To Mongolia?
Coz I know so little about it.
To work?
I have to pay for Mongolia, right!
Away from her?
Coz she’s left me nowhere else to go.
To Hitch?
He rhymes with me.
To the next channel?
Hopefully the next one still has ads.
Home?
I run out of reasons to stay out.
To my barber?
For no reason now, actually.
To the North East?
I really liked dog the first time I tried.
To the loo?
Hell coz I need to go!
But, why do you want to go?
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Not a mistake
Like in any story worth telling, there was this girl. She had a huge load on her heart, weighing her down, killing her one day at a time. But she could not rid herself of it no matter how hard and no matter which way she tried. Till she met this guy.
He lent her his ear, his patience, his words and a little bit of his courage. Phone bills soared on either end. Nights seemed to have no end. Chat windows ran to 300 plus lines. Slowly, leg after arm, she pulled herself out of her ditch.
Her respect for him had no bounds. And his love for her just kept growing. They grew stronger together with each passing day.
Till one particular day. A day that meant a lot to her. A day that he knew meant a lot to her. A day that she spent waiting for him to come. All day, all night by the phone, and by the window.
He never came.
Her heart broke. And after all those months, so did the tears.
He knew he screwed up. And that he screwed up bad. He called, apologised, explained and tried every thing that he could think of. But what he did that day broke something he never expected to end up breaking. Their bond.
Phone calls went unanswered. The chat windows dried up to monosyllables. And the nights got longer. But he had no reprieve.
Days turned to weeks, and weeks to months. He begged and he grovelled. He did to no avail. He tried to make things happen. Nothing happened. He spent every night praying for one opportunity to go back to that day and undo the one wrong that he’d done to her. Neither God, nor she was willing to grant him that.
There was realisation, remorse and there was regret. But there was no forgiveness.
As the months passed, a few phone calls resumed. She called when she needed help. He leaped forward to help, hungry for every brownie point he could bag. And he called her when he was troubled beyond his means. She listened.
He conspired and created situations to be with her. She obliged. She came. She had her assortment of men for the moments. And he waited on the sidelines for a crumb to fall his way. Too bad, she was too clean.
Everything that he had given turned to dust because of one wrong. And he could never stop trying to right that wrong. But water under a bridge, is water under a bridge.
So one night, feeling lost, feeling alone and like a loser, he sat and he thought.
“Where was I wrong? Making the mistake? Trying to unmake the mistake? Or falling in love with the wrong person?”
{perspectives, opinions, criticism and cuss words solicited}
He lent her his ear, his patience, his words and a little bit of his courage. Phone bills soared on either end. Nights seemed to have no end. Chat windows ran to 300 plus lines. Slowly, leg after arm, she pulled herself out of her ditch.
Her respect for him had no bounds. And his love for her just kept growing. They grew stronger together with each passing day.
Till one particular day. A day that meant a lot to her. A day that he knew meant a lot to her. A day that she spent waiting for him to come. All day, all night by the phone, and by the window.
He never came.
Her heart broke. And after all those months, so did the tears.
He knew he screwed up. And that he screwed up bad. He called, apologised, explained and tried every thing that he could think of. But what he did that day broke something he never expected to end up breaking. Their bond.
Phone calls went unanswered. The chat windows dried up to monosyllables. And the nights got longer. But he had no reprieve.
Days turned to weeks, and weeks to months. He begged and he grovelled. He did to no avail. He tried to make things happen. Nothing happened. He spent every night praying for one opportunity to go back to that day and undo the one wrong that he’d done to her. Neither God, nor she was willing to grant him that.
There was realisation, remorse and there was regret. But there was no forgiveness.
As the months passed, a few phone calls resumed. She called when she needed help. He leaped forward to help, hungry for every brownie point he could bag. And he called her when he was troubled beyond his means. She listened.
He conspired and created situations to be with her. She obliged. She came. She had her assortment of men for the moments. And he waited on the sidelines for a crumb to fall his way. Too bad, she was too clean.
Everything that he had given turned to dust because of one wrong. And he could never stop trying to right that wrong. But water under a bridge, is water under a bridge.
So one night, feeling lost, feeling alone and like a loser, he sat and he thought.
“Where was I wrong? Making the mistake? Trying to unmake the mistake? Or falling in love with the wrong person?”
{perspectives, opinions, criticism and cuss words solicited}
Monday, July 14, 2008
Brains?
Got this one by SMS.
A 3 year old boy examining this testicles while having his bath asks his mother, "Mom, are these my brains?"
"Not yet", she replies.
A 3 year old boy examining this testicles while having his bath asks his mother, "Mom, are these my brains?"
