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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