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 -
May 18, 2005
*ook
i want a librarian who goes Ook.
imagine it.
siddoo: "sir, where is blacks law dictionary being?"
librarian: "Ook."
S: "woho. thank you saar. but also i am needing sarma and sarma on law of insurance, that being where?"
L: "OOk."
S: "That also ook?"
L:"OOk"
S: "Ook?"
L: "OOk"
S: "OOk?"
L: "(relieved sigh) ook"
S: "ook?!"
L: "OOk!"
... and so on
imagine it.
siddoo: "sir, where is blacks law dictionary being?"
librarian: "Ook."
S: "woho. thank you saar. but also i am needing sarma and sarma on law of insurance, that being where?"
L: "OOk."
S: "That also ook?"
L:"OOk"
S: "Ook?"
L: "OOk"
S: "OOk?"
L: "(relieved sigh) ook"
S: "ook?!"
L: "OOk!"
... and so on
December 14, 2004
The Hindu : Front Page : UFO appears on China sky
*please let this be true*
The Hindu : Front Page : UFO appears on China sky
The Hindu : Front Page : UFO appears on China sky
December 03, 2004
Certain factors that make internships more bearable
1) A trademark registration for
PAPPU
FRUIT BREAD.
DISPOSE OFF THIS WRAPPER CAREFULLY.
HYDERABAD IS A BEAUTIFUL PLACE.
2) Deepak Tijori’s contact address. You know him? Mail him at
mrdeepaktijori@yahoo.com
wow
PAPPU
FRUIT BREAD.
DISPOSE OFF THIS WRAPPER CAREFULLY.
HYDERABAD IS A BEAUTIFUL PLACE.
2) Deepak Tijori’s contact address. You know him? Mail him at
mrdeepaktijori@yahoo.com
wow
October 08, 2004
mongolian goat hockey
read piranha club? (earlier 'ernie'), by bud grace
-one of my favourite comics-
jab this or This to read some of them and for a little bit of general stuff on the comic strip
-one of my favourite comics-
jab this or This to read some of them and for a little bit of general stuff on the comic strip
October 04, 2004
LatestOnLennon
This should eventually provide some insights into the life of John Lennon. (you've probably read about it if you read the times supplement in the loo like i do). nevertheless.
October 03, 2004
kitsch poetry.
generally worthless creations of mine
products of evidenceproject deadline
and vidyullatha's scintillating environmental law class
respectively
as will be evident - blank verse it is. the narrative in the second one may seem a bit warped at the start but stare at the first few lines very hard and things should generally work themselves out.
even if you hate my poetry do check out the links at the bottom of this posting. they will be well worth your while.
siddharth.
products of evidenceproject deadline
and vidyullatha's scintillating environmental law class
respectively
as will be evident - blank verse it is. the narrative in the second one may seem a bit warped at the start but stare at the first few lines very hard and things should generally work themselves out.
even if you hate my poetry do check out the links at the bottom of this posting. they will be well worth your while.
siddharth.
Malleshwaram Morning.
Sharp morning breeze tickling the edges of his nostrils,
a rather pleasing effect;
air not choked with pollution, methanebutane, whatever
yet
early risers stare groggily out of their windows verandahs with coffee cups newspapers,
all under one broad category of ‘rumpledmorning breath men waiting for dosa’
despite the many roles they will fit into an hour from now.
govind the mikman is proud of this one rather clever observation of his.
Stray dogs scrounge around near the dustbins nosing around
rotting food broken dolls tin cans old shoes
and even one maala with photoframe and photo still attached.
and now riding past #46-B where he sometimes sees mrs. shenoy standing on the porch drying her hair,
govind thinks shes extraordinarily beautiful.
Once as he was riding by she suddenly started waving at him
so he gives her Bright Smile and realises that she was actually waving at her alsation to go and pee outside mr. chandrans gate and not hers.
bloodybastardfellow so he says to the dog contemptuously; a line Upendra had used in latest movie Violent Hero, nice movie, govind thought.
and here comes shankar, the newspaper man, riding in the opposite direction
with whom govind has fallen out ever since he found out that shankar was hitting on
little sister pushpa,
so he nicely beat up shankar and married off pushpa
- stupid girl actually wanted to marry the newspaper man what is that? -
to some nice fellow who said he ran Womens Hostel, something like that in bombay. rich fellow, he came in car and all.
govind still hasn’t heard from pushpa but that is ok he’s sure she is fine and all.
time for last stop, mr. sethi who still prefers fresh milk to nandiniOperationFlood,
here he is, standing with jug and toothbrush.
abbe, kitne paani dalte ho? he mumbles as govind pours out the milk
no more than krishna, raj, hegde or even nandinioperationflood does, he wants to say.
instead he just gives customary sheepish grin and no answer.
sethi asks the same question everyday so its ok
fat fool.
anyway he has no other option – no one else will sell milk on this road – Natesh anna will see to that.
and here is mr. rajgopal’s son driving back home at six in the morning
- hello saab! -
after doing full night party whatever.
Loafer Fellow.
but now that govind has finished his rounds it is time - goodgood - for
his customary beedi (ganesh)
a stop at seenu’s shop before going to the factory.
so he will cycle quickly towards seenu’s - But hellohello what is that advancing rather quickly from the opposite direction?
looks rather like a runaway elephant
from nearby mandir
he barely has time to think before the greyness is On him.
A Day in the Life
Dear Diary, today I write you a poem
About frustration, despair and whatnot.
Ramblings.
(by Kalpesh Dubey)
‘O bird! You fly so free!
Over canopy so evergreen,
O bird! Why don’t you carry me!
And make my life a Dream!’
Ok now that bastard Gopal is reading this and laughing on me man,
What his problem is
I do not know.
Anyway.
Today I went to Pulkit’s daddy’s friend’s office
Big lawyer Bhumesh Kumar Dalmia.
For job, then what?
He listend to me for about two minutes
Then he is saying something in very nice english
About Pulkit’s daddy, last weeks
Cricket match, something something.
When I said sir can i have job he said
something and all about CONTINGENTSY.
Which means No, that is what.
I left that idiot Gopal’s (cellphone) number with secretary,
Just in case.
The chai was very good man.
Now that bastardgopal is saying some nonsense
About hanging himself from the fan
-He also does not have job, he is B.A. pass only-
That stupid is piss drunk again.
If he dies I will have to pay full rent
Plus he will damage fan also surely.
I better stop him.
*
(fin)
ya well, a couple of people who read my poems were kind enough to draw a certain parallel between my work(!) and Nissim Ezekiel's Very Indian poems
as a discliamer i would like to state that i have in no way attempted to copy the aforementioned style
(independently of what ahs been stated above) Mr. Ezekiel's creations are simply wonderful. if you can , do get your hands on one of his poems titled 'soap' [doesnt seem to be readily available on the net]. also (more than) rather notable are Goodbye Party for Miss Pushpa T. S. (and) The Night of the Scorpion.
Please do check them out.
(i am somehow unable to undo 'bold'-ing option. kindly excuse)
September 30, 2004
paranormal!
subject (me) walking down road
No change in atmospheric conditions
No change in vegetation
No change in Subjects Clothing
No change in subjects (lack of) company [either human or other]
and BLOOKT
a COLD!
man, worrying.
the JOY of inane posts. ha haar!
No change in atmospheric conditions
No change in vegetation
No change in Subjects Clothing
No change in subjects (lack of) company [either human or other]
and BLOOKT
a COLD!
man, worrying.
the JOY of inane posts. ha haar!
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