Hey dhruv
This is just
A friendly reminder
That I’m watching..
Ensuring
you never forget
the results of your mercurial temper
the maudlin outcomes
of your destructive heart
that ruthless atelier
A friendly reminder
that it won’t always be perfect
you won’t get there that easily
you won’t ride smooth
it won’t be all that breezy.
A friendly reminder
that she will hurt you
for your not god’s gift
as you claim to be
you will propitiate
for your actions
supposedly supernal.
For you too
shall indurate
love demands
proportions that
commensurate
your bellicose afflictions.
Just remember,
I’m always here…
by your side
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Sunday, May 20, 2007
take a picture...
It was one of those nights. Tossing and turning, I found it difficult to achieve the blissful feeling one gets a few minutes before venturing into a deep and long slumber. Maybe it was the irritating pain in my legs from the lack of a proper warm up before the basketball game. Maybe it was the clash of thoughts and worlds that my mind often flitters in and out of. They come from having seen a lot of different people in a lot of different situations. Maybe I just wasn’t sleepy enough.
Grumble out of bed. Lights on, I sit and stare into the nothingness of the ceiling of my room. Look at my desk and think of how I should clean up the damn thing at some point. Open the sliding cabinet containing all the papers from my dad’s meticulously arranged bills, investments and strategic financial planning. Smile to myself at the sight of my college graduation mark sheets. With a good friend now in Vikhroli, I refresh the memory of the nervous phone call made to a class mate from Bombay inquiring fearfully of my 3rd year results. “Dhruv, I don’t know the exact number but your average is coming to a mid second division”. What sheer and utter excitement. I hadn’t studied anywhere near as much as I could have, should have. Irrespective, my way with words in subject matter that allowed for grandiose explanations and name-dropped theories saw to it that I pulled through. I recall with happiness the relief in the creator's voice in hearing of the result.
So you see, this is why I can't find it within myself to provide motivation and drive to you during times of academic duress. My academic duress was limited purely to all-nighters before the damn paper, cramming in every possible word in the most selective of studying possible. It was like a damn game of russian roulette every single time. Anyways, I also think I don't give myself enough credit in that regard. Doesn't matter because I give myself a hell a lot of credit for everything else.. HA HA.
I start shifting through some of my old books. From Gerald Durrell to a series of yellowed Jeffrey Archer's. There's also my old Asterix collection. Darn I loved those. I could read and guffaw my way through half a dozen even today.
My fingers feel something soft, a picture. Delicately and carefully (as delicate and carefully one can be at half past midnight in a dimly lighted room) I remove the objects from their hiding place. Its in fact a series of pictures; with a couple of cards thrown in. I go through them and read some of the words.
Instantly, a sea of memories and vague recollections of intense conversations overtake me. Some had scribbled and angled scripts, others large and loud fonts categorizing their efforts to emote on paper. I think to myself 'some more additions to the memory box'
Introducing, the memory box.
A shoe box once belonging to a fine leather brown pair I picked up in Bern, now containing footprints (how ironic) and words of the past 4 years and beyond. Past relationships, conference sugar cubes, short-lived liasons, leather bound diaries and more. I take the shoe box down and peer inside. It's already packed quite near to the top. I realize as I go through (only cursorily) the contents, ' there's a lot of writing in here, not a single picture'
Not a single picture Not one.
'A picture speaks a thousand words'. Bullshit.
Words speak a thousand pictures. Every card, every tiny piece of paper, every book with an inscription brings me back to a time, place and memory that now has an era attached to it. The present streams on in infinity till it too gets bounded by words once written, and thoughts once shared.
A picture plays a small, momentary and futile part.
That's it, captured in time, for a supposed eternity.
Show me a picture from our arguments, from the time I saw 200 people cry, argue and emote in a room with me. Show me a picture of you waitng at the airport to pick me up, or the time I sat down to tell you I didn't love you anymore.
Show me those pictures. What? don't have any?
Too bad. I have them in words.
(I know this is hilarious coming from a guy who loves taking pictures...
Which is why, I at times, fear those words. In that box there are 'what ifs and if nots'. In that box there are speculations and heartfelt expressions of devotion and passion. In that box there is blood, sweat and tears shed to achieve where I am today. I'm not always ready to face them.
Bring on the pictures. The snapshots are of the finale. The finito. They captured my success, my happiness. I collect my past in a 2x2 box that breaths softly from the wisdom it contains.
The pictures are displayed proudly across my room. I don't need a box for those.
Grumble out of bed. Lights on, I sit and stare into the nothingness of the ceiling of my room. Look at my desk and think of how I should clean up the damn thing at some point. Open the sliding cabinet containing all the papers from my dad’s meticulously arranged bills, investments and strategic financial planning. Smile to myself at the sight of my college graduation mark sheets. With a good friend now in Vikhroli, I refresh the memory of the nervous phone call made to a class mate from Bombay inquiring fearfully of my 3rd year results. “Dhruv, I don’t know the exact number but your average is coming to a mid second division”. What sheer and utter excitement. I hadn’t studied anywhere near as much as I could have, should have. Irrespective, my way with words in subject matter that allowed for grandiose explanations and name-dropped theories saw to it that I pulled through. I recall with happiness the relief in the creator's voice in hearing of the result.
So you see, this is why I can't find it within myself to provide motivation and drive to you during times of academic duress. My academic duress was limited purely to all-nighters before the damn paper, cramming in every possible word in the most selective of studying possible. It was like a damn game of russian roulette every single time. Anyways, I also think I don't give myself enough credit in that regard. Doesn't matter because I give myself a hell a lot of credit for everything else.. HA HA.
I start shifting through some of my old books. From Gerald Durrell to a series of yellowed Jeffrey Archer's. There's also my old Asterix collection. Darn I loved those. I could read and guffaw my way through half a dozen even today.
My fingers feel something soft, a picture. Delicately and carefully (as delicate and carefully one can be at half past midnight in a dimly lighted room) I remove the objects from their hiding place. Its in fact a series of pictures; with a couple of cards thrown in. I go through them and read some of the words.
Instantly, a sea of memories and vague recollections of intense conversations overtake me. Some had scribbled and angled scripts, others large and loud fonts categorizing their efforts to emote on paper. I think to myself 'some more additions to the memory box'
Introducing, the memory box.
A shoe box once belonging to a fine leather brown pair I picked up in Bern, now containing footprints (how ironic) and words of the past 4 years and beyond. Past relationships, conference sugar cubes, short-lived liasons, leather bound diaries and more. I take the shoe box down and peer inside. It's already packed quite near to the top. I realize as I go through (only cursorily) the contents, ' there's a lot of writing in here, not a single picture'
Not a single picture Not one.
'A picture speaks a thousand words'. Bullshit.
Words speak a thousand pictures. Every card, every tiny piece of paper, every book with an inscription brings me back to a time, place and memory that now has an era attached to it. The present streams on in infinity till it too gets bounded by words once written, and thoughts once shared.
