. No wonder there’s a general amount of male bashing going around; women have all turned lesbians.


The readings from the ticking, which in the end will require some amount of mathematical skill, will be given at the bottom of those articles.

90 - 80: Boy, are you good! Just bronze your dong and declare yourself as a national monument.

80 - 60: You need to work at it. You need to express your desires and bribe the girl into accepting them. No. Blow jobs are not as exciting to her as it is to you.

60 and below: Just go and kill yourself. And while you are about it stop playing with yourself.

Invariably I realized that I was wasting my time finding out things about myself that were not exactly endearing.

I don’t do horoscope either.

Indian horoscopes are not your run of the mill Linda Goodman gushing about how you are the gift to the universe and how perfect you are.

Indian horoscopes are scary.

They make it so by making it appear to you that there’s a whole lot of calculations and enough symbols to give Dan Brown a hard on, going on to arrive at the answers to your puny existence.

Then in the midst of some gibberish that stands for a language that seems to be all but dead, they reveal to you your destiny.

I kind of lost interest when they started talking about some planets in somebody's houses and other such strange things. The only thing closely resembling a planet in my house is my father.

I get it. The logic behind it all. The usual argument of how moon affects tides and how we are 80% water etc. My question is only this.

What’s this big deal about us that we think our destiny is somehow very important to us?

I am scared of horoscope because it probably has nothing nice to say about me. I plan to read mine in my death bed. Just to check which parts came true. That would make an interesting read.

Thing about trying to find out about yourself is like opening your father's diary. You really don’t want to know all what you might find. Life is best lived with as much ignorance as possible. It keeps you in a state of wonder.

But when you do get the masochistic need to give the stick to someone to beat you, you tend to give importance to what others think about you.

Some of the saddest people I know are the ones who are trying their darn best to rise to someone's expectation.

And some of the real bastards are the ones who let them.

Yeah. I know you are reading this. You know where you belong.

Very early in my life I have learnt that if you want to be happy, you should give two hoots about others opinion about you and your action. As long as what you do is not affecting another adversely, I think you have all the right to go ahead and do it.

Others feelings don’t count. How someone feels about your actions is to a large extent based on their own needs. It’s not a bad thing but that’s how it is. Ideally it should not affect you if your partner cheats on you, but it will if it happens, and that feeling of hurt is more about you than about the other. So feelings don’t count when you know you are on the right track.

Hyper sensitive people are leeches. They feed on the desire to be hurt. You can’t win with them. The whole world is against them any way and the sun always shines out of their arse. It’s about their feelings and their actions and their fuck all mind where every other person has to bend themselves backwards to accommodate them.

I don’t mind sensitive people. I think they are just a little bit more fragile than thick skinned rhinos like me.


Walk away. Don’t put up with it. Let them know that. Of course they will be hurt. But you are giving them what they want anyway. So in some karmic way you are being kind.

I don’t do hyper sensitive. You wouldn’t either. Hell, even sensitives don’t like hyper sensitives.

You like being insulted? Get an opinion.

Like I did. I came to know about this site from this girls blog and it piqued my curiosity.

and this was the result.

Make place girls, Big Mama is in town.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Guilty as Charged

Its not every day I put my foot down.

Those who have the unfortunate luck of knowing me on a personal level are, I presume, aware of my laid back approach to insults and confrontations. It’s not easy to piss me off. But when I do get my arse off the couch and decide to fight, I never back down. I pretty much stay at it no matter what. Don't know why but must be the lack of excitement in my life.

Well, that's pretty much enough of my dick is bigger prelude to the tale that follows.

I have only one enemy. I hate it with passion. Apart from the man made concept of god, no other concept, in my opinion, has done more damage to the human fabric than it. It’s the faceless, bloodless, and unavoidable, in your face organization called the bank.

I try to keep my distance with banks. I don't like them but they seem to love me. At least they pretend like they do.

Long ago, in fact about 5 years ago, my wife and I decided to buy a SUV. We sold my wife's Volkswagen Golf for the down payment and financed the rest through a bank known then as Me Bank. Talk about a personality disorder. Of course I knew it was a bank when I walked into it and had to suppress the instinctive desire to brandish a cross.

Of course I got the loan. We were good for it. Of course for the next 5 years we religiously paid the EMI that was owed to it. We, in the meantime, named our steed Ben and then I promptly fell in love with it.

5 years passed.

I go to the bank to get a clearance letter. Lots had happened in those 5 years. Water was found in Mars, we found out that god men can have sex and so can really old Indian politicians, governments were ousted, some were reinstated, a nation held their collective breath while an old man fasted and ranted, ,Mebank was swallowed by Emirates NBD and I gained 10 kilos.

So there I am, feeling really cold, in front of one of those suits whose smile never reaches their eyes. I let him know that I have cleared my debt and now want a clearance letter. He keys in some commands on his computer, thereby perhaps nuking some unfortunate family's life and turns to me saying that my account is still open. He says it with a relish. I could almost feel him sniffing my blood.

I ask him to check again, considering that I had given a million cheques covering the number of months in 5 years ,all of which had been cashed by them. He strikes another bunch of keys. I can almost hear screams in the distance.

'There's a balance of AED 387.75 in your account. Pay that and we will provide you the clearance letter'

I am, as you know pretty stupid, so I enquired why I have to pay that amount. Upon which I am told that it is there on the statement, so I have to pay it.

Now that pisses me off. I hate being told that because it’s written, that's how it shall be. Fuck, I have been fighting that almost all my life.

So I requests him to tell me why that charge is there.

He can't. Why? Because he does not know. He says that it could be a charge due to the integration of the bank. So I asked him if I have to pay when Emirates NBD decides to carpet their office.

Now he does the finger pointing routine. This is where he will tell me to run pillar to post. I told him that I refuse to go anywhere. I want to know where this charge came from and that I am pretty sure that he can find it out for me without me having to go on a pilgrimage for it. Then he asked me to call up the contact centre. I told him I won’t since I am already in a bank.

I am pretty irritating, no?

So he calls up the collection center and asks someone there to check my account and revert back to me. I tell him that since I have met him, he will be the privileged one who will have to deal with me. He grudgingly tells me to call back in 2 days.

I do and am told that he hasn’t got a reply. So I call their contact center. There I am told the amount is AED 239. Amazing. The amount seems to have a life of its own. So I give the contact center chap for whom I have the greatest respect, the same spiel about how I am not planning on paying a single penny unless someone tells me what the charge is for.

Accrued interest I am told. On what? I ask. He can’t say. Funny since I always thought that you need something to charge interest on. He requests me to pay the amount. I say I can’t. I ask him to give me the number of the collection center. Which he gladly gives.

So I call the collection center. The phone is answered by a guy with an Arab accent. So I give him my details. He tells me I have to pay AED 139/- The dancing charge!

I ask him why. He tells me because the banks can charge as and when they feel like it. I ask him to repeat it. Which he does. So I ask him why can’t he just call it a bribe. Now the man is angry. So am I. So I tell him we can do this dance on the newspaper. He gives me his Assistant Manager's number.

I call the number and am answered by a very cheerful man who in the beginning does the friendly Arab intimidation act. This is where he is all smiles and laughs and treats you like an errant client. I am from sales. The trick is lost on me. He sings the same lines. Integration charge, accrued interest etc. I give him my reasons as to why I think the bank is trying to get me to bend over so that it can slide it in and have me thank them for the courtesy. He realizes that I can go on. I am polite but annoying. He promises to get it waived. Tells me he will get back.

He does. After 2 days. Every thing sorted out. All charges waived. I am to contact any branch and get the clearance letter. I do and I get my letter in 2 days.

I thanked every one concerned but one thing still puzzles me.

I am yet to be told why that amount was there in the first place. What was the charge for?

I am aware that many customers who have already shelled out thousands every month just want the whole thing behind them and therefore will pay what ever the bank tells them to; no questions asked. Not many are jobless like me to make a fuss over this.

From what the loan officer told me, no one ever questions this and when you do I guess it gets waived.

Well, that's all folks. Check your statements. If you find a shape shifting amount in your loan statement when you go for closing it, call me. I am your man. I have got all the numbers you will ever need.

And I wont charge you a penny.

Friday, September 9, 2011

Return of the King


A festival the ignorant think of as a harvest festival but in reality is a yearly reminder of a divine PR stunt that went wrong.

Let me tell you what really happened.

Long long time ago, during the times of constant heavenly interventions, there lived a king called Bali (not related to the other monkey Bali who too was screwed by the gods. They don't seem to like the name).

