I am smitten and I am head over heals over this girl. I don't know who she really is. We have not even had a conversation. All i do is to listen when she speaks. Even if i do speak, my voice will never reach her like hers reaches mine. And do i want to? I am not sure. Moreover that sweet voice has kept me spell bound for the last couple months. To be exact, since i landed in Pune. My travel in the car is almost always with her musical voice ringing in my ears.

Last week i realized that she can sing also. That too, not bad. (I for that matter, bray!) Half my friends around me had a hypnotized look on their face which i didn't like at all. I was not sure if that was because of her or the song that she played on her radio. The sense of music was exactly like mine. And that laugh.. Awwoooo.. i envy all the guys who work with her who get the golden moments to share when she laughs.

She speaks marathi. And i haven't heard anyone talk marathi so sweetly as she does.  My friend said its because she mixes English with marathi. I don't care if she mixes English with Pudina chutney. As long as its her, its good. I am almost on the verge of learning marathi so that i could follow her word by word.

I got really pissed off when one day i was not able to listen to her. I realized then that she has gotten into my mind so much. I almost decided to do a Munna Bhai and go to her office bay and talk to her. But i basically being a coward, found hundred and one reasons to not to do so. What if she is married? What if she has a boyfriend? What if she is the sister of a local goon? What if my boss didn't gimme leave? And more terribly, what if she is single and said OK for me? What will i do then?? Questions are always easy to find. Its to find the answers that gives the problems.

So i decided to do what i can do best. Write a  blog. Not that it will make a world of difference. I don't even know if she reads iLand. And i don't have the guts to tell her to come and read my blogs. She being a leading RJ of FM radio might have many things in her mind other than reading my stupid blogs. I am smitten by her. By radio jockey Maanasi in Radio Mirchi, Pune.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!

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The topic, about which the entire human race has written about. Fought. Lost and Found. And died.

So what’s new? Well, nothing is new. As I constantly remind all of you, this piece of iLand is for bull crap. (Come on people. I already have enough tensions in my life. Work pressure, Peer Pressure, Friends’ pressure to keep calling my 257 big contact list. Now above all, iLand pressure!. Nowadays I dream of Moe’s and Bad Angel’s writing skills and fear iLand will throw me out for not keeping up to the standards)

What you think about ‘College Love’? I always felt that there are five types of lovers in any campus.

Numero Uno: The couple will be sitting on the steps on the way to canteen and you have to be a trapeze playing monkey or Tarzan of the jungle to reach the canteen. Take five steps back, beat your chest, howl, run, jump and fly over them. With all luck you will land on your arse with a sickening ‘THUD’. Since it’s not possible to break your arse, you will not duplicate your bones. Each time one poor soul tries to cross our lovebirds’ all entangled position, the guy will give threatening glances which roughly translate to ‘tujhe mein hostel me dekh loonga’. You can see these two sitting there for hours on end, not moving an inch. And when you ask them to sit in the class for 30 min, the world will come to an end!

Second one (what’s the Spanish for this? Numero Secondo?) This is a rare species now. These existed when I did my engineering some years ago. It’s 21.00 Hours. You go to the local phone booth to make a call to your ailing grandma. You can hear sounds coming from somewhere nearby… nothing to be seen in plain sight. You think of all ghost stories that your Grandma told you. Talking going on in very small voices… It’s a human male and sometimes it coos. You being the unsuspecting victim try to wrench open the door and enter the booth. “Aaaaarrrgghh!!!” The silence of the night is broken by this shrill scream followed by a torrent of ‘galis’ in all possible languages not leaving out any in your ancestral line. Usually parents will be the ones who bear the brunt of this shower.  Mother, father, sister, brother, cousins, aunts, uncles, grand parents. The best way to count your relations.

Hearing this you run out with arms and legs flying all over the place. You think you have just encountered a foul mouthed ghost. But what just happened in reality was that you stumbled (literally) upon the second species. The cooing sound was from inside the booth with his girlfriend. It meant you should better find another phone, even if that meant walking five kilometers if you really want to talk to your grandma, before she reaches heaven.

Third: The old Fox of Sour Grapes. Ever green lovers. This is not by choice but because there is no other choice. You see. He was after Meena yesterday, with Teena today and will be after Veena tomorrow. Not that he didn’t like Meena & Teena. It’s just the other way. But so what? Life goes on and so does this ‘prem kahani’.

Fourth: Love is a horror story for these. Whenever they hear the word love, they shrivel up like a hazel nut. If a girl comes near them, a heart seizure is all ready and they collapse and have to be taken to the men’s loo. (And if by chance the helper didn’t faint by the loo smell, the lover might escape certain death) But they are these silent lovers. If you follow them carefully, during library hours, they will be in a corner seat and looking over the top of the 30 pound text book, at a girl sitting some ten yards away and busy gossiping with her friends. The moment the girl gives the guy a tantalizing glance, our Pirate Jack will hide behind the book never to be found again.

Fifth: Some of you might be offended by this, but I have living proof with me (proof is not me, please). How many of you believe in Rakhi? (I do. I have one sibling. One sister who likes to torment me day and night. And one ‘rakhi’ sister who gives her company. Two born terrorists!) Two Homo sapiens. A guy. A girl. They see each other. Spend some time together. Tadaaa. They decide that this is the best thing that could happen to them. She ties ‘rakhi’ and the guy is happy and so is the girl. They roam around the campus free of any hindrances. The guy chases off any potential Romeos. (Brotherly love and all!) The girl fights off any bitching friends saying it’s my brother. (Can’t you see the rakhi?)

