Frigidaire
Facsimile
Perquisite
and I got all those spellings right the first time around
hurrah
(pointless)
August 29, 2006
Young Siddharth’s Brave Adventures in the State of Bengal
Not quite so long ago, our dear protagonist was informed by his lord and master that he would have to take part in what is commonly termed as a DUE DILIGENCE which would involve travel to the state of Golden Bengal. Gleefully, our youthful prot. clapped his hands (metaphorically) and packed his bags (actually) and set off for the land of Tagore the Howrah Bridge Durga Puja Eden Gardens with its 150,000 crazed fans british era heritage british era leftovers walking around british era heritage again only this time with cheap posters and underwear hanging off of it. Calcutta.
Three days from the time that would be indicated in the afore paragraph Young Sid finds his life a blur consisting of 9 hours of crunching away at a computer and a few hours in front of the tv at the Taj drinking overpriced undersized beer. DO NOT MISUNDERSTAND ME. Young Sid enjoyed the pointless routine in that people were nice to him and that faceless clients paid for his underwear getting laundered and returning with roses pinned on them BUT
But somewhere inside our dear P, something was burning. Call it the spirit of freewill. Or the restlessness of an erratic genius. The grim sense of realization that dawns upon great people like the late great Che and the current Young Sid.
Peering out the window at the gaudy filthy bustling alleys and the clouded evening sky young sid decides that Enough is Enough. With a great sense of purpose he heads out the office for a Walk and a Cigarette break.
Once outside, YS sees many things that please and interest him. For the first time in three days he finds himself not the very centre of attention by virtue of his very presence. Taxis oxen pavement dwellers chair merchants and tanpura makers manage to find an equilibrium of peaceful coexistence despite their otherwise divergent purposes in life. As an enterprising fellow attempts to sell passers by a plastic chair or two, a child the size of a football shits off the pavement and onto the road as the mother and extended family nonchalantly continue with their range of non-activities.
Lighting a cigarette, our dapper protagonist strides up the road. Smiling to himself. The potent combination sights sounds and smells that Calcutta has to offer to him has resulted in the penning of a small historo-anthropological masterpiece in sid’s mind. He walks on.
TWO MINUTES or FIFTY METRES from his office it starts to rain. Not the gentle, loving rain that caresses the faces of youthful lovers in sweet stories of love, dear reader, no. The skies Open and our hero is forced to take refuge under a thin sheet of tin whose presence in life is totally unexplained except for the fact that it offers relative shelter at times such as these. Sid squeezes himself under with what seems to him as half the male population of Calcutta and continues to smile beatifically and puff at his somewhat soggy cigarette from time to time.
An old man wearing a vest and a lungi and carrying a very large sack of Something That Would Be Rather Important to His Life and Livelihood tries to find himself a place under the makeshift shelter. There is none. Our sid, being the kind hearted fellow that he is, decides that this old gent needs shelter more than he does, and, with true corporate-lawyer-style chivalry (social responsibility) streaks across the road to find an alternative. Five seconds and a wet shirt later sid finds himself in a large red post office. A musty remnant of the colonial era currently occupied by a number of soggy Bengalis patiently waiting for the rain to subside.
A cheeky stream of water starts to slide down the back of Sid’s you know what and the beatific smile loses itself for a few seconds.
His polite enquiry for a postcard is met with an old lady screaming at him from behind the counter and no postcard being transacted.
Fifteen minutes later sid finds himself doing what he was doing fifteen minutes earlier and small visions of empty office unfinished work angry client and general unemployment emerge and bother our dear hero.
Another five minutes of the general misery suggested above convince our turbulent genius that Enough is Enough (again). Bursting out the post office he skids around the corner of the pavement skitting up the road in a nimble dash that might just have left Jesse Owens breathless. Jumping from patches to pavement still relatively unbothered by water, to piles of roadside debris Sid manages to keep his suitably expensive leather shoes relatively safe. YOU STILL HAVE IT IN YOU, YOU OLD SOD!! HAHA!! our intrepid protagonist jubilantly tells himself as he jumps off the footpath and into a recently formed stream of Very Healthily Black Water.
