Of Murder, Death and Sweet

I can feel him.




He's there creeping up on me from behind.




I can feel him. I know his destiny. He doesn't, the poor bugger- but I do.






I pause for a minute before dealing out death and judgement. To think that after all his efforts, it all had to end here, today, now- just as he prepares to take my blood.






Of course I'm justified in protecting myself. My blood is my own and mine to give to who I please.





Reluctantly I raise my weapon and strike. Once- swift and strong. Herculean yes, but when I relish the carcass in my hands there's a bewildering sense of pity.





To think that I lured him to his death is strangely fulfilling. As is the murder I just committed.







The laptop flickers. Death comes to all one day and the laptop is no exception. It is dying- excruciatingly giving up its last breath for me while 'Dexter' plays on its screen.





My eyes flicker between my watch, the laptop, the phone-waiting-for-a-text and the textbook lying in front of me. Without turning my head, just beyond the body I see the half read Wolf Hall. Tilting my head at Hillary Mantel's work I wonder if Anne Boleyn was really the nasty bitch she appears to be so far.






No text yet.


The watch goes tick tick. Time's passing real quick.





Millions of pages left to study. Desire to read it- check. Energy to read- check. Getting down to reading it........awkward pause.





Maud probably wanted the crown for herself, not Henry. Then again, Henry II did have his share of formidable women. Maud as a mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine as his wife. 'How beautiful you make me' Katharine Hepburn's sarcastic, bitter, unforgettable Eleanor of Aquitaine comes to mind. Darned good movie that one.








Luring him to his death was not intentional. It just- happened. Another life lost due to carelessness- it won't really make that much of a difference.




Henry thought that too. But the 'meddlesome priest', albeit dead haunted him no end during the 40 lashes.



Will he- this murder most foul- be the Becket to my Henry? The Banquo to my Macbeth?




When Lady Macbeth asked the spirits to 'unsex me here' what did she really mean? I mean seriously. She just wanted a lay or was she secretly into kink what with all the role playing. Ghosts don't really do it for me but then Monica thought Chandler was turned on by sharks...








It is time.



To dispose of the body.




There will be others. I lie in gleeful wait.



How do I know that? Because the bait's here.




On my bed. Lying in secret, patient wait for prey it knows will come.





And that, will be the end.


So I open my hands and the carcass falls to the floor- bloodless, and so.....dead.








PS: Eating cream biscuits in bed and whiling away time to study that will never return is the freaking BEST way to kill ants. Plus that scene in the link is really genius.

Ab Bus!

How do you spell a sound?


That was the first question I asked myself this evening as I boarded an air conditioned bus- Vayu Vajra -loosely (and badly) translated as 'Throne of the Wind'- at the Bangalore Airport. Clutching Cool Blue- a drink I'd long coveted but never got down to having, I settled myself in a window seat and wondered. Words like tch, humph, duh, tut- tut, eh- all sounds we make to express ourselves- are perfectly captured in the spellings of those words. I remember marvelling at tch in particular- whoever came up with that spelling did a wonderful job in adding the t. There must be a method to coming up with these spellings one would think.


No one has yet managed to spell the sound one makes while sucking the last drops of liquid from a glass of crushed ice. A sound that never fails to annoy and frequently infuriate, for people of my ilk who love that sound, we do not have a properly spelt word for it. And that was the task I set myself aboard BIAS 11.


One never really gets used to buses I think. Being cooped up in an enclosed space with utter strangers and sharing a common destiny until you or they disembark, or the bus blows up, or has an accident where either all live or all die or some live and some don't, never quite weighs easily on anyone- no matter how nonchalant they are. And especially if it is air conditioned and comfortable, one's thoughts invariably turn to different things.


Shhh! could be a possible sound for it I propose to myself. Eh. It does not accurately depict the gurgling noise water makes when it is pulled by vacuum through a straw into one's mouth. Besides it is an exhaled word which could not possibly capture inhalation.