Days Pass. Romeos forget the girl as the biblical forbidden apple. Months pass. Campus moves on to other more interesting topics. Years pass. Alumni meet comes up. Guy pops in along with THE girl, and a bunch of family heirlooms. They declare… ‘Since we knew each other so well, we deiced to marry.’

The End.

  

Frozen Sun 

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I still know what we did last summer

This is a small incident which happened some 5-6 years ago. Not of much importance. I just wanted to share the not-so-common experience here.

My cousins and I used to go for a summer trip every year. But the previous trip had left a pretty bad image among all of us and another venture away from the shelter of home was not exactly a dream for anyone. But not wanting to be left out, we decided to get all the Free Cousins of the World and embark on this mission. So we gathered 12 in all and called ourselves the Dirty Dozen! (Eleven of my cousins and myself. And dirty we were!)

Started in the morning and after traveling up and down the country we decided its time to have some dinner. Since we were busy making Pepsi shares go high by indulging in all kinds of corporate junk food, no one was in a mood to have lunch. So you can say a dozen wild hungry minions were on the look-out for a food joint.

Unfortunately the call of the stomach came when we were in the middle of nowhere. God and our parents had forgotten to put this place on the face of earth. There was not a single living soul to ask directions. And it was approaching midnight. We could hear some grumbling noises rising above the rattling of our vehicle's heart but was unsure if that was from some wild animal or from our own stomachs.

All the nice meals my mom offered and to which I had said 'NO' indignantly, lined up in front of my eyes. I still believe those brinjols were doing some kind of tap dance. We were completely in an alien land. No one knew the local language. Somewhere in Southern Karnataka. One or two farmers we 'encountered' on the way threatened to poison us (Or that was the closest interpretation which one of my cousins volunteered to offer. Others are not worth mentioning. RediffiLand might raise 'objectionable' clause against me)

11 hungry stomachs and 22 eyes looking out on either side of the road was not a very comical picture to anyone. Except for the one who smartly fell asleep. He was smiling nicely in his sleep which none of us liked. Must be HIS dishes doing a cabaret in his dreams! The smile became so unbearable that we poured the last bottle of water over his head. He must have thought he was having a rain dance with his bhindi.

We traveled some 50 km in different directions. Some started exclaiming that, they have seen many of the places we passed, before. We conducted 15 minutes of interviews and group discussions before coming to a conclusion that it's a pure case of Déjà Vu. (12 most brilliant souls and ardent followers of superman & spiderman simply cannot run in circles. Never!) More brilliant souls started to think about gate crashing a house and ransacking for food. After a point of time all of us were ready to follow suit. The only problem with that plan was that, to start with, you needed a HOUSE to ransack, which in that part of world was rarer than a sleepless-history-class in school.

Then we saw!  We saw God in the form of a Truck.  It was going at a speed of 30kmph ahead, with a half asleep driver at the wheels. We all started to yell at the driver to stop the truck. Some stuck their torso out of the cars and waved and yelled at the truck. At last we knew that the driver saw us. The driver put his head outside and turned back and instead of reducing the speed he started to race for his dear life. Poor chap must have thought its some hooligan party chasing him. (Dirty Dozen is no misnomer. We did look dirty. If our parents had seen us like that, they would have disowned us and all of us would be out on the adoption list in an instant). Anyway a loaded truck was no match for the will of our stomachs. We managed to chase down the truck with a wild eyed terrified human as its driver. (It was our luck that he didn't abandon the truck and ran away crying "bachao")

After recovering from the initial shock he said that there is a famous hotel 10+ km from that place. And that it's open all the time. But we needed to take a detour to reach that place. Some of us had already offered the Gods sacrifices if we got food. Visits to temples, Quit Smoking dad's cigar, not to make the dog pee inside the house, not to watch some certain kind of movies ever in life etc etc. Then what is a detour to us.

We turned the cars, followed the route that was told. We reached the place the driver mentioned. There was a small shack. An old shirtless uncle was sleeping with his legs on the coffee pot. There was a board hanging skewed from the shack's ledges. It read.

"Hotel Famous"

Epilogue: The food that we got from there was the best one anyone among us ever had. It was some kind of mixture of rice, sambar and some more nameless things.. Something more or like a Mexican Gumbo.

PS: That was our last summer trip.

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I am a proud owner of long hair. It almost falls to my shoulder. Well, No, a little short of that. It doesn't take much to maintain. My sister has the view that it’s my hair which is eating up my entire food intake and the reason why I am slim. So after lots of soul searching I decided to cut my long, lavish and luxurious hair so that it’s easier to dry it (never thought someone needed soul searching to have hair cut). Otherwise it’s an exercise unto itself. Or think of it and yeah! May be that’s why I am slim. I can prescribe it for people who want to go for weight reduction programs. (Moe?) Come and dry my hair for ten minute every day morning. You don't have to pay me a penny. I can forgo the fee considering you are my friend. If there is more than one in need of the service, I am willing to take bath more than once a day. Where can you find such an offer? Even beats VLCC hands down. What say you? Staying slim is a privilege nowadays.

I decided to take my head and hair to a saloon. After walking like a drug-addicted chicken for some time I reached one. It resembled more of an Evil Dead movie location than a barber shop. Just as I was about to enter, a small kid came out screaming his lungs out. Not a very good omen, you would say. With a heavy and foreboding heart I entered. To my utter discomfort I found out that the barber and I were on the same level of education. Both of us didn't know one language. He didn't know a word in English and I didn't know a word in Marathi. Trouble is thus spelled. Moreover he smiled like he was willing to cut even my head off, as a bonus. Come to think of it, since 8, all my ex-barbers had that same evil smile. His scissors clicked. Click.. click.. I remembered some vultures in Discovery clicking their beaks before eating the pray alive. I prayed hard to all the gods that this fellow would not have seen that show. It didn’t give me any comfort that those vultures had a very bad sense of hair dressing.