Young Sid sees his shoes and the area approximately four inches above his shoes disappear. His spotless white shirt is now horrifically transparent, his hair plastered around his face. Walking up to the office looking like a strange variety of pornstar his shoes go Galomph Galomph with the nice water from the street. (In keeping with the spirit of factually accurate reportage, your humble servant must add as an aside that our hero had jumped into the black rivulet just a few metres downstream from the little pavement dweller kid’s shitspot).
Staring pointedly at nothing at particular above him, our hero manages to successfully navigate through Very Bewildered Stares to his cabin and proceeds to take his shoes and socks off for a meeting or two with assorted managers and vice presidents.
fin.
Three days from the time that would be indicated in the afore paragraph Young Sid finds his life a blur consisting of 9 hours of crunching away at a computer and a few hours in front of the tv at the Taj drinking overpriced undersized beer. DO NOT MISUNDERSTAND ME. Young Sid enjoyed the pointless routine in that people were nice to him and that faceless clients paid for his underwear getting laundered and returning with roses pinned on them BUT
But somewhere inside our dear P, something was burning. Call it the spirit of freewill. Or the restlessness of an erratic genius. The grim sense of realization that dawns upon great people like the late great Che and the current Young Sid.
Peering out the window at the gaudy filthy bustling alleys and the clouded evening sky young sid decides that Enough is Enough. With a great sense of purpose he heads out the office for a Walk and a Cigarette break.
Once outside, YS sees many things that please and interest him. For the first time in three days he finds himself not the very centre of attention by virtue of his very presence. Taxis oxen pavement dwellers chair merchants and tanpura makers manage to find an equilibrium of peaceful coexistence despite their otherwise divergent purposes in life. As an enterprising fellow attempts to sell passers by a plastic chair or two, a child the size of a football shits off the pavement and onto the road as the mother and extended family nonchalantly continue with their range of non-activities.
Lighting a cigarette, our dapper protagonist strides up the road. Smiling to himself. The potent combination sights sounds and smells that Calcutta has to offer to him has resulted in the penning of a small historo-anthropological masterpiece in sid’s mind. He walks on.
TWO MINUTES or FIFTY METRES from his office it starts to rain. Not the gentle, loving rain that caresses the faces of youthful lovers in sweet stories of love, dear reader, no. The skies Open and our hero is forced to take refuge under a thin sheet of tin whose presence in life is totally unexplained except for the fact that it offers relative shelter at times such as these. Sid squeezes himself under with what seems to him as half the male population of Calcutta and continues to smile beatifically and puff at his somewhat soggy cigarette from time to time.
An old man wearing a vest and a lungi and carrying a very large sack of Something That Would Be Rather Important to His Life and Livelihood tries to find himself a place under the makeshift shelter. There is none. Our sid, being the kind hearted fellow that he is, decides that this old gent needs shelter more than he does, and, with true corporate-lawyer-style chivalry (social responsibility) streaks across the road to find an alternative. Five seconds and a wet shirt later sid finds himself in a large red post office. A musty remnant of the colonial era currently occupied by a number of soggy Bengalis patiently waiting for the rain to subside.
A cheeky stream of water starts to slide down the back of Sid’s you know what and the beatific smile loses itself for a few seconds.
His polite enquiry for a postcard is met with an old lady screaming at him from behind the counter and no postcard being transacted.
Fifteen minutes later sid finds himself doing what he was doing fifteen minutes earlier and small visions of empty office unfinished work angry client and general unemployment emerge and bother our dear hero.
Another five minutes of the general misery suggested above convince our turbulent genius that Enough is Enough (again). Bursting out the post office he skids around the corner of the pavement skitting up the road in a nimble dash that might just have left Jesse Owens breathless. Jumping from patches to pavement still relatively unbothered by water, to piles of roadside debris Sid manages to keep his suitably expensive leather shoes relatively safe. YOU STILL HAVE IT IN YOU, YOU OLD SOD!! HAHA!! our intrepid protagonist jubilantly tells himself as he jumps off the footpath and into a recently formed stream of Very Healthily Black Water.