I watch as an interesting mix of people tumble into the bus. First up is a girl with someone who is presumably her boyfriend. They have the hesitancy of a new romance- not without charm in its naivete. As there are no other seats, the guy sits down next to me and the girl in front of him.


Now to most guys- barring the ones who have attained sexual sainthood at 24- the sight of a couple stirs up a curious mixture of thought. There is a moment of wistfulness- memories of past glories, flashes of what could have been, what should have been - all pass by in a blur of images- a moment of weakness we hastily chastise ourselves for. This then gives way to scorn and superiority- pretending we have more important things going on in our life and that women are naught but a waste of time right now. All this while we know that deep down we want what they have with a girl we'll never get. That last sentence is a betrayal of my race- by acknowledging that guys too are privy to flashes of envy when it has nothing to do with our careers. Because NEVER do we acknowledge this feeling- not even to ourselves.


Swiiissshhh? Tch! That does not seem to work either. At all. Too disconnected from the spirit of the thing. Besides it is a word that already exists, so it will not be recognised (by whom is a question that we won't ask right now).


There is a cacophony of sounds in the bus. A middle aged gentleman has just discovered the joy there is in rhythmically slapping one's hand against one's thigh while listening to music. Either that or he is practising some masochistic ritual listening to adult erotica. I really hope it is the former. From behind comes a loud snore- like an elephant with its trunk blocked with mucus. There is the beep-beep of someone getting a message. It goes in an astonishing rhythm- Snore-clap-msg-snore-clap-msg-snore-clap-msg. On and on till the regularity is broken by the sudden cutting of of a snore- like when you realise in your sleep that you're snoring and try to stop suddenly.


An air hostess sits with perfect posture in one of the seats- her eyes full of nothingness.


The bus conductor comes to collect ticket fare. The guy next to me knows only Hindi and in a hesitant low tone asks for a ticket to Sadashivnagar. The conductor's eyebrows disappear into his hair and with a faint curl of the lip he answers. What I wonder must go through his mind when he has to use Hindi or English. Does he inwardly laugh at the pitiful tourists lost in the maze of another tongue twisting South Indian language? Does he shake his (figurative) head at how Kannadigas are being depleted from this great state of his? And does he plot that one day he will reclaim his state from the invaders?


By which time he has moved on to a nice old man in a beige shirt talking on the phone. I'm cringing listenting because he is valiantly ploughing thorough 'the Hindi', in the process conforming to the worst South Indian stereotype there is- the Southie who speaks bad Hindi. Through endless maine bukaar ta and maine jaldi aaya, he finally ends with a triumphant humma gar ko jara hoo and puts me out of my misery and my clandestine South Indian hating self breathes a sigh of relief.



Sheeesshh? Tut-Tut. Pitiful. There has to be a 'c' somewhere I think. The spelling does not work without a 'c'.


Particle physics is being discussed at length by two guys right in the front. They seem to be good friends.

In the reflection in the window to my left I see my neighbour leaning forward and whispering something in his girlfriend's ears. She throws her head back and laughs. A twinge of envy notwithstanding, I force myself to read my book- Orhan Pamuk's The White Castle.


Finally my stop arrives. The particle physics blokes and I get off the bus. As I get off and the bus passes me, I see the girl's face in profile- in my vacated seat. She's laughing again with her head thrown back- with the guy's hand around her shoulder. And next to me, the particle physics blokes have reached some sort of agreement to the problem they were discussing. Raising a mock toast, 'To Hari and Ehsaan, best friends forever!' they shout in corny fashion.


And I realise- to my self loathing embarassment- that even in an unremarkable, soon-to-be-forgotten bus trip, some things strangely never change. That even in today's cynical, modernist times, the same old love and friendship are merry flags on the arctic wilderness of our calendars.



Schwirrsch. I think that's it.

Humping Her Highness

I am Thomas Cromwell, Ist Earl of Essex- advisor to that oversexed lump of a man called Henry VIII. It is 1535 and sitting in front of me is that androgynous daughter of his- Cate Blanchett- oops- Elizabeth.

