Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Tsk tsk.

Revoking the freedom of speech to protect the nation.

Effin' A.

Saturday, November 26, 2011

I've been thinking about this.

The other day, someone told me I never really finish things I start saying.

I have no idea what they're

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Toilet humor time!!

Paperwork - 1 :: Me - 0

I went to the library today. No, let me rephrase that. I went to the library today to get my membership renewed. I hear you ask me why that tiny added detail makes a difference, so here it is.
Every time I want to get anything done in this horribly bureaucratic, red-tape infested wormhole of an existence, I have to go through (*ugh*) paperwork. It's mind-numbing, pointless and disturbingly intrusive. If I ever have kids and one of them decides to take a desk job handing people forms, guess who's not getting anything out of my property.

Maybe I'm overreacting a wee bit. But I REALLY hate paperwork. I hate it more than guys on the evening metro hate showers. I want to issue a book every now and then. You are not a top-secret nuclear haz-mat storage facility. I do NOT need to tell you my graduating class in college.

The worst thing, however, is the part where I have to provide them with my unique signature. Embarrassingly enough, I didn't, until recently, have a real signature, so to say. I kept shuffling between two of them. I don't, therefore, like signing my name unless its necessary, like I'm-getting-a-free-lifetime-supply-of-doughnuts-with-every-signature necessary.

When it was my turn to sign the renewal documents, a flash of genius ran through my head. Maybe I didn't have to buckle under the pressures of the global paperwork mafia after all. Maybe there was a way to get out of it. All I had to do was tell them I couldn't read or write. Voila, no form filling, no paper signing, nada. Everything gets done for you.

I felt like the teenage kid who has discovered the secret folder in his school's computer lab that houses a host of First-Person-Shooter games. It was the perfect escape. I would never have to fill my forms again.

As I contemplated the potential of my scheme, it kept building up. If I could make the library do this for me, maybe it would be bigger than my issues. It would be symbolic of the people's right to choice, the common man's voice against the tyranny of his government. It would be a guiding light, freeing the general public of the shackles of mind-control legal propaganda. It would, indeed, be a giant F*** you to the fat-cat bureaucrat who munched samosas at his desk, making the aam-aadmi jump through hoops for the most mediocre requests. I would be a visionary, ushering in a new era of change, destroying the false democracy that kept us subdued like common mules. I would be the next Che Guevara, I'd ignite a revolution. There would be marches in my honor, MARCHES, I TELL YOU!

And then it hit me.

I was in a library, filling out a form to allow me to issue books. To read. And my plan to thwart the system involved not being able to read at all.

As I scornfully signed that sheet of paper, I could feel the receptionist grinning from behind her desk. I couldn't hear her, but I knew she was. She had to be.

You win this round, world.

Friday, November 11, 2011

Ra.One - The Ultimate Anti-parenting Movie

So I know this is a bit late, but I didn't want to put up any spoilers before all of you'd seen the blessed movie. Yes, I'm that nice. Also, I'm lazy, but we'll not touch upon that for now. Stick with nice.

If you haven't seen Ra.One by now, do yourself a favor, gather up a few jobless, disposable friends with a little movie-cash to spare. I stress on the disposable part because I (Or this blog) don't take any responsibility for your social life lest your friends should ostracize you for making them watch this and you spend the rest of your life as a social outcast.
Seriously, though, go watch it.

I could write another post about the millions of errors and loopholes in the movie (they give Shah Rukh Khan a burial, then carry his ashes to the river. Grave-robbing?), but I'd rather tell you how Ra.One taught me to be a parent in the highly unlikely event that I meet a member of the opposite gender that would want to procreate with me.

So here it goes, the things Ra.One taught me to NOT do as a parent.