Barber of Pune:“Kya?”

I of Pune: “mushroom cut”

BoP: “Masoom Cut.. Masoom main Jugal Hansraj jaisa..” (It was more of a statement than a question)

IoP: “most respected barberjee.. aap ki marzi.. jo chahe vo kar dee jiye”

He blabbered something in Marathi and I assumed that it meant “short?” I replied in affirmative. As he opened his draw, my memory went back to my second standard where a terrified child in I was looking at my teacher pulling a long cane from the drawer. (Karta was the master, Karma was me and Kriya is u-know-what) Out came a steel device which didn't resemble anything I have ever seen in my life, or for that matter, even wanted to. “Click-click” He almost applied it on my head when I understood his cruel intolerable abominable intention. He was going to put other barbers out of business for a while. What a BALD business DECISION. Shave my head off! I held my hands high up in the air and started bellowing in Malayalam. Evidently he got so shocked that he was standing there agape. It was difficult to determine who was shivering more; I- out of the fear of losing all my hair in one lucky stroke or him out of hearing a cry which almost resembled a blood thirsty hound.

My broken Hindi tried to convince him that I wanted some, a little bit, hair to remain on my head. He grudgingly let go off his device and went back to his scissors. “Click-click” again. And started. I hadn't slept properly for two days and dutifully fell asleep. Trust is such a bad thing. You don't trust your friend when he says he didn't forget but was about to call you. But you will go to sleep with your head in the hands of a human with no known background and who is an expert at dealing dangerous weapons, namely scissors. “Click.. Click”

After sleeping for good fifteen or so minutes I was rudely awaken by the man of the hour, Barber of Pune. And boy, did I wake up or not! All I could do was to sit and stare at the old bald man sitting opposite to me. He was looking like he has gone old by some thirty years in thirteen minutes and he looked remotely like me. No Way that I look like this! All the hair had mysteriously vanished. And what was left on my head now resembled some wild bush in Australia waiting to catch fire. If I peer closely I could see my scalp. And my hair line also has gone up a bit. Terrible. Horrible.

I paid him the extortion amount and left the place meekly. I returned to my flat. The reaction was just as I imagined. My roommates have never ever laughed so much in their life. I took a quick bath and ran outside. The run stopped outside a cine complex. I was waiting for my friend to join me. Suddenly I heard someone tapping my hands and saying something. “Uncle, Uncle.. What's the time?” With sinking heart I realized that a ten years old villain is calling ME his uncle. Badmash. When did I become his UNCLE? Didn't his mother ever lecture him on manners? Is this what they teach kids at school nowadays? What a Shame! No wonder the country is going to dogs. I cursed all and everything. So much for Keeping It Short and Sexy! But the blow was struck. I realized how the man in the Godrej hair dye ad would have felt. That word roamed around my head like a couple of happy yellow canaries. “Uncleee.. Uncleee”

Nahiiiiiinnnn.. :(

Frozen Sun

KISS is an acronym that we use while using presentations for “Keeping It Short and Sexy”. For all those who were looking for a juicy story where I would be kissing my girlfriend, go and take a walk. That’s private :)

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I had always believed that there was something wrong with me.

Flashback 1: My dad recently crossed his 60^th birthday. Instead of celebrating like all oldies, he decided to keep it under wraps. My mom says he doesn’t want to disclose his age. But when did being 60 ever stop my dad?

It was some time ago that I got a call from my mom saying dad is in hospital. I freaked out and was shouting at the top of my creaking voice. My mom coolly answered “perappurathu ninnum thaazhe veenu” (chat se neeche gir gaya!)

I had to take two deep breaths to processes what I heard. My mom is not the joking type. Actually she is allergic to jokes and humor. No wonder she was a school teacher. But luckily for all, nothing had happened to him other than a minor hairline fracture on his knee. But that took me along the path of Sherlock Holmes wondering how this could have happened. After investigating for almost a day, I explained this to the Watson in myself.

My dad apparently went up the roof to clean the water tank it seems. What’s there to clean that much in a tank, you might ask. But if you allow yourself to listen to my dad’s description of the water tank, you would come to think that its some sort of nuclear waste disposal facility guarded by armed terrorists from Guantanamo Bay. Only the brave can rescue the damsel in distress (read: my mom). The poor lady believed it and gave him the thumps up to go up on the roof. At the age of sixty! Internal sources say that he was up on the roof in less than 34 seconds, hopping and jumping and at times, almost flying. Closer to the world record that any Indian has ever reached.

But when did the nuclear waste disposal ever really bothered the communist in my dad? (Yeah, he is a pukka one. All gung ho for china Russia and Cuba.) The real reason that I strongly believe is (though he just laughs it off) something different. There is a ladies’ college near my house. That he was up on the roof at the precisely exact time the college girls were passing my house is no mere coincidence. Don’t be so shocked. It can be true. After all he is MY dad. And while busy “cleaning the tank” for a second he must have forgot that he is perched precariously on top of second floor on the house… and rest is left to historians and orthopedic surgeons.

Flashback 2: I am a chic-ronmentalist. Meaning, I pretend to take care of environment when cute chics are around. But I hate this Save Tree campaign. Whenever someone comes up with a badge saying “Save Tree” I get cuties all over my body. Reason? There is no other person who has been punished so much by trees. Living and dead, both alike.

