Sunday, December 30, 2012

It happens. Happens somewhere.But, it happens

The dal was just right or maybe it needed more salt. She fiddled with the spoon and thought for some time. How did it matter? He was going to foul mouth her anyway. She wished he changed what he said; it was the same every time that started with her food and went to her family.

 She had tried to vent it out to people she knew and reply was ‘office pressure’. Maybe it was, but she could not be too sure. What would she know? She had left work two years ago. She had loved her work. The financial freedom that came with it gave her the satisfaction. Her double degree seemed to be justified but she had to give it up because he didn’t like it. He didn’t want her to stress and get pressurized in the nasty office politics. He had emphasized that it was a bad world.

Euphemism was his greatest weapon and she couldn’t retort to it. He would run to his family and his mother would halt at their place. Blackmails would happen in pretext of advise and eventually she would give in. Like she agreed that it was the right time for the baby. She didn’t know if it was but everyone wanted it. She had pushed away the idea that society was like that but couldn’t ignore. The feeling was amplified by her relatives pressurizing her parents. Sometime, or most of the times she wondered if she lived in this century.

She poured the dal from the stove into a vessel. Her thoughts were somewhere else.The dal she had eaten at Mrs Sasi’s place tasted well. She yearned to go there often but there was no time. That is the reason she had given to Sasi. It came naturally to her, that lies, because she didn’t want another drama over anything. She had stopped talking to people, not that they were concerned either. She gave up on interacting because gossips flew and husbands suspect. Her parents had advised to stay on good books. Didn’t she do that for 22 years? Staying on their good books? Listened to them when they asked her not to go to parties or movies with friends? Is it a life time commitment of listening to someone you bound to? She had many questions but never asked them except in the altar of Gods.

She moved out of her Kitchen and switched on the TV. There was news of rape victim in Delhi. She empathized helplessly. She was a coward, she knew it. One who obeyed her husband and served him. Maybe everyone claimed that being a housewife was the toughest but she didn’t like it. Didn’t that matter? Shouldn’t she be the one to decide the ways of her life? At least the things that were trivial? Anger brewed in her.

He snatched the remote from her, like he snatched everything else. Her thoughts and emotions. But it didn’t matter because the norms were set. Maybe it was the safest and best for her.

The news anchor screeched about the atrocity of the incident. She prayed for the victim. Prayed for herself for she was a victim of another kind. 

Friday, December 21, 2012

World is a tragic comedy

Among the millions that rush through the stream, one sperm makes it. Technically, 999999 of them failed. Cliché as a beginning of an article but then, cliché is in. The heroes always saved the day and villains made us hate them. Women are fussy and men don’t like nagging. Cliché is indisputable. 

In the marathon called life, we follow the cliché. We go to school, college, office, marry, have kids, have grand children and retire. In this cinched race, we have always been taught that it is about what happens in the end that matters. At every junction in life, something mattered or someone did.

What does it mean to live for oneself? What is a life with a “you”? Can you wipe the polish that stained deep into skin from the time you were born? The religion you followed, the place you lived, the books that taught, the language that you uttered, the ambience that surrounded; everything absorbed in the system as you moved in phases of life. Can you suck out the ingredients that made you? You simply can’t tear away the materials that actually sculpted that you see in the reflection.

What am I babbling all the way? I am trying to point the most radical idea that failed to strike and deliberately dodged away from the senses. I am trying to pen down that things that surrounded actually made you. You are the salt that is dissolved in the system like every other person. Invariably and obviously, the entire system in which you exist is actually yours.

Everything in this universe is an opportunity; the light that flickers through the window sill to the dust that settled on the top of the book. If everything is here for you, why do you still hang on to what you didn’t get? Why does a single failure bog everything you believed in?

Success is a particle that makes more than the universe. Mankind has been turning it to a classified and quantifiable object. Marks, money, designation, assets and people; these in unison might make success, but what makes failure?

In literal sense, a “non” of the above should make a failure. So, what happens when someone fails? How much less is failure? Is failing supposed to make one sad?

Why didn’t someone teach us that negativity actually helped us more than success? Failure is like your father of introspection. It hits you, wakes you and unclogs the blocks that you failed to notice. It creates a sense of awareness of self and the environment.

I failed. Not in terms of money or matter but I failed to do anything at all and I wonder why it bothers me? I am very confident that I am not alone. There are many others who feel the same. They feel when the world is running ahead and they are stuck somewhere in the loops and strings of mediocrity. They believe they have not accumulated the money, assets, the fame or the person they wanted. They feel useless in the cycle of material.