  1. Bring your child to sexually indulgent parties:
    During the launch party for Ra.One, Shah Rukh and his wife decide to bring their ten (eight?) year old son to party filled with scantily clad women shaking their Badonkadonks to the tune of "The way that booty goin' pop pop pop". (Note: Actual lyrics from the song, no shit). Also, during this party we get to see a nice up-skirt view of the child's mother as she cavorts with about twenty men and practically makes sweet, dance-floor-love to her husband. Later in the movie, at the kid's birthday party, the robot-that-looks-like-the-kid's-dead-father engages in what can only be described as a passionate, indulgent, lip-locked, musical bumping-of-the-nasties with the kid's mother. I could point out that the mother in this scene is, in fact, another male robot, so basically what we witness at the kid's party is a simultaneous expression of violent infidelity and post-marriage robo-homosexuality, but the whole thing is messed up enough to begin with.
  2. Let your child roam alone on the streets of London after you just got robbed:
    At one point in the movie, Shah Rukh Khan and his son (daughter? I don't know, can YOU tell?) get robbed at knife-point by a midget in a leather jacket. Once again, I could comment about how the English midget spoke flawless Hindi with perfect ease, but I'll reserve my comments.
    The point is, immediately after this occurs, Shah Rukh's gender-less lovechild verbally emasculates his father and storms off down the street. A regular father would make at least the smallest effort to try and stop his only child from walking down a mugging-midget infested London alley by their lonely selves, but not King-khan. No, he just stands his ground, proud as all glory, defending his actions with his head held high from the words of his ten-year-old child who is no longer there, and is probably getting touched in all the wrong places by pedo-midgets in some dark corner.
  3. Let your son play self-aware, homicidal video-games:
    When you encounter a video-game that tries to make you hurt yourself and nearly destroys its immediate environment during the initial testing phase, is there a better next move than to let your only child try it out? If Shah Rukh Khan is to be believed, no, there isn't.
    So after Ra.One makes Shah Rukh's stereo-typically Asian (and slightly race-offensive) best friend cut his own hand during a video-game test run, he just willy-nilly let's his son try the game out wearing the exact same gear. This, after the all-powerful antagonist in the game start displaying functions not programmed into it and (very obviously) appears to have a nasty, destructive, self-awareness. Win-win for everyone. Except, y'know, the potentially murdered gender-less child.
  4. Do the nasty-nasty with a robot-look-alike of your recently-passed husband:
    You know what they say, life moves on. Kareena Kapoor, however, gives new meaning to the words "Faster than the speed of light". In the few short weeks immediately following her husband's death and discovering G.One, the robotic, photoshopped, blue-eyed version of her south indian husband, she went from awkward touching to reluctant boob-grabbing to conscious eye-f***ing to moonlight hugging to hot, sweet love-making on the dance floor at their kid's birthday.
    Now, call me old-fashioned, but I think you need to give the dead man some respect. I mean, yeah, he was a racially offensive South-Indian nerd who ate spaghetti and curd (yes, you read that right) with his hands while insulting several races, regions and religions at the same time, but he did provide for your family, buy you two very luxurious houses and provide you sweet loving for at least ten years. Somehow, going to town on his robot-twin that can't tell the difference between the sensations involved in intercourse and para-gliding without the relevant programming seems a bit too..err....liberal.
    Add to this the fact that this entire process happened right in front of the little kid, and you have a recipe for success that is bound to turn any kid into the next Charles Manson.
  5. Encourage foul-language:
    I'm not one to be preachy about cursing, I grew up in Delhi. If what you're saying does not insult some body's mother or sister in some way, it isn't a legitimate sentence. All I'm saying is, we don't need parents rewarding us every time we curse.
    During the movie, the ten year old gender-less love child uses the words S***, f*** and ass-wipe to his heart's contentment without any kind of objection from either of his parents. Toward the end of the movie, he happily makes humorous use of the word "Condom". The concept of sexual contraception is perfectly healthy to instill into your children, but there is a certain manner in which it is to be done. Of course, this is what finally catches Kareena Kapoor's attention (not the s***s and f***s, no) and, just when you think she's about to lay the back of her hand on her son/daughter's face, she grabs her child and engages in a fierce tickling session.
    I know, awesome parenting win, again.
  6. Encouraging Satan Worship:
    Every time the boy-girl plays any video-game, he/she plays under the player name of Lucifer. A saner parent would probably discourage their child from enveloping their identity in that of Satan before he was cast to hell, but Shah Rukh Khan conveniently lets it all slide. In fact, he encourages his son to continuously use the same user-name every time he plays.
    Of course, this eventually pisses God off and the kid is hunted down by an immortal game-bot because of that name, but that's another story.
  7. Inappropriate touching:
    You already read about the slightly uncomfortable boob-grabbing sequence between Shah Rukh and Kareena. This would be scarring enough for the child, but a little too easy for the makers of this fine cinematic venture.
    In the final battle between Arjun Rampal and Shah Rukh Khan, G.One is guided by the child (yes, the child) to get down on one knee and ferociously grab on to Arjun Rampal's crotch. To add the crescendo to this masterpiece, you can notice a hint of a smile on Shah Rukh's face as his hand violently cups Arjun Rampal's robotic nads. Of course, given everything the kid's been through, being a little bi-curious at the tender age of ten is probably the best thing that could've happened to him. In my honest opinion, things could only have gotten worse for the rest of his life. Necrophilia, sado-masochism, erotic-asphyxiation and prostitution are some of the avenues I predict that kid will explore through the rest of his life. The world is his oyster.