A picture plays a small, momentary and futile part.
Hey, we are celebrating...so lets take a picture! Say cheese.."snap snap"...ohhh that's gorgeous, you guys photograph so well!
That's it, captured in time, for a supposed eternity.
Show me a picture from our arguments, from the time I saw 200 people cry, argue and emote in a room with me. Show me a picture of you waitng at the airport to pick me up, or the time I sat down to tell you I didn't love you anymore.
Show me those pictures. What? don't have any?
Too bad. I have them in words.
(I know this is hilarious coming from a guy who loves taking pictures...
Which is why, I at times, fear those words. In that box there are 'what ifs and if nots'. In that box there are speculations and heartfelt expressions of devotion and passion. In that box there is blood, sweat and tears shed to achieve where I am today. I'm not always ready to face them.
Bring on the pictures. The snapshots are of the finale. The finito. They captured my success, my happiness. I collect my past in a 2x2 box that breaths softly from the wisdom it contains.
The pictures are displayed proudly across my room. I don't need a box for those.
Monday, April 16, 2007
once
For you were once
insecure
yet I scoffed
ridiculed
cajoled
threatened even
for you were once
insecure.
You heard me say
i've had enough
and your eyes welled up
with tears
with fears
unmapped
by your inexperienced
heart.
for you were once
insecure.
How cruel was i
to take advantage
of the innocence
in your touch
in the way your tiny hands
clutched
curled their way
around my arms.
I slept soundlessly
as you wept
siently.
For you were once
insecure.
Time slashes
through bloody wrists
the result of
affections obviated
harshly,
for they were once
far too clingy.
and now
i faintly,
silently,
reminisce
of devotion
dedication
pure agonizing emotion
for i was once
secure.
today i know not
where you are
with whom you dwell
no longer needing
my sense, my voice, my being
by choice.
ofcourse
by choice.
i still remember those
dimpled smiles
those twinkling eyes
for you were once
secure.
---------------------------------------------
insecure
yet I scoffed
ridiculed
cajoled
threatened even
for you were once
insecure.
You heard me say
i've had enough
and your eyes welled up
with tears
with fears
unmapped
by your inexperienced
heart.
for you were once
insecure.
How cruel was i
to take advantage
of the innocence
in your touch
in the way your tiny hands
clutched
curled their way
around my arms.
I slept soundlessly
as you wept
siently.
For you were once
insecure.
Time slashes
through bloody wrists
the result of
affections obviated
harshly,
for they were once
far too clingy.
and now
i faintly,
silently,
reminisce
of devotion
dedication
pure agonizing emotion
for i was once
secure.
today i know not
where you are
with whom you dwell
no longer needing
my sense, my voice, my being
by choice.
ofcourse
by choice.
i still remember those
dimpled smiles
those twinkling eyes
for you were once
secure.
---------------------------------------------
bad with words
repeatedly
the string of words
regurgitate at my feet
over and over
for no other pattern
exists.
you struggle to express
communicate
mention even
what it feels like
how much it affects you
but fail
and fall
dissapointingly short
of what we need to hear
what we need to hear.
For i am listening
every single day
hoping
assuming
that your actions
will not be
as disjointed
as sparce
a farce
as your words
I observe
I study
the double standard
you employ
and I pray
furiously
that you're not another
to suffer the loss
of losing me
forever.
the string of words
regurgitate at my feet
over and over
for no other pattern
exists.
you struggle to express
communicate
mention even
what it feels like
how much it affects you
but fail
and fall
dissapointingly short
of what we need to hear
what we need to hear.
For i am listening
every single day
hoping
assuming
that your actions
will not be
as disjointed
as sparce
a farce
as your words
I observe
I study
the double standard
you employ
and I pray
furiously
that you're not another
to suffer the loss
of losing me
forever.
...
parallel to once...
if there was ever a night when you felt you could sing the saddest song, this would be it. not because you feel you could do it justice, but because in split, piercing seconds, you feel the see-saw of your heart aching and your heart wrenching in unsympathetic waves.
it's true. at the end of the day, you've got to be able to count on yourself, because noone has your back. noone. good friends going through tremendous turmoil in their life would understand this. i respect you my friend. if you're reading this, know that i respect you.
if there was ever a night when you felt you could sing the saddest song, this would be it. not because you feel you could do it justice, but because in split, piercing seconds, you feel the see-saw of your heart aching and your heart wrenching in unsympathetic waves.
it's true. at the end of the day, you've got to be able to count on yourself, because noone has your back. noone. good friends going through tremendous turmoil in their life would understand this. i respect you my friend. if you're reading this, know that i respect you.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Monday, March 12, 2007
oh when a one night falls..
oh when a one night falls
oh when a one night falls
who will cry when im gone
who will you cry when im gone
oh when a one night falls
oh when a one night falls
would you cry when im gone
would you cry when im gone
would i be the man they say
would i be the man i see
oh when a one night falls
oh when a one night falls
numbers on my grave
embers of my flame
oh when a one night falls
oh when a one night falls
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
dC's advice column: whats the story morning glory?
Yo yo yo dC,
My top dawg, hows it hangin? I’ve been facin some major problematic problems recently and I thought Id drop you a holler and get some advice with a side orderin of rice you know what im sayin?
Anyway, the deal is bro that I just cant get myself to wake up in the friggin morning. No matter what I try. My woman be busy screaming her gawddamn lungs out but I cant get the body to move. My mind is saying come on boss, shake it, bake it, make it happen. But it just doesn’t work. Ive tried alarms, bombs, early morning FM, makin my lady throw a bucket of cold water on me (just resulted in me almost smackin her for her impudence), etc etc… Basically, ive tried everything…
I’ve got a job answering queries at the airline counter in Mumbai airport and getting late is just gonna get my ass fired. Help boss, youre like the savior for my misbehavior dude…
-dozing in dadar
Dear dozemaster,
As my good friend Sam would say..its hanging a bit to the left today. But ok, getting to your problem…I have a few issues with the selection of solutions you embarked on.
1.Early morning Indian FM is not for waking/listening purposes. Its what the Indian army uses to torture those who cross the LOC illegally. Don’t ever do that to yourself man..no matter how much of an idiot you might think you are (and you seem to be ranking quite high in the india’s most retarded hitlist)
2.bombs? Dude…..
3.cold water? Man….there are times when I don’t even know what to say….
So anyway, I fortunately, (as in most cases) do not share in your particular predicament, so I turned to my phenomenon of a flatmate who sleeps so much through the day, I sometimes think he’s in a call center. He however, miraculously, survives on, gets his ass out of bed and keeps his job, somehow…Here is what he had to say:
“the oversleeping condition (complimented by the ‘I cant wake up in the morning condition’ is caused by the severe reproduction of the violet colored imbecile-effect inducing moronis cells in the brain’s frontal lobe area. The best solution is to have someone deliver a swift kick in the nuts to you first thing in the morning". Whilst this is something my flatmate has to deal with often, my advice is to follow it up with a supremely loud playback of korn’s issues album or megadeth’s - youthanasia. There is a track in the issues album called wake up that I used for 2 months in a row during my god-forsaken board exams. I never heard it once after that due to the hellish nightmares it brings, but yeah, it got the job done.
