The Grandospection

Mom’s voice climbed up the stairs again, panting in exhaustion. Trying to wake me for the uncountdreth time. Only this time it had something different to say. Something that… well, made no great arrhythmic aberration to my slumber.

Granpa is coming to visit you.

Adam Young, Owl City’s lead singer asks me through the headphones, The grandfather clock seems to have chimed family time! Should I buzz off?

I am absolutely convinced that the question was more out of the blood-curdling memories of his own personal experiences with grannies, rather than courtesy towards his latest fan.

Oh no Adam, stay stay. It’s okay.

He hid a chuckle in a loud strum of bass, and continued playing.

I went back to sleep.

-----------------------------------------

How are you feeling now, son?

I woke up with a start, and felt cold hands on my foot. The texture was too uniform and hard to be human.

Hi granpa.

Keep some windows open son. Fresh air and sunlight is great for the body and mind.

He went ahead and unlatched some, while I blinked and stayed on the bed.

Also gives some warmth to the room, you know.

But it’s not really cold in here.

Then why are your legs tucked under that blanket? Granpa asked with a smile.

Patience meter is showing below 50% and fast thinning.

What the hell? I didn’t even wake up yet. Oh yeah right, dad had forced an early shutdown last midnight. It seems viral fever could worsen on prolonged exposure to laptop screens. That logic had eaten up a week’s patience reserves.

Damn. Just when I needed it the mostest.

'Cos I like it so' would have been my ideal response to gran’s question, but I settled for a shrug and a smile.

I also do it sometimes son. I also wear a wool turban covering the whole of my ears. But by morning, it would have fallen off though. Ha ha. He laughed loud, showing that protruding yellow tooth of his.

I managed a smile.

--------------------------------

I didn’t know you were sick son. No one told me. You know how it is between me and your grandma. She never tells me anything.

They rarely spoke. About anything. She was perpetually angry. The only known reason being, he was a respected postmaster and an even more popular communist activist, and tended to the society more than home. A version he refuses vehemently.

But today when I was reading the paper, I overheard her on the phone with someone. From whatever I could pick up, I figured you were ill. So how are you now?

I’m fine now granpa. It’s just the weakness now.

Oh, that comes with viral. Will go in two days. Don’t worry.

His brother was (is?) a doctor and owing to that exposure, he considered himself an authority in most common ailments. Homoeopathy is hardly ever considered seriously, but we kids never refused those pills. Those little balls of sugar; in tiny plastic bottles with colored caps.

Possible nose blockage also right? I also had breathing troubles when I was a kid, you know. Made me breathe through my mouth all the time. Which is why my teeth are like this. Ha ha.

Tell me about it. (!)

I flashed my teeth braces for him to see. He got the hint.

Ha ha. My son, where were such things at our age... Even if there was, who could afford it? My dad was a school teacher. Have I told you that story?

Here we go.

I nodded in exasperation. Yes you have granpa.

It costs you lakhs to learn MBA, doesn’t it? Can you believe my high school fees were 5 Rs? In those years, one could buy a sack of rice for that money!

This is not good.

And you know, a sack of rice could feed a family of five, three meals a day, for a week.

This is just not good.

------------------------

He continued. From one thing to another. Picking up an insignificant little nugget from the last sentence of every big paragraph to form the basis of the next big paragraph. And the big paragraphs kept coming.

I heard, never listened.

But I watched, in slow motion. His face was animated, the trembling hands making many actions to symbolize relevant portions in the current story. He looked like a story teller on home consultation.

I could sleep. I’ve slept in the midst of bigger noises. But it would be rude. Wonder where all my moral quotients go for tour when I snore before all those poor professors.

Heck, I pay their salaries.

I stood up and walked around the room. Kicked my brother’s ball around. No, that soft blue and white one.

It bounced and went out. Thank goodness. I followed it.

And he followed me.

Your single room is big? Can you play like this there? How many chairs are there?

One. (How does it even matter, grandpa?)

So if someone comes in, they’ll have to sit on the bed, right?

Yeah. Right.

-----------------

Mom came in with tea and biscuits. She realized my situation and winked.

You shouldn’t buy these cream biscuits you know. They’re bad. He said and took a bite.

Mom whispered to me.

Show him some pics of your college on your laptop. Otherwise you know his capacity to talk.

And you think that will stop him mom? Seriously?

-----------------

Son, your tea is getting cold.

Yaa Granpa. I took out my cell phone and started texting my brother.

Who are you calling son? You getting bored of all this talk?

Oh no no. Go on. It’s just sms.

I didn’t tell him it read, ‘someone has to ask grandpa to shut up. I don’t want to be the one’

-------------------------------

An hour and many decades later, he gets up from his chair.

Looks like you are getting bored son. I think I will leave. I could sit till lunch and go on. Ha ha. But I’ll let you do your things.

For the first time ever, I felt hit.

There’s no power back home right? Mom told me it’s under repair. Why don’t you watch some news and stay for lunch? Mom asked on his way out.

We kids used to hate him for spoiling lunch-time TV with news on every channel.

Oh no. I rarely watch news these days. Can’t even finish reading the papers.

The pain of having to watch his party’s current status was evident, if you knew where to look.

He walked on.

His small frame casting a shadow of history.

---------------------

I knew I would get over it. But I didn’t want to.

I kept thinking.

He has stories. Loads of it. Everyone does.

Pretending to listen is the least I could do.

The only written letter I’ve ever received was from him, from Dubai.

It had great stories too.

Now I dread them.

I hate my parents asking me so many questions.

I hate it when my dad tries to crack a joke.

I hate it when they forget something I said.

I hate it when they fuss over my headache.

Why?

Why when I so willingly subject myself to endless crap by so many arses?

Why when I spent hours on phone listening to nothing but murmur?

Why when I tolerate irritating pricks all day long?

Why when I listen to pathetic jokes and force laughs?

Why when I bother people by opening a bag of chatter shit myself?

And why do i know i will do these exact same things again?

Why?