Time is erosion and is corroding away. We are reminded of this again and again all our lives. In this short term of hyper activity, we chase against time to make what we claim ‘the success’. Don’t count what you achieve as success. Nobody has been able to define it anyway. Enjoy the proceeds and embrace the results, be it success or failure. There are only two signs of probability in life, black and the white. Yes, no grey shades as everyone told you.

Stop being cynical about your self. There are no fast and hard truths about when you should attain success. When everything in this world is yours and every single grain is an opportunity, why do you think failure should stop you?

When you don’t get what you want, it simply wasn’t your fault. It was nobody’s fault. It was a roll of a die that showed up a zero.

Next time, when you lose a seat in one of the prestigious colleges or don’t get someone you loved or work seems impossible or any situation that you define failure arises, understand you were made for greater purpose than you think. You are to be made into someone that you never knew existed. The force of the universe is going to help you achieve it. You will attain what you term as success. Embrace this period of negativity; it is going to turn things for real.

Like the 999999 sperms, we were made for a purpose. God works in his ways, the sperms dissolve away into the system. But we always get another chance. Maybe, not immediately but our time will come. Stay alert. 

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

What 26 taught..

(1)  Life planned will always remain in blueprint. It takes a dedication to make it come true. Don’t try too hard, move with the flow.

(2)   Relationships are important but make a point to understand if you mean anything to them.

(3)  People no longer lie at your back; they lie at your face.

(4)  There is competition only if you think so. Everyone has his own audience.

(5)  Stereotypes will strike when you thought you broke them all

(6)  Love has become more of convenience. If not for yourself, it is for someone.

(7)  Hobbies will be capitalized

(8)  Balancing out has become a task in itself.

(9)  Friends matter a lot. More than I expected.

(10) Who cares and who doesn’t is all in your head. 

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Yards of ultimatum

She stood in rigidness like forces of the world made her to lean in that direction. Her head tilted to make the pose.

Breathe was adding rhythm to the music that was played in the background.

The darkness yielded around her but the aura overpowered the negativity.

The age old shrills explain that masterpiece is created in solitude and sorrow. The entity is embalmed in years of sweat and perseverance but attains near perfection only when soul seeks in distress. 

Nobody has been able to define perfection. It is in the perception of human mind which switches between the mediocre and hastiness.

She tried to overwhelm herself in this insanity. The stench of power and pride that was instilled over the generations of her family made her legs and hands work in the way she commanded.

She never knew if the heart made conversations with her but always squeezed out the thoughts that entered her head. She thought with her heart and felt with the brain. It was animosity within her for not achieving but she didn’t know what the achievement was in the first place.

Her masters and elders told her that the ultimatum was the masterpiece. People have lost in labyrinth of fate to conquer this pseudo award. To be lost in character and fame. To be aroused with mixed entities of materialistic and magic moments. To not understand the path but love the way it turns. To quench the thirst that was built of passion and predominance.

The dead end of all conquests was the lustful and imaginary award; the masterpiece.

The sounds of appreciation brimmed the hall. Her body didn’t move. Her eyes didn’t see but the music of applaud filled her. 

The seeker was the fool for she sought for the illusion of recognition.

Muscles flexed and she moved to welcome the masterpiece.

The man’s biggest prize didn’t lie in the mazes and dungeons, Not in the perseverance and passion. Never in the emotion and feelings.

It was buried deep in the place where no other man could touch.

She knew it right then.

It was within her, the masterpiece.

Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Mei eppo baruttiddene

You know the other person very well.

From the rhythm of her snore to bathroom tantrums.

Time she eats, sleeps and even farts.

How she adds ‘a’ after every four words and twists her tongue.

What she wears and sprays.

You just know her too well.

You are in one of the 2 places; either in a prison or a Paying guest room.

Bangalore, just like in its name, has a galore of robots. This hold true at least in the corner of the city I live. People succumb to monotony; they eat, sleep and go to office.

In this 3 staged life cycle diagram, the only human habitation sensation comes when you are inside the four walls with four other members of the PG.

I always wanted to know how it was to be in an army training. How they are trained to discipline timings no complains about food, ounces of adjustments and understanding of human behavior with just a nod of the head. I realized it was quite attainable here.

You have strict timings of bathroom usage and it begins as early as six in the morning.

You have given up complaining about food. Now, you don’t know the difference between Lady’s finger and Brinjal.

You understand when your roommate goes to balcony to talk or sighs at the room.

Recently, four of us were watching Mr. Pranab Mukherjee being crowned as the president. That is when I realized how economics flew into our systems too.

We go out to eat on weekends except the last due to the deficit of monetary funds.

Clothes are ironed once every fortnight.

Snacks are eaten at close by economic stalls; lunches are eaten heavy in the late afternoon only to go hungry in the night.

Costly items are purchased on share basis and cheap items for everyone.

