Encompassing religion

The big guy would roll in day after day. Tattoo on his arms, but clean shaven. A nod of a head, a grin, and they both knew they were alive. The thinner guy by the grace of Allah, and the other by virtue of his taste-buds. One day the big guy arrives sporting a small goatee. Unusual. The devout guy grins, "So have you finally found true religion then?"

"Yeah, mate. Now would you lend me a compass? Burgers cicularise my sense of direction."

Nostalgia trips 3

I guess I have always liked sticks, hiking, dogs, flat-caps and grandparents. The dog's name is Brandy and she was an Alsatian.

Nostalgia trips 2

God, how I have absolutely hated school all my life. Making that poor boy carry all that junk wrapped in hardly the most comfortable schoolbag, and that ridiculous bottle, and being made to wear ankle-high trousers (so that they don't get dirty), and being woken up at unheard-of hours, and having to travel many a mile in jam-packed buses in inclement weather to face inconsiderate teachers.

Bah.

But, the main reason I really hated school was because I had the worst, I repeat, the worst, packed lunch ever given to any school going child who is sane of mind. After twelve years of opening that lunch-box, Pandora's Box holds no fear for me.

Nostalgia trips 1

I have always loved to drive.

Journalese 5: Carpal Puppetitis Syndrome strikes again!

The political fraternity was put on high alert today with reports filtering in of yet another in the highest political echelons falling prey to the dreaded disease Carpal Puppetitis Syndrome (CPS). Sonia Maino-Gandhi, widow of the late Rajeev Gandhi, today resigned from the Indian parliament citing extreme physical pain and difficulties in utilising her wrists. Doctors were united in the opinion that the latter was a direct result of her making the Prime Minister M M Singh, nay the whole country, dance to the whims of her wristy political and economic ambitions. The cause for overall physical pain was traced to 'artful dodging' of allegations about her holding an 'office of profit' while serving in the Indian parliament. Apparently these recent attempts at 'artful dodging' have severely accentuated trauma suffered during an earlier incident of 'artful dodging' during the 'Great Denial Incident' of 2004.

What is most surprising in this painful drama was the failure of the popular drug 'Sycophancy'*. In most cases of CPS, 'Sycophancy' has been known to work miracles. During the 'Great Denial Incident' when in addition to 'artfully dodging' the President A P J Abdul Kalam's well-aimed and sharp-edged probes about her antecedents (to check her suitability as India's Prime Minister), Mrs. M.-Gandhi had to invoke ancient and mystical 'denial chants'. As such pronunciations were alien to her muscular jaw, she was immediately struck down by CPS of the jaw, making smiling virtually impossible for her. She had then retreated into the High Temple of 10 Janpath Road in New Delhi. Luckily, her political party, the Indian National Congress, also happens to be the largest collection of 'Sycophancy' donors in the country. Drawing on confidence gained by having saved her mother-in-law, the late Indira Gandhi, when she was under attack from the little know Emergency strain of CPS, large numbers of donors gathered at the High Temple and proceeded to ply her with massive doses of the life saving drug 'Sycophancy'. It is well known that the malady was finally laid hors de combat by an ingenious donor from the province of Bihar, who overcoming his loss in the 2004 elections, bravely threatened to shoot himself on the footsteps of the High Temple if Mrs. M.-Gandhi did not smile. Ritual dosage of 'Sycophancy' performed so well at that time that it allowed Mrs. M.-Gandhi's physique to recover from her CPS travails and successfully scale the 'moral high ground', a hallowed and much strived for region in political space.

Well-wishers have still not given up though, as the Prime Minister M M Singh continues to lead the way with a continuous supply of 'Sycophancy' by hailing Mrs. M.-Gandhi as the "tallest leader in the country". This, however, is rumoured not to have gone down well with veteran parlimentarian Karan Singh, who at 6ft something regards himself as touching heights unexplored by Mrs. M.-Gandhi's 5 foot 3 inches. Nevertheless, he too provides much needed quantities of 'Sycophancy' by following in Mrs. M.-Gandhi's footsteps and resigning from the Indian parliament, and vowing to fight CPS in the capacity of Mrs.M.-Gandhi's trusted foot-licker. Till last heard, massive donations of 'Sycophancy' continue to pour in. These include the standard dosage of glorifying the culture of sacrifice in the Maino-Nehru-Gandhi family in particular, and in the Indian National Congress party in general. However, it seems that the virii responsible for CPS has mutated over the past two years, and the search continues for medication that will allow Mrs. M.-Gandhi to recover from this virulent attack of CPS and recapture the 'moral high ground'. An interesting variation of 'Sycophancy' that involved comparing her resignation to Shaheed Bhagat Singh's supreme sacrifice has shown some promise, and many doctors claim that need of the hour is to locate more of such capable 'Sycophant' donors.