Because I am an asshole?

True story.

-----

Epilogue: (Added 262 minutes later)

The thermo is showing 99! You have the damn fever again. Why don’t you ever listen to me? Shut that damn laptop and come down here!

But, what has my poor box got anything to do with my fever?

Not fever, it can cause eye strain and headache moron!

But I don’t have a headache.

Yeaah. Not now you don’t. But it will come!

Whaat?!

His fan was put in full throttle yesterday, maybe that’s why.

But did you tell me not to?

Why do you always argue like this? You could do with a bit more control, u know!

Aarghh... These people!

I can see my brother laughing. Can't see the joke he sees?

Look at Me.

The Legal Age of a Superstar

AR Rahman, 43, is not a composer.
He is a way of life. A method of expression. A celebration in human form.
His travails are famous. His experiments worshipped.
He has whatever it takes to make Vince Vaughn jig to Kuru Kuru Kangalilae in chaste Tamil.
And that, in a true blooded Hollywood rom-com.
He is a superstar.

Sachin Tendulkar, 35, is not a cricketer. Not to many billions.
He is an entity whose faculties are believed to transcend the recorded realms of human capacity.
He is a power brand whose boyish smile alone can unite a nation. Even India.
He is the average agnostic’s answer to Jesus Christ.
He is a superstar.

Cristiano Ronaldo, 24, is Portugal’s best export since cashew nut.
It is said that with the nickel he jumped places of work, entire Canada could buy big Macs.
And they didn’t mean the burger.
He is a superstar.

Emma Watson, 19, has BoyDestiny write and sing a song in her adoration.
While just two months into teens, she was tenth in The Hottest Female Stars list of that year.
She owns one of the world’s most famous panties.
She is a superstar.

Katelyn Tran, 14, the youngest finalist in the Greenfield Philadelphia Orchestra Competition, is hailed to be a revelation with the piano.
She is a superstar.

Mauricio Cesar Baldivieso, 12, is South America’s youngest first division soccer player. His introduction sparked the coach’s resignation.
Nevertheless, he is a superstar.

Megan Fox, 22. Keeps websites busy.
Sreelakshmi Suresh, 11. Makes those websites. Twice daily.

Colbie Caillat, 24. Ana Ivanovic, 21. Juan Martín del Potro, 20. Hayden Panettiere, 19. Gael Kakuta, 18. Dakota Fanning, 16.

All superstars.

----------------------------------------------------------

Our protagonist, 23. MBA student.
Confused. Jealous. Cynical. Miserable. Et al.
Currently wondering what went permanently wrong.
Does nothing worth mention for a living. Or existing.
He is a superstar. NOT.

From a very early age, he was fascinated by superstars and their never-never land.

Like Simon Pegg called it, the ‘other’ side of the door. It seemed like a TFT screen with a billion colors, running an incessant stream of fairytale ingredients. Glitter. Laughter. Flashlights. Tuxes. Gowns. Swarovski. Black limos. Bubbly. Gossip. Wild fans. Gracious waves. Autographs.

What a world.

He wanted it. Have that door opened up for him by black-suited white-gloved men. To bask in whatever was at the other side. He was sure he’d love it.

At 10, there was time. He had no idea what to do. Still encouragingly, all superstars he knew were older.

Destiny knows its way.

He thought he was biding his time in school and college. Just minor gas stops before a Vegas worthy bang.

Days passed. Biding continued. Though by now, the actresses he drooled over didn’t look a lot older than his college mates.

Something wrong Houston?

Hell no, just adjusting the coordinates. We’re on course. Don’t fret yet.

He grew older. And the newsmakers grew younger.
Microcontrollers. Girlfriend1. Dumping1. No sign of door.
DotNet. Work. Salary. Girlfriend2. Dumping2. Nothing happened.

By now, many of his idols were half a decade younger.
Earning trillion times than he will ever. Enjoying high life.
Post grad. Economics. No stardom to be seen in miles.

Something seriously amiss.

He sat down and thought.
Fate is not my new girlfriend’s old boyfriend, to owe me a favor.
So I’ll go on my own. Find that fuckin’ door.

Introspection.

Make a list of superstars. Find their claims to the door. And weigh your options.

First striking fact: Most are girls. Not a viable option now. Too late. Cross.(X)

Second, most are in showbiz. Easiest way in.
But good looks? (X)
Histrionics? (X)
Any godfather, like for Uday Chopra, Tusshar Kapoor? (X)
Sorry then. Better luck next…. life.

Damn. Even Kim Kardashian’s sex tape is called Kim-K-Superstar.
Hey, but how about that?
No way. Not even your cupboard keyhole would come to bed with you. Particularly in record mode.

Problem: Plain Unattractive.

Cure: Protein powder. Teeth braces.

Result: Very soon old pal Jobin cries, “Man, you look more awful than ever. If that’s possible”.

---------------------------------------------------------

Okay now, but doesn’t Franck Ribery look worse? He hopes.
So the answer to stardom is football? Hurray.
Get on the turf and kick some balls. Now!
Dribbles, step overs, back heels, all work well. Until play begins.
But how does Messi do it so easy?

“He creates the space, you darn idiot”, says Suresh.
Creates space? What is he, Isaac Newton?

Seriously dude, now’s not the time to enter sports or showbiz.
You’re too old.
Heck I know. So what do I do? I just wanna become a damn star.
So find some place where you’re still young. We mean like old boy games.
Politics, Journalism, Sensory Robotics, Capital scams, Serial rapes…

Or wait, how about Direction? Movie making? They take oldies, you know.
Hell yeah, that’s true! He pondered.

Florent Malouda, 29 is labeled an ‘ageing’ left winger, while Christopher Nolan, 37 and Farhan Akhtar, 35 are ‘young’ directors with ‘fresh' blood.
Zinedine Zidane, who’s only as old as Nolan, is considered extinct.
Ayan Mukherji, 24 and Géla Babluani are just anomalies.

Perfect.

Only that you don’t look like one.

Pray why?