'Tis a furious arguement that hath ramifications so vast that they shattereth the most profound Shakespearean monolgue.

Liz/Cate- Tom, I cannot say I care for your technique. You don't lift your leg at the right time and it comes banging me in the midlands.

Thomas Cromwell/Me- Midlands?

Liz- You know, the foliage.

Tom- Your Highness, I fail to comprehend.

Liz- You fool- down there. The south pole, the netherworld, the antarctic- you pleibians have so many unsavoury words for it, I never know which one to use.

Tom- Ah, your Highness I understand. But all that is too complicated. It is a new age now. An age of sophistication and discovery. Now we call it- dramatic pause- 'the pussy'.

Liz- A cat? Why?? -long pause- Well my cat doesn't like the way you ram your lollipop into it. You need to learn how to lift your leg when you feed the cat. Let me show you how to hump the hostess.

And she lifted up a stubby leg to demonstrate- and it was unusually short, disgustingly hairy, with blue veins all over it- which was strange because Cate Blanchett- who is also Elizabeth- shaves her legs and armpits.

Ah- there is that John Webster dude behind the Queen- He points at her and whispers- Mine eyes dazzle she died young...- which is peculiar because he was born in 1612 and wrote The Duchess of Malfi in 1623....

Now I see KD standing there shaking his head in disgust. And this girl's smile over and over again, which is decidedly odd because the Queen of Hearts had thundered Off with her head! long ago. Ah yes. I remember now- the Parisian guillotine still had Marie Antoinette's hair sticking to it- what with the slow drip drip of blood falling to the wooden planks below, it aimed wrong and cut off this other girl's head above the smile.

But that smile- haunting, beautiful and forever real- doesn't leave my head. It keeps bothering me again and again.

And now I'm on the floor of the bathroom- violently vomiting into the toilet- there's undigested food, bile and blood. And all the while that smile in front of me...

Then there's a vibrating noise. Which is odd 'coz my sex toy cabinet doesn't have a vibrator. Duh- only women and Bobby Darling use them.

It's a phone.

And then there was light. It came flooding back to me. An explanation even Freud couldn't have given. I know what this is.

A dream I had on 24-02-2010 at 11:00am.

Phone - a friend?

There's something really uplifting in taking a high moral stand.


You congratulate yourself and revel in looking with condescension at the plebeians carrying on their work in their own quotidian ways.

And then you pat yourself on the back for having come up with that wannabe megalomaniac show off sentence.



But sometimes, in an attempt to remain on your high horse, you often fall flat on your face.


Like the incident of the mobile phone.


I've never been one for mobile phones. Woe betide their ubiquitous presence in every nook and cranny! So much so, that you're really lucky nowadays if the person you're talking to deigns to actually look at you during the conversation.


Oh, and the judging, the constant gut wrenching judging- you end up losing the little self worth you had to begin with. I've been thrown so many disdainful looks and comments once my phone makes its presence felt. Its not even old, someone said to me, Its ANCIENT- this Nokia *$# or some such.


And so, I switched off my prehistoric phone for good one day. And took pride in not having a 10 digit identity that began with 9. And felt liberated from the feral tyranny of it.


And then I was shown my place. Almost at once.


It all began as a simple quest to go to someone's house located deep in the labyrinth of Pune's alleys. There was the minor issue of my never having been there before. Clutching a soiled paper with the address and a solitary phone number, I set off in an Auto. Oh he had a field day, he did. He led me deep into the alleys, smirking at my undisguised bewilderment. In the midst of nowhere, a pallid gloom descending and the meter going berserk, I made him stop at an intersection, paid him the scandalous fare and decided to chart my own course.


There were no less than seven small alleys leading in different directions from the intersection. Cursing- the one talent I do have- I set off on one of them. It was utterly useless. I confess to having looked wistfully at a billboard with Sachin smirking, a phone in hand- but I hastily chastised myself for my moment of weakness. Heading to the first in a long line of public phones, I inserted the requisite coin and started dialing, only to realize that it was out of order. The next one- same result and my only coin didn't come out.