Ironically, the last high-profile politician to have suffered from an attack of CPS, was Mrs. M.-Gandhi's late husband Rajiv Gandhi, who complained of severe pains in his shoulder joints at the time when his party, the Indian National Congress, was providing outside support to Prime Minister Chandrasekhar's government. It was agreed then that his condition was due to his frequently and suddenly shifting the prime-ministerial chair underneath Prime Minister Chandrasekhar's seat-seeking bottom**. Just as Mr. Gandhi had to seek the anodyne of the masses through general elections***, so too has his widow sought the healing touch of the people of Rae Bareli in the North Indian province of Uttar Pradesh. As a precaution, lepers, and other unwashed have been carefully culled from amongst those gathering to provide the healing touch.

Thankfully, all is not lost. Close aides maintain that Mrs. M.-Gandhi is equally proficient with her eyes at the sport of puppeteering. A blink here, and a glance there, is usually enough to make the Prime Minister and his Government jump through hoola-hoops.

* Sycophancy is a registered drug manufactured almost exclusively by the Indian National Congress party in India.
** The analogue of the heat-seeking missile in the political class. It allows a politician's most substantial part to unerring seek and occupy seats of power.
***No, we don't believe being blown apart while seeking treatment from the masses was part of his medical agenda. Most likely it was the result of an ill-concieved 'shock therapy' treatment by his well-wishers.

Random quotes #1

Bachelor:
1. A single who is ready to mingle, has the urge to merge, but flings the ring and omits to commit.
2. A man who comes to work each morning from a different direction.
3. A guy who leans toward women - but not far enough to lose his balance.
4. Someone who never quite gets over the idea that he is a boy forever. (That strikes a note.)

"Love is the irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired."
- Mark Twain

"Love is not the dying moan of a distant violin, it is the triumphant twang of a bedspring"
- S J Perelman.

On running in rain:
"There's no such thing as bad weather, just soft people."
- Bill Bowerman

Journalese 4: From Cola to Colitis

The Dainik Bhaskar reports on an issue of (g)astronomical importance. Because this newspaper sticks to the vernacular in its reporting, I provide a freelwheeling translation for the benefit of our linguistically challenged readers.
---
Farmers in the central Indian province of Madhya Pradesh were dismayed to find that pesticides were not quite equal to the demands of their job. The pests infesting their crop of chickpeas were lapping the stuff up like so much Coca-Cola.

A frustrated farmer, Vikram Verma, turned to his neighbours for advice, and heeding them, sprayed the chickpeas with Coca-Cola. His joy knew no bounds when he observed that pesticide guzzling pests couldn't quite stomach this beverage.

"Take that you DDT guzzling varmint", he is said to have remarked memorably.

It has long been know that Coca-Cola has few peers when taking the rust (or dried blood) off a favourite sword, or when cleaning that long neglected toilet bowl, but that it had such hidden talents in the area of killing of unwanted scum was not known till now.

In addition to its skill in weeding out pests, Coke also trumps pesticides in its ease of use, while also providing other fringe benefits. As farmer Ramu Chaurasia says "There is no need to mix water, or pre-treatment. Just pop the cap, fill the canister, screw in the nozzle and start sprayin'. And, if you get tired or thirsty, just point the nozzle towards your face."

"Cowabunga!", he added.

While most pesticides leave a nasty medicinal taste, and sometimes may even harm the crop, Coke is foolproof. As farmer Yogesh Saini told this reporter, "Nah, the chickpeas are doin' fine, but them pests never knew what hit 'em. Moreover, there is a nice lilting sweetness to my chickpeas."

In fact, getting children to eat those chickpeas may have just gotten easier. Now that they have been through the hands of the Coca-Cola company. Early reports hear of sighs of relief emanating from many a troubled mother.

Local agricultural scientists had mixed reactions. While C K Jain, the second in command at the agricultural department, expressed relief, " I guess I can go home early today", he also vented his frustration when remarking about "All those hours wasted in the laboratory inhaling noxious chemicals and surviving several explosions, when all the time the answer was literally cooling its heels in the refrigerator."