Young Sid sees his shoes and the area approximately four inches above his shoes disappear. His spotless white shirt is now horrifically transparent, his hair plastered around his face. Walking up to the office looking like a strange variety of pornstar his shoes go Galomph Galomph with the nice water from the street. (In keeping with the spirit of factually accurate reportage, your humble servant must add as an aside that our hero had jumped into the black rivulet just a few metres downstream from the little pavement dweller kid’s shitspot).
Staring pointedly at nothing at particular above him, our hero manages to successfully navigate through Very Bewildered Stares to his cabin and proceeds to take his shoes and socks off for a meeting or two with assorted managers and vice presidents.
fin.
August 05, 2006
free flow
bhaskaran ranjith chanced upon a small fly and with great joy he proceeded to beat it with a drumstick that he just whacked off a small boy sitting by the side of a road waiting for a bus with a drumstick until the drumstick got whacked by mr ranjith (who was using it for purposes already indicated) but sadly for mr ranjith concealed behind an innocuous coconut tree watching him was The Great Kuldip from the friendly neighbourhood PETA action force who was very much incensed by mr ranjiths senseless beating of fly so therefore he (The Great Kuldip) with blood curdling war-cry learnt from Japan TV international sprung with enviable agility at mr ranjith knocking him out with one swift blow before decapitating him with a blunt kitchen knife ok the end no actually it is not because the fly who was very upset with mr ranjiths harsh actions decided to utilise his contacts and a few minutes later beelzebub and his delightful companions declared APocalypse Now and that was the end of all our dear friends all abovementioned and the whole world as well except mr ranjith whose end had come as indicated above before the final end the end is now. this. over.
March 17, 2006
myrmeleontidae
today i was studying on football field in morning when i am having great pleasure of observing ANTLOIN (1 no.)
kindly see below picture (2 nos.)
antloin
antloin trap. not trap for antloin but trap created by antloin. antloin is hiding inside. i am not joking.
actually what is being viewed by you, dear reader, is antloin baby or what is called LARVA. simply i dont want to confuse with technical terminlogy so i will call it antloin. antloin baby. no, loin baby.
anyway. i am walking the field with these fellows anup and iman and i see this little fellow (by which i mean i see hole or trap which has little fellow) so very excitedly i go in search of an ant. these fellows also i convice as to beauty of this creation of nature so we all go in search of an ant. except the ANTLOIN all of us go searching. you see irony? haha.
anyway
i found many ants which bravely fought to keep their freedom so i let them go
finally i dropped one ant into trap.
he is stuggling frantically to get out sand is falling from under his legs miniature avalanch happens and the fellow cant get out
within two seconds our hero has put his pincers through the bottom of the pit and like a
HURRICANE he has seized poor ant. ant is paralysed. within five seconds ant has been dragged into pit.
within few hours ant's carcass will be tossed out, sucked dry, by antloin baby.
i am not joking. marvels of nature.
---------------------------------------------
acknowledgements:
the pictures have been obtained from the wikipedia page on antlions, which, in addition to good photography has a lot of interesting stuff on antlions. all of the above is true. the lion baby grows up to sprout wings and become something that looks like a damsel fly. interested? visit this.
it was, as represented above, a beautiful morning. in additions to the creatures mentioned above i also observed several small green bee-eaters, one white breasted kingfisher, several seven sisters, one spotted owlet, one wagtail male ( i think), one indian robin male (i think),and several sparrows. pity i had to mug for my exam.
kindly see below picture (2 nos.)
antloin
antloin trap. not trap for antloin but trap created by antloin. antloin is hiding inside. i am not joking.
actually what is being viewed by you, dear reader, is antloin baby or what is called LARVA. simply i dont want to confuse with technical terminlogy so i will call it antloin. antloin baby. no, loin baby.
anyway. i am walking the field with these fellows anup and iman and i see this little fellow (by which i mean i see hole or trap which has little fellow) so very excitedly i go in search of an ant. these fellows also i convice as to beauty of this creation of nature so we all go in search of an ant. except the ANTLOIN all of us go searching. you see irony? haha.
anyway
i found many ants which bravely fought to keep their freedom so i let them go
finally i dropped one ant into trap.
he is stuggling frantically to get out sand is falling from under his legs miniature avalanch happens and the fellow cant get out
within two seconds our hero has put his pincers through the bottom of the pit and like a
HURRICANE he has seized poor ant. ant is paralysed. within five seconds ant has been dragged into pit.
within few hours ant's carcass will be tossed out, sucked dry, by antloin baby.
i am not joking. marvels of nature.