Let’s say, I was not exactly the role model kid when I was young. Well, I had some tricks up my sleeves but hey, who didn’t? But they came at a very high cost. Namely, my skin. It was almost nonexistent by the time I was 10. The reason is only one and one thing. Not my dad. The thorny tree at the corner of my compound. Each time I do some mischief it will lower its branches so low.. that even if my dad had decided not to beat me up, he will do it just for the heck of it. Anyway, the-stick-is-at-hands-reach-so-why-not types. That tree died slowly donating all its branches to the noble cause of beating the pulp out of me. And my dad, for some reason I still don’t understand, never planted a new one. May be he had some soft corner for that tree. He will always love that tree more than me I guess. Damn you green headed monsters.

Flashback 3: I had always thought that I am some kind of mistake in my parent’s family planning. Something like an “unplanned outcome”. Either that or I am adopted. I am not saying it from whatever you read above. What if I say my childhood toys were a broken iron box and a pressure cooker lid? Now you see where I am coming from? Sigh. And you talk about under privileged children in Somalia! My foot I say.

To add to these, you must also have read about how they are planning to go about my marriage plans. It’s just plain horrifying experience. I am yet to come to a conclusion which is bad.  Whether it’s the prospect of marriage itself or the prospect of letting them choose a bride and THEN marry her. God save me. This should be an item in the next “Rippley’s believe it or not”

I am more of an experimental guinea pig for them. The latest experiment is called “Bechna hain, Frozy ka… Maan Samman aur Abhiman”

Last week my dad called me saying he needs Rs.500. I was wondering why on earth he needs this paltry sum. After putting huge pressure and empty threats, he told me that it is for some colony activity. Suspiciously I agreed. By the way, my house is in a colony in Kerala. I am not sure if the house landed inside a colony or the colony grew around it. It is half occupied by MOGEMBO (Members Of Gelf Emigrated Mallu Babus Organization) and other half by medical representatives. (My dad is a fence sitter). We have this colony day every year which is the most ridiculous nonsensical humbug one can ever witness. We use that day to boast around and wash dirty linen in public. This is apparently what happened that day:

The anchor is all ready to give away the award as if its some Oscar.

Stage Anchor (in a horrible Mal accented English or English accented Mal – which is which is debatable but nevertheless indistinguishable): “Now we come to the most awaited award of the night. This award as you know is given to the person with most WARTs. And this years NAVEEN for most WART goes to Thilothama PP.”

One girl comes up the stage looking aghast and ready to cry. She silently receives an odd looking thing from the chief guest who is equally disgruntled at having to give away an award for WART. From certain angles I thought the award itself was looking like a big oily wart.

No one knew WART stood for Weekly Average Rating in Tests. Except of course my dad, who set it all up.

The Present:

I KNEW there is something wrong with me!

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Fress Maal - Invoice

                                                             Invoice  

Fresss maal                                                                                All figures in Indian Rupee

I was lying on my bed and my room mate was talking about one of his friends who had sex with a leading actress of a regional language. Suddenly, just like you are now, I was all ears. My sleepiness and laziness vanished into thin air in seconds and I sat upright in my bed. What's more interesting than someone getting hooked? We male species are selfless creatures in this particular area. My room mate was still in his dream world and was sleep talking 1.25 lakhs! How to make 1.25 lakhs? My curiosity overpowered me and I was poking him asking what the money was for. He was like; my friend paid 1.25 lakhs to have sex with her, still in his hallucination.

I was shocked. How can someone do this? This is atrocious. Blasphemy. I am 27 and I never got to do a film actress! This is unfair. And 1.25 lakhs is not a big amount these days. If I stopped drinking tea, I could easily have 1.25 lakhs in a couple of month's time. That too for a leading lady in southern movies! For one second, her curves and bends filled my brain. For more clarity I googled her and there she was, filling my entire 15 inch monitor. Stopping tea may not be that bad after all. Tea board can go to hell. But some other questions were raising its snake like heads all over my mind. How come she is charging so high? Or is it too low? I have absolutely nothing to compare it with because I never had paid sex. I never gave money (neither received, for that matter) in exchange for having sex. But if you think about the number of times I ogled at girls, I would be in serious financial problems, worse than the American food crisis.

I kept on wondering like this for some time. Then suddenly a thought struck me. Should I charge if I am having sex? Don't laugh now. This is a serious blog. Obviously I am no leading hero of any Malayalam movie. My acting talents are worse than Himesh Reshamiya's! It's hard to recognize any bend in my body. It's more like a super express high way with one pot hole here and one there. Moe even wrote a post after my two holes. Therefore, the two areas that are coming to my mind are paid-sex and non paid-sex. Non paid-sex sounds like free sex, which is worse. It makes me feel cheap so paid sex it should be. It's more like a service you know.

So iLanders, I am trying to get how these people arrive at their pricing band. I will try to put all my MBA skills (financial and otherwise) to good use here.

The question is how much should I charge if I were in her position. Don't go literally now. Of course 1.25 lakhs is not for me. I start the price at an amicable 30K compared to a whopping 1.25 lakhs. Since I am a guy (I AM, really!) have to do more work than her in such a scenario so I start at a premium. 25K for my personal work efforts. 30+25 = 75K

Point two: I am a virgin in this field. By field I mean, paid sex! That should command a higher value. Come on, I have seen so many B grade movies. Virgins are always in demand, including our own Virgin at Thirty (VAT)! Just look how many girls like him. So up goes the amount by additional 50K. (My experience on non paid sex? No comments). Now price = 1.25 lakhs (I am actually equaling her!)

Now the question of being ethical in this. Of course I agree this is a service. But should I be paying service tax for this? If some Govt. officials come to know about this, they might want a share of my service. Err. No. I will be an honest tax paying individual. Add 10K towards the tax and the price becomes 1.35 lakh. (Ooh! I EXCEEDED HER! UNBELIEVABLE!)
Then comes when and where? I think it's better to be after 9 PM. My vital stat is not much of a wow. So good if we can do it in the shadows. I am ok with any place as long as I am paid (I think!)