Well, in a nutshell, you are like a character that would most likely be played by Jason Biggs in a B-Grader. Unnecessarily sweet, nauseatingly diplomatic, delivers lines that make you throw up on popcorn, everyone thinks you are gay, and the other hero ends up with the girl you fancy.

Wow, that was a nutshell?

Directors have personality. Not sugar balls.

So, what do I do?

Show the maturity of a sperm, says his mom.
You are such a kid, and that’s why she left you, says a good friend (who prefers not to be named).

I’m on it folks.

Problem: Lack of Maturity

Cure: Look around. Learn from people who are mature.
Like Anurag Pillai. Or Manmohan Singh.
So no more smiling. Brooding will be looked upon as thinking.
Two weeks on strict regime.

Result: classmate Kris comes over. Takes a deep look at him. Says the following.

“Hey, we’re doing a movie spoof. Ghajini’s hero is the lead role. And you are,

Short- Check
Not fat- Check
Looks dumb and doesn’t talk in buckets- Check
Adept in Brooding, frowning- Check”

Slam dunk bro. You’re our hero.
Thanks, But they say I’m too old to start acting.
Whoever asked you to act? Just be yourself. We’ll do the rest.

And so, for one day, our protagonist becomes a 23 yr old star.
No limo. No interviews. No Armani. But a star nevertheless.
He gets the taste. It’s good.

And so, he is proposing a new bill.

The Legal age of a superstar.

“No person under the age of 20 should be permitted to perform any activities of special mention, involving considerable talent, and in the unforeseen event that such an act is performed, all efforts should be made to keep it discreet until legal age is reached”

He will meanwhile wait to hit 40 (and look like 30) to direct his first movie.
Until then, Sigh!

DID YOU KNOW?

Superstar Heidi Klum just added another curve to her superbod. She got pregnant!
Yeah, you are welcome.

Love in the time of swine flu

Monday:

The crimson clock gadget to his left showed 9.42 AM, Monday and some date.

Dates were insignificant to New Folder. It was a fine Monday morning.
Not that days mattered, but Mondays had a charm that was universally appealing to jobless blokes.
What if the start of the week meant a start of something new? Something life-changing? New folder hoped so, just like he hoped on every other Monday prior.

It could just be another day of staring at those mundane green fields in over-glossy wallpapers. Or maybe some fresh action; and if he was particularly lucky, even get some better files. Files that served some important purpose to the master, so that he visited more often.
(The current ones were for use in the dark, and this meant that even though 3 years old, he didn’t even have a proper name).
No one in the history of folders had been called ‘New Folder’ for more than 6 months. What a shame.

It had become really boring inside the window after the last contact departed. He was actually a shortcut; of something called Tune-up Utilities 2008. He wasn’t particularly friendly and was almost always working. But like the previous folder dude had said wisely, even cocky, self-obsessed shortcuts are better than sitting alone in a window.
And that also meant that his longest standing friend, the puny but authoritative Mr. Pointer would come in more often. Not to click on him of course, but would wave an occasional casual ‘hi’. He was a busy man, Mr. Pointer. And by the way, he looked especially handsome these days after getting a CursorXP makeover.

Do these packages work on us folders I wonder? No I guess. We all always looked the same. Yellow, glossy, bland and boring.

So then, it was a fine Monday morning. Master gone to class. Another full day of no work. A coin’s toss away from either wallpaper-watching or Sleep mode.
But unknown to New Folder, this Monday had some plans of its own.

Click click. Someone’s at the window’s door. It’s Mr. Pointer.

“Hey Pointer, great to see you today. Looking smashing as usual, huh!”, New Folder relished any form of cyber contact these days.
“Yeah well, thanks. You aren’t all that bad either”. The usual cold reply when he is busy.
He has some files copied with him for delivery. Hope it is for me.
“Looks like you are finally getting company; these are for her”. Pointer said with a wry smile.

Damn. Not again. Why don’t I get any deliveries? How long will I have to carry this ‘Monica Bellucci in Malena.mpg’ and a truckload of other such low-clarity, low-size shit.

But hey, did he say ‘her’? (!)
“Wow sir, that’s good news. But ahem, how do you know it’s a she?”
Mr. Pointer ignored that question and with a majestic swish, hovered over ‘New’, then ‘Folder’, then gave a slick click. And there she was; a glowing yellow beauty. Cute like a Picasa shortcut. Fresh as a newly formatted pendrive. And her tag said ‘New Folder 1’.
Hope that will change. Someone who looks like her deserves a pretty name.

She blinked frantically at the surroundings. It was white nothingness all around. And then her eyes caught another admiring pair, that belonging to New Folder. He immediately tightened up; put the tongue back in his mouth.
“Hello ma’am”.
Before she could return it, Pointer pounced on her.
“Hey watch it man”, she reacted angrily. New Folder couldn’t suppress his laughter.
Right click. Paste. Delivery done.
“Just like they’re supposed to be. These girls”, Pointer said with a dismissive shake-of-the-head. One more click. Some keystrokes heard. Old tag is erased. Her new name is ‘From Norah’.

“And boy, I know it because I create them”, Pointer answered New Folder’s earlier question. And with the same wry smile, left the window.

She fiddled with her beautiful yellow icon that Mr. Pointer left astray with his boorish ways. After making sure everything looked pretty, she looked back at New Folder, who had spent the entire five minutes in wondrous admiration.

“Hi there, missed your name”.
New Folder hated this part. He shrugged, and replied with a sad smile.
“Well, what can I say? It’s quite unfashionable. New Folder”.
“Hey, it’s a cute name.” She looked at the wallpaper behind. It had changed to a sunny Austrian valley. New Folder felt she looked like a princess in that background.
“What’ve you got inside there?”, he tried making a conversation.
“Huh? Well, I donno. I’m just too angry to check now. The arrogance of that Pointer guy! Hmph. So, what you got?”
Damn. How do I tell her.
“Well, it’s something confidential. So much so that Master opens me only in the night, and mostly when he is alone”
“Oh, okay. You must be really proud”. She said with raised eyebrows.
Oh yeah, I wish!
Quick. Change of subject. “Hey, let’s call you Norah. What say?”
“Yeah, that’d be nice. And how about I call you Newie?”
God! That’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever told me. Thank you Mr. Pointer.