Our King Bali ruled Kerala. (Come to think of it, if the geographical evidence of Ramayana is to be believed, so did the other Bali. Damn, there could be a divine conspiracy here).

Maha Bali as he came to be known was a great king. He was loved by his people. This in itself is a great thing considering mallus don’t like being ruled. They may put up with it but that's just a tactic until each of them figure out how to become the ruler.

During King Bali's time, there were no locks. Why you ask? Because there were no thieves. Yes, contrary to how it might appear now, there was a time when mallus were honest. We didn't need to covet since we lacked nothing. There were no castes and people were treated equally. You just had to fall into the category of being humans. There was no deceit and men always told their wives that their arse looked fat in that dress.

The mallus were so happy with the abundance of food, toddy and great governance that they did away with the gods and worshipped their king instead. This was rumored to be the Tamil influence.

Being gods, this made them feel a tad bit insecure. If humans started becoming good, what purpose will gods serve? It was and still is a valid point. So all the gods went to the big honcho Vishnu for a solution. Vishnu who had a penchant for intervening in human affairs in disguise was delighted to be consulted. This gave him an opportunity to try out a great disguise he had been thinking about while whiling away couple of thousand god years on his 5 headed serpentine sofa cum bed.

So at the behest of his sidekicks, Vishnu dons yet another disguise which he insists on calling Avatars. This time he goes down as Vaman, a Brahman midget. I know that was politically incorrect, but remember this was the times when we were used to calling a spade a spade.

Maha Bali was at that time doing what all kings do when they had a little time in their hands, which was performing a Yagna. This is basically were we throw all sort of things into a fire and chant unpronounceable sentences. This brought out the inner child in us and of course these were the days before the west started making us feel guilty about the global warming they started.

Since Brahmins get their wishes granted (here the story is confusing because I thought all people were treated equally...hmmm), Vaman gets to present his heart’s desire, which turns out to be 3 step of land. Bali, being a mallu, knows a great deal when he hears it and agrees to grant him his desire. That’s when; true to divine nature, Vishnu aka Vaman reveals the card up his dhoti.

He starts growing. This is symbolic of every short person's wish but I am digressing,

Soon he grows out of the stratosphere, and with his head playing for space with the moon, spoke then, in a thunderous voice, "Bali! In my first step, I traversed all of Earth and the Nether worlds. In my second step, I covered the heavens and all the celestial bodies therein. Thus, I have now covered all realms of your dominion. You promised me three paces of land. Tell me where I should place my foot for the third time."

Upon which Bali realized that he been punked.

So he kneels down and offers his head.

And Vishnu squashes him down the netherworld which is not in any way to be misunderstood as Netherland.

Since Vishnu realized that this act could affect his divine image among the mallus, he decides to do a little damage control. So upon the great kings last wish made from the Netherworld, he gets to vacation in Kerala once every year to watch the deterioration of his kingdom on yearly frame by frame basis.

And mallus for centuries lay out the most amazing welcoming party every year for their king's return. Now of course he will have to distract them from the celebrations in Asianet,

Well, that’s Onam for you.

If it wasn't for the Sadya, mallus would have led a procession to the pearly gates. The toddy didn’t help either.

For the popular version of the story please go here

Friday, September 2, 2011

The short falls of metrosexuality.

The beauty of a short vacation is that you are in and out of the place before everyone gets tired of you.

I am not easy to live with. Hell I am so difficult to be around with that most of the time I am figuring out ways to kill myself.

Thing is I am a very sensitive person.

I take offence very fast. I am of the opinion that everyone out there is some way or the other trying to insult me.

Thing is I am a short, balding, overweight south Indian guy. There is probably something you will say to make me feel bad when you talk to me.

'It's a short walk from here'

'Overhead conditions are clear'

'That's heavy stuff pal'

'Don't sweat the small stuff'

See? It’s better to just keep quite when you are with me but then I might feel you are prejudiced towards me because I am a short, balding , over weight south Indian. That can offend me too.

There’s just no winning when you are dealing with sensitive people. I should know.

Don’t agree with me because I know you are just being patronizing because I am vertically challenged.


Someone somewhere said that you should do something that scares you at least once in your life. Apart from getting married, I recently went to a unisex saloon in the smog city of Bangalore to get a pedicure and manicure to put that saying to test.

Yeah. Call it my futile attempts in getting in touch with my feminine side. The only thing feminine about me are my man boobs. Sometimes I turn myself on if I happen to catch a sight of myself naked in the mirror after a bath.

I am digressing. Talks of boobs always do that.

Anyway, for moral support I dragged my father in law with me. He is one of the few men who has had whatever feminine side he might have had drained off him by having lived his whole life in a household consisting only of women. His wife and two daughters. He has held onto that masculinity like a drowning person clutches onto to a lifebuoy. Not the soap you moron.

So when attempting something which can scar you emotionally, I deduced that, having such a man by your side was like going to the butchers with Lady Gaga. It’s kind of a win win situation.

There’s something about having a woman marinating your pedis and manis in a bowl of warm water with antiseptic and soap, prior to clipping your talons. It’s embarrassing. It feels nice but it’s still embarrassing. Call me old fashioned but it’s strange having to pay someone to cut your nails. Especially when you have a good wife at home who can do this for you free. Only hurdle will be convincing her to do it. I have heard that compliments works well with women. Maybe I will go with:

That tent you are wearing compliment your figure. Could you cut my nails?

That should work.

Unknown fact: We were the first men in that unisex parlor to have ever done a manicure and a pedicure. So metro sexuality is still a myth in India. I knew it, you lying, cunning bastards.

Once we got our feet and hands to a presentable conditions, the visibly disgusted ladies where requested to give us a facial on a whimsical desire by the pop in law. I totally understood him. All our life we have been hearing about this beauty salon visits by the fairer gender, now was chance to find out what the fuss is all about.

Women, we found out likes choices.

They are the reasons why menus were invented. Think about it, when you walk into a restaurant, a man has only one thing on his mind. Hungry. Must find food. Give him any choices; you have on your hand a confused man. This is why men have affairs and always comes out looking like a bastard. They just don’t know what to do when there are too many choices. When life presents it like that, men like to have everything, including the one he really wants. Bastards. Precisely.

Women on the other hands, likes choices. Ever seen a woman with one handbag, a pair of shoes and 3 sets of clothes? Men can manage it, well, without the handbag but then who am I to judge fashion? For a normal, fully functional woman, she needs choices in her men too. She will need that ex boyfriend who was someone she cared for, she will need that blogger male friend who is the only one who understands her, she will need that college mate who is her best friend and the only one who really knows her and she will need her husband for whatever reasons. Women like having choices. They handle it better.

Men like it too but unlike women they just don’t understand things like right occasions and perspectives.

So when the ladies started listing out the various facials that are available, we were understandly confused.

There was, I swear, something which involved gold. In today’s economy!

We decided on something which involved just putting creams on our face and rubbing it in and then wiping it off. We had seen this on TV. It had looked silly but if Mel Gibson can carry it off, so could we.

We couldn’t.

For one thing, it’s boring. Then there’s this scrapping they do on your nose which is downright painful.

Before my masculine conspirator could suggest waxing for his academic research, we got out of there.


Will definitely do the manicure and pedicure again. It is indulgent and great. We felt like a million dollars for a whole day, while we kept waving our hands and keeping it on top of the table for a change.


Probably not. We looked at each other and figured it’s not really worth it. But then they didn’t have much to work to begin with. Pop in law thinks that they charged us a lot because we had more face for them to work on.

Friday, July 29, 2011

Just Friends.

There are questions and then there are questions.

There’s the unanswerable, “Do you think I look fat in this?"

The mind numbing, " Are we there yet?" asked by a 3 year old and her 7 year old brother with 3.5 minutes frequency from the back seat of the car.

The inconsequential ones like “Is there a god?”, “What’s the meaning of life?" which stands proudly alongside other idiotic ones like “What’s your religion?”, “If my god and your god has a pissing contest, which one would win?"

The weird ones, “What do you do?”, "How are you?”, "Does it hurt?", "Are you sleeping?"

The leading ones like, “Have you ever been in love...really?”, “Are you happy?”, " Does he/she understand the real you?”, “Has anyone told you how beautiful you are?"

The 'none of your business' ones like, “How do you plead?”, “What’s your qualification?" “Are you married?" “Which part of India?" “Where are you going?"

Then the stupid one: "Who are you?"

But the one question that generations have been forced to confront, even though the issue probably must have been one ancient one is:

Can a man and woman be just friends?