Thus I offer my services at 1.35 lakh rupees. It is for a single night. Conditions apply. No whips allowed inside the room. Only girls need to apply. Protection devices are provided on the house.

Frozen Sun

PS: I am a Mallu with a weird sense of humor. This is all a joke. Nothing serious! I repeat, never take me seriously on iLand. But if someone really thinks she can give me a lakh, I may alter this PS section.

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I found this from the pages of an alien, who paid me a visit from future. I stole it from his diary when he was practicing Yoga.

The Plague Symptoms: The most famous is swollen lymph glands.  Other symptoms include spots on the surface that are red at first and then turn black, heavy breathing, continuous blood vomiting, aching limbs and terrible pain usually caused by the actual decaying of the skin while the infected person is still alive.

This is not the description of the bacterial infection called plague. It’s the description of an infection that planet Earth had, caused by the despicable low lives called Humans. (Earth is a dead planet that we use now as waste dump. It is located in the defunct Solar system)

The way humans used their parent body (Earth) and killed it slowly without a care can only be replicated by a virus or bacteria. The scariest thing was humans’ ability to adapt and evolve. It moved on when one part of Earth was dead. Searching for new pastures to kill. till the whole body was dead and rotting and cannot support life anymore. Then they searched for a new place to infect. Another planet perhaps. But we, Frozniktonians have to thank our Froz-ma-taz Gods that they didn’t succeed. Else entire universe would have been in great peril.

There have been some antidotes to this human disease. But humans were too adaptive to them. It devised various artificial antigens to fight off these natural elimination processes that earth used on humans. It also had the capacity to use Earth’s resources and turn it against Earth itself. This has not been witnessed by any other infections in the universe.

One remarkable feature of this species is that, even though it was all the same from one to another, it believed they greatly differed from each other. They even believed (inaccurately) that they had a mind of their own which only an advanced species exhibits. Its communication system was excellent which helped them to invade the whole planet in a very short time. It had a very short lifespan though. About 100 solar years, about 2 units of our Froznitac units of time. But they used to mate and multiply 2-5 times (on an average) in this span.

Final symptom: When death begins the victim (Earth) will get spasms.

Frozen Sun

PS: I think earth has started getting the spasms

Right now I am watching the India NZ third ODI. India started off on the arrogance of having too many runs on the board. India is now getting thrashed. We need someone like Jessee to beat the pulp out of humans. And make them realize the price to pay for being arrogant. I am going out now. Celebrate the weekend. Hope Indians and humans will wake up before it’s too late.

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February last week was unremarkably remarkable for me! That was when I was almost eaten alive by man eating tigers, when I almost fell off into a raging river, when I got shriveled up in snow, when I got roasted in a near-desert city and to top it all, when I had to watch red bikini clad Kingfisher Airhostess from the far away discomforts of the window seat. In English language, this complex and unfortunate series of events is called a VACATION!

The primary and sole reason for me to accept the crucifixion was a promised visit to a certain ‘Cabaret’ park. It was named after a famous white guy called, Jim. He must have been some sort of a regular customer. I simply couldn’t hide the glee. A park dedicated to cabaret with an overnight stay. Do I need to tell more? I was feeling like a Mujahedeen. Ready to sacrifice anything (live in the company of four old people for one whole week included!) in return of the promised 72 virgins (read: the cabaret, not so sure of virgins though)

When I reached there I realized why they call it wild life safari. I was taken for a real ride. There was no cabaret. This Jim fellow was someone who hunted tigers for food. So one day the Tiger High Command met and decided to name the forest after the old fellow and give him a parliamentary seat in 2009 general elections. Our Jim was mighty pleased with the trade off and stopped hunting tigers. That’s the story. No cabaret. No promised virgins. Jim Corbett National Park. Altogether a disappointing start. I can see how mujahedeen might feel once they leave the Earth.

Apparently there are 167 tigers in the forest. Tiger is part of the big, you know, Panthera family. They used to rule the British India like Bachans did in Sarkar. Then there was a big family feud and the family was split into four. Tiger Bachan, Lion Bachan, Jaguar Bachan and Leopard Bachan. Jaguar Bachan has been recently adopted by the Tata. It will be soon renamed to Tata Byebye Bachan.

These sub families have a specialty that only these four can roar, and of course Frozy. Anyone questioning my authority will be asked to watch Splitsvilla in MTV along with Navjot Singh Sidhu for a month. So choose carefully before you speak, you pathetic un-roarable creatures. (Even though Sidhu can roar and has lots of whiskers, my impeccable research has shown that he is not technically a Panthera. He is classified under the pantyhose sub species!)

After thinking a lot, I decided to give a try for a wild life safari. I was made to sit on a she-elephant. If you had shown that picture of mine in a “Show & Tell”, kids would have told “A prickly nut on a tom cat’s fur”. The resemblance was unmistakable even in that dense forest. The elephant now and then turned to make sure I am sitting on top. Couple of times she even swished her tail to check upon me. But Prickly-nut-me, held on for dear life. Hathiji was a bit unhappy and seemingly wanted to throw me down. But I am no stranger for hard play. I don’t like woman on top. Especially when it’s an elephant that we are talking about!

So the story started. We reached the middle of the forest, all dark and dingy. No sound. Dhak… dhak… Only the elephant walking… suddenly I hear the roar from the bushes behind me. It was a bloodcurdling growl of a full grown tiger. I knew I was a goner. I turned and peered (NOT peed. There is an ‘r’ in the middle) into the darkness to see if I can spot a tiger at least before it jumps. But nothing came. The mammoth continued its cat walk as if nothing had happened. I could hear roars again and again. Always from behind me, hiding among the bushes perhaps.