While you're reading this, bear in mind that Shah Rukh Khan, in his own words, MADE THIS MOVIE FOR HIS CHILDREN. Yes, this post-marital homosexuality filled, cursed-riddled sex-fest was made almost exclusively for his own children to watch. I guess it just goes to show that King Khan is as much of a model father in real life as he is in his Stereotypically Mallu on screen-avatar.

This was even better than the time Shah Rukh in "Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna" taught me how to be an all-out family man.

Saturday, February 26, 2011


I look out my window at a world full of cars, buildings and suits; the Armani’s and the Cavalli’s; the Aston’s and the Volkswagens; the Rolexes and the Tissot’s; each and every one a fancier imitation of the other.

A mere 19 years of existence seems like a lifetime with the monotony I see around me. The faces on the bus all seem to have the same tired, sullen expressions, staring at me with their identical, bored eyes. The halls in every building containing life in identical seven foot high corridors seem to be an extension of one another, never-ending, suffocating.

Everyone wants to finish first; everyone wants that tiny edge over everyone else. The problem is, thanks to our overachieving lifestyle choices and continual desires for excellence, in our attempts to be proud with humility, affluent with empathy and authoritative with magnanimity, we all pretty much touch the finish line at the same time.

When I was younger, I’d often read about the legendary Pied Piper. The man who was paid to rid the city of Hamelin of its problems eventually led the entire city to its end, pulling away the children of the city with his mesmerizing music.

Now that I’m much older, much wiser and much sadder, I see that we’re all really following our own Pied Pipers. Chasing our dreams, mesmerized by the promise of a tomorrow brighter than our brothers and sister, we race blindly through our lives, existing for tomorrow, not living for today.

Just like the story, we’re all hoping to rid our lives of our problems thanks to a future that we’ve built in the landscape of our minds. A place where, as Axel Rose puts it, “the grass is green and the girls are pretty”. This is a future that we dream of, but are not prepared for.

The thing about dreams is that they never die. They grow bigger every time you come close to realizing them. This isn’t a bad thing, necessarily, except everyone’s dreams seem to be headed in the same direction.

We’re all aiming to be rich, happy, successful, powerful people in the near future. You see a bright, promising future of hopes and dreams; I see a dark era of monotony and imitated existences. Everyone is a leader or a follower, there are no individuals. Everyone wants to be an Investment banker, a lawyer, a musician, an actor, an artist or a doctor.

No one seems to want to go live on an Island; no one seems to want to invent a cocktail that rocks bartenders across the globe; no one wants to grow up and read all the classics; no one wants to be the alphabet-burping champion of the world.

Don’t dream small, dream different.

We’re not confined by society anymore. We’re not confined by the desires of our parents; we’re not confined by our financial conditions. We’re trapped in the prison of our own minds. We’re so eager to please our own sense of achievement we forget to please our sense of contentment.

