I am acutely aware that my biological clock is ticking, having observed that I attend weddings of my friends and peers on an alarmingly increased basis. Not to mention welcoming the odd child into this world.

But just look at what the Internet has chosen for me. I mean, WTF?

They say that if you're old enough, you will always remember what you were doing on the 22nd of November, 1963, when you heard.

I will always remember waking up to 2 messages on the morning of June 26th. And rubbing my eyes, hoping they weren't true.


"Will me, thrill me
You can never kill me..."

It's a ridiculous mix of humour and irony. If you were to observe it from a suitable vantage point, your mind would mend at the absolute mockery that is made of all plans and feelings. Predictability? You've got to be kidding. It's just so damn hilarious, it would, as a spectacle of entertainment, wipe out anything invented by man.

Ain't life a bitch?


"...but trust me on the sunscreen."

Trusting. Friendly. Cheerful.

That's what I used to be.

Over the last few years, I've learnt two things. The first is that people aren't what they seem to be. No one is. Not your best friend, not your lover, not your brother. Everyone has their own agenda, and most people will nary bat an eyelid before doing you harm to further it.

The second is more, er, useful. I've learnt that I have a capacity for rage that is disturbing. I can hide and nurse a grudge for months, maybe years, and wait. I suppose this is a good thing.


Romans 12:19

She's gone. He took her away. And I stood and watched her leave.

I used to wonder why everyone refers to automobiles as feminine. Just this one time, I understand.

"...and I miss here now you're gone."

All great tragedies are made of many smaller tragedies. Stories of despair and desperation. And these stories have their opposites. The sterling silver linings to their black clouds. For it is often the worst of times that brings out the best in men.

"The general manager lost his whole family in one of the fires in the building,"
(Ratan) Tata said, referring to Karambir Kang, whose wife and two sons - aged 14
and 5 - were killed. "I went up to him today and told him how sorry I was, and
he said, 'Sir, we are going to beat this. We are going to build this Taj back
into what it was'."

It made me cry.

My life, I have realised, is the pursuit of happiness, riches, and love, probably in that order, though being interrelated, there's no order really. Anything else will take care of itself.

If it doesn't, there's always a jack rod.


"Walking in the race of life
Looking for my own pace
Not always wanting to but I have to
Sometimes feeling like I've bitten off much more than I could chew
But the wind goes though my hair
Lifts me up with ease not a crease
Hair full of grease no weave embracing me
It's you I see
I am you and you are me."

I want to kill someone.

To the hair puller, the white girl with dirty blonde hair, who took great pleasure in bathing in a bucket, and then claiming she would marry a girl.

To the only sibling I talk to, or respect, or listen to, or heed. The only sibling who I defend, and the only one who will ever get to drive my Lamborghini.

Happy birthday!

"Happy birthday to you..."

Today I went back in time.

To an old haunt.

To an old friend.

To another time.

To a restaurant.

To a conversation in a car, outside that same restaurant.

To a moment.

And then, somewhere in the middle of all this, I heard a dead Parsi guy say:


"Oh how I want to be free, baby.
Oh, how I want to be free."

Sometimes I wish I were her.

Sometimes I wish I were her.

Sometimes I wish I were here.

Sometimes I wish I were here.

Sometimes I wish I were free.

Sometimes I wish I were me.


"All we have to do now
Is take these lies and make them true somehow."
All we have to see
Is that I don't belong to you, and you don't belong to me."

Fast cars. Loud music. Alcohol.

Cliches are so much fun.


"You gotta keep pushin' for the fortune and fame.
You know it's, it's all a gamble when it's just a game."

Stairway To Heaven.
Mama I'm Coming Home.
Livin' On A Prayer.
Keep The Faith.
Layla.
Free Fallin'.
Fast Car.
Cocaine.

Pictures capture moments. Songs, songs are different. They capture memories.


"... just memories of a different life.
Some that made us laugh, some that made us cry..."

I have just discovered that my family were the undisputed lords and owners of over 11,000 acres of land. Each of those acres is conservatively valued at 5 lakhs today. To speed your number-crunching up, that's 550 crores, or $ 140 million. And they drank it all away.

It's enough to drive a person to drink.


"Don't forget this fact, you can't get it back; cocaine.
She don't lie, she don't lie, she don't lie; cocaine."

Of all the oxymorons in today's lexicon, and there are many, from thunderous silence to good shit, nothing, and I do mean NOTHING, is quite so disgusting and evil as

Veggie Delite®

Welcome to the new century.

I feel like punching something very hard. It's a great stress-relief mechanism, to shower gratuitous physical violence upon an object or a person. I wish to indulge myself in it.

Actually, maybe I should have some showered on me. Get beaten. To a bloody pulp. Like half-annihilated and almost dead. The sort of violence where the simplest thoughts and actions, such as BREATHE, BLINK, become tasks of great importance and skill. Where you don't so much begin to wish that it were over, because you're beyond pain, but you wish you could figure out what's actually going on. Beaten senseless. So that I look something like


Except with hair. I have nice hair. I'm half Mallu, you know.

I used to know a girl who would cut herself with a blade. She did it because physical pain was preferable to the other kind.

I'm beginning to understand the concept of Fight Club. Maybe we can start one. Disco Pig's Club of Fun Times. No punching on the nose, I'm all sneezy.

This is exactly the sort of behaviour that leads to schizophrenia and DID/MPD.

Remember the first rule?


"Ol' Miss Lucy's dead an' gone,
Left me here to weep and moan."

The last bubble. It's close to bursting. Anytime now.

Coincidentally, this is my 100th post. Very undramatic.

I've noticed that The Beatles' songs contain a lot of wisdom. You have to listen hard, but it's there.

Sometimes I feel like:

"...been torn apart.
Now he's a court jester
With a broken heart.
He said, 'Turn me around
And take me back to the start.
I must be losing my mind.'"

I spend money like a fool. All the alcohol, all the food, and I keep buying ridiculously expensive stuff for cars that I don't own and rarely drive.

But I read this today. And this one comparison of salaries struck me.

Glen Heroy, 45
Hospital clown
New York, N.Y.
$28,000

John Paulson, 52
Hedge-fund manager
New York, N.Y.$
$ 3.5 billion

Maybe I'd rather be Glen.

"Bring Sally up,
I bring Sally down..."

Random memory, in the misremembered and misquoted words of a fat, smelly Gujarati boy:
"You can get her to sing. I've discovered how. You have to catch her off guard. She was in the back of the car and the music was on, and she was singing along with it. Then I turned the music off, and she was singing and she didn't realise. It was beautiful."

I'm addicted to: G'n'R's version of Knockin', the guitar solo from 2:56 onwards. It's like Slash is in me, and my heart is his Fender, and it's SCREAMING.