Necessities like doormats to Baygon spray are bought in cyclic basis. For example, I buy Harpic this month and another roommate, the next month.

Treats are special. In both, the literal and economic sense. We need to save.

There is no place on earth that teaches unity in diversity like in the PG. It is the only phase in your life where everyone has everything still, each one is different.

From the trivial habits to prayers that offered, every individual is respected. You might have a Muslim, Hindu and Christian. This is because you may not have a chance to object. For, the other has come with the same expectation and anxiety. You scoff and emulate at the same time. You hate the person still wouldn’t mind staying put.

Nobody cares if it is Ramzan or Diwali as long as it is a holiday. You don’t bother about the colour of the wall matching with the bed sheets as long as the power is available.

Everything will be shared.

From sockets for the mobile and laptop charging to the medicines in an emergency.

From the bucket to the waste cloth.

From bathroom slippers to the single wardrobe mirror.

From chips to pickles.

From happiness to anxiety.

From TV viewing to data card passwords.

Life has much to offer in that pigeon holes rooms.

Hostel life teaches you independence and responsibility.

But PG, moulds you.

Monday, July 23, 2012

I 'too' have a dream

World is brimmed with agony and we are fighting a battle where the consequences might stand its own judgment without our involvement. You may hit the button of denial over this fact but things don’t change for convenience.

In this mode of crisis, what have we got to hold on to welcome the future that seems blurred? What makes each and everyone to toil unfazed to meet the reality?

What is to come seems possible because the human has an ability to dream.

In a narcotic state of the mind, dreams give a man the indisputable power to reign what he wants to have. Dreams remain a mystery; like God. It is in the dual nature of making us happy and sad. We smile because it occurred to us and feel sad because it is only illusion.

Dreams have their own captive ways; tendency to bring the person of submission into its fort.

Dreams lack the hierarchy of classification. We are not sure if they are materialistic or emotional. Are the dreams going to throw abundance of power over us or help us move forward in life?

Nobody is aware of their occurrence but everyone wants them. Dreams have no beginning or end, no structure or period.

There is no bias in any form. No religion or region or colour. Dreams are for everyone and anyone.

I am not talking about the bright lit star that appears in the eyes of the lustful teenager when he sees his star on the television.

I have not mentioned the frustration that appears in the face of a child when he craves for another toy.

I don’t point the smile on the face of a young man when he sees his favourite car that passes by his street.

I am not intending the pleasure that arises out of a woman when she buys her own jewellery.

I don’t know how to put in words the feelings that are strong. I am trying to decode a particular form of dream.

When a dream occurs, do you wake up to think?

To know that half of you is denying that it is impossible while other half is happy that it occurred.

Does the mind transit between the impossibilities and says there is no harm in trying to make it happen? Does time test your faith only feel good about what it may seem when it becomes a reality?

Does your heart want to believe in its power and make it true?  For a moment, you want to go against all odds and the world to make it happen.

This hidden emotion of highest order, to me, is the real dream.

Thursday, June 21, 2012

Avenge with deeds what words can't

He moved his finger across each letter and read it twice in the dim light. The pulse near his neck throbbed with excitement. The mind was at play and it devised a plan meant for things that were not supposed to be natural. He had known about it all this time but this moment confirmed his existed doubts. The footsteps outside the door grew louder and in a sudden reflex, he threw the bottle into the draw and skirted the things on the floor to move towards the door. This time there would be no mistakes.


He squirmed when Mrilani pulled his cheeks.
“Do you love me?” she asked.
He was tired of lying. It hurt the interiors of the head and filled his body with annoyance. But he knew better when to hide the emotions as he faced his fiancé.
He grinned at her.
‘Pathetic woman’, he thought to himself and grinned more.
“Of course…”, he began
Mrilani looked away and waved at someone across the road. He visibly showed relief when he saw Ruchi.
He noted that she looked as fragile as ever but always had a good dressing sense. She wore dark blue jean and red t shirt. The stiletto gave a lift to her miniature figure.
Ruchi and Mrilani’s were childhood friends. They had done their education together starting from the pre KG. Mrilani considered her as a family member and that understanding was mutual.
“Hi Mrilu! Hi Rohit!”, she squealed at them.
He kept looking at her and began to some show some respect. He had to, for she was the key to all his problems.
“Hi”, he finally said.