But the driver of the elephant (or whatever you people call him) was least bothered. He was chewing something and had a stupid smile like he was watching an SRK movie. That’s when I realized that the roaring culprit was not the tiger but none other than the elephant itself. That idiot mammoth must have eaten too much of aloo the previous night and had major gastric problem.  The roar I heard was actually its bloody fart. Unbelievable. So much for my tiger tales. I took the next flight back home.

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Blog world is under attack. No, I am serious. It’s turning slowly into a hotspot for nirvana and moksha sales. “Dus ka theen.. Dus ka theen” Where ever I go, I read about people finding meaning for life or scrutinizing geeta khuran or bible. No offense people. I have stopped reading all those heavy stuff which might be exactly what you just thought aloud! But here in this land I am the God so I know the answers already. Once upon a time I too was dwelling into such topics as why we are here and why not in Priyanka Chopra’s bedroom and all. But then one day I suddenly dawned on me that we are here to eat Hyderabadi Chicken Biriyani and I possibly couldn’t find an answer any better than that. Just imagine. What’s better than Hyd Chi Bir three times a day? Also it’s better to search for something for which I can find an answer. For example, where did I leave my glasses now? Shit.. hold on..

OK.. Got it.. In a way I am glad that blog-world might put an end to all human Gods. At this rate, we will pack them all to Timbuktu for good. The next century maharshis munis babas etc will say, “vals, if you are to seek moksha, pls go to the deep junglee pages of blogging. They are doing it better than I am” or some ayurvedic soup will advertise “From the weblogs of blogs directly after scanning it using the most advanced search engines, the essence of life in a soup, to glow your soul like the pages of xxxxx”

I have used xxx as the name because I am Hippocratic and not ashamed of that. I am young and have no intention of looking for a deeper meaning to my otherwise interesting life. What if I found the meaning and it turned out to be “clean all the municipal sewers”? Sorry guys. I am not going anywhere there. As to the iLand, I have no qualms about being in the midst of such a wide variety of topics. You all write away to glory! I always have the all encompassing power of ignoring and saying “not again!” But no one will hear me so here I go.

“NOT AGAIN!”

Wooo.. That was better. I was going through blogspot and sulekha the other day. I had always thought that this life seeking mode is on because demography of iLanders is mainly married people who are now into that mode because of their family pressures or they simply don’t know what else to do. Now please stop screaming. I really have not met many youngsters who want to seek life’s meaning at 12:00 in the night on a Friday (And after 8 years of college and 10 years of school, believe me, I have met quite a number of them.) But basically I was wrong. I saw some blogs in blogsopt which had the effect of Shock and Awe of US of freaking A. I was. Really. Then for some others I laughed and howled like a moron in my cubicle and my boss came looking for me. He thought I was having sex in my cubicle. I was making all weird noises it seems. People HOWL when having sex? Must be some sex!

Now you might again yell, then go to them sumbitches. Leave us alone in peace and moksha. Sorry people I have no intention of doing that either. God never told anyone I know that you should seek life’s meaning. He must have said “You bloody punk. Have some fun for me. Will ya?” So I will be here and write as I like. Will God be standing at gates of earth’s boundary with a club and pepper spray, asking all, “Hey you, ya ya you only.. The one in green dirty Bermuda.. Come on.. Out with it. What’s the meaning of life?”  Then I definitely will reply, “Sir.. mmm.. err.. Hyderabadi Chicken Biriyani?” If God send me to hell for a wrong answer, I am sure he will come along with me (God is everywhere. So why not in hell?) Then we will have a glass of Heineken beer, chicken barbeque on direct hell’s fire followed by Hyderabadi chicken biriyani. (My only fear is that God might turn out to be a chicken. Then I am doomed)

Since I am the God here in this page, I will write as I like and you will read only what I want. You don’t have the option of not reading it also because if you have read till here, there is no turning back. The blog is already over.

Frozen Sun

I should fax the recipe for that barbeque sauce to God. I like mine with a tinge of vinegar.

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This is not about love, butterflies or heart shaped red balloons. It’s going to be as dirty as it can get. So anyone having cold, fever or Mercedes Benz, please don’t read.

It’s a normal weekday morning. After chatting with your online friends, you had slept very late into the morning and feel very sleepy. Your boss had scheduled a meeting with clients which you are supposed to handle. You don’t even have an atom of preparation.

And you have loose motion.

To worsen the condition further (if that’s possible!) you find yourself in the lobby waving at the client enthusiastically. You feel so clueless and start to squirm in your shoe. The only possible solution is to run to the washroom and pray that they have all the required necessities, starting from a functioning closet with the toilet cover up (or down; I could never remember the correct way to leave it!) and most importantly, that it’s unoccupied. You hip-hop all the way to toilet. Your colleagues gleefully agree with a nod that is you are doing a passable imitation of a kangaroo.

You reach toilet safely (by all means) and sit there and perform the art which some may term and smirk as shitty. But whatever it is, a nice smile spreads across your face and you really have no clue as to why you are smiling like a clown. Feeling weird you shake yourself, stop smiling abruptly and curse all for getting afflicted by this disease. At first glance you are not able to realize why and how the heck you got it. After 10 min of complicated thought process which could rather easily beat Navjyot Singh Sidhu’s super brain (still performing the ‘art’ rather tirelessly) you reach the conclusion that it can be something you smelled from that hotel the day before.

Actually we all should thank this disease. This is the only time when all humans and animals are ‘giving out’ freely. Ever heard about a miser who won’t go to loo because he is a miser? (I know a couple of constipated real life misers though!) Shylocks would usually be the first to stand in the line.