There are moments in your life you want to earmark as a watershed- moments from when your life changed- from when you suddenly saw the light and started living differently.

This was not one of those times.

I desperately needed to call up and there was no way. And then I saw him- the same Auto guy was back, with a sadistic grin pasted to his face. Kho gaye ho?, he asked his face dripping with glee- a spider salivating at its prey. The prey nodded and asked him where the address was, only to find that the spider couldn't read (Stage 1- spin the web). And then he offered me....what else....a mobile. It certainly looked ultra fancy (Stage 2- attract the prey). In spite of myself, and I hate to admit it, I admired it for an instant. And made the damn call (Stage 3- TRAPPED).


When at last I did reach my destination I found myself paying both his suspiciously high mobile phone bill and the fare (Stage 4- Suck the prey's blood). As I turned to enter the house, I heard a guffaw of laughter (Stage 5- BURRP!).

Well, needless to say I got swindled on my way back as well. Deciding to walk a bit instead of going directly home, I then made the ill timed decision to get off. As if on cue, as if Geography had suddenly abandoned scientific principle and adopted Murphy's law instead, the skies opened. Scurrying under a tree, I had to wait in growing impatience while everyone else around me called someone or the other. When at last after swallowing my pride, I timidly asked someone if I could make a call, he snorted, 'No balance.'


I didn't muster the gumption to ask anyone else.


Drenched, soiled, and seething with fury I reached home- ready to pounce on anyone I found, and I discovered some friends sullenly waiting. There had apparently been a party. One I hadn't gone to. I had been sent an SMS about the change in plan.

Drawing myself up with dignity (what I could muster seeing that I was wet, covered in mud and had the beginnings of a drippy nose) I announced that I had given up my phone.


Silence.


Utter and absolute.


And then- someone said it.

What happened?

It was one of those moments when you want the earth to open up and swallow you whole- wet clothes, dishevelled hair, muddy face- all of you, inch by sorry inch.

My well thought of, brilliant, epoch shattering response?


Did you check out the new pre paid scheme?

What Women Want

Musicals are for women.



I believed that until I saw Sweeney Todd (the movie).



Absolutely bloody fucking brilliant.



From the writing to the music to Tim Burton's realization of the play- incredible.



And the fact that Helena was in it didn't hurt.



That got me thinking. Would the Indian ideal of a woman do the same? Would she lie and connive to keep the man she loved? Would she sleep with him all the time knowing he didn't love her? Would she aid him in murder? Would she love his child from another wife?



You know what- maybe she would.

For as the demon barber of Fleet Street sings-

Pretty Women..
At their mirrors-

In their gardens,
Letter writing,
Flower picking,
Weather watching-
How they make a man sing!
Proof of heaven, as you're living...



Someone tell me, WHERE ARE THESE WOMEN? We need them.


And the terrible part is, that we might have had them if we were born long long ago.

Take Draupadi- an enigma in the Mahabharata. Now of course, any mention of polyandry and you'll have the purists touching their ears and warding you away, lest your sussurations pollute their homes. Now she was, to my mind the first feminist. A woman of blazing beauty, (by all accounts) what continues to fascinate is the way she used her loins- for both good and ill. Oh yes, who are we kidding? Why did she go to the fateful game of dice in a 'single garment stained with blood'? She should have taken some Meftal Spaz and stayed at home. I propose that she had an inkling that her state would come in handy if the need arose. It did. And ultimately, the whole bloody (pun intended) war was fought because of one woman. And she knew it- perhaps even planned it. Ruthlessly planned it for power- under the garb of restoring her honour. It took 13 years, hundreds of deaths and the loss of her own sons, but she got there in the end.

And lets not even start about her relationship with Krishna- which, deny all you like, has always been more than a little ambiguous. That she worshipped him from afar seems obvious, but there is a fine line between worship and love (maybe even lust).