Secondly, quit whining and grow a pair.
Sleep earlier, quit fantasizing on how you’ll one day become rich and successful, quit watching late night home-shopping networks (you cannot afford anything) and finally, try to expand your severe lack of grey matter with some intellectual reading. Whilst someone like you would not understand anything a book might be trying to express, it will make you sleepy and hopefully get you up in the morning screaming ‘holy crap!, im a loser, time to make something of my life!’
Hope this helps.
-dC
P.S. aren’t you the idiot who was getting clobbered for not providing the VIP passengers with information on the delayed flight out of Mumbai last week?
My top dawg, hows it hangin? I’ve been facin some major problematic problems recently and I thought Id drop you a holler and get some advice with a side orderin of rice you know what im sayin?
Anyway, the deal is bro that I just cant get myself to wake up in the friggin morning. No matter what I try. My woman be busy screaming her gawddamn lungs out but I cant get the body to move. My mind is saying come on boss, shake it, bake it, make it happen. But it just doesn’t work. Ive tried alarms, bombs, early morning FM, makin my lady throw a bucket of cold water on me (just resulted in me almost smackin her for her impudence), etc etc… Basically, ive tried everything…
I’ve got a job answering queries at the airline counter in Mumbai airport and getting late is just gonna get my ass fired. Help boss, youre like the savior for my misbehavior dude…
-dozing in dadar
Dear dozemaster,
As my good friend Sam would say..its hanging a bit to the left today. But ok, getting to your problem…I have a few issues with the selection of solutions you embarked on.
1.Early morning Indian FM is not for waking/listening purposes. Its what the Indian army uses to torture those who cross the LOC illegally. Don’t ever do that to yourself man..no matter how much of an idiot you might think you are (and you seem to be ranking quite high in the india’s most retarded hitlist)
2.bombs? Dude…..
3.cold water? Man….there are times when I don’t even know what to say….
So anyway, I fortunately, (as in most cases) do not share in your particular predicament, so I turned to my phenomenon of a flatmate who sleeps so much through the day, I sometimes think he’s in a call center. He however, miraculously, survives on, gets his ass out of bed and keeps his job, somehow…Here is what he had to say:
“the oversleeping condition (complimented by the ‘I cant wake up in the morning condition’ is caused by the severe reproduction of the violet colored imbecile-effect inducing moronis cells in the brain’s frontal lobe area. The best solution is to have someone deliver a swift kick in the nuts to you first thing in the morning". Whilst this is something my flatmate has to deal with often, my advice is to follow it up with a supremely loud playback of korn’s issues album or megadeth’s - youthanasia. There is a track in the issues album called wake up that I used for 2 months in a row during my god-forsaken board exams. I never heard it once after that due to the hellish nightmares it brings, but yeah, it got the job done.
Secondly, quit whining and grow a pair.
Sleep earlier, quit fantasizing on how you’ll one day become rich and successful, quit watching late night home-shopping networks (you cannot afford anything) and finally, try to expand your severe lack of grey matter with some intellectual reading. Whilst someone like you would not understand anything a book might be trying to express, it will make you sleepy and hopefully get you up in the morning screaming ‘holy crap!, im a loser, time to make something of my life!’
Hope this helps.
-dC
P.S. aren’t you the idiot who was getting clobbered for not providing the VIP passengers with information on the delayed flight out of Mumbai last week?
Thursday, February 01, 2007
dC's advice column: the inheritance of loss
Dear dC,
This last week has been the very saddest of my entire life. I have never known the earth shattering aftermath of a great loss; but god, in all his beauty, in all his cruelty took someone very close away from me, and I just have not been able to find the answers…
He was over a 160 years old, the oldest living member of our family, Abraham D’Souza (affectionately ‘Abe’) - our pet turtle passed away silently in his sleep.
Having seen me grown up and having been with me through the toughest of times, I am looking for a way to honor his life with a funeral ceremony. Knowing the sensitivity and beauty with which you express your deepest feelings, I thought who better than dC to help me make this a glorious goodbye.
-Lost in lucknow
Dear lost,
Man, I have one question for you. What kind of people, or lets say what species on this planet, choose a turtle for a pet? I mean seriously. Is a turtle even categorized in the ‘Worlds Handbook of Certified Pets’? I’m trying to see your side here, I really am. All I’m left wondering though is – Dude, a turtle? Did you guys play catch? Did he bound into the doorway when he saw you come back from school? Did he lick your face when seeing you after a family vacation? Did he purr gently and snuggle up next to you?
Dude…a handbag is not a pet.
Also, with my little knowledge of turtles, Abe here passed away well before his time right? ‘cos these dudes usually live upto being like 8000 years old or something? I was watching this national geographic once and they found this 4000 year old skeleton, and there was a turtle sitting right next to it. What was crazy though was that scientists figured out he was one of those angst filled teenage turtles (not the mutant ninja ones) going through puberty. Man, thats some old shit.
Don’t get me wrong though. I, in all my wisdom once thought of getting a turtle as well. I have no idea why. I even thought of a name – Tot. Pretty insipid name but I was like 6 or something. Anyway, the idea was scrapped when my dad (the great and original senior DC) brought to light that harsh realities of everyday life.
“dC my son, you’d call tot for breakfast and he would come down for dinner”.
As always he was right. I got a pet elephant itself, a much better choice and only partially illegal.
Ok, so anyway. You want to plan a funeral thing. I guess you’d do the usual – life size picture of ol’ Abe in the front. Friends and family crawling around his 4x4 coffin munching (slowly) on some cloves or leaves or something…
You gotta have the right music ofcourse…I’d suggest any of George Winston’s albums (the December album is tremendously soulful)...If you want to really get a tribute going you might wanna put on some Robert cray or Kenny wayne Sheppard to kick in the blues as the amphibians and you discuss stories of how he once sped across the living room in less than a week to honor his beloved kimi raikkonen. Yeah, itll be a relaxed scene. Maybe later you guys can make a table out of him or something. Honor and utility are partners in the game of life….
Hope this helps
-dC
P.S. if I get a mail from you 5 years later asking for a first draft on the eulogy of your pet snake ‘anna’ ; the answer is no.
This last week has been the very saddest of my entire life. I have never known the earth shattering aftermath of a great loss; but god, in all his beauty, in all his cruelty took someone very close away from me, and I just have not been able to find the answers…
He was over a 160 years old, the oldest living member of our family, Abraham D’Souza (affectionately ‘Abe’) - our pet turtle passed away silently in his sleep.
Having seen me grown up and having been with me through the toughest of times, I am looking for a way to honor his life with a funeral ceremony. Knowing the sensitivity and beauty with which you express your deepest feelings, I thought who better than dC to help me make this a glorious goodbye.