It all started with that chick flick movie 'When Harry met Sally”. Never has a movie raised such a level of self introspection, except perhaps Blue Lagoon, which gave raise to that often repeated probability question, "if you were stuck in a deserted island who you would like to be with you?"

For me it’s a basket ball. But I am digressing.

So can they be? Just friends?

I believe they can be, under certain conditions. After years of research and several months of banishment to the couch, I have the answers that you seek, thereby putting yet another question to rest among ones like "Does size matter?"

The conditions for a man and a woman to be just friends the below criteria have to be met.

- Both are committed to someone else they still care about.
- One is committed and the other is just plain undesirable.
- No one is committed to anyone else but one is just plain undesirable.
- Both are uncommitted and both are scared of rejection/humiliation.
- Both are uncommitted and one is scared of rejection.
- One is committed and the other is scared of rejection/humiliation/end of friendship/physical harm.
- One of them is gay. (This is same as point 2 and 3)

Okie. Let the lynching start. But before you let your self righteous cloud your judgment, please be honest and decide for yourself, where do you fit in the above criteria.

There's no rule saying that man and woman has to be just friends. No matter how much we like to peg, identify and label relationships, for the sake of yourself, others ,the mysterious society or for that inherited baggage we like to call our culture and heritage, the truth is that it really doesn’t matter, does it?

There is also another set of criteria that seems to work also.

- Both are committed to another, who they may or may not care about but one does not want it to go beyond a good friendship.
- Both are committed to another, who they may or may not care about and both do not want it to go beyond a good friendship.
- Both are not committed to anyone and each does not want for whatever reasons go beyond a god friendship.

What is this good friendship?

Does it mean only no sex?

I was talking to a family friend of mine about this. A woman.She says that eventually there comes a time where the relation reaches a stage where, normally its the man, shows an interest beyond just friendship. She just sleeps with them. According to her most men cannot differentiate between lust and love and this is a phase they have to cross.She has got lots of friends she said with a smile.Just friends?, I asked. She just smiled and said, between a man and woman who are friends, there are only degrees.

I guess that's true of any friendship, irrespective of gender but I doubt I will ever sleep with Dog.

I mean, I fall in love with all my girl friends. I don’t see how I cannot. They are great people, great company, great sense of humor, and they are girls. I love them. Nope. I have not slept with any of them. But I am married to one (brownie point alert!)

Here's my take. Man and woman make great friends. I have not met a single woman who says otherwise. Women like having male friends. They feel they are less complicated and more fun. As long as they are not married to it. Marriage seems to sometime make a friend into a prison warden.

It must be the same with us too. Once we get over our initial very male feelings, we can make great buddies. It’s like having a dog. We just need to be put in our right place and taken for walks. After that it’s just party and great fun. But watch out when we start talking about our doomed marriages and misunderstanding wives, we are probably trying to get into your pants. We can be persistent.

But you knew that when you wanted to be just friends, didn’t you?

That is what friendship truly is. To accept instead of expect. No other relationship has that much freedom. To label it will only cheapen it as we have already done to so many of our relationships.

So, can a man and a woman be just friends? Hell no. But that's probably the beauty of it.

But how many of us will admit to it?

That was a leading question.

Monday, July 11, 2011

Surviving Life's Sucker Punches

I am into survival these days.

It’s my latest addiction.

Don’t even ask me why. I have no logical reasons for the things that I do. It may have something to do with the movie 2012. But thats rubbish. If the world as we know is coming to an end, I would rather sit on the balcony with a drink in my hand, waiting for it.


This latest madness is unexplainable. But if and when I am stuck in the middle of a desert or a jungle or a deserted island, I will be ready.

You see I am prepared.

I have always had this thing for camping and trekking. Both the activities suit my misanthropic nature and my inherent yearning to be independent of the trappings of a society. Of course I will still need the tents, the can foods, the bottled water and the car to get to where I plan to do this getting away.

That’s what I love about being a misanthrope. You need the presence of a society to get away from it. Like the child who has that parent to hate.

Right now, my Ben (my truck who think it’s a car), is stocked with two 3 people tents, a foldable mattress, 2 sleeping bags, 2 lean to shelters, a foldable spade, an axe, 4 survival knives in various parts of the car (yep, I am also taking into consideration a Zombie invasion), a medical kit, a survival kit which consists of thermal blanket, fire starter, hooks and nylon thread for fishing, a compass and a whistle. I also have a SAS Survival handbook, nylon twine for making snares and traps, bungee cords, Velcro straps, 1 torch with batteries, 1 torch that can be powered by Ben, garbage bags, 2 tarpaulin sheets, rope and 2 fleece blankets.

Over the past 2 years, I have been studying up hunting, making bow and arrows, how to put up snares and traps. I have all the theoretical knowledge on where to find water in a desert, how to make a water sill and make potable water from shrubs and sea water. I can make fire with Coke cans and with water in a condom (when you are surviving, unprotected sex is fine).

I can make a dug out shelter, even a lean to if it comes to that. I know better than to ration water if I am stuck in a desert. I know that sooner or later I will need to get myself used to eating insects, but I am willing to postpone that for some time.

Now all I need to do is to get lost.

Thing is I am not a paranoid person. It’s just that I like being prepared.

This is the reason why I always base my lie on a truth.


Now my fear is that I will die of a heart attack or fall off a ladder before I get to try my skills out there in the wilderness.

This is because, like it’s said in that book Black Swan, you can never be prepared because life changing occurrences has the habit of coming at you from a direction you are not expecting it to.

Now that could be true. But me? I am brilliant.

You see, me finding myself in the wilderness with a condom and a flint stone is the unexpected direction. Since I am prepared for it, I think I will now die in my sleep.

This could be my middle finger to destiny.

It’s like learning karate. Until then you are getting your arse whopped by every senior in school and the day you enroll and finish your martial art classes, you find that there's absolutely no fights anymore in your life. It’s like finally finishing and understanding Stephen Hawkins’s book only to find out that the bible was correct; god did bury those dinosaur bones just to test our faith.

It’s what I would like to call, Life's Sucker Punch.

This is what makes a non smoking, teetotaler, jog-5km-a day bloke, keel over and die of a heart attack when he is shaving.

You don't see it coming.

So this is my lesson to you my friends, prepare for your worst case scenario. Chances are that you will never face it. And if at all by chance, fate decides to call your bluff, you will still be prepared.

Told you.

It’s one hell of a middle finger.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Vivir la vida como un tonto

I am a very pro choice guy.

This is why I am all for abortion.

Actually I should not even be giving my 2 bit here since I will never have this happen to me but since the world is mostly run by my gender who seems determined to regulate and lay down laws on things they have no experience of, other than how it effects them, I think, I need to come out right and say this.

I am one of the men who think that the choice of abortion should be with the one who intends to do it.

Yeah Yeah...I know what you are screaming. Female infanticide.


Why are some women aborting female embryos? Hmmm?

Yep. Precisely. Because we have made living difficult for women. They feel a dead girl is better than a live one. A live woman is costly. Dowry. Marriage. No return on Investment. Anything else?

Why do these reasoning exists? We put it there.

Now how many of these reasons can be solved? Almost every one of them. Hell, it has already started. There will come a time when it won’t matter what gender the child is because both will have the same opportunities or lack of them in life.

Denying a choice is not the answer.

Now the moral questions.

Let me answer this as politely as I can: Your morals are an inward compass. It applies to you. You think something is morally wrong then don’t do it but to apply your morals onto someone else is like rape...keep your morals and allow others to maintain theirs.

Religious reasons.

Damn that. Religion is just politics. It is a frame work build to control people of similar beliefs. In my book it’s like the gang colors. So fuck religion. We really need to keep religion in its proper place. I don’t do religion. You can by all means. Just don’t let it step into my porch uninvited. It works for me not the other way round.

I have heard this respect for life argument. Now this one has me stumped.

When do you think life becomes life?

Is it during conception? Or is it somewhere in the mother’s womb, if so when? Or is it when the child is born?

From what I have seen in The National Geographic Channel, those sperms don’t look dead to me. Man, they seem to have a purpose, a goal and speed. That buddy sure sounds like life to me.

This brings me to my next question.

Can masturbation be a male version of abortion?

Is there an ongoing genocide happening everyday in every man’s life?

I don’t know. I would really like someone to enlighten me about this.

But I really think that people should have the choices. They should be able to choose what they want to wear, who they want to sleep with, who they want to spend a life with or a night with, who they pray to, what they do with their body or even when they want to die.

Small choices that do not in any way interfere or affect someone else’s choices.