Yet, inspite of having five husbands and still trusting someone else more than any of them, Draupadi has always been considered a virtuous woman. Never as a politically savvy schemer. I'd even call her reformist.


And what makes it even more interesting is, that even if you look at the Mahabharata (as I do) as a great fictional epic and not gospel truth, the fact that a writer in those times- a man in all probability- could concieve of such a character and not turn her into a whore is really far sighted. That free thinking was so prevalent in ancient India makes one boil with wrath at the current state of affairs.




From those lofty times, are today's women worse off? It's hard to tell. Yes, inspite of those crazy fire spitting feminists (Good day Ms Roy) who quite frankly I think need a good romp in the sack with anybody, inspite of some men with inflated egos who, when their fiancee breaks it off say, 'You should marry me because I'm good at studies and you're an average student..'




Yet for all these people, there is a Sonia Gandhi- who, whether you agree with her politics or not, is an interesting case study. An Italian woman, meets the heir to the throne (rolls eyes in disgust), marries him and soon after his death becomes the most powerful politician in the world's biggest democracy. That's a real story. Or a certain Ms. Mayawati who uses all her evil genius and rules with impunity. Or even Sushmita Sen, who gets around and doesn't care what anybody thinks.

The position Indian women are in today- is strangely dichotomous. One the one hand you have some who can head a Biocon, and on the other you have those who equate a date with marriage instantly. The only reason we ask them out has got to be marriage. If you say you just want to get to know them better they reply, why not as friends?

It's this disparity between professional and social freedom that baffles.

And this is probably because the idea of marriage has been drilled into everyone's heads as the sole reason a girl exists. Even among educated society. Wanna date me? Marry me first.


The evolution of the Indian woman has been a little strange- from an emancipated personal life in ancient times, to wonderful professional opportunities nowadays. Long ago she could still sleep with the Sun God no less, have a child, remain a virgin, ditch the child, have no regrets or guilt, and then years later, blithely ask the same child not to kill her 'real' sons with absolutely no qualms whatsoever. She didn't get to rule, but she was the power behind the throne. Paradoxically, in modern times, our women are given a lot of freedom to pursue careers (more or less). But personal morality is of paramount importance. She has to be 'pure'. She shouldn't wear short skirts even to play tennis. She shouldn't hang out in pubs. She should be 'perfect' and should be married by 25, otherwise she's deemed 'too old'. It's different for us menfolk, we can fuck who we want and get away with it but somehow an Indian woman's virginity is of paramount importance. As to why, that's beyond me. Is it objectification of women? Maybe. I mean YES! It's just crass and low.

That being said, I think I'm gonna dump my girl tonight- her forehead's too wide, one nostril is wider than the other and I didn't like the location of her tattoo.

Show Must Go On!

Eating one's own words isn't fun.

The first three lines over here bear witness to a fact I took for granted- that I couldn't be swayed.


Not by the soporofic music (that is what they call those cries to the Devil that issue from their mouths) excreted by Indian Idols, not by the desperately talentless little kids trying to sing and dance and being told that they would be stars, not even by a drool worthy Diana Hayden entering some house where-hold your breath- someone either stays, or someone else doesn't (gasp)!


Not by Mr.- oops-now Dr. 12th-fail-watzisname-Kumar bringing along his entire harem to perform stunts- quite frankly the girls looked far from sexy- too much of doing it as Spectacles would no doubt have said.


Now bring Helena Bonham Carter on screen- with or without her kit- as Marla Singer or Mrs. Lovett or better still as the chillingly sexy Bellatrix (funny how that rhymes with dominatrix..) and you would have yourself a show. But you wouldn't have guessed that I have a kind of kinky thing going on with her, so I might be slightly biased there.


But then- all my self importance was dealt an immense kick in the arse by an innocously named show called Rakhi ka Swayamvar.


In the olden days, this programme informs, women had the right to choose their husbands- it was the ultimate symbol of ancient India's female empowerment. Somewhere down the line this right, this adhikaar got diluted and then got transferred to that most vile of species- men.