-Lost in lucknow
Dear lost,
Man, I have one question for you. What kind of people, or lets say what species on this planet, choose a turtle for a pet? I mean seriously. Is a turtle even categorized in the ‘Worlds Handbook of Certified Pets’? I’m trying to see your side here, I really am. All I’m left wondering though is – Dude, a turtle? Did you guys play catch? Did he bound into the doorway when he saw you come back from school? Did he lick your face when seeing you after a family vacation? Did he purr gently and snuggle up next to you?
Dude…a handbag is not a pet.
Also, with my little knowledge of turtles, Abe here passed away well before his time right? ‘cos these dudes usually live upto being like 8000 years old or something? I was watching this national geographic once and they found this 4000 year old skeleton, and there was a turtle sitting right next to it. What was crazy though was that scientists figured out he was one of those angst filled teenage turtles (not the mutant ninja ones) going through puberty. Man, thats some old shit.
Don’t get me wrong though. I, in all my wisdom once thought of getting a turtle as well. I have no idea why. I even thought of a name – Tot. Pretty insipid name but I was like 6 or something. Anyway, the idea was scrapped when my dad (the great and original senior DC) brought to light that harsh realities of everyday life.
“dC my son, you’d call tot for breakfast and he would come down for dinner”.
As always he was right. I got a pet elephant itself, a much better choice and only partially illegal.
Ok, so anyway. You want to plan a funeral thing. I guess you’d do the usual – life size picture of ol’ Abe in the front. Friends and family crawling around his 4x4 coffin munching (slowly) on some cloves or leaves or something…
You gotta have the right music ofcourse…I’d suggest any of George Winston’s albums (the December album is tremendously soulful)...If you want to really get a tribute going you might wanna put on some Robert cray or Kenny wayne Sheppard to kick in the blues as the amphibians and you discuss stories of how he once sped across the living room in less than a week to honor his beloved kimi raikkonen. Yeah, itll be a relaxed scene. Maybe later you guys can make a table out of him or something. Honor and utility are partners in the game of life….
Hope this helps
-dC
P.S. if I get a mail from you 5 years later asking for a first draft on the eulogy of your pet snake ‘anna’ ; the answer is no.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
dC's advice column: holding my drink
dear dC,
I’m a smart, attractive working girl with a good pay check and enough men humming around me for attention. I like to go clubbing and enjoy the occasional blues concert as well. The problem is that I can’t really hold my drink…I can start off slow with a small screwdriver or apple martini, but post the second or third drink I’m usually flying pretty high and this has caused more than an embarrassing situation for me in the past. I recently had to be carried home in a bit of an inebriated state by co-workers which has resulted in a few (but irritating) office jokes….
Any advice from a alco-master like yourself?
-tipsy in Trivandrum.
Dear Tipsy,
Ok girlfriend, here’s the deal…people who cannot handle their drink, should NOT DRINK. If there’s anything I hate more than preppy chicks getting wasted on the first wiff of a tight rum and coke, is preppy chicks with some semblance of a brain knowingly making a retarded fool out of themselves. In case you haven’t noticed, you are gracefully and fortunately classified as type B.
Now as I see it, staying away from the fortified grapes isn’t really your forte so I’ll suggest a few other solutions. Try mixing soft drinks with your beer; try adding tremendous quantities of coke with anything alcoholic you drink; eat a lot as you drink; and drink a lot of water as you consume. Now each of these activities will certify you as a grade A loser, I mean who wants to have a conversation with a chick over a friendly drink as she’s stuffing her face with tikkas and red-bull?? It will also make you fat and possibly quite bloated. Congratulations, you shall soon be a certified social disaster; but hell, way better than finding yourself twisted upside down throwing up like an anorexic with food poisoning, all re-enacting scenes from the exorcist. Oh, and if you want to keep drinking, just listen to some robbie Williams and james blunt while you’re at it, it’s the kind of music which will kill your high no matter what you’re on.
Hope this helps.
-dC
I’m a smart, attractive working girl with a good pay check and enough men humming around me for attention. I like to go clubbing and enjoy the occasional blues concert as well. The problem is that I can’t really hold my drink…I can start off slow with a small screwdriver or apple martini, but post the second or third drink I’m usually flying pretty high and this has caused more than an embarrassing situation for me in the past. I recently had to be carried home in a bit of an inebriated state by co-workers which has resulted in a few (but irritating) office jokes….
Any advice from a alco-master like yourself?
-tipsy in Trivandrum.
Dear Tipsy,
Ok girlfriend, here’s the deal…people who cannot handle their drink, should NOT DRINK. If there’s anything I hate more than preppy chicks getting wasted on the first wiff of a tight rum and coke, is preppy chicks with some semblance of a brain knowingly making a retarded fool out of themselves. In case you haven’t noticed, you are gracefully and fortunately classified as type B.
Now as I see it, staying away from the fortified grapes isn’t really your forte so I’ll suggest a few other solutions. Try mixing soft drinks with your beer; try adding tremendous quantities of coke with anything alcoholic you drink; eat a lot as you drink; and drink a lot of water as you consume. Now each of these activities will certify you as a grade A loser, I mean who wants to have a conversation with a chick over a friendly drink as she’s stuffing her face with tikkas and red-bull?? It will also make you fat and possibly quite bloated. Congratulations, you shall soon be a certified social disaster; but hell, way better than finding yourself twisted upside down throwing up like an anorexic with food poisoning, all re-enacting scenes from the exorcist. Oh, and if you want to keep drinking, just listen to some robbie Williams and james blunt while you’re at it, it’s the kind of music which will kill your high no matter what you’re on.
Hope this helps.
-dC
Thursday, January 25, 2007
dC's advice column: dance
Dear dC,
Ok this one is really straight from the gut dude. I’m a happily chilled out 17 yr old on the verge of graduating high school. I’m tall, good at sports and popular with the ladies. Now, in this last year or so, I have had to come to face with like this major problem ok, im talking earth shattering problem and its busting my nuts. The fact is that the number of parties taking place in the vicinity of my social circle are growing like majorly ok, like you know crazy amounts. There’s a party for everything and the rest of the boys and I look forward to having some scene to kinda get our flirtations and all on you know….that sort of thing. Anyway, what has been pointed out to me by some of my homeboys is the horrible truth that … well…god damnit!!
I can’t dance.
Like I just ain’t got the rhythm in my butt or legs you know. Im standing there listening to Akon but my bodies moving like a retarded adaptation of the Phantom of the Opera. Now whilst the chicks haven’t noticed quite just yet (‘cos well you know I stand in the corner and bob my head playin all cool like), im sure its gonna dawn on them someday that im this sociopathic loser who needs to be in dance party quarantine…
Help DUDE HELP!...i know music is the answer and no matter how much I play my judas priest greatest hits album I can’t get myself to shake it like a saltshaka’’’..