It’s usually the ones that are different that are left out in the cold, and that scares us sometimes, I suppose. No one wants to be a Graffiti artist if it means they’ll spend their mid-thirties living in their parents’ basement. It’s the fear of failure; the fear that our dreams will be overshadowed by the achievements of our peers, that drives us further and further away from where we could have been and closer to where we simply ‘want’ to be.

It’s a difficult, twisted logic, but so is the whole concept of conforming to our own perception of normal.

Why can’t I eat rasgullas with chocolate sauce? Why can’t I wear beach shorts with a waistcoat? Why can’t I run along the highway in the middle of the night?

It’s when we start asking ‘why’ that a lot of the questions we might be posed with in the future start getting answered. Everyone wants a shiny golden star on the pin-board of the world next to their name. They don’t understand that there are few who care. You don’t live for that Shiny star, you live for yourself. You don’t need to shine to glow.

In a world where everyone is free to do whatever they want, people usually conform to what everyone else seems to be up to.

The Piper’s calling you to join him.

Saturday, February 12, 2011

The life and Death of My best friend

Co-Written by Onaiza Drabu as Rostam.
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It has been a while since I’ve had guests over. I cannot remember the last time someone visited me. It comes with being old I guess, this ostracism. But Cyrus; good old Cyrus; he is different. For a while there, he had me scared not having called on this old man in a while. I almost thought he was avoiding me, like the others. Like them, he too, wanted nothing to do with the lonely man. Zahra’s death hit me hard. I don’t meet people anymore. Strangers; they scare me. I cherish the few friends I have, strive to keep them close. I fear abandonment.

Cyrus is staying over again tonight. Hes been here a while now. Dinner time was always his favourite. I smile at him, beckoning to help himself with the lavish spread I’ve laid out. Clumsy old Cyrus, he has a piece of paper stuck to his lip. Tch. How did he not realise it? Must be the age getting to his head. I lean across the table and gently flick it off.
Old age, you sly bastard. You get us all don’t you.

Surprisingly, Cyrus is awfully quiet tonight. A jovial old fellow, this man’s roar could be heard all across the hallway in our college dorms. I try making conversation but I think he doesn’t feel up to it. He’s barely eating too. I remember how he once hogged an entire four course meal without even so much as a burp.

I sometimes feel like quite a bore, ranting on and on about the old days and Zahra but that is all I have left; memories and a resounding emptiness in my life. I cling on to whatever I can get. My eyes moisten, thinking about my beautiful wife and how she would hate the loner I’ve become, when suddenly the sound of shattering glass brings me back.

Poor Cyrus, he dropped his bowl of potatoes on the floor. He is weak, probably sick tonight. He wants me to feed him, the pitiful soul. Times like these are probably the ones I live for, making me feel useful and indispensable. I like being there for this weak little creature that was my friend. No no, don’t get me wrong. He still is my best friend. He listens to me talk about Zahra all day long. We talk of days gone by and times that will never come back. Oh yes, we spend plenty of hours sitting here, reminiscing. Occasionally, he chides me for living in the past displaying remnants of his old boisterous self. I chuckle to myself at these times. Oh how the mighty fall. My dear old Cyrus used to be the boss everywhere. Whatever we did, whatever happened, he decided. Now he’s weak, crippled by the wrath of time. I have to care for him; decide for him; nurse him. I’m glad he came back to me. He couldn’t have gone long without having someone there for him. Even now he can’t give in without a protest here and there. But my best friend Cyrus learned to live with me, under my rules.

Sometimes he acts like a child refusing to finish his meals and now he wants a cricket bat to play with. This man is losing his marbles, I say. I struggle to make him finish his meal and he gives in. Once again, the flash of the dominating Parsi he once was, comes and goes. I pity him some of the times. At others I feel glad he has me. Ah, the clumsy old geezer fell asleep in his chair. Looks like I have to carry him to the bedroom and tuck the poor thing in. This is what has become of Cyrus Irani, the dreaded proud Parsi who refused to acknowledge anyone superior. I looked at his face, calm and expressionless. Sleep my friend, its the only respite from life.

There, you got him too. Old age, you sly bastard.