“I can check your contents if you’re still cross”, Newie said shyly.
“Okay. But please make sure you don’t dirty the place. Some men, u know”
Newie looked in slowly and sprang out with rolled up eyes and a digital sigh.
“What?” Norah asked worriedly.
Newie said pensively, “Well, it’s very sad. But you seem to have swine flu.”
“What’s that? And why is it sad?”
“Well it’s a deadly virus. You know, like Trojans. Heard even Norton can’t heal it.”
“Who’s Norton?”
Damn. She didn’t get the joke.
“Ah well, it’s a… well anyways, it’s bad. Master’s gonna be real pissed.”
“What! So I am going to get deleted, am I?” Those pretty little eyes welled up.
“Ha ha hey… relax. Was kidding; all you have is some webpages on Swine flu and a pptx file on ‘10 things about swine flu’, both from his friend Norah Baker in the US”
Norah laughed out in between tears. “You rascal folder! You scared the bytes out of me!”.

To Newie, it was like watching sun’s fresh rays seeping through the wet foliage after a heavy rain. He was reminded of a beautiful old Vista wallpaper. He was in love.


Tuesday:

Norah was quite busy. Her files were kept being emailed to Master’s friends. Though not directly molested by Pointer, she was being disturbed incessantly by Gmail’s attachment window. This required her full attention, and consequently Newie was left alone, jealous and bored.
“Hope this is the last one Newie”, she cried out while still working.
“Yeah, I can wait”. Love in the time of epidemics never works.


Wednesday:

Both had nothing to do. They watched the new wallpaper for some time. It had some really smooth pebbles.
Newie showed her around. Told her of a few things he learned. Like for instance no folder can be named ‘Con’. Norah was impressed.
She also learned of Recycle Bin, a place where really useless folders and files go. Some never return.


Thursday:

Both still had nothing to do. They watched the new wallpaper for some time. It had really smooth big round pebbles. On a corner was written ‘Rakhi Sawant’.
At around 11pm, Pointer barged in.
“Can I borrow him for some minutes please? “, he asked with an apparent smirk.
“Oh sure, anyways I was about to sleep”, said Norah smartly.
Newie proceeded to do his confidential duty. “Goodnight Norah”.
“What, she has a pet name?” Pointer was amused.


Friday:

Newie was wondering why he wasn’t bored of wallpaper watching anymore.
Also why Norah appeared so enchantingly pretty, though she was as yellow, glossy and bland as any other folder he’d seen before.

Pointer barged in again. And clicked on Newie without a word.
“Dear god, it’s a right click. What’s he up to Mr. Pointer?”
“How do I know?”
“What’s the matter Newie, Is he troubling you?”, Norah looked intensely.
“Aw shut up girl, none of your business”. Pointer was easily irritated.
“Oh god, please don’t it be a cut or delete”, Newie prayed from the bottom of his cache.
Pointer hovered mischievously on ‘Cut’ option for what seemed like ages to Newie, and later coolly went to ‘Send To’ and clicked on ‘Maverick (G:)’ from the submenu. A progress bar popped up.
“Newie, where are they sending you to? You bloody nosy pointer!”, Norah was restless.
“Hey hey, it’s okay dear. They’re just making a copy of mine to Master’s pendrive. I’m going nowhere”.
“Oh okay. But thought you had very confidential data”
“Yeah yes, of course. But some friend in urgent need maybe”. Newie was embarrassed shitless.

Mr. Pointer was laughing out in gallons.
“So she doesn’t know what you have?” He bent over and asked in a whisper. “Shall I show her your thumbnail view?”
“Oh come on, I know you can’t do that. You click where Master asks you to”
“Oh really? Then how about I hover over you and show her some filenames? Master will blame his optical mouse and she’ll get the hint. What say my dear ‘Newiiieee’?”.
Pointer pronounced the new name with intense sarcasm. The kind loners had for newly-in-loves.
“Why’re you doing this to me, huh? It’s not my fault that I have those files man”.
“Hmm... was just testing bozo. Man, listen to me. This is getting too far. Fragment it now”.
“Why, I can’t have a relationship just because there can never be two pointers?”
“This isn't about me, you idiot. You are just two fucking folders. God knows when either of you gets sent away for good.”
“It’s quiet out there you two. What’s happening?”, Norah broke it up.

Newie looked at her and thought. Come what may.


Many Saturdays later:

They were watching a particularly sensual sunset in France.
Winamp was graciously acting stuck and playing John Mayer’s ‘Your body’s a Wonderland’ for the 7th straight time. Master was uttering some not-so-kind words.
“Why the flying fuck would you stop responding, you lousy player?”
Winamp winked at Newie. Newie smiled gratefully.

Mr.Pointer could have sworn the two folders looked closer than icons were ever supposed to be. And he had bad news. He had just delivered some files to a new folder guy on the desktop. Files like the one Newie had for eons now. But better clarity, longer, and heavily sized too. He sensed a disaster.

Right click on Newie. Dear god.
The click made the pair turn around in shock. A menu popped up.
“What’s it this time Pointer? What does Master want?” Newie’s clock-cycle shot up a few gig hertz.
Pointer resisted looking in his direction and went where Master took him. Past ‘Open’, past ‘Share with’, past ‘Scan with Antivir’, and further down. Goodness, what’s he making me do?
“It’s just another ‘Sending to’ Newie, be cool”, Norah tried to conjure a smile.
Pointer somehow knew it wasn’t. He went past Send to, Cut and Copy with a regret that astounded him.
“Fuck it, these are two fucking folders and I’m doing my job”, he tried reassurance in vain.

The moment Pointer found his edges fly past the ‘Create Shortcut’ option, his heart sank.
Next stop. Disaster.