"Not yet", she replies.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Thursday, June 26, 2008
You have been bundooed. Part I.
The car was zipping down the winding road of the hill when the inspector spots its missing number plate from the bottom of the hill. He sends his crony forward waving his three and a half foot bamboo lathi trying to stop the car. Predictably enough, the car brakes at the last minute and plasters the black road with rubber, to stop inches from the vacillating crony in khaki.
The super dark window of the gleaming white car rolls down with the characteristic whirr of a power window. The crony, still shaken by the smoking rubber on the road, hobbles up to the window and screams, “pagal ho gaya kya re, makade!”
In one quick, bone chilling second, a head turns outwards and upwards to face the crony. The crony realises his knees have now turned to a mass of wobbling jelly under the white hot, intense gaze of the driver. His skin turns a glistening wet. His tongue finds the deepest recesses of his mouth to hide. And is bladder just about to give way, when a hand falls with a thud on his shoulder.
The inspector pulls the crony back and steps forward towards the car. He bends into the window, looks straight into the eyes of the driver. And in a menacingly level, no nonsense tone, says to the driver, “bahar nikal.”
Holding the inspector’s gaze, the driver considers brushing this fly’s ass of an inspector aside for all of 45 seconds. And he decides to step out of the car. He had this desperate urge to pee.
Sensing his victory in the first battle, he says in the same level tone to the driver as he gets out, “license nikal!” The driver pulls his pants up to its right millimetric position at his own sense of leisure. Then he raises a palm up to the inspector and gives him a look powerful enough to make the most villainous run for the cover of their mothers’ pallus. And he walks across the road leaving the open-mouthed, seething inspector frozen in his tracks.
The driver unzips and opens the gates of his dam. Soon, a large puddle forms at his feet. A buffalo’s youngling sets off on a gallop sensing a mud wallow. The driver zips up and starts back to the car with his uncanny swagger that vaguely reminds the inspector of Rajni. He reaches the car, and in one smooth, almost choreographed movement, changes his direction, leans on the car and fishes out a packet of chota gold flake, and sticks one in his mouth. Head slanted low, eyebrows raised, the driver looks at the inspector from the gap between his duplicate Gucci shades and his brow.
The inspector tilts his head, amused by the driver’s antics and asks him, “naam kya hai tera?”
The driver lights his chota gold flake, takes a deep drag and looks up towards the inspector al la Clint Eastwood, and blows his shitty cigarette's smoke straight into his face.
And he says, “James. Sumanth James.”
To be continued.
The super dark window of the gleaming white car rolls down with the characteristic whirr of a power window. The crony, still shaken by the smoking rubber on the road, hobbles up to the window and screams, “pagal ho gaya kya re, makade!”
In one quick, bone chilling second, a head turns outwards and upwards to face the crony. The crony realises his knees have now turned to a mass of wobbling jelly under the white hot, intense gaze of the driver. His skin turns a glistening wet. His tongue finds the deepest recesses of his mouth to hide. And is bladder just about to give way, when a hand falls with a thud on his shoulder.
The inspector pulls the crony back and steps forward towards the car. He bends into the window, looks straight into the eyes of the driver. And in a menacingly level, no nonsense tone, says to the driver, “bahar nikal.”
Holding the inspector’s gaze, the driver considers brushing this fly’s ass of an inspector aside for all of 45 seconds. And he decides to step out of the car. He had this desperate urge to pee.
Sensing his victory in the first battle, he says in the same level tone to the driver as he gets out, “license nikal!” The driver pulls his pants up to its right millimetric position at his own sense of leisure. Then he raises a palm up to the inspector and gives him a look powerful enough to make the most villainous run for the cover of their mothers’ pallus. And he walks across the road leaving the open-mouthed, seething inspector frozen in his tracks.
The driver unzips and opens the gates of his dam. Soon, a large puddle forms at his feet. A buffalo’s youngling sets off on a gallop sensing a mud wallow. The driver zips up and starts back to the car with his uncanny swagger that vaguely reminds the inspector of Rajni. He reaches the car, and in one smooth, almost choreographed movement, changes his direction, leans on the car and fishes out a packet of chota gold flake, and sticks one in his mouth. Head slanted low, eyebrows raised, the driver looks at the inspector from the gap between his duplicate Gucci shades and his brow.
The inspector tilts his head, amused by the driver’s antics and asks him, “naam kya hai tera?”
The driver lights his chota gold flake, takes a deep drag and looks up towards the inspector al la Clint Eastwood, and blows his shitty cigarette's smoke straight into his face.
And he says, “James. Sumanth James.”
To be continued.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
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