I stared across the table at the heaving, gyrating mass of flesh that had once been my friend. Rostam stood a good six-feet tall about two feet away from me. The smile on his face was that of a man satisfied with the way things had panned out for him.

Even as I struggled to break free of the roped binding my limbs together and tear through the tape stretched out across my face, I couldn’t help but think if “friendship” was too generous a term to describe whatever little contact Rostam and me had shared over the last few years. It wasn’t any particular incident I could tell you, no falling out of any kind. With time, as it is with any set of friends, me and Rostam had grown apart.

The giant of an old man leaned over me and put his hand to my face. As his fingers casually stroked the skin under my nose I felt shivers run down my spine, engulfing my body in chills and quivers.

He pulled at the edge of the tape, his cold hands making their way under the stickiness of the adhesive. In a cold, brutal pull, he tore the tape of my face, stealing away a considerable amount of tiny white hair that covered my upper lip, the sign of a respectable, ageing gentleman.

It isn’t impossible to breathe through your nose, but after hours of having nothing but my nostrils to provide air for every part of my body, feeling the air brush across the inside of my mouth felt like a luxury no less than feeling the finest wine at our ancestral home smoothly making its way down my throat.

Luxury is relative, I suppose. Maybe, at the end of the day, the poorest people are the happiest.

I’d scream with the pain of the tape stripping my face of all its hairy glory, but I’m exhausted from an entire day of writhing and shaking, trying to break free of this prison, with no food or water to ease my suffering. I was simply too tired to try and live. Up to this point, he had captured my person, disabled my physical being. He hadn’t broken my spirit.

Now that I’d given up, he’d imprisoned my soul.

He filled a spoon with the most foul-smelling pile of potatoes I had ever encountered and reached his old, shaking hand out to my face, pushing me to put that vile excuse for food in my mouth. Had my father known of my eating rejectamenta unfit for even the foulest of beasts, he’d have beaten my arse silly for not having protested this treatment, in captivity or otherwise. The Iranis were better than that. We were a nobler breed of Parsi. We ate only the finest food, drank only the finest wines and walked on only the finest marbles. I suppose with a rope the width of a small snake tightened around your limbs, you’re only as noble as your captor enables you to be.

I opened my mouth reluctantly and felt a lump form in my throat. Cyrus Irani was about to shed tears. I bit down on the spoon, more to stop the crying than anything else, and swallowed the entire bite of potatoes, gulping it down with ferocity.

Before I knew it, Rostam had another spoonful at the ready, with a distinct gleam of insanity in his eye.

I don’t know why I did it; I don’t know what pushed me to it, but I swung my head around like a madman, hitting Rostam’s hand as i did so, spilling potatoes all over his floor.

The next thing I knew, something hit me right across the face. It must have been the bowl. I fell to the floor, shaking in unbelievable pain. Soon, the pain in my face was replaced by the one in my ribs from Rostam kicking them repeatedly.

“You think I WANT this?”, he screamed, “You think I WANT to hurt you?”

I think, or would like to, that somewhere in my head I chuckled, because all I could think was “Yes, Rostam, I do believe you’re enjoying yourself just a little bit there”.

I didn’t realise, in my brief moment of dark hilarity, when Rostam brought the cricket bat to his aid. As he brought it down on the side of my arm, I felt my skin breaking under the pressure, warm blood soaking the gleaming white of my shirt.

The blows kept on coming, one after another, till I was too used to the pain to care anymore. Rostam pulled my frail, lifeless figure and dragged it along the floor, shoved me onto a chair.

I felt the blood dripping off the edges of my skin onto the floor. It warmed my skin, though it made me a little colder with every passing drop.

Soon it would be over, soon all the life would be drained out of me, and I would no longer be a slave to his demands, neither body nor soul.

As the lifeblood poured out of my being to the floor, I felt myself going dizzy. The world seemed to fade to black, the voices around me seemed to buzz into silence and nothingness.

It was almost as if I was drifting off to sleep. At my age, I realised, it was pretty hard to tell the difference. Old age, you sly bastard.