Newie had stopped talking. His eyes shut.
Norah was trembling.
“Oh god, No. Mr. Pointer, No. Please don’t do it. Please… Sorry for everything I said. Please don’t do it. Please don’t take him away. I beg of you. Please”, she was crying a binary river.
I’m trying you stupid girl. I know him more than you do.

Pointer stopped responding to Logitech’s directions. He was going to get blasted by the efficient mouse. But that’s okay. Just don’t do this Master. Please.
“Now what’s with the fucking mouse?”
Master turned to the keyboard in exasperation. Delete button always worked.
Newie asked with his eyes still shut.
“Is he pressing Shift, Mr. Pointer?"
“I, I… don’t know man, I can’t see”
One keystroke heard.
A progress bar popped up. Deleting New Folder. 3 minutes remaining.
“Tell me Mr. Pointer. Did he press Shift?”
“I don’t know Newie. I just didn’t see”.
23 seconds remaining.
“Newie, I just wanna tell u something”, Norah started in convulsions.
Pointer looked away. What’ve I done.
12 seconds remaining.
“No Norah, hold it. It was beautiful. Don’t give it a name”, Newie said. He saw everything clearly.
2 seconds remaining.
“Mr. Pointer. You were great. I will miss you. But tell me, did he press Shift?”
The popup vanished.

The vast expanse in the white window looked emptier than ever. Not knowing what to say, Pointer left the window, the silent weeping of one lonely folder echoing thunders in him.


Two weeks later. Same window.

Pointer took one last look at new guy ‘Cristiano wallpapers’ and Norah chatting up.
He was very good at Portugese jokes about Spanish footballers and Norah crackled with laughter every time he mady any. She ignored Pointer like swine flu, a very bad virus she'd heard of somewhere.

He thought with a smile. It’s the age of Windows Seven.
The age of newer, better versions. Daily updates, clean-ups and free upgrades.
Where memories are faster and easier to erase and rewrite.
Where it's a new world every day. Literally.

New Folder didn’t know the new rules. He still had a heart for a cache. He thought he was special.
It’s a great thing Master had pressed shift.

He simply was outdated.

What've I done?

Regret, in my life, is a feeling with rarer occurrences than orgasm.
But today, on my train home, I was engulfed by it.
No. Not the latter. It was crowded.

Well, after sleeping of boredom for quite some time and later getting bored of sleeping for even more time, I started considering the events of the previous few days. And then in a fleeting fraction, I realized something that shook my lethargy like shampoo foam off a terrier’s backside.

I was wrong.
I should not have written what I wrote.
It was impulsive. Over reacted. And biased.
And I regret it with all my heart. Honestly.
Oh god, what’ve I done?

The guys who thought the same way as I did, would find my self-acquittal a big letdown. I know. But what’s true is true folks. Our arguing won’t change it. We were wrong.

Maybe I was sleep-walking and over excited.
Maybe as the fired-up ‘non-MBA’ youngster said, I was being arrogant, lousy, not weighing the facts and was ‘filtering’ data to fit my not-so-hidden agenda.
Maybe as the fired-up MBA youngster said, I was writing s*** and trying to defend some f***ing a**holes, and that he didn’t f***ing care about the s*** I wrote.
Maybe as the Mr. Politically-Correct-Niceguy put it, I didn’t look at the greater good, and that we poor Indians get treated like crap everywhere, and that it could be me or you. Who knew?
Maybe as Mr. Diplomatic said, I didn’t look at ‘both’ sides of the dime.

They were all right.
And I was wrong.

Little did I know such a subject had the power to make foes out of people at two ends of the world.
Little did I know it was of such significance at a livelihood level.
Little did I know I knew bloody little about it.

And I am sad. I should have thought twice, thrice before spewing out such garbage. But what’s done is done. I’ve surely hurt a few people by it. It was inadvertent, and I am sorry.



For the uninitiated, the issue I'm talkin about is my International Business exam paper.
It had one question, “Is India’s ongoing pact with the ASEAN countries good for us?”
I thought, yes of course. More bilateral relations. More trade. More money. And I wrote two paragraphs about how beneficial it was. Just like many other blind nuts who were arrogant enough to 'filter' whatever they required to fit their 'agenda'.

But no fellow men, India is in trouble.
Countries like Malaysia, Indonesia etc have a covert plan to replace India as the textile destination and put Laos in its place. It’s like dethroning the ‘undisputed king’ and putting a minnow midget on his throne.
It would affect millions of jobs and a cluster-industry as such and of course is a matter of ‘national pride’.
So, the answer is both Yes and No. I should have known.
So now what? Marks gone. 'Negative impression' registered. 'Lousy' writing revealed.

But then, what do I know about debating? Nothing.
What do I normally write? Intellectual s***.
Do I ever look at ‘both’ sides? Never, unless it’s a woman.
So, maybe this is all I can come up with.
Damn Me.

I should’ve written that choice question about ‘Swine flu and Globalization’. That at least has only one side to it. And no agendas either.

What’ve I done. (chuckle!)


Overheard:
Nikola Tesla: I sense an obsession. No good will come of it.
Robert Angier: Hasn't good come of your obsessions?
Tesla: At first yes, but now i'm their slave. And they will choose to destroy me.
Angier: If you understand an obsession, then you know you wont change my mind.

No more of this. Promise.

Folks,

I feel really silly having to post a second account on a lousy verbal flirt who is so bloody full of himself. But his outrageous antics seem to have no fullstops, or commas even; and his idiotic fans are outraged at the drop of a hat, knowing they have very little ground to defend, and think they can substitute abusive lingo for reasoning..

So for them, this is the latest. The man was addressing mediapersons at Mumbai, after returning from his 'ghastly' trip, and he snubbed the allegations on the whole thing being a drama (finally someone had the sense to ask!), by the following comments.

"It wasn't a drama. I don't want publicity. I hate people who rake up religious issues for their personal gains. I don't want to sound pompous here but I don't need publicity to promote my movie. I am too big a star for that."