Sure some of these will hurt us, make us feel bad, perhaps sad but if we are able to respect the other person's choices and understand the reasons behind it, and then it will be a great world to live in.

It’s not much to ask, is it?

Note about the title: Isn’t Spanish sexy? I mean even the most stupid sentence sounds like a bedroom drawl in Spanish.

Saturday, June 18, 2011

Romancing a stone

One of the side effects of being liked for your virtual scribbles in the cyberspace is that you attract attention. Apart from the usual comments like,

'Nice.ROFL.Now visit mine and say the same thing.'

'you &$##**&% , who do you think you are?'

'I named by dog tys and then I kicked him to death. Die motherfucker die.'

, you also tend to get some readers who will mail you and try to get to know you.

This is very flattering.

I am that guy who in college would do the bidding of a girl for a long time, only to be told, while she hooks up with my best friend, how she has always seen me as a brother.

In girl code, that means you are ugly as hell and she won’t be seen dead going around with you.

Why is that no man has ever said to a girl who throws herself at him that he sees her as a sister? If he has ever said that to you, either you really are his sister or you are just plain ugly. I mean really ugly because men, trust me, are not very picky in certain of their requirements.

Or he could possibly be gay.

Either way it doesn’t flatter you, nor does it improve your self esteem.

So having a stray admirer, who is a woman, who thinks that you are worth getting to know does a lot for your deflated ego. You also know that this person has seen your profile picture which looks as I am lighting fire to my beard, and did not report it to BlogSpot.

For a guy who has, perhaps a handful of friends who I can treat like shit and still count on, I seem to have made some good friends through my blogging. I have met some of them and they are not the weirdoes I thought one normally meets in the cyber world. They are, in fact, really nice.

And they all prefer my wife to me, once they meet us.

I have no idea why, but apart from one male blogger, all the rest who have contacted me are women. They later on tell me that their husbands are my biggest fans.


I take the plunge and spend about 90% of my married life sleeping on the sofa and these guys probably download my site and leave it accidently on for the wifeys to 'discover'. Women being women will always sympathize with a man who is probably going through the same things her husband is going through, as long as it’s not her husband.

You don’t believe me? Let me see how you react when your husband says that he think pms is just a monthly get out of jail free card for a woman.

Now, please drop that knife and give the poor man his balls back. And, do call for the ambulance.

It’s easier when there’s a fall guy.

That’s me.

I still don’t get it when women say they like me and my writing. There must be something seriously wrong somewhere. I am a bloke.

But I aint complaining.

It’s not every day; someone contacts you and says that she admires your writing. Who doesn’t like that?

So this must be how Brad Pitt feels.

Wonder if this ever made Angelina Jolie feel insecure?

Now my marriage is based on trust. She trusts me not to do anything to jeopardize our relationship and I trust her not to take me up on that.

But being an idiot, I end up telling her everything.

Word of advice to all men who are on the threshold of marriage. Do not discuss your past with your soon to be wife. When she asks you if you have been with other women, trust me, she’s not asking you to confirm. You pulling out your sexual conquest souvenir book to give her an exact figure is not going to help your case either.

Ask yourself first; if you were in her shoes, would you have liked to know? And now that you know, do you sleep better at night?.Knowing that in today’s world, all the exs can be found in one place, called the face book or the orkut or some such flocking area. Nowadays old flames are like those trick candles, it just keeps lighting up no matter how hard you try to blow it out. So you can’t blame her insecurity.

That’s one of the reason I don’t do face book. It makes life too complicated and crowded.

Now I am one of those possessive kinds. But I am also that kind who doesn’t notice anything until my wife comes and tells me about it.

While we drive home after a party, me drunk and happy, wife, cold and distant, I turn and ask her the question which men asks that takes them down the rabbit hole: What’s wrong?

What’s wrong with you? She will retort

I try to surface my consciousness from the lake of alcoholic lanquidity, where it had been peacefully swimming in, to find a reason for that question or the answer to it (if it really requires one).

The sound that comes out from me while it’s being coaxed ashore is a perplexedly spluttered:

What did I do?

'It’s what you didn't do, you big oaf,' she says, ' you didn't even notice that guy who was hitting on me. What’s wrong with you? Do you even love me?'

Now, folks, this is tricky area.

You didn't notice. That much is true. But if you had and had reacted like a gorilla on a war path, which I had done once, things will not change much for you. The question will still be asked.

What’s wrong with you?

So I continue driving. Quietly. My chin hardened. With a grim look on my face. This is my fierce some look. It also looks a lot like my constipated look. This forces her to ask again.

What’s wrong with you?

So I reply. Each word measured. I had seen this being done with convincing effect in Terminator by the governer who has helped himself to the help.


I continue looking ahead. I can almost feel that smile on her face.

Yeah. They don't want us to fight for them, but they just like to be told we will, and when the shit does hit the ceiling, most of us actually will.

Trust me on that.

Can somebody tell why the women like that song : Hold a grenade?

" To give me all your love is all I ever asked cause
what you don’t understand, is id catch a grenade for ya.
Throw my hand on the blade for ya,
Id jump in front of a train for ya.
You know I’d do anything for ya.
See I would go through all this pain take a bullet straight through my brain.
Yes I would die for ya baby, but you won’t do the same."

This is not romantic man, its macabre. Not only do you want to kill yourself, you want the poor girl to do that for you. Shes probably right now getting a restraining order against you. Go find a small corner, curl up and die you fool. Let me not hear you giving my girl any more stupid ideas.

Hold a grenade. Really.

Monday, June 13, 2011

Bring it Home

I must be the oldest Indian man staying with his parents now.

Age: 42.

Domicile: With Amma and Achan.

Now, I might as well chop my balls off and feed it to a camel.

As you might have noticed, I have not been very regular here for the last month. I am of course assuming that there are millions around the world, who finds my absence disturbing. There must be a whole bunch of twitters, twitting around desperately asking: whatever happened to tys?

One can dream in a self inflicted delusion of one’s own importance.


Truth is my wife and children have gone back to India for good.

Now those who have been regulars here, (yep, you two), this is a regular occurrence in my house hold. My wife leaves me once in every 3 years. The reasons are mostly to do with children's education, illness in her family etc...

Truth is , anyone who has had the misfortune to be with me on a continuous basis will understand the desire for a long, really long vacation. Why do you think my parents put me in a boarding school when I was 4?

But I am kind of addictive like a bad habit, so she always comes back.

During the few days that she’s away, I run around like R.K.Laxman's dog. I walk around in my boxer shorts, eating directly from the fridge, peeing in the sink ...well, behaving more or less like a bloke.

3 days later it gets boring. There’s no fun in being undisciplined if there’s no one to thwack you on the head.

But this time she’s really gone for good. To make the point clear we have even shipped off everything from our apartment back to India. This time it’s really about the children's education.

Most Indians like salmons, return to their country of birth for education, marriage and death. Well, not entirely like salmons, since they just come back home to lay their eggs and to perhaps shop for banana chips.

That left me in an empty apartment with a mattress on a pallet, a table lamp, a table for the lamp, 15 books, one bottle of Jack Daniel, 1 glass ,a cat and a turtle called , wait for it, Shelly.


Living in an empty flat is like being a squatter. You occupy a tiny corner in a large place. When the night falls, with the curtain drawn, you feel almost like Robert Neville of I am Legend. Tanked up with enough booze, one can feel truly alone. As if you are the last man on the planet.

I have the flat till the end of the month.

The plan was to move in with my parents after that. Being parents, they couldn’t resist the idea of having their errant middle child back home, even though he now sports grey chin brush and a humongous beer belly. So I was forced to move in earlier than I thought. My lil bachelor pad remained there as a place of refuge if things got outta hand.

Outta hand it did.

You know what’s the scariest thing to happen to you when you are middle aged? No, it’s not waking up to find Angelina Jolie sleeping next to you.

It’s waking up one day to realize that you have turned into your father/mother.

Somewhere between 5 and 14, most parents would have already fallen from their children’s pedestal. From super mums and my daddy the strongest, they tend to become a bothersome necessity, then an embarressment, that slowly evolves into everything wrong the society stands for and finally a liability.

By the time, we reach adulthood and have our own family, our parents become the vacation place, or they in their bid to cling on to the only life they by now know, (you), will become your children’s nanny. This is how it is. It’s not a sad state of affairs; it’s just a kink in the wheel. There was a reason why in ancient times, the old , after having dispensed with their responsibilities as parents , retired to the jungles to spend the last of their days immersed in self enquiry.

Which probably would have been repeatedly asking themselves: Why?