Much love
Danceless in delhi
Dear danceless,
Oh hell yeah, I remember dudes like you. All Iron Maiden wearing, corner-of-the-party standing, head bobbing metallicats acting all cool, thinking the music was all happy and gay but not really joining in the festivities. I feel your pain. Well I don’t really feel it because I’m quite frankly the rug-cutting, soul-shaking, bootie knocking male version of fergy but yeah, in the possible parallel universe where dC cant dance, I feel your pain. Loser.
Ok, first off delhi boy, judas isn’t going to help you. You ever seen a tiny-skirt wearing, heavily made up delhi chick that would turn down prince William (not cos he’s not good enough for her but because she doesn’t know who prince William is) go all ballistic to Halford screaming ‘I believe you’re the devils child…?’ No you haven’t. And if you have, get yourself checked ‘cos you’re most probably dead. Anyway, Judas isn’t going to help. What you need to do is grab yourself some good house music that won’t cause your testicular fortitude to run down your pants and shy away from you screaming ‘no master noooo’. I’m talking house with an attitude that makes you move. I’d suggest a mix of Daft Punk’s Homework, Paul Oakenfold’s live in Havana and Oslo albums, mixed up with a bit of Depeche mode (world in my eyes, Halo) and possibly a few Disco Kandi records. Don’t be afraid to stand in front of the mirror and try to shake a bit. The sight might be ugly but in the end you’ll come out stronger.
I don’t usually say this, but try and turn on MTV for half an hour a day and watch any of the pathetic excuse for entertainment music videos for inspiration. If you’re desperate, watch any usher video, whilst this is supremely gay, I have to prescribe something slightly more extreme for your ‘govinda’ condition. Turn MTV off before it completely rots your mind though. The fungal infection caused by MTV in the brain can commence anywhere between 20-25 minutes...
Finally, get yourself a copy of a Genesis’ song called ‘I can’t dance’. It’s a terribly catchy, satirical and ironic number that shall remind you of the terrible world we live in where god doesn’t make us all equal and it comes down to those who can, and those who cannot- dance.
Peace retard. Don’t fall over yourself trying to jive a chikita, proclaiming desires for a hikita.
-dC
P.S. and don’t lie to me, aint no dude good at sports can claim he’s got dance disabilities. Unless you’re playing kabaddi professionally, in which case quit reading and writing into my column.
Ok this one is really straight from the gut dude. I’m a happily chilled out 17 yr old on the verge of graduating high school. I’m tall, good at sports and popular with the ladies. Now, in this last year or so, I have had to come to face with like this major problem ok, im talking earth shattering problem and its busting my nuts. The fact is that the number of parties taking place in the vicinity of my social circle are growing like majorly ok, like you know crazy amounts. There’s a party for everything and the rest of the boys and I look forward to having some scene to kinda get our flirtations and all on you know….that sort of thing. Anyway, what has been pointed out to me by some of my homeboys is the horrible truth that … well…god damnit!!
I can’t dance.
Like I just ain’t got the rhythm in my butt or legs you know. Im standing there listening to Akon but my bodies moving like a retarded adaptation of the Phantom of the Opera. Now whilst the chicks haven’t noticed quite just yet (‘cos well you know I stand in the corner and bob my head playin all cool like), im sure its gonna dawn on them someday that im this sociopathic loser who needs to be in dance party quarantine…
Help DUDE HELP!...i know music is the answer and no matter how much I play my judas priest greatest hits album I can’t get myself to shake it like a saltshaka’’’..
Much love
Danceless in delhi
Dear danceless,
Oh hell yeah, I remember dudes like you. All Iron Maiden wearing, corner-of-the-party standing, head bobbing metallicats acting all cool, thinking the music was all happy and gay but not really joining in the festivities. I feel your pain. Well I don’t really feel it because I’m quite frankly the rug-cutting, soul-shaking, bootie knocking male version of fergy but yeah, in the possible parallel universe where dC cant dance, I feel your pain. Loser.
Ok, first off delhi boy, judas isn’t going to help you. You ever seen a tiny-skirt wearing, heavily made up delhi chick that would turn down prince William (not cos he’s not good enough for her but because she doesn’t know who prince William is) go all ballistic to Halford screaming ‘I believe you’re the devils child…?’ No you haven’t. And if you have, get yourself checked ‘cos you’re most probably dead. Anyway, Judas isn’t going to help. What you need to do is grab yourself some good house music that won’t cause your testicular fortitude to run down your pants and shy away from you screaming ‘no master noooo’. I’m talking house with an attitude that makes you move. I’d suggest a mix of Daft Punk’s Homework, Paul Oakenfold’s live in Havana and Oslo albums, mixed up with a bit of Depeche mode (world in my eyes, Halo) and possibly a few Disco Kandi records. Don’t be afraid to stand in front of the mirror and try to shake a bit. The sight might be ugly but in the end you’ll come out stronger.
I don’t usually say this, but try and turn on MTV for half an hour a day and watch any of the pathetic excuse for entertainment music videos for inspiration. If you’re desperate, watch any usher video, whilst this is supremely gay, I have to prescribe something slightly more extreme for your ‘govinda’ condition. Turn MTV off before it completely rots your mind though. The fungal infection caused by MTV in the brain can commence anywhere between 20-25 minutes...
Finally, get yourself a copy of a Genesis’ song called ‘I can’t dance’. It’s a terribly catchy, satirical and ironic number that shall remind you of the terrible world we live in where god doesn’t make us all equal and it comes down to those who can, and those who cannot- dance.
Peace retard. Don’t fall over yourself trying to jive a chikita, proclaiming desires for a hikita.
-dC
P.S. and don’t lie to me, aint no dude good at sports can claim he’s got dance disabilities. Unless you’re playing kabaddi professionally, in which case quit reading and writing into my column.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
dC's advice column: world music
Dear dC,
You seem like a well traveled individual. Which part of the world have you picked up direct influences of your musical tastes from?
Why I ask is that I am going to Bangladesh soon and it is my first experience of international travel….I’d love to get some tips on how to go deep into the roots of that culture and dig out music that encompasses the core of their cultural diversity…
-Chatterjee Sen from Kolkatta…
Dear Senmaster (not),
Just a second. Let me get this straight. You live in Bengal, you’ve never traveled abroad, and of all the god-forsaken locations on this gorgeous planet you choose Bangladesh? Man, you’ve got a brain, the internet and hence possibly enough cash flow to afford a newspaper… Are you not seeing what’s going on in that country??? Political lockdown, economic distress….do these words make any sense to you? Dude, they haven’t got things sorted out since the British left us battered and bruised 50+ years ago. They’re busy giving nobel prizes to dudes for micro-finance policies , little realizing that that’s the entire economy itself...
Anyway, what you do in your spare time man….
Finding about musical tastes in different cultures is a discovery. People watch the European top 20 on crap-assed MTV or VH1 and they’re all “im multi cultural and embrace diversity”. Bite me. The same shit does the same rounds all over the world as capitalists drive forward selfish motives and promote seemingly (but hardly) global sounds like shakira and Madonna to any continent that can afford it.