“You didn’t wish me at sharp 12! How could you get forget it? “, she screamed with teary eye.
The drama began to unfold and he was helpless.
“Ruchi was the first one to call. She has been doing that for past 15 years! Why can’t you be more responsible and show some care? “, she wailed.
He bolted his anger and just went to hug her. She pushed him away.
He clenched his teeth.
This wouldn’t have happened in the first place if both their families’ business had to come together for a greater cause. He knew that he shouldn’t have agreed to the proposal. But it wasn’t his fault. Mrilani’s parents pulled him away from his blissful life; from his love. They had promised him more and better life. The future was decorated with money that collected over generations and he was the only heir.
He thought of his lost lover’s face and stood for moment in the place like all the world’s odd was against him.
Mrilani and her parents made him swear to the falsified riches and fame and now, ‘they’ will repay.

She was meddling with her bag’s handle. He looked into her eyes to emphasize what he was saying. She didn’t look up but stared into the emptiness.
‘Things were smooth as planned’, he thought to himself.
She trembled and searched for it frantically in her bag.
He didn’t stop talking choosing his words carefully. He reiterated things that were very necessary to cause the results.
“It can be!” she said in a shaky voice. “Mrilani is my best friend.” She continued searching.
“I am her fiancé, Ruchi”, he replied in a smooth clear voice that convinced, “why would I lie to you?”
That broke her down. The bottle that she was searching was not to be found. She shivered, snatched her bag and trotted.
The same stiletto that lifted her figure was now giving her away to the crowd in the restaurant with its clanking sound.
Ruchi searched for the bottle. It was not in its place.
She didnt believe Rohit. The truth was she didnt want to believe him.
The bed appeared and disappeared in front of her eyes. She felt dazed again.
'I have this disease. I was born with it. I will die with it. I will never know what is truth and lie.'
What if Rohit was truthful and Mrilani was right?
Did she deserve to be her friend? Were all the years together a fairy tale that she only has imagined?
She imagined a lot. A lot that she couldn't recognize between reality and lie.
Maybe Mrilani deserved better friend and better life. She couldn't interfere with Mrilani's life. There was nothing much that she could do except one, move away from her for life. And it had to be forever and permanent.
'Yes, I am tired of truth and lie. I shall end it once for all'
'Rohit was telling the truth. Mrilani didn't deserve such a sickening friend.She should go away as far as possible.
She pulled out a notepad and began to write.
It stared with "Dear Mrilani, For greater good......"

“Please, you have to believe me, aunty”, Mrilani justified.
Ruchi’s mother wiped her tears and passed on the paper that was folded into four.
Mrilani was perplexed.
The silence in the house was even more haunting. One suicide was enough to haunt the place but the mystery of the death added to the eeriness of the situation.
He took the paper before Mrilani could. He was aware of the contents but reading it would give him the vengeance he had yearned for. The satisfaction grew bounds.
Mrilani snatched the paper. She began to cry half way into the suicide letter of Ruchi.

“The girl had schizophrenia and only Mrilani knew it”, his father claimed.
“But we can’t claim anything based on the contents of the letter. We have known Mrilani’s parents all our lives. The family can be trusted”, his mother argued.
“The whole town calls her psycho because she made her best friend commit suicide by creating some inferior complex. You want our son to marry her?” his father fumed
.“It is too early to judge anything now. Let us give some time”, his mother continued.
“I am not getting my son married to any mentally ill woman. She could be charged of murder of another woman. I don’t want to be associated to the family of murderers”, his father closed the case.
His mother didn’t reply.
He looked at them. The agony and frustration began to yield. Every minute of the scene that had occurred two years ago flashed before his eyes.
He remembered vividly the words from his girlfriend’s letter. Mrilani’s father spoke such words that made her commit suicide. He called her names that no woman could have tolerated.
Had he known it before the fateful night, things could have been averted.
Now, Mrilana would be called names by everyone. It would pierce throughout her life. She deserved it for what her father did to his life.
He ran upstairs and started to cry. But they were tears of joy.


Sunday, June 17, 2012

Fag fades

Dear human form,

And every one who reads and relates to oneself.

We have habits. Certain habits those are iterative and form our daily menu. They are despicably what makes us and what we own. They are our skin and to tear them away is painful. One such is smoking.

I think a million times before I really try to describe a smoker. I am careful not to call them ‘yield to pressure’ or ‘actually not so cool’. I cannot have opinions because, in this case, the habit does not make the person.
The commodity on the lips leaves a dark mark. Arguments begin right here. There are better qualities of cigarettes that don’t leave a mark. So, nullifying what cannot be seen is right? Then, why did my oldest cousin suffer from lung cancer?

I cannot advise and don’t want to either. I am not going to copy paste a diagram of lung affected from smoking. It doesn’t make sense because the number of smokers is only on rise.

Everyone teenager loves independence. They are rebellious in their decisions. They want to stand alone and fight the world. But I wonder what happens to these people when they are with their friends? Why do they ‘pick’ a habit if they consider themselves old enough to decide things on their own?