---------------------------------------------
acknowledgements:
the pictures have been obtained from the wikipedia page on antlions, which, in addition to good photography has a lot of interesting stuff on antlions. all of the above is true. the lion baby grows up to sprout wings and become something that looks like a damsel fly. interested? visit this.
it was, as represented above, a beautiful morning. in additions to the creatures mentioned above i also observed several small green bee-eaters, one white breasted kingfisher, several seven sisters, one spotted owlet, one wagtail male ( i think), one indian robin male (i think),and several sparrows. pity i had to mug for my exam.
February 19, 2006
February 18, 2006
A Beautiful Mind
Some years back an old fellow sat down in a decrepit little room and started to write. Inspired by Paulo Coelho’s latest bestseller (A Stranger, A Mountain and A Small Peanut) Our Hero (who, for the purposes of narrative, may be christened Mr. Tolstoy [Ed: at this point it is useful to interject to impress upon our dear reader that the choice of a nom de plume for our hero does in no way indicate his origin or ethnicity. Please do not for an instant assume that our hero is a COSSACK. Also, any visual/ phonetic/ other similarity between authors mentioned thus far and others who peddle sub-pulp literature in real life is purely coincidental.]) was convinced that literature was a sure means to making a quick buck.
A Quick Buck.
Mr. Tolstoy was so pleased with the rich sound of the phrase that he had pasted small inscribed posters all over his dec. little room. An attempt to have the words tattooed on his forehead had been prematurely thwarted by the tattooist fainting at the sight of Mr. Tolstoy’s face.
A sad fact: Mr. Tolstoy had been born shatteringly hideous. A mysterious disappearance of his parents and his extended family at the age of two [when Mr. Tolstoy was two, not the family] had baffled the press for years and had left Mr. Tolstoy in an orphanage which burnt down shortly afterwards. A series of minor disasters that followed Mr. Tolstoy’s movements for the next few years had the church convinced that he, indeed, was the anti-Christ; a notion that was very quickly reversed when the Pope publicly declared after a personal meeting with Mr. Tolstoy that even the son of Satan would have had more panache to start with.
But we digress. After years of being displaced from one hovel to the next, Mr. Tolstoy had succeeded in finding a nice little hole owned by a (clinically blind) war veteran, and it is here that Mr. Tolstoy had started penning his masterpiece.
Suddenly the ceiling fell on him and he died.
- The End -
A Quick Buck.
Mr. Tolstoy was so pleased with the rich sound of the phrase that he had pasted small inscribed posters all over his dec. little room. An attempt to have the words tattooed on his forehead had been prematurely thwarted by the tattooist fainting at the sight of Mr. Tolstoy’s face.
A sad fact: Mr. Tolstoy had been born shatteringly hideous. A mysterious disappearance of his parents and his extended family at the age of two [when Mr. Tolstoy was two, not the family] had baffled the press for years and had left Mr. Tolstoy in an orphanage which burnt down shortly afterwards. A series of minor disasters that followed Mr. Tolstoy’s movements for the next few years had the church convinced that he, indeed, was the anti-Christ; a notion that was very quickly reversed when the Pope publicly declared after a personal meeting with Mr. Tolstoy that even the son of Satan would have had more panache to start with.
But we digress. After years of being displaced from one hovel to the next, Mr. Tolstoy had succeeded in finding a nice little hole owned by a (clinically blind) war veteran, and it is here that Mr. Tolstoy had started penning his masterpiece.
Suddenly the ceiling fell on him and he died.
- The End -
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