My trick – go into homes man. People’s homes. Go for small Sunday fests in little known cities and hear the music they play. Walk slowly behind mothers taking their children for a walk and listen in on the lullaby they sing. Don’t get too close or you’ll get a roundhouse kick all the way back to rosagulla land but you get my drift.
I spent a weekend at a gorgeous little cottage in the outskirts of Bern once where all I heard was a piano infused jazz collection of the home-owners family collection. Not exactly my cup of tea but it gave me a sense of the serenity of the place. I went for a live concert 3 months later and heard a rapped up French version (in concert) of dr. Jekyll and mr. hyde with Will I am in an awesome avatar. The answer is on the streets.
Man I don’t know what you’re doing in Bangladesh but if finding flute organs made out of raw rice and playing it for pleasure is what you call music, hell all I’ll say is respect….
If you become a political prisoner though I’m denying I ever gave you advice.
-dC
You seem like a well traveled individual. Which part of the world have you picked up direct influences of your musical tastes from?
Why I ask is that I am going to Bangladesh soon and it is my first experience of international travel….I’d love to get some tips on how to go deep into the roots of that culture and dig out music that encompasses the core of their cultural diversity…
-Chatterjee Sen from Kolkatta…
Dear Senmaster (not),
Just a second. Let me get this straight. You live in Bengal, you’ve never traveled abroad, and of all the god-forsaken locations on this gorgeous planet you choose Bangladesh? Man, you’ve got a brain, the internet and hence possibly enough cash flow to afford a newspaper… Are you not seeing what’s going on in that country??? Political lockdown, economic distress….do these words make any sense to you? Dude, they haven’t got things sorted out since the British left us battered and bruised 50+ years ago. They’re busy giving nobel prizes to dudes for micro-finance policies , little realizing that that’s the entire economy itself...
Anyway, what you do in your spare time man….
Finding about musical tastes in different cultures is a discovery. People watch the European top 20 on crap-assed MTV or VH1 and they’re all “im multi cultural and embrace diversity”. Bite me. The same shit does the same rounds all over the world as capitalists drive forward selfish motives and promote seemingly (but hardly) global sounds like shakira and Madonna to any continent that can afford it.
My trick – go into homes man. People’s homes. Go for small Sunday fests in little known cities and hear the music they play. Walk slowly behind mothers taking their children for a walk and listen in on the lullaby they sing. Don’t get too close or you’ll get a roundhouse kick all the way back to rosagulla land but you get my drift.
I spent a weekend at a gorgeous little cottage in the outskirts of Bern once where all I heard was a piano infused jazz collection of the home-owners family collection. Not exactly my cup of tea but it gave me a sense of the serenity of the place. I went for a live concert 3 months later and heard a rapped up French version (in concert) of dr. Jekyll and mr. hyde with Will I am in an awesome avatar. The answer is on the streets.
Man I don’t know what you’re doing in Bangladesh but if finding flute organs made out of raw rice and playing it for pleasure is what you call music, hell all I’ll say is respect….
If you become a political prisoner though I’m denying I ever gave you advice.
-dC
dC's advice column: tattoo
Dear dC,
I’m planning to get my first ink-job….any advice from a well tattooed brother like yourself? Also, its not like the pain matters too much but just checking- how much does it hurt?
-Alex from Mumbai..
Dear Alex,
First of all, if the pain didn’t matter, you wouldn’t ask. So quit being a pansy and ask. Now as you asked I must say ‘quit being a wimp and worrying about the pain’. Especially the pain impaled upon from a tattoo. Tattoos are voluntary. In 59 years you might be suffering from some dilapidating disease that causes your bones to crumble at the touch of a hard substance and that is real pain. If we suddenly decide to go to war with sri lanka and the 2 of us need to get enlisted, and you get shot by an LTTE sniper dude in the bottom half of your left ass-cheek, that is pain. Quit whining.
Ok, about the tattoo. First of all, I am not that well-inked up. I have one glorious job paying homage to the sun-sign on my right arm which shall get supplemented at some time in the future….
Good tattoo parlors are numerous. Funky monkey in bandra is beyond tremendous. The player there has a phenomenal samurai scene going live across his chest and back. If you’re looking for pain, inspiration and true devotion ask him to take his shirt off to get a peek. Do not be gay about it though. Secondly, my tattoo experience was enhanced with bad company’s self titled album blaring behind my ears through the hour long duration required for the creation of ze masterpiece. Everytime I heard Paul Rodgers go “bad company, till the day I die…” it was a holy matrimony of an experience.
Anyway, I suggest you tell the ink-master to pump in something cool like the drive-by truckers or even old school alice in chains (man in a box or grind would be scintillating) …. If its pain you’re worried about though, there are hena tattoos on every beach in goa that offer mehndi jobs to little old ladies. They play compulsory goan Christian music with that fallacy of an art, but please refrain from writing or sending pictures to me of the aftermath if this is your choice of action.
Good luck and godspeed
-dC
I’m planning to get my first ink-job….any advice from a well tattooed brother like yourself? Also, its not like the pain matters too much but just checking- how much does it hurt?
-Alex from Mumbai..
Dear Alex,
First of all, if the pain didn’t matter, you wouldn’t ask. So quit being a pansy and ask. Now as you asked I must say ‘quit being a wimp and worrying about the pain’. Especially the pain impaled upon from a tattoo. Tattoos are voluntary. In 59 years you might be suffering from some dilapidating disease that causes your bones to crumble at the touch of a hard substance and that is real pain. If we suddenly decide to go to war with sri lanka and the 2 of us need to get enlisted, and you get shot by an LTTE sniper dude in the bottom half of your left ass-cheek, that is pain. Quit whining.
Ok, about the tattoo. First of all, I am not that well-inked up. I have one glorious job paying homage to the sun-sign on my right arm which shall get supplemented at some time in the future….
Good tattoo parlors are numerous. Funky monkey in bandra is beyond tremendous. The player there has a phenomenal samurai scene going live across his chest and back. If you’re looking for pain, inspiration and true devotion ask him to take his shirt off to get a peek. Do not be gay about it though. Secondly, my tattoo experience was enhanced with bad company’s self titled album blaring behind my ears through the hour long duration required for the creation of ze masterpiece. Everytime I heard Paul Rodgers go “bad company, till the day I die…” it was a holy matrimony of an experience.
Anyway, I suggest you tell the ink-master to pump in something cool like the drive-by truckers or even old school alice in chains (man in a box or grind would be scintillating) …. If its pain you’re worried about though, there are hena tattoos on every beach in goa that offer mehndi jobs to little old ladies. They play compulsory goan Christian music with that fallacy of an art, but please refrain from writing or sending pictures to me of the aftermath if this is your choice of action.
Good luck and godspeed
-dC
dC's advice column: getting it on.