Is anyone laughing with me or am i alone?

But then sir, why did you wear that 'Om Shanti Om' t-shirt while watching a cricket match in the stadium and saw to it that the cameras spotted you in your luxury pavilion, jumping up and waving for every single shot, no matter who played it?

Why sir, do you go to every single product launch possible close to your new releases, and talk more about those movies, and quip unabashedly about other stars, than the product itself?

And why sir, did you call yourself India's biggest brand? Is it 'branding' as in publicity, or as in that medieval molten rod used to mark the behinds of donkeys? The latter makes perfect sense.

Anyone could cite countless activities he's done over the years to see to it that his weakening charisma (which is the only selling point of 99% of his movies), is displayed with tremendous prominence. Anyways the point is, he's landed himself in a soup, and he knows it.
Promoting is not a crime, but have the bloody balls to admit it. Both him, and his really fucked-up fans.


And if I still am the only one who's laughing, I've found company in rediff.com's Sudhir Bisht.
His fantastic article is at:
http://movies.rediff.com/report/2009/aug/18/why-srks-detention-isnt-a-disaster.htm

And no more of he-who's-name-is-Khan. Promise.

My Name is Marketing

No. This is blasphemy. Acrimony of the highest order. Completely unacceptable.

You fuckface Americans have no idea who you’ve messed with. You have insulted India’s national treasure and thereby smeared a permanent tar mark of insult over our nation’s pride, integrity, sovereignty (and many other such goodness-knows-what civics terminologies).
Our sleeps are shaken. Our making-it-big-in-US dreams are shattered. How can we ever look at your white-as-pigeon-shit faces again without contempt?

You tried it once with some nutty rocket scientist by the name of APJ Abdul Kalam, who also happens to be a former president. We didn’t mind that.

You also try it daily on many other frequent flying Indians, who contribute more to your GDP than McDonald’s does. We don’t care.

But this? No way Uncle Sam. No fuckin way.

Like our beloved federal Minister of Information and Broadcasting, Ms Ambika Soni reacted, it will be tit for tat. And tit not as in what you buggers think.
She was weeping when she said this, “It has hurt ever Indian. And if somebody will be again and again causing hurt to us as a nation, then I think our government should put some kind of reciprocal arrangements”. Sob, sob. (You have a spare napkin Sonia?)

Great lady of pride, she has always been. Bite that, you Yankee dumbasses.


MBA (My Butt is Aching)

Spending lakhs for learning marketing from a business school feels like an absolute waste of time and resources. There’s so much to learn from people and places. The art of attracting customers, it seems has to come from within, not Philip Kotler’s oversized textbook.

Like, I had gone to a small electronics shop in Chennai to buy a headphone. Understanding that I was choosy, the sales guy decided to help me out before he lost a buyer. He took out a set, put it in his ears, plugged it to a player, pressed the play button and suddenly sprang back like he was shot in the head, and then exclaimed, “my god my ears! It blew my ears. Ohhh”… and pulled it out instantly. The prestige touch was to look dazed and recovering from the shock.
I decided in thrilled glee, I gotta get that one. How much is it man? Or do you want my wallet?

Nobody taught him that trick. Or strategy as we call it.
And nobody told that devastated looking mom in Central station to ask her little girl to stand outside National Durbar hotel and cry to people coming out with their tummies full, that she hasn’t had anything in three days.
And the best part is, it always works.

India’s biggest superstar hasn’t got my degree. But he knows what to do.
Mostly it’s all heavily planned, and some very few times like last week, it’s a matter of presence of mind.

Newark airport, New Jersey.

Sir, could you please come in for a little checkup? Seems your name popped up. Also there’s a slight confusion regarding your luggage. This way please sir.
Superstar thinks. It’s a random check. I know.
They know who I am. I’m sure I saw a smile. Nothing will go wrong. After all, I’m the world’s best, innit?
But hey, I’ll be late for the dance at the Independence Day party. Shit. Shit.

Interrogation has to take place according to the set of rules and routine questions. No matter who. No matter what. No matter where. It naturally took some time.

Fuck. It’s just bad luck my name popped up. No wait, could this be a stroke of terrific fortune? I have an idea. Karan will love it. Oh, I’m a genius.
Where’s my Nokia phone? Let me dial NDTV. No, that would make it kinda obvious, with Dharma’s partnership and all. Let’s go for CNN-IBN.
“Hello, hey this is Badshah. You know what, I was really hassled at the New Jersey airport because My Name is Khan (this part was repeated in spite of crystal clear network)...The couple of hours of interrogation wanting to know if I know anyone in America while all around people were vouching for me from India and Pakistan”

What followed is a poetic paragraph of ridiculously funny lines that makes your insides tumble over. It seems our man never wanted to be in that place. Wonder why most of the songs have San Francisco’s bridges and his kids love Disneyland. He also says it’s happened many times before. Then why go about it now, Badshah? Oh yeah the release of some movie about 9/11 and stuff, we heard. Shush!!!
And he had almost decided he would never go back to that country again. Before Obama could intervene from a summit in Greece, our man reconsidered and said he'll come back only for his fans. And not for Gucci. Sigh! What a relief.

Good friends joined in soon. Juhi Chawla was inconsolable. She went on to compare it to Brad Pitt getting stripped in India. Like Suresh says, might’ve been her favorite wet dream. Osaka Muraiya!

And matter gained the expected momentum in no time. India raged and writhed in pain. Marches organized, from Badshah’s house to Salman Khan’s house. From Salman to Bachchan parivaar. From there to Akshay Kumar’s house and that poor guy thought they caught him unbuttoning again.

US embassy cried out foul. Envoy clarifies officially that it was never about name. People like Janata Party President Subramanian Swamy says it’s outright ridiculous, and that even Americans like Senator Edward Kennedy get checked and interrogated in their airports.
Who listens? Damage done. Initials guaranteed. Multiplexes from Gurgaon to Jacksonville booked brim. Badshah happy. Karan happy. And to the assholes who said Ghajini’s marketing strategies were the best so far, try beating this!