After ten minutes of sitting there, you realize that it has been a rather long a time to sit in a toilet. But actually it has been over an hour, just that you never realized. Art knows no time and boundaries. How true. Also without your realization, all your colleagues had come to the wash room and had run out because of some foul order emanating from the closet. One of them sums up all the courage and offers to check out. Once his girlfriends and colleagues bid farewell to our hero, he wears the fire fighting masks and enters the wash room. With very difficulty he knocks.

He: (voice is muffled bcoz of the gas mask) “It’s me Steve. Man, u stink. Get the hell out of there.”

Then you suddenly realize how stinky you are right now! You feel embarrassed to the core and do not know what to do.

He: (continues) “Who the $%#@ are you? Reveal yourself!”

At that precise moment you get a fresh lease of life. They still don’t know who you are. You might have a chance of escaping the horrifying embarrassment sessions not to mention the atrocious looks you have to face all your life. Imagine your name for ever to be Stinky Kumar or Motion Patel or Shitty Mehta? You change your voice and put on a squeaking tone which resembles your boss’s. And you decide that if needed you will stay back all night long so that you can slip out unnoticed.

So you go: “I am your boss, and mind your words.”

That exact, precise moment your cell phone decides to play havoc on the world’s equilibrium. It bellows aloud.

“Lose Control! Lose Control! One more time, Lose Lose, Lose Control”

Shocked, Irritated, Embarrassed, Angry, Frustrated, you really lose control… again! Shit!

Outside all of your colleague yell in a perfect symphony to match it… “I KNOW THAT RINGTONE!! THAT’S FROZY”

Frozen Sun

PS: This is pure fiction. I could not end the blog in a better way without poking myself. But what’s sense of humor if you can’t laugh at yourself? :)

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How many of you know the real Frozy?  Mostly it has been kind of platonic relationship. It may be because I haven’t properly introduced myself yet. Whatever the anonymity and the associated fundas are, some of my real-life friends know the real Frozen Sun. Or simply which section of iland not to visit! So, why you poor wretched souls shouldn’t be given that option to escape the obvious, right?

So I am going to bare myself. The real Frozy!

When I started here, I had thought that I will write here anonymously. But whenever a girl joined my office team or when I happened to stumble upon one in a better environment (afterwards they unanimously agree that it is their sheer misfortune), the first thing I ask her is… “Do you like blogs?” Immediately followed by (the answer to the first one being inconsequential) “Have you read Frozen Sun on reddiffiland?”  Some people are of the opinion that it might not be a good opening question. Oh, I know. They are just jealous.

I am Frozy. Going strong on 26. Absolutely no grey hair. To start with, a highly unsuccessful mechanical engineer in practical life though theoretical knowledge is very high to the extent of actually being a total bore. Managed to get good grades in all the exams by religiously mugging up all the Chinese formulae and when ever that didn’t help, copying shamelessly from slips up my undergarment. My general life can be summed up by the next line- To get a four wheeler drivers license, (which means I don’t have one yet) you need to learn it first which I am not willing to (which means I am lazy) because that demands getting up early in the morning (which means I sleep like a polar bear) and going to a driving school (heaven save those souls who do). A vicious circle and therefore no license. But that has resulted in a particularly high level of enthusiasm in the Greater Dog Community near my flat. By using a car I don’t want to rob them off their daily evening jog routine. They are all a big happy joint dog family, chasing me and my bike around.

After my engineering this weird yembeeyay bug bit me in some unspeakable part of my body. I packed my bags went to Chennai for coaching classes. Did everything there except studying and spent a year as complete honest example of a loafer. Then at the end of that Stone Age, I wrote xat mat cat dog donkey and whatnot to somehow get inside a college. That was also the time when I started resembling a Neanderthal physically, emotionally, chemically and grammatically. The idea of going after girls started to become a high point of my life, with as much luck as Chandler Bing (of F.R.I.E.N.D.S.) Somehow I got into a college. (A nice one for that matter. Not some I-too-did-MBA College, mind it. That’s the only area where I am itchy, other than the unspeakable part of my body mentioned earlier.) Then joined a company‘s in Bangalore.  Got transferred to Pune after roaming around USA for some time. That was Fun. Stayed in Marriot for 3 whole months, ate, slept, boozed, played pool, poker, went partying, mouth washed using coca cola, played cricket in baseball grounds, got chased by Afro Americans, alternated between office and strip bars… mmm.. It was nice.. (If anyone from my family is reading this, it’s all a joke… This is not me. You know I don’t play cricket.)

Girls and Humor has always attracted me and so I laugh at any attempt at latter by any former. I give credit to my friend Nibesh for whatever sense of humor I have. Thx Spartan Nibesh! Talking about Spartans, there is this biggest dilemma and challenge in front of me, something to the tune of facing a one million strong Persians. My parents want to get me married off (Come on, you sulking Persians, you bloody homosexual retards.. I think I will rather fight them.) For my parents, I am a full house (means “pura niranju nilkal” = Malayalam for “get the hell out of our life”). So they dragged me kicking and screaming to fill up the matrimonial section in some shady website (the entire business of marriage looks shady to me). I will soon write about that. I am quite busy and my life is full of songs.

Coming back, now that the truth is out, “Frozen Sun” has lost most of its meaning. But I like that name very much. Shortened as “Frozy”, it has been going rounds in my limited circle of friendship here in iland. So I may just not say adieu to Frozy.

Yet again Frozy,

Yours.

If you read this, chances are high that you might NOT like any of my blogs. But still try reading some. I promise a complete waste of your time.

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I don’t know how many of you out here are journalists. Not the ones who smoke a beedi and wear an old unwashed piece of cotton dress.  I mean the normal ‘real’ journalists.. By which again I mean the one who writes all the cool Page-3 stuff. If you are that kind

Come one guys. What’s wrong with you all? You suffer from constipation or something?