Dear dC,
This is a bit embarrassing to say, but my husband and I (married for nearly 25 years now) have been having some trouble in the bedroom department lately. I don’t know if its his new job or the new mattress I just got from the discount store down the street; he just isn’t firing on all cylinders if you know what I mean. Or well, he’s firing a bit too quickly…well I’m sure you get the drift.
I’ve been reading your column and I am sure the wonders of music would get his ‘well you know’ thing going….
Please help! I want more children…4 is just not enough don’t you think?)
-Desperate in Dalhousie
Dear Desperate,
Ok lady, first off…you’ve been married for 25 years. Considering failed child marriage acts in this country I’m guessing that should make you atleast 30 years old. So please quit saying ‘well you know’ and ‘if you know what I mean’. We ain’t talking about the secret blood line of Jesus Christ or the crying lactose effect of ganesha statues here. Nothing to be shy about man. This isn’t Dan Brown’s advice column ok?
Ok. Back to your problem. Fairly common issue. My worry here is more for your husband and his state of mind at the moment though. You see men like to perform when relaxed. This is not just restricted to the bedroom. Whilst sport is a different matter (where adrenaline and competition play a mightier role in performance), the bedroom is about union, a congruence, a divine act. What im trying to say is , Lady, are you trying to make a little cricket team out of your kids? you’ve already got 4 in 25 years, go easy on the cycle of life sister, we’re all doing our bit…you don’t have to take on china alone you know.
Anyway, what you guys do is up to you. If mr. desperate needs some motivation I suggest a couple of things that have been known to work for some of my friends. My phenomenon of a flatmate chooses to play any one of the longish Doors numbers when he’s getting his mack on. Problem with that though can be that Jim’s songs many a times last longer than him so there’s this melody going “Mr Mojo riiiiiiiiiiisiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing, got to keep on riiiiiiiiiisiiiiiiiiiiiiing” and I come downstairs to find the 2 of them washed up, dressed and drinking stale orange juice….not the coolest scene on the block you know but yeah an option…
Don’t go for the obvious sexual healing and lets get it on. They’re clichés and quite frankly no Indian dude can ever really compare male machismo to the African-american…way out of our league. For your unique case though, I propose putting on Lenny Kravitz’ greatest hits and learning the words to ‘I belong to you’. That’s gotta get things smoking…and if not. Just get a poster of the dude on the wall, whatever Mr. Dalhousie can offer, you can enhance through lenny’s supposed super sexuality. I’ve known a few cats to shake off below average (but good people type) lovers through that image.
Hope this helps.
-dC
This is a bit embarrassing to say, but my husband and I (married for nearly 25 years now) have been having some trouble in the bedroom department lately. I don’t know if its his new job or the new mattress I just got from the discount store down the street; he just isn’t firing on all cylinders if you know what I mean. Or well, he’s firing a bit too quickly…well I’m sure you get the drift.
I’ve been reading your column and I am sure the wonders of music would get his ‘well you know’ thing going….
Please help! I want more children…4 is just not enough don’t you think?)
-Desperate in Dalhousie
Dear Desperate,
Ok lady, first off…you’ve been married for 25 years. Considering failed child marriage acts in this country I’m guessing that should make you atleast 30 years old. So please quit saying ‘well you know’ and ‘if you know what I mean’. We ain’t talking about the secret blood line of Jesus Christ or the crying lactose effect of ganesha statues here. Nothing to be shy about man. This isn’t Dan Brown’s advice column ok?
Ok. Back to your problem. Fairly common issue. My worry here is more for your husband and his state of mind at the moment though. You see men like to perform when relaxed. This is not just restricted to the bedroom. Whilst sport is a different matter (where adrenaline and competition play a mightier role in performance), the bedroom is about union, a congruence, a divine act. What im trying to say is , Lady, are you trying to make a little cricket team out of your kids? you’ve already got 4 in 25 years, go easy on the cycle of life sister, we’re all doing our bit…you don’t have to take on china alone you know.
Anyway, what you guys do is up to you. If mr. desperate needs some motivation I suggest a couple of things that have been known to work for some of my friends. My phenomenon of a flatmate chooses to play any one of the longish Doors numbers when he’s getting his mack on. Problem with that though can be that Jim’s songs many a times last longer than him so there’s this melody going “Mr Mojo riiiiiiiiiiisiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing, got to keep on riiiiiiiiiisiiiiiiiiiiiiing” and I come downstairs to find the 2 of them washed up, dressed and drinking stale orange juice….not the coolest scene on the block you know but yeah an option…
Don’t go for the obvious sexual healing and lets get it on. They’re clichés and quite frankly no Indian dude can ever really compare male machismo to the African-american…way out of our league. For your unique case though, I propose putting on Lenny Kravitz’ greatest hits and learning the words to ‘I belong to you’. That’s gotta get things smoking…and if not. Just get a poster of the dude on the wall, whatever Mr. Dalhousie can offer, you can enhance through lenny’s supposed super sexuality. I’ve known a few cats to shake off below average (but good people type) lovers through that image.
Hope this helps.
-dC
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
06 to 07...
I left for the big G on the 25th of December. A blog posting from Mumbai airport, surprisingly uber-punctual flights via sahara and 6 hours later I set foot on a truly gorgeous part of my beautiful country..
Goa was everything and more.
One of the first things that struck me about this place was just how clean the damn place was. From superbly maintained roads to lush greenery (ok that could be the climate, but still) and well structured directions to various parts of the coast town beauty. Agreed that goa is mostly populated during 2 weeks in the year, I could not get over the sheer pleasure of my surrounding. The fact that my cab driver was most indignant when I laughed at the sight of 2 dudes (heavily inebriated) attempting to give us directions.
His explanation ‘they are enjoying’. You know, not drinking, not tanking, just plain ‘enjoying’. That is the spirit of goa.
Maybe this preparation was good ‘cos it stopped me from guffawing myself to death when the dominos rep on the phone (yeah yeah I had just arrived and I was much too tired to drive down to north goa for my first plate of prawn curry ok?) says ‘sir im sorry but we cannot assure the 30 minute delivery promise during this season’.
Somewhere some dominos marketing rep is turning in his grave…crores and crores of rupees spent on branding and quick delivery and here’s chiller goa telling customers “we could be there in 40 minutes or maybe even 50, just wait please sir?”
Hahahahha I wish I was kidding…
So anyway, the laid back masti of the wind down to a phenomenal and most intense year began.
It was fitting.
When I look back at this last year I can distinctly look at it from 2 very different perspectives. It started off with major dreams and difficult battles, both on a personal and professional front. I won some, I lost some, but in the end I think I came out stronger and smarter with each battle; none of them scarring me with a wound deep enough to refuse the chance to heal.
I made some big decisions…and learnt that more then the actual decision itself, it is the strength and integrity of the individual to stand by them in thick and thin, as if they were entities residing within us, next to us. The decisions I made this year were almost like people themselves. They carried with them the experience, foresight, pain, pleasure and irregularity of human beings. I stood by each of them and got them through. Another year of being proud with my Entscheidungen.