Cigarette is a pleasurable gratification and mental satisfaction. You never feel alone when you hold on to the sixth finger. You are never left alone. The smell lingers on you for a long time whatever you do. It becomes your everyday deodorant. At night, your head is heavy and lungs seem to be stuffed with cotton that you can’t breathe properly. But it is ok; you endure all for that momentary pleasure.

We are all conscious of what we wear but never on what we hold. Smoking never sends a message of blending into the society. It really doesn’t mean you are sociable. Worst of it, it makes you vulnerable. At the end of the day, you are the slave of addiction. You are flexible for the master; you smoke when it urges you 
and you beg when it commands.

Why do you run so much when smoking helps you break down calories? Why do you keep a check on what you eat? How does it matter, anyway?

Why do you drag everyone into the affair with it? Why am I inhaling it when you are smoking? Why am I sharing the burden? It didn’t teach children the good things or send messages of healthy habit. It didn’t help to teach the future that it was one of the habits that have to be picked up. It tarnishes your teeth, mouth and health but then, you have a remedy and half a dozen surgeries to overcome all that.

The money spent on the mistress is only meagre for the pleasure she gives you. So, shower the savings on her and welcome all the side effects.

Nobody said quitting was for someone else. It is for you. It is for your health, image, loved ones; all for making the best things for you.

Does it hurt to say no to something that never was going to help you anyway?

I am forcing you to do something. I am not forcing you to decide. You, with the education and knowledge, know better.

Yours truly,
Do you care? 

Monday, May 7, 2012

#3 Article at (click here to read)


(20) The five minute sleep because the clock was running ahead

(19) A message from your childhood crush after ages

(18) When a baby smiles toothless at you

(17) The daily zodiac prediction says you will find your love

(16) The dish you ordered tastes exactly like you imagined

(15) You find cash in your pant pocket when going to wash it

(14) When the calendar displays the message you wanted

(13) Soaked in bathtub

(12) The bed sheet is very soft

(11) Being appreciated for something you are wearing

(10) All time favourite song on radio

(09) Finding your old college t shirt that brings back memories

(08) Your favourite movie on TV on a lazy Sunday

(07) You find your friend’s room even messier than yours

(06) When you meet one of your teachers and they recognise you

(05) You receive a letter with your name on it

(04) The bus arrives as soon as you reach the bus stop

(03) Someone you love looks at you

(02) When your article is published

(01) When you know that there are ‘12500’+ people who believe in marriages and come to


Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Review: Urban shots (Bright Lights)

In a melodramatic life, what strikes like a ‘bright light’; some define it as hope while others will tell you its festive but selected few who could narrate a story went into the book of ‘Urban Shots : Bright Lights’. Collection of 29 stories by 21 authors and edited by Paritosh Uttam, it takes you on a ride from the streets of Agra to the plush houses of Jaipur.

Each narration is so unique and creative and it is this assortment that makes this book different from others. One also gets the pleasure of reading and relating different lifestyles and experiences. I personally could relate myself to the central character of Jo Dikhta Hai, Woh Bikta Hai ,Vikram Gupta who is a sales man at a FMCG.

The book captures different emotions and perspectives from varied angles. You will find innocence in Amul, heart warming mother’s love in Across the Seas, funny encounter and confused couples in Double Mixed, surprising plot at a saloon in Peacock Cut, straight forward retirement narration in P.K. Koshy’s daily routine, heavy rant of mid-life crisis in The Wall and much more.

The collection of short stories allows you to wear different types of shoes. You are the protagonist in Maami Menace, an antagonist in Hot Masala, confused and witty father in Father of my Son and an award winning author in Mr. Perierra.

Some narrations are casual everyday affair while others take you to places that you have never been.

All in all, this book is a ‘khichdi’ of stories with happy, sour, dreamy and sad narratives that makes the dish quite delightful.

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

#2 Article at (click here to read)


It would be too cliched to say that life goes through stages. Shakespeare did, poets elaborated the obvious and exaggerated the meaning. This, we were taught by rote from secondary school. A lot of things happen in this routine and every human being goes through it, lives and dies.

A vicious cycle.

When it comes to complications of romance, it has its own defined everlasting flow diagram. Like a symbiotic creature, romance moves as a part of life. Life exists because of it and it exists because of life.

We, animals with the sixth sense, are abundant in expectations. There are no boundaries to that aspect of emotion and nobody has been able to lay out the basic rules of expectation. What is too much of it or what is too less of it? We will never get the answers.
Is growing old good or bad? Expectation also ages with us and we are never too sure if it is good or bad.

