Wednesday, November 26, 2008

The confidant

If you knew some of things I knew, you’d probably start your own multimillion dollar blackmailing firm with branches in all the metros and with over 3000 employees. For instance, I know all about this actor who is sleeping with his producer’s wife. That is indeed, a very generous sign of gratitude to the man who provided him his first break. I also have some information on this cop who was caught on tape with a sixteen-year-old. Apparently, the filmmakers are demanding a handsome amount from the rookie actor – production charges of course. Wait. Here comes the local MLA’s secretary. He is my favourite. For one, his confessions are always high on news value. Sex, lies, videotapes. But the best part - he’s got something new every damn day.

(courtesy: bonsaiz)

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Too much to swallow

I have some strange and strong views on religion and god. One of them is that, I think god is like a placebo. There must have been a time when life had our forefathers with their backs against the wall. They needed help. Unfortunately, most of their problems had no solution. Death for instance. So a few doctors, extremely wise men without a degree, sat together and created this placebo called god. And along came cures like heaven, nirvana and good afterlife. Prescriptions were published in the form of Bhagwad Gita, Bible, Qu’ ran, Avesta, etc… People were much happier thereafter. Cometh a problem, take one in the morning, one at night, and one at any other time you feel hopeless.

For the love of dogs...

Last weekend, after around six rounds of drinking, one of my closest friends told me how he had just declined a great job and a mammoth pay hike for his dog. As in, it is not that the dog was jealous or anything. It was simply because he wasn’t willing to relocate and leave the dog back home; and yeah, his fiancĂ©e too. I somehow completely fail to understand how people can take such crucial decisions over dogs, or cats or even iguanas. I am already having enough trouble trying to love and relate to human beings. So as of now, I guess dogs don’t stand a chance.

(courtesy: bonsaiz)

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Cleanliness is next to...

I think there is a direct relationship between intoxication and cleanliness. I tackled three days of garbage and dirty vessels after 3 drinks of whisky; a thing I would have been otherwise incapable of. I cleaned up the entire house (which includes the toilets) on around 8 pegs of rum. I wonder what it must take for those poor guys who clean up the sewage pipes. Poison?

(courtesy: bonsaiz)

Master of Muppets

Recently, I discovered and identified a special skill in me. I choose to write about it because it is not a frequent occurrence in my case.

I guess I have had this ability for quite some time, but have just not been able to name it. The talent I am talking about is the power to manipulate. To be precise, I can convince people into doing things and saying things, while in a conversation with them. There are even times when I can actually see it coming, the nod of agreement; and feel it. Just like Neo could see through the Matrix. The skeletal structure of the devious plot is all just too clear to me. And the best part is, the victim does not even realize it.

I feel guilty at times and at times I feel arrogant, with the latter dominating. But most often, I feel joy. People who know me well might beg to differ. Well, I guess that proves the point.

(courtesy: bonsaiz)

The Unsaid

I think romance is at its best in its unexpressed form. Like the gaze that tells a thousand tales only you can hear. Like those melodies in our dreams. We let them play in our head without letting them get pinned down by lyrics. Like those words. The ones that say a lot more when unwritten than when inked.

(courtesy: bonsaiz)

The pasta lesson

It’s been a while since I began questioning the morality of my job as a copywriter. As I picked up my latest job brief, my cynicism grew deeper and darker. I was to write nice things about a popular pasta brand, and eventually cajole the masses into buying it. I tried it, and just like a couple of earlier experiences, hated it with utmost passion. There lies the answer to my question - colorful and steamy in a nice white ceramic bowl.

(courtesy: bonsaiz)


Woman: "I am going to make you drink a whole lot of rum and make you do things which you would otherwise refuse to."

Man: "There are many consequences to excessive alcohol consumption - hallucination and oral disembowelment to name a few. But FYKI, hypnosis is definitely not one of them."

(courtesy: bonsaiz)

The American Job

I have a friend who lives in the United States of America. She is getting married in December. A couple of days back, she asked me if I could do a little bit of cropping and make her wedding invitation cyber-friendly, and fit for circulation via email. I agreed. By agreeing, I deprived yet another American of a few American dollars. I guess this will not go down too well with Mr. Obama; considering how he has reservations about outsourcing.

(courtesy: bonsaiz)


There are times when some very amusing thoughts strike me. Blame it on a lack of imagination or my sheer inability to articulate, I end up losing them in the ruthless quagmire. And hence I decided to start a new blog as a dedication to those thousands of dead and stunted flashes. I decided to call it bonsaiz – in reference to you know what. The bonsaiz blog resides at

After a few posts, reconsideration and suggestions from friends, I decided to kill bonsaiz and continue with this blog. But there still remained a part of me in love with the whole concept . As a result, every time I write one for bonsaiz, it will be posted on bonsaiz, as well as this blog. So while this blog shall benefit of and poach from bonsaiz, bonsaiz will remain an unscathed, often updated and a fully-functional mini-clone.

Thursday, November 06, 2008

The journal

Prison walls have memories written all over them. There are those of joy, of agony, of bereavement and of fulfillment. However, the ones most deeply etched are often of remorse. They are written in bright red. So bright, that every time you read them, your eyes hurt. The one that read ‘the fateful afternoon’ was scorching. It almost burnt his heart.

He was there when the police arrived. On his knees, by her body, crying like a little boy. It was the maid who informed the men in khakhi. All the evidence pointed at him. Circumstantial, they had called it. The prints on the gun, the duplicate key to her apartment, and of course, the motive.

He did not utter a word in his defence throughout the trial. He was not bothered. His relatives had arranged for the best lawyer in town. The prosecution argued vehemently about the psychopath he had turned into after his break up. How he wanted revenge. How he sneaked into her house and shot her mercilessly. He did not even nod his head. Even at the verdict. For him, it was all over on that fateful afternoon.

He woke up from his trot down the memory lane at the creaking of the latch. He walked like a zombie towards his execution room. The last meal left untouched had turned cold. There was no room left for anything. The executioner looked to be eager to finish his job and head back home. He empathized. So did he.

He looked at the priest with cold eyes as he read out the prayers for his soul. He closed his eyes in prayer for a moment and then opened suddenly as if in some realization. The executioner looked at the clock and gestured towards the jail superintendent. It was almost time.

The veil fell over his head. He felt the darkness spread from within. Now it was uniform. His world seemed to be in synchrony with his mind. He smiled. A smile nobody else in the room saw; and even if they did, would never have understood.

One nod of the head met another. The noose tightened. The rope loosened. A wooden platform slid. His neck cracked. Muscles stretched. The last struggles of the soul before it left its mortal home. The doctor pronounced him dead at 03:14am. Justice was done. Good prevailed.

Miles away, inside a room that witnessed that same fateful afternoon, a few pages fluttered in the early morning breeze. A pen rolled lazily across. The words on them had not been completely buried by time and dust. Specially the last ones. The ones that read, “and therefore I go.”