aami poth bhola ek pothik eshechi.
amay cheno ki?


[i'm a pilgrim who's lost his way. do you know me?]

political people in India [where else?] call each other breeds of fish.
read it here:

roads in my head

wtf

productive potty

i also want to be this

bangalore glimpses

delhi to bangalore

Woman as on 27th November 2008

She bangs, she bangs.

Women bang.
And that’s that.

They bang anything that’s remotely close to their hand. Glasses, plates, tables, serving spoons – anything goes really. As long as it makes sufficient sound.

There are two kinds of men, anger management wise.

The first kind is the gentle, docile kind. The kind who doesn’t really like getting himself into unnecessary quarrels and domestic dishum-dishum. He’s much rather watch a movie. Listen to some music. Maybe even flip gently through a women’s magazine. Anything to soften the impending doom.

The second kind however, is a tad more aggressive. He knows one thing. If the woman doesn’t listen to teaching, she’ll listen to beating. The woman who’s with him [God bless her] knows he’s like that, so she doesn’t bother raising her voice.
Or banging, for that matter.

This second kind of man is slowly dying out, thanks to womens liberation and other such outfits. So much for tradition.
The first kind remains.

Women however, have no kinds to them.
They don’t have a demarcation between the gentle sort and the loud sort.

Because, there is no gentle sort.

Every woman, no matter who or where, will bang. The mother will rush to the kitchen and bang the utensils. The father will click his tongue, shake his head and look helplessly at his children.

The wife will suddenly get into a cleaning spree. She’ll get the jharoo and upset more things than cleaning them. The husband will click his tongue, shake his head and write a blog post.

I’m led to believe there’s a deeper insight to this banging. That, they don’t do it just out of anger.

Here is what I think:

For hundreds of years, any form of victory has been celebrated with sound and music. Be it kings winning at war or a cricket team winning a match. It is the ones who have won, and the people close to them who make a song and dance about it.

They burst crackers, blow their trumpets and whistles.
They beat their drums.

The losers, on the other hand stay mute.

I think the women have learnt from this. Every woman, one generation after another, has learnt from her mother. Every mother has perhaps sat her daughter down when she has come of age, and whispered to her over a nice cup of tea that to show you’ve won the fight, you must make noise.

And every woman when she has got this opportunity, has made use of this priceless advice.

So when there’s a fight, before anything can be resolved, they rush into the kitchen or the bedroom or dining room and start banging things. Celebrating victory.

And indeed it is.

Imagine, if you will, two countries at war. Both of them are getting ready to fight, when the army of one country suddenly leaps into the air, beating their drums, sounding their trumpets and shouting that they’ve won.

Imagine what it would do to the other country.

If you pretend you’ve won, you’ve already won most of the fight.

We’re a dismal lot. Us men.
We click our tongue, shake our head and helplessly look at the ones who are around us, while our better halves run around celebrating the victory of a war that never started.

We’re a sad bunch. Us men.
We go to office the next day and tell our colleagues. Our mothers. We dive into the safe refuge of our work. Our music. Our movies.

Some of us even write blog posts.

:-)

Just something I wrote for my school. Another approach to a conventional PTA meeting.

Scenes from The Bodhi Tree. Life as an Advertising Guy knows it: Sex

the original omelette

time

Winds of time and flings of fate and wings of dusted doom
Float about in her head and dance across her room.
She raises her head from her bed in a final effort to say
When all is dead but my death, what makes you Time, stay?
But time just fleets around her sheets and doesn’t offer a sound
But swiftly take her to where the ponderers meet, which is just around.
Too many questions. Too little time, Time thinks aloud
Let me be. Let me be. I’ll always be around.

back to basics

scenes from the bodhi tree: Life as an advertising guy knows it

[thank you gora!]

drink-a-drink-a-drink-a

shell

javascript:void(0)

scenes from the bodhi tree: Life as an advertising guy knows it

scenes from the bodhi tree: Life as an advertising guy knows it

the life of fish

scenes from the bodhi tree: Life as an advertising guy knows it

scenes from the bodhi tree: Life as an advertising guy knows it

scenes from the bodhi tree: Life as an advertising guy knows it

scenes from the bodhi tree: Life as an advertising guy knows it

scenes from the bodhi tree: Life as an advertising guy knows it

scenes from the bodhi tree: Life as an advertising guy knows it

scenes from the bodhi tree: Life as an advertising guy knows it

I'm not running away from this place. I'm rejecting it.

up. yours.

27th September 08.
2 bombs go off in qutub minar, mehrauli.
[and that too, just 14 days after the blasts in delhi]
the biggest middle finger shown yet is the one by the indian muhajadin.
the one that doesnt involve fingers.
but innocent people.
in your face, mr. world peace.

the rain as i see it

what it feels like to be this side of the green grass.

the man who's higher up

sometimes, it's not that bad to be way down in the corporate ladder.