For the record, I have stopped reading any paper other than Hindu or Financial Times. They are still not all stories of how fast Kangana Ranaut removed her undies in a movie. No we are not discussing that here, sorry. The others, especially TOI, are a sovereign socialist republican country for yellow journalism. There are close competitions to TOI.  Malayala Manorama from Kerala is the best. Oh! The tabloids from London got to learn so much from it. I will tell you why I think so. Once there was a suicide in Kerala (which is sad in its own way.) The police apparently forbade the paper from taking any pictures because Kerala police is very camera shy nowadays. One of their high ranking officials got trapped in an MMS scandal. He was caught washing a woman’s cloths. Nothing bad in that, of course! (oh! you feminists.) The problem was that, the lady turned out to be his neighbor. Washing dirty linen in public proved to be very costly for Kerala Police. So the next day when I opened the paper, what I saw really baffled me.  The news was front page. (Coup in Pak was in page 5, lower section. But I would say that actually deserved Page 11. I told you, it’s all yellow journalism.) On the front page, there was a big 8 column photo of a road, with people walking left and right wearing mundu. And a caption that read: “This is the road which he used to go to office”.  Now that was what I was looking for. This is what I missed in my life. Thanks Malayala Manorama. My day is so blessed. You complete me. To think so far sighted and to get that picture right in place, I tell you, is an art. Without that piece of information how could have world moved on? Especially the oil prices and stock market. By the way, anything and everything affect oil prices. It’s also because Kerala has the maximum population among all Gulf States. After Kerala, second is Saudi Arabia followed by . Saudi didn’t get to be the first because they keep cutting the private parts of their men on a rotation basis. I hear it’s a national festival there. Kerala doesn't do that. We have hartals and bandhs instead. Also we are fully literate. So we let our men roam freely. Oh yes, It’s all safe.

Another heading that I clearly remember was a humongous “BRA”. I got all excited thinking they are writing about streaking in Kerala or publishing an information bank on lingerie models (There are so many other things about that word but I refrain from mentioning those!). I love progressive modern countries when it comes to this. But it turned out that it is not BRA actually but Brazil. Apparently the previous day Brazil won the football world cup. What the… They could have at least shown a Brazilian chic in a Bra. It’s not very difficult to find one either. Come to think of it, I think that’s how the country got its name. They wait for a chance to throw off their clothes and will easily give Salman ‘The Blackbuck’ Khan a run for his money any day. That photo would have at least made some sense. They can use the girl’s photo at a certain zoom and angle and write ‘ZIL’ next to it.

This was all till yesterday, when I didn't know a thing. Now I am all grown up. I have changed. I see what they were trying to tell me. There is no yellow journalism. There is only one color. Yes. You said it. Yellow. Yesterday I was reading BBC. There was a news article which said ‘Missing girl found’. I thought it is the girl who was murdered in Goa. I opened it up and then realized that it’s in UK and not in the safest tourist haven, Goa. In UK, a little girl had gone to play outside and her parents got freaked out. Since UK police has nothing better to do (other than be a butler to Prince William) they tried to catch the little girl. Something similar to our own Chor Pulice. But the girl proved to be a tad bit smarter for the Scotland Yard. She successfully hid for 3 weeks behind a desk until third day when she forgot they were supposed to be playing and came out asking mama for milk. They have caught a guy who offered her water instead of milk. Apparently that’s a crime in UK. Now that’s not the end of it. BBC had given a detailed road map of that area. The county, Great Britain along with Irish mainland and Europe. Notes read: This is where she was last seen playing, this is where she was found, this is where the reporter made-out with the neighbor, this is where Queen of England #####, The English Channel and a big circular area down south with Theory Henry sucks written across it. By now I was speechless but I managed a ‘WHAT THE FCUK!’

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How does one begin when one is to write about love? Is it the greatest trip every man and woman wishes to embark upon? And perhaps the longest too. A journey, the beginning and the end of the same thing. The freedom. The perception. The Self. The love.

Watching terrible TV

It kills all thoughts

Getting spacier than an astronaut…

Making out with people

I hardly know or like

I can't believe what I do late at night…

I have witnessed people changing. I have seen me changing. With permissions
or not. I have changed. For love. By love. Because of love. For good. For bad. Running
in circles, not knowing the tail from head. Chasing both. Getting chased. Ending
up losing all. Losing my head. Losing the sight of love.

I wanna know what it's like

On the inside of love

I'm standing at the gates

I see the beauty above

Reading too much into it. Not reading at all into it. Which is worse? Which is true? Do I realize that I might actually know the right way to read? And then reading the Braille with my eyes closed. And blindly laugh at the jokes round.

Only when we get to see

The aerial view

Will the patterns show?

We'll know what to do?

What is true love? Is it me? Or love? The goal turning into the path. Suddenly a tap on your shoulder reminding you that the path was your goal and not knowing where to turn. Is that shock, the true love?

I know the last page so well

I can't read the first

So I just don't start

It's getting worse

So where do I stop? Do I wait here for the next train? Or do I get back? Where did this all begin? Do I get to see it in a different view and light? Different angle? Different eyes? Open eyes? Different love? Another chance, to learn to unlearn?

I'm on the outside of love

Always under or above

I can't find my way in

I try again and again

Do you wait for love to happen or will love wait for you? Who will blink first? I guess this is a game we all play. All of us losing it. The game wins. Like a Casino. Always. We getting lost in it somehow or other. Still, claiming a victory. Win-win or Lose all? Love all?

I wanna know what it's like

On the inside of love

Of course I'll be alright

I just had a bad night

Frozen Sun
PS: The central lines are by Nada Surf. Credited

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