Goa was heaps of fun. I was staying in donapaulo, residing in the gorgeous pad of lord KS which had all the amenities and more…the jetty near his place yielded gorgeous sites such as these that had me and T gazing wistfully during long walks and occasional sips of our coconut water….goa puts you in a lull…magnifique….
Trips to baga
were often in the first half before the damn place became a fish market. Highlights were the rockstar gautam singhania
making an entrance in his chopper right at the shore of baga and the brilliant dj pearl mixing an absolutely killer mix through submerge at the sunset parties of zanzi’s. a must do for everyone who enjoys the simplicity of sea food, house music, the setting sun and the goan kings beer mashed in with good company and the taste of sand in the air……
We spent a lot of time at candolim with the college gang. Me and T finally found a picture that we both like a lot.
Goa had a lot of attempts and this one certainly comes closest to the most adorable of all time…it was truly awesome having one to one time as much as we did.
The gang was in their element and I was reminded of just why I got such little studying done in college with these guys. In between skinny dipping at midnight too handa’s butt slapping with his new oshos and long insane walks to shack parties noone had heard of to sethi snoring so loud that foreigners wanted to take video recordings specially for youtube specials….
It had it all.
We also made a solemn promise to do goa for NYE an annual thing…if there’s one thing I wish- its for that too actually materialize. Would be a good story for our grandkids…
I knew the airline situation whilst going had to be too good to be true, so on my return sahara expectedly lost my baggage. 2 trips and many shoutings later, I got hold of my one solitary suitcase from the delhi airport and resumed life in the kickassery of the north side; but with one exception.
CK flew in on the morning of the 4th and it was nothing short of…
Well words fail me.
One makes acquaintances, friends, good friends even. One makes plans of meeting across geographies, in home and alien environments. One tells stories of friends and family and just how the bond would grow within loved ones…
Many a time these dreams and promises just don’t come true, they don’t come through. Life is full of people coming in and going away fairly easily. When younger you feel pain, hurt and extended depression on losing the special ones. Age hardens you, maturity and responsibility being the evil reasons for ‘drifting apart’
CK, you and me laid the first grounds for never letting that happen…from playing chauffer to the various wedding ceremonies, to endless screwdrivers at shaloms and laid back waters to conversations extending early into the morning and late into the evenings….we just picked up where we left off and it was awesome.
4 days went by much too fast and I look forward to coming to singy bro. more adventures await us.
Its back to the routine now...something tells me 2007 is gonna have its own share of surprises, only time will tell.
Bring it on I say, bring it on….
Goa was everything and more.
One of the first things that struck me about this place was just how clean the damn place was. From superbly maintained roads to lush greenery (ok that could be the climate, but still) and well structured directions to various parts of the coast town beauty. Agreed that goa is mostly populated during 2 weeks in the year, I could not get over the sheer pleasure of my surrounding. The fact that my cab driver was most indignant when I laughed at the sight of 2 dudes (heavily inebriated) attempting to give us directions.
His explanation ‘they are enjoying’. You know, not drinking, not tanking, just plain ‘enjoying’. That is the spirit of goa.
Maybe this preparation was good ‘cos it stopped me from guffawing myself to death when the dominos rep on the phone (yeah yeah I had just arrived and I was much too tired to drive down to north goa for my first plate of prawn curry ok?) says ‘sir im sorry but we cannot assure the 30 minute delivery promise during this season’.
Somewhere some dominos marketing rep is turning in his grave…crores and crores of rupees spent on branding and quick delivery and here’s chiller goa telling customers “we could be there in 40 minutes or maybe even 50, just wait please sir?”
Hahahahha I wish I was kidding…
So anyway, the laid back masti of the wind down to a phenomenal and most intense year began.
It was fitting.
When I look back at this last year I can distinctly look at it from 2 very different perspectives. It started off with major dreams and difficult battles, both on a personal and professional front. I won some, I lost some, but in the end I think I came out stronger and smarter with each battle; none of them scarring me with a wound deep enough to refuse the chance to heal.
I made some big decisions…and learnt that more then the actual decision itself, it is the strength and integrity of the individual to stand by them in thick and thin, as if they were entities residing within us, next to us. The decisions I made this year were almost like people themselves. They carried with them the experience, foresight, pain, pleasure and irregularity of human beings. I stood by each of them and got them through. Another year of being proud with my Entscheidungen.
Goa was heaps of fun. I was staying in donapaulo, residing in the gorgeous pad of lord KS which had all the amenities and more…the jetty near his place yielded gorgeous sites such as these that had me and T gazing wistfully during long walks and occasional sips of our coconut water….goa puts you in a lull…magnifique….
Trips to baga
were often in the first half before the damn place became a fish market. Highlights were the rockstar gautam singhania
making an entrance in his chopper right at the shore of baga and the brilliant dj pearl mixing an absolutely killer mix through submerge at the sunset parties of zanzi’s. a must do for everyone who enjoys the simplicity of sea food, house music, the setting sun and the goan kings beer mashed in with good company and the taste of sand in the air……
We spent a lot of time at candolim with the college gang. Me and T finally found a picture that we both like a lot.
Goa had a lot of attempts and this one certainly comes closest to the most adorable of all time…it was truly awesome having one to one time as much as we did.
The gang was in their element and I was reminded of just why I got such little studying done in college with these guys. In between skinny dipping at midnight too handa’s butt slapping with his new oshos and long insane walks to shack parties noone had heard of to sethi snoring so loud that foreigners wanted to take video recordings specially for youtube specials….
It had it all.
We also made a solemn promise to do goa for NYE an annual thing…if there’s one thing I wish- its for that too actually materialize. Would be a good story for our grandkids…
I knew the airline situation whilst going had to be too good to be true, so on my return sahara expectedly lost my baggage. 2 trips and many shoutings later, I got hold of my one solitary suitcase from the delhi airport and resumed life in the kickassery of the north side; but with one exception.
CK flew in on the morning of the 4th and it was nothing short of…
Well words fail me.
One makes acquaintances, friends, good friends even. One makes plans of meeting across geographies, in home and alien environments. One tells stories of friends and family and just how the bond would grow within loved ones…
Many a time these dreams and promises just don’t come true, they don’t come through. Life is full of people coming in and going away fairly easily. When younger you feel pain, hurt and extended depression on losing the special ones. Age hardens you, maturity and responsibility being the evil reasons for ‘drifting apart’
CK, you and me laid the first grounds for never letting that happen…from playing chauffer to the various wedding ceremonies, to endless screwdrivers at shaloms and laid back waters to conversations extending early into the morning and late into the evenings….we just picked up where we left off and it was awesome.
4 days went by much too fast and I look forward to coming to singy bro. more adventures await us.
Its back to the routine now...something tells me 2007 is gonna have its own share of surprises, only time will tell.
Bring it on I say, bring it on….
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