Fair enough.


But this is Rakhi. Rakhi Sawant.


Yes- that same bronzed buxom starlet, who made fame a full time job. Who slapped her then boyfriend on national television. Whose language changes almost as frequently as her bra size, who is- when all is said and done- a hoot.


For if she does indeed go through with this marriage- for that is what it is (ये show नहीं है- ये एक शादी है! she confidently proclaimed) - it definitely tickles one's interest as to who, apart from that gold digger of an ex boyfriend- is going to marry her?


A lot of people as it turns out.


This is a reality show that takes itself so seriously that you have soppy songs like hum bewafa playing in the background when a suitor is given his walking papers by the lady herself.


A show where a 22 year old looks solemnly into the sometimes 29-sometimes 27 1978 born Ms. Sawant's eyes and says with oscar worthy skill I love you.


A show where another guy gives Rakhi a gift, she thanks him, and he- with all the conviction of Romeo talking dirty to Juliet- says Mansion Naat..


It's brilliant I tell you- the best comedy (albeit unintentional) on TV in a long time.


And the star- no exagerration here- is undoubtedly Rakhi Sawant. She is without a doubt the best working hindi comedienne today. No mean feat that. And that is because she sucks so badly at acting and yet thinks she is a dramatic actress. Because she doesn't think she's being funny. Watch her bat her eyes, stare into space, watch her say Mai udna chahti hoon with that serious look on her face, watch her tear up- watch her run the emotional gamut with all the seriousness of a Meryl Streep and you'll know that NDTV Imagine has hit a jackpot.


Frankly, in terms of pure entertainment, (note) I'd rather watch Rakhi Sawant be herself than watch any of our leading ladies embarrass themselves on screen. You can watch her and guffaw all day long. Still far from Helena's league but then again, is anyone close? But way to go Ms. Sawant!


Oh and she seems to have met her match in some of her would be husbands. There's this one supercillious squirt who seems to be openly using her as a means to get famous, spewing pretentious poetry left, right and centre, smirking at others' ousters, even admitting to a girlfriend, and having an ogre of a mother who wants her bahu to wear a pallu, to not work, to always stay at home and generally be a relic of the stone age. In short, anything to gain notoriety. The other- the Mansion guy- had the temerity to kiss her on the cheek and forehead- with utmost rishpect he says.


All this is done with such sincerity, with such -damn it all- gravitas, that it's a wonder how anyone on this show- least of all the host who seems to be a level headed chap- manages to suppress their laughter. I swear, this gives many comedies a run for their money, this does.

And what does our prima donna do?


She becomes an avenging angel for the female race, trying to best the great Glenn Close. See the gulf in class here (0:58 onwards), here and here.


Watch it at the end of a long boring day- not more than once though, because too much of a bad thing can be -well-bad.

As I said- seriously funny stuff!

Ode to the Family Adams

Disclaimer: The characters in this blog are almost purely fictional.

Staring...

I can feel it- the hair on the back of my neck quiver, something kicks me in the a** as I feel her eyes upon me.

In this case the 'she' being mum, more's the pity..

Family's annoying. Clingy. And unbearable.

Contradiction becomes the name of the game in this irritable, irritating house of self styled intellectuals- this ode to the tower of Babel. If ever there were a way to catch useless random thoughts floating about in a house, crumple it and hurl it at the first person one sees, I'd patent it right away.

Oh the staring....

In lumbers SR, his pot belly preceding him, trying its best to rip his T Shirt and nearly succeeding. He's been to the gym apparantly.. His nephew (ahem ahem) snorts and then hurridly coughs to avoid being caught...

And oh the staring....

This time its me. I'm staring.

At Pot belly. Only lower. Because adorning....nah...clinging to his not-so-light frame is a black trackpant with 'licence to kill' embroidered on a pocket. Did I mention its mine? Right now, one can see both OO and 7 clearly. Gross!

'Can I have a....' he asks.

A pair of spectacles looks up- slowly, unhurridley.....