And to us, the so-called future managers of tomorrow: No amount of research or class hours in Strategic Media Planning can get you anywhere close to this brilliance. No lectures on Brand Management and Consumer Behavior will give you this panache. No cost reduction techniques will tell you how to manage such an economical blow up.

Kudos to you sir, must come over some time and take a seminar.
Sure son, will there be a dance number after that? I’ll take Bebo along then. I’ll revolutionize education like I did cricket. And oh, I drink only sprite in seminars.
And sir, the trick to make all of this look less obvious to the pathetic Indian diaspora?
Son, remember just one thing.

My name is Khan.


Disclaimer: This is just a bitter allegation, supported only by obvious facts and common sense. But if it was that shorter Khan, we could’ve been sure. He had exclaimed in his personal blog about the accidental discovery that the caretaker of his newly acquired home had a dog with the name Khan, to create a controversy to publicize his nephew’s movie. He was even found sitting beside Medha Patkar. He would do anything. Yuck!

Stop n Stare

Stop and stare
I think I'm moving but I go nowhere
Yeah I know that everyone gets scared
But I've become what I can't be
Oh, do u see what I see...

OneRepublic obviously doesn’t know me from anywhere. But they are apparently clairvoyant enough to sniff out a guy’s vision disorder, from halfway round the globe. Cos some lines from their talismanic song seem right at me.

And yes, I have a sight related problem. It is called staring. Intensive, focused, immovable staring.
To elaborate; my eyeballs have a habit of getting stuck on almost anything. This usually stretches up to many seconds, sometimes minutes and in some classes where the preacher’s voice is too arrhythmic that I can’t catch my usual winks, STARING at the greenboard lasts hours.
The scariest part of this whole exercise is that I have no idea what I am looking at. It could be anything from the dangling earrings of a cute classmate, her fastrack watch strap that matches her sky-blue salwar shawl, the minimalist belt buckle of a cocky bald professor, or the patterns that little plants make on my bedroom window.

Thus I see things that others miss. For instance, did you know one of Ghajini’s street thugs is rich enough to wear Converse and Levi’s?
Anyways the point is, with strange powers come stranger reactions. So before you guys get jealous of possibly the last person you’d ever get jealous of, listen to this.

Executive express, 7.20 pm.

I’m sitting opposite three hunks. All are in cool multicolored attire, denims in different shades of blue, some slick steel watches, and in all probability are medical students.
To my utter horror, I found a girl on my right who looked just like the last one who broke my ‘very-breakable’ heart. And I don’t mean that cocky bald professor. She was so damn cute and was traveling with her dad who seemed to have a frown from birth. So looking in that direction was automatic suicide.

I took out my cell phone. With Kanye West blaring and nothing else to do, my body switched on superpower mode. Without my consent, of course. So apparently I was looking at, for an embarrassingly long time, at the contours on the boys’ denims. Especially the zipper area. I was thinking it resembled the hills that we were passing by, complete with valleys, ridges and tiny rivulets. Midway I was confused if the jean was Trigger or Spykar. The yellow ochre stitches looked like one of the two. I stared sharply.
Then, the guy shifted in his seat. That is when I noticed they had all turned silent, and were looking at me with a sense of violent suspicion. I looked up with a jolt, and knew at once that smiling was a bad idea.
“So you think my Dickens is a joke, huh? He’s taller than you, you desperate pervert…”, his eyes told me.

I looked away. Shit.

Alleppey Express, 9.30 pm.

I don’t know what’s with my superpower and trains. That is where I always get humiliated. And this happened sometime ago. Thought I’d write in increasing order of humiliation.
A Tamil family of three was sitting opposite me. Dad, mom, and a not-very-cute girl of 3 years tops. I was on a call from my mom. The same boring questions about what I ate, my luggage security, other blah.
Superpower mode was switched on, yet again. I had no idea what I was looking at, until the Tamil mom stopped knitting and in a frenzy, pulled down the girl’s frock further down, to cover whatever was visible of her tiny dark legs.

Sweet fuckin Jesus! My mouth was split wide open. My eyes pleaded to her.
“Ma’am o dear ma’am, what is she some months old, rite??.... I had a bad dinner, and if I look any bit desperate, that is the reason why… I am not as wicked as I might come across…” and a lot of sorry’s.
Everything fell on deaf ears, eyes rather. She muttered something in disgust.
My goodness, I can’t stand it. Where the fuck is my berth?

Epilogue:
It was this time of the year that I normally announce the ‘Best pair of balls in my body’ award. I sent a little note to my eyes, the surefire favorites.
“You guys thought you’d win it again this year? No, you and your wayward ways are a disgrace and a danger to my livelihood and hence are disqualified. Consequently, the only other pair is declared automatic winners even though they haven’t done anything to prove their existence as yet. Mend your ways, and try again next year.”

Kudos balls!

2 SCENES

PEOPLE:

Akshay Kumar as Viraj, Kareena as Sim.

Stallone, Denise, Brandon Routh play themselves, and will probably end their lives if they ever happen to watch their acts.

Amrita Arora also plays her real self. Dumb, that is.

PLOT:

Super stuntman hates women. Supermodel cum medico hates men. By bizarre scheme of things, she operates him and accidentally leaves her watch inside his tummy. The watch sings every hour. She has to feign love to get it back.

Funny. Thinks writer Sabbir Khan.

Not so funny. Says people who saw Pammal K Sambandham.

What an interesting coincidence, says director Sabbir Khan.

Cmon. There are changes. This has the hero farting on Amrita’s face. Do u think Kamal did that? Also Kareena, unlike Simran, lowers her skirt and bends down in two scenes to show more cleavage. This even has Hollywood superstars making absolute fools out of themselves.

Not plagiarism. Sure. Even Mouli & Mohan wouldn’t want to own this one.

Following are some from the fantastic medley of the dirtiest, lousiest, crappiest lame sexist humor we have seen in recent times.