This developmet also has important ramifications on the aerated drinks economy in farming areas. It has been observed that for an acre of farmland about eight bottles of Coke (small size) are needed. However, locals tell us that previously Coke was found to be good only for soyabeans, but now that it works for chickpeas also, supplies are not matching demand. As one person remarked, "Earlier there was enough Coca-Cola to drink and to spray." Indeed, Ramu Verma the local Coca-Cola dealer said that the past year had not seen many sales during the chickpeas season. Most purhcases were during the soyabean season. But now that Coke's salubrious effects on chickpeas have been noticed, he is running of stock. "I had better order some more Coke. It is pity Pepsi is dragging its feet, for I have tons of that stuff left."

This is, however, bad news for the pesticide producers. Most orders for popular pesticides like DDT have reduced dramatically, with people ordering them mostly for their smell, to which they are addicted after years of use. "I just couldn't sleep without that nauseating smell", a local remarked. This has prompted many pesticide companies to turn towards the local perfume markets to make up profits lost to the Coca-Cola company in the (pest-) killing arena.

Representatives at Coca-Cola expressed satisfaction that years of research spent in creating the drink with that certain 'kick' has not gone down the drain. "We are happy to see that not only does Coke soothe the parched throat, clean the dirty toilet, but also helps in saving the starving stomach. However, we are thinking of charging a percentage on chickpeas' sales, now that they have been guaranteed survival by the Coca-Coal company. We are a top-tier multinational company after all."

Pepsi officials were tight lipped about these developments, but insiders report that Pepsi scientists are hard at work to improve the (pest-) killing properties of Pepsi. An official, who declined to be named, remarked that Pepsi cannot afford to fall behind in tapping this newly developing market. "We have put together a powerful team under the code name 'Operation Pepsticide' to overhaul Coca-Cola as the (pest-) killing drink of choice. Expect results within the month."

At the same time several medical doctors were seen to be rubbing their palms with glee. "This can only be good for business. As stomach expert Dr. N. T. T. Ummy put it "If these cold-drinks kill off pests resistant to DDT, imagine what they would be doing to the human innards. Not to mention their teeth", before finishing off with a maniacal "Bwahahaha".

Pharma honchos have also reported increasing production of painkillers, antacids and dentures.
---

"Anyways, you know, main aaj kal bahaut poetry padhne lagi hoon. This Gopalsdas Neeraj is kaafi good, in fact. Sometimes, to main rone bhi lagti hoon. English poetry? Nahin, English poetry to I can't read much. Unko samajhna kaafi hard hota hai, no?"

Why do I have my doubts about her Hindi being more thoroughbred than her English?

I know, Cambridge lends air to my arrogance.

How can I help you Sir?
One hot chocolate.
Regular or large?
Regular.
Would you like cream?
No.
Drink in?
Yes, please.
That will be £1.95 Sir.

How can I help you Sir?
One hot chocolate.
Regular or large?
Regular.
Would you like cream?
No.
Drink in?
Yes, please.
That will be £1.95 Sir.

How can I help you Sir?
One hot chocolate.
Regular or large?
Regular.
Would you like cream?
No.
Drink in?
Yes, please.
That will be £1.95 Sir.

Enough.

How can I help you Sir?
One hot chocolate.
Regular or large?
Regular.
Would you like cream?
No.
Drink in?
No, throw it out.
That will be £1.95 Sir.

Deep insight #1

I finally figured out why (most) men find women enticing, intriguing, captivating, etc.-ing. Though their peculiar anatomical construction may play a role, far more important is the fact that here, for a change, is a creature that takes care of its appearance, combs its hair, bathes, smells a-Ok, brushes teeth, walks with dignity, has poise, etc. It is all so bizarre and unnatural. So different from the completely natural and logical actions of a commonly found hairy creature that gets up, makes faces in the mirror, farts, grimaces at the shower*, throws on T-shirt and a smelly pair of jeans, shuffles to office, guffaws at toilet humour, and generally messes things up.

If you, gentle reader, are wondering how come you never have such penetrating insight, don't worry. While it is possible that you may be on the slower side of things, or, perhaps its a conspiracy of The Great Spinster to keep you out of the loop, but to really unearth deep facts about life, you have to stare at jumbled, nasty and completely unresponsive equations for hours on end, while simultaneously twiddling your thumbs.

*We are not responsible, it is natural selection:

Coffee

Not that I like coffee, but when I do partake of the beverage, I like it hot, strong and sweet (Coffee:Sugar::1:3).
In other words, to paraphrase certain politically incorrect saying of the Old West, Coffee should be

Blacker than Night,
Sweeter than Sin and
Hotter than Hell.