Now, in absence of jungles, we have retirement homes.

Now, in my case, things were different. We never did spend too much time with our parents. My brothers and I lived a major part of our lives in boarding schools and spending most of our vacations shuttling from relatives to relatives. It was by no means a deprived childhood. In fact it was a rich experience. We were loved and parented by so many people. So it was pretty cool. Moreover it gave us a perfect weapon to hurt our parents with our so called abandonment issues. Yeah right.

Spending time with parents was the high light of our lives. For short periods. After having spent a lifetime being independent, there’s only so much one is willing to bear in the name of love. We were probably, that minority, who could not wait for the schools to open after 20 days of being with our parents. It’s not we that we were not enjoying the time we had with them. It’s just that we were not used to it.

So you grow up watching your parents and promising yourself that you will never become like them. It’s not meant in a mean way. It’s like knowing that there are only 26 letters in the English alphabet and you can become a limerick if you want, even if your parents are novels. It’s like you are aware what you are dealt with, by just observing your parents.

And you may be proud of them, you may love them to bits, but whatever happens you do not want to become like them.

I didn’t too.

So my first day in my parents’ house, brought the weirdest news home to me. I am my father's twin.

This is scary. I had spent 42 years consciously trying not to end up like him. He’s a great father, but he looks like a silverback on a good day. He overindulges himself on every habit he has. When he drinks, he drains the bar. When he had a heart attack, he lit up the moment he was out of the ICU. He feels that his life has to be lived according to his own yardstick. He is self centered, arrogant, given to sudden flare ups that can make you run a mile, and can surprise you with great acts of kindness and sacrifices when he’s in the mood for it.

The worst part is he even looks like me.

And to clinch the deal, we can’t spend 15 minutes in the same room together. This man is me. I totally can’t stand me.

That bachelor pad of mine is beginning to look more and more attractive.

Even that stupid cat.

Probably Shelly too.

Sunday, May 22, 2011

Killer gadgets and other things ..

Normally I am a very calm guy.

Ask my wife.

No much can ruffle my feathers apart from the usual. Which is everything that involves others. Then there are those everyday thingies that irritates the shit out of me.

Metal Hangers : Who is the sadistic freak that thought up a way to bend a piece of wire with a hook and say we can hang our clothes on it? Why is this implement a favorite of the laundry guys? I hate those things. It makes a racket in the wardrobe when it’s denuded of its garments. It pokes me when I try to take them out. It tangles with its fellow compatriots making itself into one of those irritating puzzles that is sold in the Global Village.

My day starts with dealing with one of these and then my day goes steadily downhill from there.

Toothpaste cap : Why are manufactures still insisting on sealing something with a cap that when opened is separate from the body? This is the era of can tabs that stay on the beer can after it’s opened. I have seen those click open and closing toothpaste which I think is marvelous. It rekindles your hope in mankind.

Then wife brings home those stupid toothpastes that have those fucking screwy caps which always fall and roll under the sink, which upon attempts at retrievals will ensure a close encounter of my head on the bottom of the sink, which will make me belt out a stream of expletives that results in my kids making a poem out of it. The next thing you know, the wife is calling the lawyers.

Hands free sets : I can’t use those blue tooth thingies. I handle a lot of calls in a day. The last one I had heated up and gave my ear a third degree burn. So I use that headphone stuff with wires.

I hate it.

Half my work is done from my car. So I have my phone held onto the windshield with a sort of clasp that came along with the phone. There’s a name for it but it’s probably an acronym TTTIBGFTTIWBTPSTHWTHHGHAB (The Thing That Is Being Given Free To The Idiot Who Bought This Phone So That He Will Think He Has Got Himself A Bargain).

To the thus suspended phone I stick the hand free in from one end and the car charger, which has those coiled wires, to the other end. Thus totally gang raped, my phone stares at me mournfully as I drive.

All hell breaks loose when I actually do get a call. This is when the phone, the charger and the handset conspire to kill me.

The hanging wires of the handset will get caught up on the steering wheel, pulling itself out of the phone. The yank of the wire will dislodge the phone to make it fall near my feet. I will then try to retrieve the phone by fishing it out with the phone charger that is still lodged in its orifice. While all this is going on I can hear the metallic 'hello!, hello!' of the caller. Around then, the charger dislodges itself, hurling the phone under the foot brake pedal of my moving car.

After hand breaking the car to a stop at the nearest parking area, I will proceed to rip the wires apart, throw the errant phone on the floor and kick it for good measure.

I do not take lightly my gadgets trying to kill me.

Sales person in clothing stores : Why do these guys stalk you? It’s not like she is going to help me try on my pants. No, that you will have to do by yourself. So why do they follow me? Last time, I wanted to see how far this can go. So I decided to do a Rambo on her. I pretended as if I am going to the pant section but quickly turned and disappeared into the women’s' section. From there I did a belly roll into the shirt section and hid among the racks. I could hear her breath as she came closer, where upon I jumped out of my hiding place with a g string in my hand to garrote her.

I am not allowed there anymore. I buy my clothes online. It’s more private and I get to browse the lingerie section without being labeled a perv.

So what about you? What gets your goat? Tell me the things that can make you go from Dr. Bruce Banner to the Incredible Hulk?

Sunday, May 8, 2011

Tom Foolery.

Isnt it grand being a man?

I mean the standing up to pee bit and scratching what we want when we want, are just fantastic perks. The way we can laugh off a fart or a loud burp. After all we are men and thats our birth right.

Isnt it great being a man, in a world, of our making, expecting everything around us to revolve around our fears and thoughts? Sun does shine from the great male butt.

We cover our woman up to protect her from people like us. We are truly the best of gods creation.

Sometimes , I look at myself in the mirror and get a hard on. Its hard not to when you are a man.

Look Iam not for the women.

Hell, I dont even understand them. I dont think Iam required to.

Personally I think pms is an overrated thing. If I had to inevitably deal with a particular issue every month for a period of approximately 40 years, I would learn to deal with it instead of treating 4 days of a month as some sort of get out of jail free card.

But of course this comes from a guy whose understanding of pain was a year with piles and a life time of hangovers. I think that qualifies. Why? Iam a man and I say so.

Pregnancy? Dont even go there. I wouldnt be expected to understand something that I have no way of knowing. But carrying a baby inside your stomach isnt a big deal, neither, I believe ,is being able to stand up while peeing .So this great man - woman divide based on who is better is a bit of joke for me. I just dont get it.

Look, my take is this. None of us can claim credit or discredit for what we are born as. It just is.

But I do have to admire the way man ruled the roost.

The guy totally rocks!

Throw in a train compartment labelled women only, allote them 4 seats in a 75 seater bus, give them some representation in the government, put up an extra counter and call it women only and there you have it; our version of equality.

If this is nothing sort of genius , I dont know what is.

Throw them some bones. Then pay them lesser for the same type of work. Create a society where a woman has to struggle to reach anywhere where we can stride in.

A society where a woman chooses to kill her own infant daughters because we have made her accept the belief that man child is somehow better. Brilliance.

A society where the mother in law, assists her son to kill her daughter in law , a role she herself once adorned. Her fault? Hardly.Look closer, you will see a man's hand.

If she is raped, it must be her fault. If she is harassed, she must have asked for it. If she succeeds, she must have slept her way there. If her children fails, it must be her fault. If the husband strays, its because she didnt know how to keep her man. If she is left with an unborn child by a spineless lover, shes a whore. If she aborts, shes a killer. If she keeps the child, shes the mother of a bastard.

The smartest thing we did was when we pitted them against each other and then invented the coolest saying : A woman is a woman's worst enemy.

We even got them believing it. Can I just shake my own hands?

I dont get it. Why such complexities? why dont we just call her god and blame the whole thing on her?

Lets face the truth, if the world affairs where left to women, I think the maximum we will have to worry about will be about putting down the toilet seat.

Have you noticed something strange around you?

Where are all the tom boys gone?

You recall the time when we were kids, there used to be atleast one girl who did everything we did, sometimes better than us? That was the times when it was cool to be a man. Being a man meant somehow better.

Look around you. No tom boys. Just a lot of metro sexual men.

Nature is turning the tables boys, better make the effort to treat them like equals and put a fucking lid on understanding them. You cant. You are a man and the only reason you say that is to get inside their pants. Treat them like you would like to be treated, just dont be a man about it.

Iam onto me.

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Kneaded Here.

There are things that can totally shake the ground that you stand up on. Like finding out one day that Gandhi was a foul mouthed Nazi or Jesus finding out that Joseph really was his father.