When 13 years old: We can’t look at this age as a mere number. It sends alert signals to the parents and prestigious shots to the person who has reached the number. The expectations begin from the external appearance. There is an adrenaline rush when the prettiest or the cutest looks at you. Like the chemical bonds of oxygen and hydrogen to make the perfect structure of water, we want to be tagged only with the good looking person. We attempt to look the best, dress the best or simply be called ‘the best’. Call it infatuation or crush, we labelled them as love.

When 16 years old: Career and crush converge at the common road (to think of it, I wrote a perfect alliteration here). We are forced to focus on one by every elder we encounter while thoughts deviate to another. Life promises too much at this juncture and optimism is raised. We are trying to win the best of both worlds. We think we are funny and tend to assume that popularity is by doing many things at a time. We learn to multitask and somehow manage to do excel in one or two things. With chaos in oneself, this age is definitely not too sweet.

When 19 years old: We are actually bidding good bye to the adolescence. With that, we are also bidding farewell to most crushes. At this age, we make choices. The surprising fact is that, choices seem less than what we began with. This age is critical when it comes to cupidism. We seem to make intelligent decisions. Romance seem to make more sense than what we thought. We seek for long term romance and understand that strength lies in the mutual trust. Relationships are made and broken and ‘expectation bars’ are raised and lowered. This age is a period of realisation that ‘love’ at 13 was dumb.

When 22 years old: Man has been able to solve all mysteries of deep waters but never the expectations that arise out of a human being. At this age, we want to look the best, have the best of career, take the best decisions, look for a long term relationship and expect more and more. Most of the problems start here. The best part of this particular age is that we believe in love whole heartedly. We are not too stupid or too intelligent to be in love. However, this age is the mother of all expectations.

We cannot stop our ever growing and always changing expectations as it is a part and parcel of human nature. But maturity does teach us to strike realistic views with the unrealistic expectations. Learn, adjust, understand and reason out. After all, compromising is not always a bad thing!

#1 Article at (click here to read)


Our Kannmani walks in yellow-red half saree
Ghinaku ghika!
Sound of her anklets as she walks catches our hero
He turns
She gives a sly look and giggles
Scratch scratch
The chin with an eye brow lifted

War is on. It is between the world’s conglomerates manufacturing the razors and the preferences of the XY chromosomes. The clash of titans as one of them approve a clean shaven look will get you women while other are hitting like buttons on Facebook photo of unshaven George Clooney.

English is a funny language. It might just make ‘Rajini Kant’ a part of vocabulary. Who in the right mind would link an almost cut wheat or paddy field to the small facial hairs that men sport? But the name stuck while everyone famous around the street glamourized the stubble. The boys when they reach the adolescence age and see the first sign of a single hair on their chin move around with razors. Conclusion can be drawn here that hair is a sign of masculinity.

In an examination of linking maturity to the androgens, we have just three choices.
(a) Clean shaven
(b) Stubble
(c) Beard

Survey shows that clean shaven defines immaturity. Beard was considered to be too much of masculinity. Stubble, like the Goldilock’s taste of porridge, was just right. It indicated not too much of a mature person with little aggressive nature that women of today seek. It seems like they are in the borders between the two countries of India and Pakistan. One side was dangerous while other was too comfortable.

When I asked Kannmani as why she liked her guy with stubble, she simply mentioned that pricks were cute to touch and feel. Though I didn’t react much when she said this, I couldn’t help looking at an angle for fondling purposes.

Stubble is also a mechanism for chameleonic characteristics. It hides the immature baby face of many boys and gives them an older look. Thanks to it that many women don’t seem too old when compared to their men of the same age. Dhanush will sport one when he sings his ‘Why this Kolaveri di?’ and all girls in the hostel will shriek ‘how cute!’ That’s life, boys!

It makes men look serious even if they are least bothered. This includes the “long term” relationship that women want. When the woman counterpart asks him why didn’t he pick the sock which has been lying for 2 days on the sofa, all he has to do is rub his chin, frown a bit and say, ‘honey, I was caught up with office work’.

Not only this, stubble seems to be more effective than sunscreen. It magically makes the jaw line look stronger and masculine.

Trying to connect responsibility with the look; men spend more time to get that perfect small hairs on face than the clean shave. So, all you women! Next time you rub his cheek, you can be sure that it took him more time that your fragrance soap lather bath.

The mystery of these small pricks will linger as long as it is the preference of the opposite gender. Celebrities will sport it, Singers will show off, sportsmen will flaunt and our very own next door Subramani won’t be alone!

So, machan! Sport one da! The pretty Kannmani might be on shaadicafe!

Friday, March 23, 2012

Why can’t I be a writer?

No offence but pun intended.
First of all, my history is as blatant as it can be. I am not from a prestigious college, so, half my chances of narrating my experiences are gone. I didn’t have a professor who was against me for all four years or a friend who could bring the US down. Even a description of me at the end of the book could be very blank.