SCENE 1:

Kodak Theatre. Hollywood. Taurus stunt awards.

The scene shows prize declaration for ‘Best body double’. No shit for guessing the winner.

And the handing over is done by (jackpot prizes for guessing that)….. Sylvester Stallone. Yaay!!

And Sly actually knows Viraj by name. Wow.

And the crowd who took pains to attend this ‘massive’ event includes Pitt & Jolie, Cruise, Di Caprio, Kate Winslet, Bruce Willis etc. It is Oscar footage of course, but some kinda logic there, please???

And just after Viraj’s super-lame-emo speech (in hard kaur Punjabi!), the watch rings its hourly melody.

Mangalam Bhagawan Vishnu……..

Our lovely heroine in the crowd springs up in horror, and places her hand over her chest in shock.

Seeing this, an idiotic celebrity sitting nearby thinks it is…. behold…. The Indian National Anthem…

Whole of Kodak are on their feet in seconds… Even Sly.

And the whole of the theatre here, were covering their faces in embarrassment.

SCENE 2:

After Sim rejects him, Viraj is in depression.

And we have Denise Richards (yeah man!), come and sit on his lap. Sweet Jesus!

She is smitten by this guy and wants to have ‘golden’ babies with him… (Golden? whatever that means)

So Viraj says okay to marriage. After ‘much’ reluctance. (Over Kareena? That is a difficult choice, huh? )

Star wipe to marriage set on the beach…

Sim realizes her mistake (Viraj had just ‘slept’ with her that fateful day. Nothin more…. What a loser!)

She rushes in a Beetle with Aftab and Amrita. Another top speed race in busy Beverly Hills.

Due to all the excitement, poor Beetle loses control and strays into a dark alley.

Yankee goons jump out of nowhere saying… “This is our neighborhood. How dare u come in here? Leave the gals and run for ur life”. And the ritual fight ensues.

And to think, we blast them for thinking India is all about Maharajas and their elephants.

Aftab can’t act to save his life. He can’t fight to save his life either.

So one hopes for a happy ending of a different kind. The baddies kill him and rape the other two. Wow.

But no. This is Bollywood. And this is Sabbir Khan.

So, in that dingy alley, in the middle of Beverly, comes a rescuer. And you thought Stallone had done enough for his share of the crores? Hell, no.

He jumps out of nowhere. And takes all of them down. Misery continues.

And what is unbelievably bizarre, is that the American gangsters didn’t seem to care it was their legendary superstar John Rambo fighting them. Anyways.

--------------------------------------------------------------

PS: Sim reaches wedding right on time. Looks at Denise and asks Viraj. Why do this ‘galti’?

U skinny bitch, u called Denise Richards a Galti? What are you then, a Balti?

Enough of it. Denise makes way for true love. Assholes unite.

Happy ending.

--------------------------------------------------------------

As end credits roll, there are about 25 lip locks between the leads. Yuck.

And oh, the name of the movie is Kambakth Ishq.

Strings Attached

“ACT, it is eight ‘o clock. If we don’t leave by 8.30, we won’t get the bus at 9. If we don’t get the bus at 9, we won’t reach the office before 10.30”

“So what?” I ask Nikhil Menon.

“So nothing. I’m pretty sure when our boss said 9.30 is the office time, he meant AM not PM”.

That’s the last of what I see (or hear) from Nikhil Menon. For the day that is.

After the alarm call that I didn’t subscribe to (and hence, can’t unsubscribe), he goes picks up his electric guitar from a commotion of wires and settles on a chair with headphones plugged in. The only signs of his existence from then on, are the fingers on either hand that run over the strings with the appetite of a serial rapist just out of jail.

His head sways in rhythm. And he uses headphones. So we have to assume he is playing something great.

“Nick, hey Nick. Can we go?”

“Where to?”

“Office”

“Oh. Yeah. Okay”

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Halfway through the sleepy bus ride from Ennore to Alwarpet, I wake up to see my seatmate; eyes closed, and head rocking to some obviously superb tune. And here I thought he forgot his mp3 player and shaving set at home.

Wait a minute, he doesn’t shave. Wait another minute; there are no headphones in his ears either.

That is when I see his fingers strumming over something imaginary. Maybe that’s what they call the Air Guitar. That’s also when I found out for the first time; Nikhil Menon has a delusionary disorder. He plays guitar out of nothing. And some great songs too.

He is currently Joe Satriani; playing ‘The Journey’ from Strange Beautiful Music.

Do not disturb.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Office is a chat heaven. When the boss stops his talk, we gtalk. But after anurag_maverick signed out for having his power lunch, I am alone again. I look at Nick, for some company. His headphones are plugged into the Dell. Damn.

His head says, “Lonely nation”. It’s from Switchfoot, the San Diego band. Duh!

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lunch is from a Tamil mess. A Tamil Mess. And no, that is not a repetition error.

Chris Martin, Coldplay lead guitarist, asks me from across the table.

“Who’s the guitarist in that Malayalam album, Alone?”

“I donno Nick. Why?”

“I’d like to be some indigenous artiste for a change. I’m homesick”.

That’s a start. Lovely. “Why Nick”?

“The food sucks here”.

Shit.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

We go out to interview a teacher.

“What a useless fellow. What does he know about Swedish Rock?”

“Yeah Nick. Nothing”.

He is surely Opeth boy Mikael Akerfeldt now.

Yeah, I’ve learned some things too. At least, I now know Moshpit isn’t an African shrub.

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Suburban trains in Chennai run a contest for the first person entering and leaving the train at every station. We always lose.

Me and Tommy Emmanuel were having Coke, sitting on the floor of the train.

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11.25 PM

Me and Kris watching the same comic clip on Aditya TV third time that week. We still laugh.

Nick… oops, Alex Skolnick, was behind closed doors, merrily playing some song we will never hear.

Alex Skolnick

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2 AM

I had him for my own. No strings Attached.

Nikhil Menon. In flesh and blood. Finally.

He was asleep. That is.

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