For me, it was when Soumya told me that Shakeela chechi is actually from Tamilnadu.

Thats like saying the peacock is the national bird of Great Britan.

People should not play with other people's faith. Its bad manners. I bet she was punishing me for being rude to her. Jerk.

I have nothing against Tamils. If I do, you will not find me saying it here. Never mess with a population who takes their cinemas seriously. The last time I said something about a certain actor whose name starts with R and ends with t, my girl child became a boy. Now unless I want my marraige to become a lesbian alliance, I should probably stop this paragraph here.


But Shakeela chechi?


How could this small detail of birth have been missed by her mallu fans? There is a whole generation of men from that prawn state whose epitome of sexual adventures were performed by others on the celluloid and the object of that lust was always this woman with a remarkably small head on top of gigantic assets. Shes the only woman I know, who could make a sexual congress ( my vote is on that) look like a piglet trying to suckle its mama. Its like the joke where the fly makes love to a Rhino and then asks her, did it hurt?

Mallu men who acts in mallu porns are elisted from the Kerala Tattukadas. I think this must be the day job. I came upon this revelation when I was sitting, sipping my black tea one night, waiting for my order of Parata and beef curry, watching the parata maker at his finest. He was kneading the dough. And I was going :

Wait a minute, I know that movement.

It was deja vu.

Images flickered by in my head like Amir Khan's in Gagani.Memories streamed out like a freshly squeezed Colgate toothpaste. I opened my shirt and looked at my tattoo. Shakeela chechi and the Kerala kamasutra number 79.

The boob kneading.

I had spoken about this earlier. The copyrighted sexual move of all mallu porn movie, which is followed by the nosing of the pleasuring womans body who lies supine like a fell oak, where only sign of life is the constant rubbing of her two feet like shes got a case of athletes foot.

And who can forget the visible display of a mallu girl in the throes of passion? The self biting of her lower lip with the eyes rolling back like a person suffering from an epileptic fit.

This was education to a generation whose daily lust fix was watching discreetly the women taking their bath at the temple pond from a distance of 1 kilometer.

There is a reason why we rank high in imagination. This is also the reason why mallu men hold hands. With each other.

This is also why we sport a moustache.

Its to brush away any dust while we do the nosing of our women.We have no idea what we are supposed to be sniffing for but if thats how it should be done , then thats how it will be. We are afterall a nation known for following the leader.

Sex is an important factor in Kerala.

Its like food in Ethiopia. Or health for a sick person. We dont get enough.

The result shows itself in public transports, bus stops, any crowded place, with embaressing regularity. This is why we need great individuals like Shakeela chechi. She will ensure that the horny mallu men will stay inside a theatre, like the sex trade in Amsterdam, where it can be controlled and dissipated in a healthy , socialy acceptable way.

Considering that Kerala gave Tamilnadu one of their most loved politician,MGR, its only fair we adopt Shakeela chechi as our own.

Its a fair trade.

I would like to leave you with a lovely picture of chechi in a pensive mood. ( If you are reading this at work and your boss is a mallu, make sure he is standing behind you while you scroll down; sure fire method to get into his good book)

Sunday, April 10, 2011

Pussy Galore

Its not like I hate cats.

I dont. I just find living with something which has an expression on its face as if it knows my inner most secrets, a lot like being married to the damn thing.

Its unsettling.

Iam a man. Atleast I think Iam. After hitting 40, there has been a tendency to cry in movies, have temper tantrums and a penchant to behave like , god forbid, a woman. This , I have read, is due to the reduction in the production of testosterone, which is the chemical within us, that makes men men. Funny when you think of it. That the only thing stopping men from becoming a woman is a chemical.

Anywho. Now that my boobs are bigger than my wife's and my stomach eclipses the only identifiable male part that I may no longer have, since I have taken to sitting down when I pee, Iam not very sure when I claim that Iam what Iam because Iam a man.

But I find any man who likes cats a little strange.

Iam currently residing in the Sand City. Here , unlike , in the home country, when one takes a pet, its for life or untill it is release onto the concrete jungle where they become part of the road reenforcement plan or gets taken in by some misguided do gooder who then gives it to an animal shelter like Feline Friends or K9 Friends etc, where they are recycled to live their potential road kill destiny all over again.

Life sucks if you are a human but its double suck for an animal that is not a horse or a camel here.

Iam proud to say that I belong to that breed of men who has made the ostrich approach to life a lifestyle. When Anna Hazare fasted, I was rooting for him with beer and pizza. When Japan quaked , I expressed my sympathy with 5 pegs of JD. Iam like that Nero. You will find me fiddling while the world burns around me and it will be easier because I will be watching it on TV.

But all that was spoiled when wife went out and came back with an animal that was animated only when you open a can.

Now I need to live with this fur ball for its life time which can be around 15 years. Being a cat, you will also need to multiply that by 9. So Iam not liking this one bit. My conscious and the fear of my wife prevents me from releasing the object of my wrath to play dodgeball with hurtling metal coffins on wheels.

Cats are useless as pets. It doesnt fetch. It doesnt roll. It doesnt save you from fire and robbers. It doesnt act like a 4 year old boy on speed when it sees you after you have stepped out for 5 minutes.

Men need that. We like knowing that we are missed. We like thinking that we somehow makes a difference to someone or something.

Cats dont give a fuck.

What it does is sleep 18 hours of a day in your wardrobe , snuggled amidst your black clothes covering it in unremovable cat fur, waking up only to shit or when you open a can. Then they spend the next 1 hour walking around the house at 3 in the morning making noises that sounds like Lady gaga being strangled.

I have always felt that the amusement in the eyes of a cat is it wondering how on earth it managed to have a human as its pet.

Therefore its a mystery what still makes these buggers a welcome addition in some houses.

I think theres a reason why the Egyptians used to worship these feline spongers. Any animal that makes you clean up its shit is worth worshipping.

Theres an old saying :

Women and cats will do as they please and men and dogs should relax and get used to the idea.

I think I will just pour myself a drink.

Sunday, April 3, 2011

Naked Games

I don't understand cricket.

Could never get the unnecessary passion behind 2 guys wacking a ball with a piece of wood and 11 guys running around trying to catch it. It seemed as stupid as that other game where 22 morons run after one ball.

All that changed with the promise made by one Miss Poonam Pandey.

Any game that promises to have a naked woman at the end of it, is a great game in my book. That was all the motivation I needed.

I was cheering myself stupid for India all day yesterday.

My eyes are however yet to be rewarded for the effort.

I like naked women.

I cant really explain why.

Its one of those things that defies logic.

I like women but naked ones are better. Somehow better. Beats me why. Naked men dont hit the right note but naked women are another story all together.

Anyhow. The important lesson here is that it got me watching cricket.

I still dont get it but the anticipation for the rewards of sitting through it is just great.

Its my opinion that there should be a naked woman at the end of every effort.

Women are great motivaters.

Every one might think that it was dedication, patriotism and team work that won the day for India but we men know the truth.

It was Poonam.

Shes our Evita.Our lady of liberty. The shining Icon of everything great about a woman. Her body.

Of course the Indian middle class morality might be offended because according to us, naked women are a myth. They dont exist. Its a western propaganda. Any woman comfortable in her own skin is answerable to the society of fat holy cows who dictates her fate.

Indian woman. Symbol of purity and chasity.

What does nakedness have to do with that? Purity then must be dependent on the layers of clothes that cover it. Hmmm doesnt strike you as correct does it?

If a girl wants to strip, I feel the Indian society should stand back and let her.

After all shes doing it for her country. Others blow themselves up among others for the same reasons. This is a far better option.

Wars could have been ended this way.

What if George Bush said that he will strip himself naked if Osama Bin Laden was'nt found in a weeks time?

History might have been different.

I think this Poonam girl is onto something.

She could be the answer to world hunger.

Mamta Banerjee promises to strip naked if the hungry Indian mass are not fed.

Religious intolerance.

Manmohan Singh threatens full monty if the one thousand religions of India doesnt bury the hatchet and promises to live in peace and let others live in peace.

World peace.

Abdul J Kalam decides to get into the picture by baring it all if the world leaders dont get into one room and come out with a solution.

Poonam could be the new age Gandhi. Her idea could get results for age old problems. Fast.

I say let her do what she wants to do. Lets cheer her on instead of judging her.

From my side, I promise to strip naked in public if India ever loses another world cup.

There! that should solve that problem.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Bullshits : Chapter 2

Amid all the questions that a human will ask in his life time, yearning for understanding of his existence, his purpose, his meaning, theres one that stands out.