“Subhashree Srinivasan studied at Madha Engineering college, just like her 3 lakh counter parts of Tamil Nadu. She managed an MBA. Hell! Who cares from where? It’s not the IIMs”

So, the publications will not even lift an eyebrow if I said the book was narrating my academic experiences. I am lost into the labyrinth of mediocrity and randomness. Jargons do play a role, you know!

Born into a country of high emotional quotient, I have lost the race there too. I didn’t have a boyfriend who left me to pursue his career. If he did, it would have been a book. Coming from a girl, it would have actually been a personal diary of sympathy. The only other who would have read it are the ones who broke up from their boyfriends. I would dedicate it to all those who were/are/will be in love. I think that pretty much covers everyone.

“I miss the hands. Those warm fingers fondling my hair.I missed the sense that spread emotions of all layers into my body. Love,protection and care. That is what he was. I missed him.I missed him like hell.”

I am less creative. I can’t make wizards out of normal people, vampires to fall in love with the werewolves or even make God a human being! It is my inability to think out of box that restricts me to write anything at all. I am the one who is satisfied with non-fiction boring narrations of mamis and their filter coffees.

“Its eyes glistened in the dark. It paved its way to the prey. Prey in an ”out of world” form. Its breathing heavily tinted with blood. The sky turned orange helping it to move faster down the path. The dusk was nearing, so, was the death of the enemy”

My gender hinders. I mean, think about it. If a guy wanted to make a joke, it is usually crude language. I can’t use it. Either I would be considered a desperate person or too conservative to make a point. There are no grey shades if I wrote something.

“He was hot. Err..tall and simple. He wore an aura that spelt genius. He was like Greek god. He ya, hot.”

It is an unfair world that doesn’t let anyone write in peace.

You write about your caste, million will frown. You write about Bhagavad Gita, Russians will ban it. You translate the works of a Tamil author, the essence is lost. You write about sex, enough is enough. If you write about war, movies will be copied from it. You write about the UFOs, controversies would be created. Apparently, I am lost in the blank pages that will make no sense to anyone.

“Unfair propagation towards the religion that might cause wars”-The Guardian
“The names are already taken by me in my book. I need right-full credit”- Kootan Boogat
“I don’t like it because it can’t be made into a movie” – TajKumar Biriyani
I am not done yet. I have one more big worry which all other authors do it with ease. To whom will I dedicate the book to?
To my father, who believed that benzene structure made more sense than my English?
To my mother, who felt all my books smelt like her sambhar
To my sister, who intends to write better books.
To my friends, who asked to throw away my MBA degree and asked me to write.
To my cousins, who were the greatest and the most proactive critics.
To my hostel mirror, to which I shouted, “what the hell am I doing now?”
Now, you tell me, with so much prejudice and faulty imaginations, where and how can I write? I only can crib in many pages that my writing will not be accepted.

So, all the world’s a stage. But I am thoroughly misplaced!

Sniff. Sob. Mental trauma. 

Monday, March 12, 2012

Kahaani uski

My stomach has not been at its best. It churns and sends a signal to visit the bathroom. Not new to this but this is the first time that it is being unreasonable from its side.

Last time the stomach played with me was when I was cornered in an ac room by the bespectacled man who seemed to know more than what my entire set of neuron can hold. He asked, scribbled and pointed to crawling graphs and numbers that seemed to make sense only when I left the room. Like the door of elevator, stomach turned normal after I reached the door knob.

With a population of 2000 in my b-school and over 60% of them being boys, I just couldn’t get a boyfriend. I thought I was socially challenged and that was the worse feeling than your close friend holding hands with a guy who has been acclaimed as one of the best looking in the campus. Tragedy took turns; the best men were with worst girls and decent men delved in their own worlds with a bottle of alcohol not able to get away from their past. In all, I was left stranded wondering what is wrong with me.

If you can sense the connect between the above two paragraphs, in the world of career and matrimony, it is truly the survival of fittest.

Apparently, placements proved that Darwin’s findings don’t seclude to the rush of suitable mates.

There is a common connect when it comes to either getting hooked or beating the wisest at the placements. Both give a satisfaction of achievement beyond the natural feeling of happiness.

What more? Here it goes:

(1) In placements, it is the package. Nothing beats the package. Try convincing your friend that profile speaks more than package, he will still ogle at the numbers that stretch.

With the boyfriend story, it is the handsome one that is taken notice of.

(2) In placements, the interviewer has no idea what you can do and you have no idea what is needed of you and both begin from scratch.

“Why is your engineering score less?”