I leave it to you to spot where one could stumble into political incorrectness.

Shadders*

Some there be that shadows kiss;
Such have but a shadow's bliss.
- Shakespeare (Merchant of Venice)



When small men begin to cast big shadows, it means that the sun is about to set.
- Lin Yutang



Follow a shadow, it still flies you,
Seem to fly, it will pursue:
So court a mistress, she denies you;
Let her alone, she will court you.
Say are not women truly, then,
Styled but the shadows of us men?
- Ben Johnson

* If you went 'huh!' you desperately need to read some Sudden by Oliver Strange. It has ISI (I. Sharma Inspected) approval.

The Daily Slimes: The Neverending Song

The Daily Slimes updates The Neverending Song with this contribution from the acclaimed Argentine rapper Buenas Hairees Dias. He was bald. He is said to have composed it while climbing Mt. Aconcagua. Unfortunately, he died when attempting to rap on a particularly slippery glacier. It pays not to climb The Stone Sentinel* when stoned.

I Am A Little Pie**

I am a little soy,
That wishes to be a boy,
For then my sweetheart girl,
Wouldn't smell like cousin Earl.

*That is what Aconcagua means.
**To be sung to the beat of 'I am a little fly' by Marvin Pontiac.

Birds of a feather... shed together

Here is an old joke:
---
A Sardar (or Sikh, is a follower of Sikhism) breaks to a stop in front of a railway crossing. A rather large nautical looking bird alights on his windscreen. The sardar leans out and says

Birdie, birdie, ki gal hai?
(Birdie, Birdie, Wassup?)

The bird retorts thus,

Surdie, surdie Seagull hai.
(Surdie Surdie, it is a Seagull. Surdie = shortform of Sardar.)
---
Because folks unfamiliar with Punjabi (the language of people of the Punjab, from whence the Sikhs originate) will have a hard time finding humour there, I decided to bring joy to their drab little lives with a slight variation on the old theme above. Ain't I the nice guy?
---
The aforementioned Sardar-ji is piqued with the fact that the Seagull had dishonoured his windscreen with bird droppings. The fact that the Seagull just flew in from the US, so that the droppings actually constitute 'imported shit', cuts no ice with him. He has relatives in NYC, who, because they don't like airline toilets, always wait till they get to his home in Punjabi Bagh before downloading. Anyway, the Sardar-ji decides to seek revenge by ramming the Seagull with his car. He zooms in, but to his horror the Seagull simply bounces of his windshield and flys away, leaving his windshield badly fractured. So,

Quoth the Surdy, "Hmm, sturdy birdie".

Boy, would that make Poe blow a gasket in his casket.
---
Disclaimer: I am not responsible for any damage inflicted by the reader on his/her computer screen, or his/her immediate neighbourhood, in (feigned) disgust to the above (attempt at) humour.

Sociological coffee

Today seemed to be the Baby-carrier's day out. Coffee shops were overflowing with Mommy's wearing the self-satisfied smirk of a job well delivered, and wooden chairs were creaking with the weight of blissful Madre's, still a few months to their destination, shoveling enough stuff down to meet the demands of at least four baby whales .

Considering the average girth of the female form on display, I constructed the following sociological theory:

For the institution of marriage to survive, men must have a) a lowering in their amorous drive post-conception, and/or b) a certain amount of fat-fetish.

The next step, in true sociological spirit, would be to conduct an interview/poll with a large number of subjects, throw out data that doesn't fit my hypothesis, employ dubious statistical methods, couch the conclusions in words of several ponderous syllables, dress up the implications in colourful post-modernist garb(age?), and then run post-haste to the nearest journal's door.

Of course, you can always bring in love, ethics, values and moral clap-trap to destroy my fun little theory.

Karthikey? Nope, Kartikey.

NB. I have it from maternal authority that it should be Kartikey, and not Karthikey, but that address (kartikey.blogspot...) is being squat upon.

Yeah, well, amongst us Hindus, or, at least, amongst those from my neck of woods, a new born child is given two names. His/her real name, and another associated with his/her Rashi (Moon sign). Kartikey is my name associated with my Rashi, which is Mithun (Gemini). Now my mother coined my real name after Lord Shiv, but for my Rashi name, she gave me the name Kartikey, which for the illiterate amongst you happens to be the son of Shiv. Thus, when I finally call it a day, I shall be the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, all rolled into one. Though in my case, Unholy will be a better adjective.

Anyway, somehow I have always thought that Kartikey sounds better, and goes better with my personality, or lack thereof.