Why do people blog?

I have no clue.

But I can tell you why I blog.

I blog for the same reason some people unleash their creativity on bathroom walls.

I blog for the same reason why some people pee in the pool.

I blog for the same reasoning behind the person who writes to the editor of a newspaper thinking that words printed will mean that he was able to make a difference.

I blog for the same reason as Jesus, when being confronted with people who were bent on stoning to death Mary Magdalane for adultary, wrote on the sand with a twig before answering : He who has not sinned, let him cast the first stone.

Jesus was a blogger.

I blog because most of the thing I say ,you will listen, only because you dont know me. I blog because I know that you dont care about me and I have no real place in your life, therefore whatever I say here will actually get to you.

See? Who said that an uncaring world isnt a positive thing?

This is why, we dont listen to our parents, our spouses, our friends but will worship the words of a stranger whom we dont know but think we do. Blogging makes everyone a guru.

See. Lets put a spiritual spin on this.

How does god exist? It relies on its existence to the believers. You might disagree; but if none of us believed in a god , then the question of its existence will never have risen.Its like the question of the existence of Maragosepinia Kolakutz.

It didnt exist untill I made it.

So, if god really does exist, he totally relies on us to keep him doing the things he does, being immortal souls and all. So as long as god exist, mankind will exist. It is codependent. So if he really existed, then theres no reason to fear, is there? Its all peachy. But is it?

We know in a deep rooted way that we are screwed. We write books about it, makes movies about it, talk about it , dream about it, have nightmares about it and some people get to have sex because of it. We know that our days are numbered. So we pray. If we cant control it, then there must be someone who can. Its called hope.

The last I heard, hope floats.

Shit also floats.

So you see, when someone asks, why do people blog? its because we can.

As long as there is a natural tendency in us humans to be curious, to be interested, to be questioning, to be alive, there will be seeking , there will be listening, there will be reading. That will give rise to the seen, the speaker, the writer.

They are codependent. Its expressions might be many but its reasons will be the same.

I blog because of the few who reads it.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Bullshits. Chapter1

Nowadays I feel like that guy who cut the branch that he sat upon.

Never have I felt so alone. Never have I felt so free.

I was talking to my mother yesterday. A friend of mine from college days had died of drug abuse couple of days back. He was in some former life a football captian but later he stayed on years after years in the same college completeing a course that had no end. He died in the university town. What upset my mother was when she heard that his parents did not want his body returned home. The college buried him in the university town graveyard.

Mother could not understand. Death is supposed to be a leveler. What happened here? Are disappointments so unforgiveable? Who is the victim here? I dont know.

Iam finding that its becoming difficult for me to take any sides. I seem to have lost the sense of discrimination.This is making me a bore to have a conversation with, because I do not seem to 'get it'. Most of it.


Do you feel that emotions are indicators? I mean , do you sometimes observe the areas in your body where emotions act out of? Fear in your belly, anguish in your throat, emotional pain( sometimes felt as intense love) in your heart? Dont you think sometimes the heaviness or lightness or constriction is there in these areas but the actual emotion associated with it is uncertain?

I find myself paying attention to the body. I feel it guiding in some ways. I have felt that all emotions are self directed. Its focus or rather the catalyst is external but the associated reaction/emotion is the filtered reality. Your true nature can be experienced by observing your emotions. Dispassionately. It is filtered, so I guess knowing that the filter will effect your observation is helpful.

Emotions in that sense is an indulgence. It is you asserting.

Then there are those emotions that are self generated. Seemingly without any outside catalyst. The feeling of anxiety, the sudden heavy feeling or the unexplained feeling of joy. But when looked closely, it too has an external source.I think emotion is the true language of the body.And like all language it can be misinterpreted unless we have that level of honesty to see ourself as we are.

Why is all this important?

No reason.I dont even think this is important. It helps pass time.

If you pause to look, you too, perhaps, will see how utterly alone we are. Its kind of beautiful how contained we are , within ourself. We hear what we want to hear, see what we want to see, be who we want to be, be not who we want to be. Every interaction, experience is your own unique thing, because there will be none like you ever again.

Does that make you feel better?

I didnt think so.

Yesterday I was talking to my mother. One thing lead to another and we were talking of orphans. Mother was telling be that she feels she should spend more quality time with the children she has been sponsoring.The last time she went to that school, her kids were standing at the gate waiting for her.

She was telling me that she is grateful that she is in a position to help.

Grateful to whom? I asked.

To all the paths that led me to now. She said.

Its a safe answer. I know. But its a beautiful real answer.

I can't comprehend the life of a child who upon grazing her knee in the playground has no one to blow on that wound.

But I do know that we all will become orphans one day.

Sometimes I find myself thanking the beggar I give money to. Its a reflex. Iam embaressed by the whole thing. Iam annoyed because the out stretched hand shows a lack that Iam in a position to fulfill. Who is the beggar? He who does not have it or the one who gives it because he has it? Where is the so called beauty in charity? There is none. It is an ugly reality. Giving is not a noble act or a virtous act. It is an act of guilt. Of shame. Its our way of redemption.There is no beauty in redemption , only a sense of justice. The very act of giving makes the other a beggar.

Rather provide. Act on a want before it is presented to you. Do it in silence and be done with it. Its a privilage. Bestow dignity. Poverty sucks and it will be a lot kinder if they are not reminded of it.

It is becoming hard to take myself seriously.

Iam so full of shit.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Slip And Slide Away.

Its off late that I happened to see my feet.

Having a midsection that has its own zipcode and climate, prevents me from seeing a lot of other things below the belt. But one day, while stepping into the shower, my gaze happened to fall upon my feet.

It looked a lot like a drought hit river bottom.Not a pretty sight.This is why I keep a lot of things out of sight; it saves me the embaressment.

Anyhow; I came out of the shower and declared to my wife that my lower extermities has been hit by a drought. She retorted that some other neighbouring parts have already turned into desert.( Point to ponder: do you think that the reason we find oil reserves in desert is earth's way of moisturizing?)

Moisturize! My wife declared like a wild prophet from the Mount of Sinai , holding up a container the size of a milk bottle.

Iam a bloke. We don't moisturize.

We shave after we lather our face in the shower with the soap. Once , during a camp trip, I have even shaved using mint toothpaste. The result was a fresh clean shave. Its not everyday your breath and face becomes syncronized.

When a bloke is dry, we oil ourself.

We dont rub on some cream made out of a fruit cocktail. We strip to our bare necessities and have someone oil us down.

When you are married and the children are too small to be trained in the menial tasks that are expected of them in the future, that someone will be your wife.

That is unless theres something you are not telling me.

So I stripped down to my boxers, spread the picnic matt in the living room, handed over to wife a bucket full of heated coconut oil and lay face down on the matt.

Then I waited.

Upon not feeling any reassuring oiling happening, I looked up puzzled , to see my wife looking at me with disgust.

The reason?

No. Not my naked body, which trust me, is the reason she keeps in shape.

It helps with her diet.

Olive oil.

Whats with girls and olive oil?

According to her, coconut oil is for banana chips.

There were retorts I could have come up with for that comment, but Iam against domestic violence.

Babe, olive oil is a dressing. She is Popeye's girl friend. Its such a girly oil that it has got a girl's name.


Now thats dude oil.The word rolls in your tongue. Coconut. Theres nothing feminine there.

Theres one thing you learn when you are married to a woman for a long time. They complain that we dont listen.

Its true. We dont.

They listen.

Then they go ahead and do extactly what they want.

So ultimately, it was Popeye's girl friend who filled all my cracks with her greasiness.

After being marinaded for a period of one hour, I skidded my way to the bathroom, where I spend 2 hours trying to open the door, which kept slipping. Upon entering the shower , the process which nearly killed me, I proceeded to shower, washing Bluto's lust off me.

Now my feet looks like a broken chinese vase that has been put together with quickfix.

Moisturizing, I maintain , is over rated. Feet and hand needs the threads, which gives it a good grip. Greasing that is as stupid a pouring oil on your car tyres before taking it for a spin.

You know how that is going to pan out.

Monday, March 7, 2011


For a guy who seemed to have spend almost all his life trying to find the meaning of life, you will think, would by now know how to live.

Well , my friends, I do.

Anyone who knows me, I know, will disagree.

I invite their gaze towards my raised third finger.

Now, that my friends, is how I live my life.

As I never tire of emphasising, my way need not be your way. My meat is in all probability poison for you. So let me , my poor captive audience, go further into my journey in whogivesafuckism.