(I screwed up my projects with movies and the HOD never liked me)

“I was doing more in college than in school, for example, I started an E-cell in my college..blah blah..leadership..blah blah..versatile..blah blah..dream big.

In relationships, you don’t know how you got there, nor does your claimed better half and everything begins with scratch. Well ya, it ends with a drama.

(3) During placements, you believe you are the best the company can have. Every other contender sitting in the small room with files and neatly combed hair is no match for you. The feeling is Spartan and confidence is enormous.

In a relationship, it’s the same story of false presumption that you are the best the other can get.

(4) Initially, you are willing to wait. Wait for the recruiter and wait for the lover. Then, you get used to it.

(5) You dress the best for placement. You dress what you don’t like but what the recruiter might. You notice that a particular shirt is lucky though it doesn’t go too well with the pant.

In a lovey dovey situation, you dress for the other.

(6) You forget a lot. Forget to take copies of resume or wear a tie or your particular certificate. Your memory elapses in a sudden rush. You tend to lose things everywhere. It’s a natural trauma of situations. You lose track of what is happening with friends and family. Only your job matters.

In a relationship, know better.

(7) You are forever editing your resume or your couple photo for the Facebook profile photo.

(8) Last but not the least; to end it with a truth that tastes funny, in either, you don’t know whether to speak more or less!

Friday, March 9, 2012

The day that passed


He didn’t look up but gestured that it would take him few seconds.

I let out a sigh, obviously to show him that I was irritated.

“Sorry, sorry. I was just in middle of the sum”

He marked my mess card and I just left the place scorning.

This story repeated every day, every meal and every five hours. Our college had 2 food messes

and I never changed my eating place even once.

I saw this particular mess guy who was always involved in some book. He took some time to

mark our mess cards. I didn’t bother to ask him what he was doing.

I studied, did projects, presented papers, wrote tests and even got through a job in the final year

but the mess anna didn’t change a bit.

He sat in the corner, busy with books, scribbling small numbers with his short pencil and smiling

apologetically at everyone who waited for him to mark the mess card.

Time flew and it was last before day of college life when I saw him. He was counting the coupons

of the mess.

I didn’t know why but a feeling inside me pushed to ask him questions.

“Hi, I am leaving college tomorrow”, I told him to start the conversation.

“Nice ji, all the best. Placements ho gaya?”, he asked. (Are you done with placements?)

“Ya, mostly I would be joining in Bangalore. What about you? What were you doing all these

days?, I asked in curiosity.

“Nothing ma’am. Looking at so many people studying MBA travelling from all over country, I

felt I must also study”, he replied.

“Oh! Wow! What course? Why didn’t your parents send you to study?”, I added more questions.

“I don’t have parents. And I need to earn to study. Two reasons”, he gestured smiling at me.

My heart melted and filled with guilt at same time.

“Why are you glum? Come on! They are more under privileged people than me. Feel sorry for

them, not me”, he smiled again

“Take my number”, I told him pulling out my mobile.

“What?”, he asked in confusion.

“Take my number and let me know what books you need. I will courier it. Let me know of you

need something else too”, I explained.

He looked reluctantly and then punched my number in his phone.

“What should I store as your name?”, I asked.

“Yadav, ma’am. Yadav. And thanks. I don’t know what to say…”, he controlled his emotions.

I smiled and joined my friends in the mess. I am to educate one Indian.

Please vote for me here

Monday, February 20, 2012

Ten shots

Ten reasons why I would miss IBS

(1) Pathway : No sunlight and yeah! lots of romance

(2) Bingers: Waste your time here in pretext of saving time for mess

(3) DJ nights: Unpaid music

(4) Hot water in bathrooms : even my home doesnt have this facility

(5) Individual rooms : Never again in my life

(6) Clubs: Where else do I claim some fame?

(7) Hype : Hype this, hype that, hype him, hype her. Hype it all.

(8) campusnet and LAN : for all good and wrong reasons

(9) Mess 1

(10) If you are reading this, then you.

Quantifying the qualification!

Ten reasons why going back to corporate is freaking me:

(1) No concept of "bunking" . Its either casual leave/earned leave/paid leave and the blah.

(2) Friends are rare even if you ate with the same person everyday. They are your colleagues. You can share lunch but you cant exchange theirs with yours. Get the point?

(3) No cribbing or abusing. The exit doors exist in all corners.

(4) Time runs. You run. Boss runs after you.None of them have the count.

(5) Deadlines are there to kill you. Literally.

(6) Speaking less is way better. Get it, IBS?

(7) Early morning doesnt mean 10 a.m.

(8) To get on top , you need to put in an extra effort. But all your peers are doing the same. Deadlock.

(9) Laptops are not cool any more. They just mean more work.

(10) Movies will be watchd in theatre. Willing to bet?