Talkin about Moon signs, I believe Mithun (Gemini) are the twins. No wonder my father calls me Janus faced. Someone who says something and means something else. He would have further added 'and does something completely different', but knowing that I am congenitally lazy, he settles for my doing nothing.

Finally, here are the original Mithun(s):



who grow up to become real swackerchicks.

And the more popular Mithun (Confused? Never fear, Sharma's here, click there):


And Janus:


I think Janus is rather eye catching, and not just because of his two heads. So, in keeping with my very optimistic horrorscope, I will take pater's description as a compliment.

Oh shit!

Two situations when saying 'Oh Shit' maybe overlooked by the Emily Post committee:



I never liked window seats.



All that effort to learn swimming isn't going to add up to much.

Journalese 3: Heavy fine on lightening centre

A consumer court has imposed a heavy fine on a slimming centre at Punjabi Bagh for failing to burn the fat of three customers. The centre had assured to reduce the weight of Aarti Kapur, Vikram Kapur and Divya Kapur by 10 kg, 30 kg and 20 kg respectively. But at the end of the course, the complainants lost only four, nine and 10 kg, respectively.

Bloody funny!
Knowing the Punjabis'* penchant to drive a good bargain, where 'good' often morphs into 'crooked', I can imagine the Kapur's really tucking into it a week or so before the end of the slimming course.

"Oye, eat the up the fried chikkan tikkas! Kuch din to baaki hain, aur sabne paanch-paanch kilo nahi chadhaye to paise dene pad jayenge un centre-walon ko. Le parothen aur le."**

From the amount of kilograms that they have to show at the end, it seems they overcompensated.

Two of the complainants discontinued the course after they allegedly suffered “electric shock” therapy.

I suppose that is the modern and scientific way to 'burn away' all that fat. Oxidize, pulverize, neutralize, anything-but-ossify it. Employing streams of agile electrons no less. Or, perhaps, the dieticians realized that the only way to stop a Punjabi from eating is to kill him/her. Maybe he/she believes in the adage 'The only Punjabi that eats healthy, is a dead Punjabi"

*Kapur's tend to hail from the North Indian province of Punjab, not to be confused with Punjabi Bagh which is a locality in the city of Delhi. A rather shitty one, if you allow me a candid description.

**Only a few days to go and if you lot don't put on five kilos each we will have to pay the slimming centre. Here take some parothas (heavy Indian bread, mostly soaked in butter).

Your friendly neighbourhood superhero

Well, I whacked another spider. He was prancing about dangerously close to my bag of rice. Anyway, while I was shuddering as I was picking up the telltale remains, I recalled Misty's picture, as it was put out by her owner. In the picture he had her lovingly cradled in his palm.

Eww.

Out popped the question: What kind of a man makes love to a Tarantula?

... and the answer is, as you may well have guessed, Spiderman!

So, guess who lives in my neighbourhood? Smirk.

Baba sahab's day out

I have just returned from London. I was up there witnessing an interesting union between an Indian bride and a nth (n > 2) generation Mauritian (not Martian) of Indian descent.

As usual, when I prowl through London, I collect my share of pearls:

The London bus: ... is falling down. Well, nyet really, but you will if you don't heed me. Try not to take the suggestion to 'stand in front of the bus-stop when awaiting the public carrier' too literaly. Owing to scant space, the bus-stop abuts the road a little too snugly - think J.Lo wearing Audrey Hepburns' clothes (Yes, not a pretty thought). So, rather than you catching the bus, the bus will in all probability catch you. In the small of your back that is, or, whatever mess remains at the end.

Jaipuri jawans: I heard tell a story sinister, from the lips of an elderly spinster. Ok, scratch that. She was elderly, Mauritian, the groom's Aunt, a 4th generation Indian, but not a spinster. Anyway, when she was in Jaipur, eating away at some joint or another, she noticed that all the waiters were spectacularly tall and well built. She enquired why. Pat came the answer - "Because, we drink Camel's milk."

So, sonny boy, avoid Goat's milk and feta cheese.

M&S: Strolling through London, one is confronted by vast billboards of women in various states of undress asking, "What is your M&S?". While such billboards are a welcome addition to the city's skyline, especially with features so fulsome, that question really throws me. To begin with, M&S is a clothing store. So, why do these women discard their clothing? Especially, at billboardian altitudes in a rather chilly March. Are they trying to say that if that's all the protection that Marks and Spencer's clothing can provide, I might as well stomp around in me knickers. I think they need to re-think their advertisement campaign.

Then again, if it means tearing down those billboards, maybe not.