You probably know by now that my wife has prohibited all talks that revolves around my work and my state of mind inside the house ( not my state of mind inside the house, which is largely a state of confusion but rather discussion in relation to the state of my mind is prohibited within the four walls of my abode).

This ban has resulted in a sudden silence in the house, since beyond this, I seem to have nothing else to speak about. Point made woman!

So thats where you come in.

Call it farting in the wind ( which is what any talk about life really is. One hopes that someone , somewhere will sniff the stink)

According to me, theres no way anyone alive can ever know the meaning of life. Now that does not mean that we will know the meaning once we are dead. I wouldnt know. The last I checked I had a pulse and have no particular craving for blood.

Actually I dont think theres any meaning to life at all. I mean, the very question is a meaningless question. Think about it.

Its like asking, whats the meaning of wind.

Fuck if I know.

Heres my paradox, I didnt witness my birth and theres a plausible chance that I will not witness my death. Yet Iam told I existed for all eternity. And you call me drunk.

Face it.

We are the body. Every perception , every experience , all that makes you you are within this body. No matter how many theories are thrown around and how many times some guy with a beard says otherwise, you cannot exist outside your body and be aware of it. You can, of course fool yourself into thinking that you do, but tell me something-

when you think, do you hear it? or do you see it?

Tell me something.

What the fuck is choiceless awareness?

I have no clue. But I dont pretend that I do.

Now, therein lies the core of whogivesafuckism.

As long as you ask a question for the sake of asking a question, there will be enough and more cunning little bastards out there trying to convince you that they have the answer.

But they cant possibly know you.

They can theorize about you, they can even assume that they know you. The result thats you due to the combination and accumulation of the billions of recycled atoms, willed to a certain extent by the genetical code that could be the nearest thing to an immortal part in your whole body, is unique.

One of a kind.

Yet we are told to believe in a fit all sizes salvation.

And you call me mad.

They tell me that we are all the result of our experiences, that is in reality past. Which makes me a dead man walking.

They tell me that we are exactly where we want to be due to the choices we have made. We are in charge of our destiny.

And I tell them take their mother for a walk on a leash.

Tell that to the 4 year old kid who was raped and killed in the rest room of the mosque during ramadan. Tell that to the girl who was locked up by her prevert father to be his sex slave for an eternity. Tell that to the palestine father who tried miserably to shield his son from Israeli bullets. Tell that to the millions of jews who were murdered while their neighbours watched.


Yep. Now is when they throw the whole karma thing at me and this is where I tune off. I find this whole karma thing boring. Iam I the only one who sees that it actually serves no real purpose in the actual business of living?

You are trying to find a reason when there are none. You are trying to find a meaning when there are none. You are trying to find a purpose when there are none.

What is the purpose of a karma when you have no idea if you had a previous life? It is a speculation.

Here is the foundation of whogivesafuckism.

I do not know.

But Iam a king of living. I have been doing it for 41 years with no special effort.

Just have to wake up.

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Off with her head!

Trust the government to come to your rescue and put a smile on your face when you feel down in the dump.

I have not been able to look at another shop window display the same way again after reading this.

This got me thinking.

Yes it does happen.

Who makes these laws? I mean, what is the provocation behind this? Is the society a little safer due to this? It also makes you wonder about the person who is 'bothered' when he sees a plastic female figure in underwear. But to be fair, men are also known to get turned on by pictures of female figures. Go figure.

So as a mean to entertain you, I decided to find out some more of these strange laws. Yeah. Absolutely jobless.

In Virginia,USA, chickens must lay their eggs between 8am and 4pm.

In UK , a pregnant woman can legally urinate anywhere she wants, including if she requests, in a policeman's hat.

In Hong Kong, a woman can kill her husband if he has cheated on her. She must use her bare hand though. This isn't a requirement for the man's lover, who can be killed by any means necessary.

In Samoa, it is illegal to forget your wife's birthday.

Portugal makes it illegal to pee in the ocean

In South Carolina unmarried women are not allowed to buy edible panties.

In Singapore chewing gum is illegal

In Israel, you could be prosecuted for picking your nose on Sunday.

In Sweden it is illegal to use the services of a prostitute. Prostitution is legal though

In Thailand, it is illegal to leave your house without your underwear on.

In Lebanon, If a man is caught having sex with a male animal then the penalty is death- sex with a female animal is ok

In Bahrain, a male doctor may legally examine a woman’s genitals but is forbidden from looking directly at them during the examination; he may only see their reflection in a mirror.

In Indonesia, the penalty for masturbation is decapitation.

So I guess as long as society exist we can be assured of a good laugh.

Even if it will get us jailed or worse, decapitated.

Sunday, February 13, 2011

Too sexy for your love.

There’s this myth that is been going around for a long time which I will proceed today to dispel.

- Indian men are not sexy.

I have no idea about the origin of this myth but I am sure it’s been around a long time. It was already prevalent during the colonial times and the trip Gandhi made to London in his loin clothes didn’t help the image much either.

Now, that’s not to say Gandhi wasn’t sexy. He was. No man who isn’t sexy can have the confidence to meet the English Prime minister in his underwear. That man was sexy and he knew it.

Thing is, if you actually think about it you will realize how stupid one has to be to believe this biased allegation on my Indian brethrens.

We all know that Indian women are known as the most beautiful in the world. They have won beauty contests, acted in movies and are lusted by men/ women of all races. (My blog is whichever-way-you-swing supportive).

Further proof can be derived by the sheer number of porn sites that will open up if you Google 'desi girls'. I myself have verified this as research for this post.

Now consider this.

Enquire on whom 90% of these Indian women will marry?

Indian men.

Case closed. Bara boom Bara bam.

I know the existence of rumors about the character of an Indian man. I am shocked by the generalization of a whole population due to the flaws of a few. Never the less, let me take the time to make you see it from another perspective.

Rumor 1: Indian men treat their women badly.

This in my opinion adds an edge to the Indian men. We are the Rhett Butlers of the world. Now we all know that women tend to sway more towards men who treat them bad. Don’t ask me why they do it but they do. Ask any of those nice guys who finished last.

Rumor 2: Indian men do not know how to pleasure a woman.

What!? Man, you are talking about the guys how invented sex. We made religions around it. We have even given the world the maximum permutation and combinations possible in doing it. So in the midst of all this wonderful research for the benefit of the humankind, we kind of missed the clitoris and the g-spot. Big deal. The maximum pleasure for a woman is in pleasuring a man. It is written.

Rumor 3: Indian men are all mamas’ boys.

I fail to see the problem with this. The last I heard there’s no way papa can give birth.

Rumor 4: Indian men are horny.

Of course they are. You try living in a country where your women are declared as the most beautiful in the world.

Rumor 5: Indian men lust after white women.

Actually this is true and the blame falls squarely on the shoulders of the western media. Until an average Indian man reaches adult hood, the only naked women he has seen would have been a white woman. This is thanks to the prevalent western porn industry that caters to our collective Indian lust. Moreover our Indian national pledge has made us feel a little incestuous in having any 'dirty' thoughts on our Indian sisters. So that kind of leaves only white women for our fantasies. This problem, however, is normally cured by marriage to a nice Indian girl from a good family selected by the mother.

I have observed, in my years of study on sex and its relevance in Indian society, that there are basically 3 types of Indian men. They can be termed as:

1. T man.

These are the ones who have been stereotyped by all mallu naughty movies as the master of the house or the son of the master of the house who is always staring down the blouse of Shakeela chechi, playing the maid swapping the floor. They can also be recognized by their inability to have a conversation with a woman without their eyes dropping 6 inches below her eyes.T-men are just grown version of a boy who has not been weaned yet. Fascination towards an anatomical part of the female body whose sole function is to provide nutrition to its young cannot be termed in any other way than being the result of an early weaning.

2. A man.

These species can be found in all Indian Public transport services. In their highly active stage they can be found groping, pinching, touching the derriere of Indian women who are unfortunate enough to catch their attention. In their normal stage, these are Indian men whose attitude towards sex are normal and are focused on procreation. They wear their intention on their zip. Women are advised not to drop anything in front of these guys; worse try picking it up.

3. The T&A man.

A balanced individual. Indian version of a metro man. To this man the only criterion is that the focus of his passion just has to be a woman. Nothing else matters. What can be sexier than that?

For the Indian men reading this, a simple test to determine your type:

If you saw boobs, you are type 1
If you saw a half exposed pair of buns, you, my friend, are a type 2.
If you saw a boob and wondered what her arse will be like is a type 3
If you closed your eyes when you saw the picture, then my son, you are way too young to be googling 'Indian cleavage'.