some adbhaice on garlls

Long ago in the hallowed portals of a certain hostel of a certain IIT, dwelt an unremarkable little man called bongu. his name belies the part of india that he came from, but a post describing the remarkable qualities of his ilk does not belong here. bongu-da was a pretty average man, albeit with something in his credentials that few IITians have - an ex-garllphrend. in the process that resulted in her being an ex, she was the dumper and he was the dumpee. however, since bongu-da was one of the few who had any exposure to the female of the species, all of us turned to him in matters concerning them.

"Hum tumko ek adbhaice deta hai", bongu-da told us once, sequentially sipping on chai from a glass and puffing on a 'chhota gold-flake'. "Iph you laaike a garll, nebher be nice to har. (no, not you, Har) It never pays"

For long we followed his advice. If a girl smiled, we scowled, hoping to create an impression. If she changed hairstyles we went and told her it looked weird. If she wore a nice dress, we asked her if she had bought it at a used-clothes sale. Eventually we realized the folly of our ways and learnt to be a decent human being (do i hear sniggers?). Whether or not it has made a difference is another thing altogether, and, in order to maintain the focus of this post, I will not dwell upon it.

Recently, a mail sent to someone i know, purportedly asking her out, was brought to my notice. In the interests of propriety, i am not going to include the original mail here. I could have tried to capture the spirit of the mail but any recreation would have been a shadow of the original. It should suffice to say here that the person sending the mail seemed to be a follower of bongu.

Drawing inspiration from the mail, and wishing to push the frontiers of human knowledge a wee bit further, we conducted a little survey - a sting operation, so to speak, and sent emails to thirty female bloggers. There are different flavors of not-so-niceness here. The responses follow in the next post.

1. Mr. Hindi medium (not-that-there's-anything-wrong-with-that).

Dear Ms. XYZ,
Myself, ABC. I am reading your blog. You are living in (insert city)? I am very much wanting to meet you. I am (insert degree here) in (insert topic here) and am working in (insert company here). But I am not liking that you are talking about s3*. woman should not be open about things like this. It is not our culture. When is your earliest convenience, so that we can meet?
Your's sincerely,
ABC.

2. I'm so cool (but actually desperate)

Hey XYZ:
What do the next few days look like! was wondering if we could meet.. I don't particularly care about this, but i made a new year resolution to speak my mind, and i would like to catch up with ya. i wanna know what ya think. i'm not a crazy man. heh heh heh. talk to ya laterzz.
~ABC

3. The compulsive counsellor

XYZ,
I went through your blog. Rather concerned about you. I think you have some severe psychological issues. Email me back here if you want someone who understands.
~ABC

4. wren and martin ki naajaayaz aulaad

Dear XYZ,
Although I might concede that you have an interesting web-log and that your thoughts may be considered somewhat intelligent, you will have to admit that it is ridden with grammatical mistakes of every manner. Take your spelling, for instance - (insert typo here) should have been spelt (insert correct spelling). In addition to that, the fact that your sentence construction is often flawed is of much concern to me.
Nevertheless, I would be quite interested in being acquainted with you, and, since we share the same city, I propose that we arrange a meeting. Please let me know of a suitable time.
Regards,
ABC.

Lastly, an email that was nice, but full of annoying sms-speak.

5. Mr. Luv4u

XYZ,
i like u coz i think our frequencies match. i know what u feel like. if u want to make a friend, call me at xxxxxxxxxx or sms me pleeeeeez coz i will always b there 4 u.
ABC

I will reveal some of the responses I got, but before that, do comment on how you would respond to these mails, if you ever got them. I'm sure male bloggers out there get their share of annoying emails too, so please jump in. and smart-ass brownie points are there for the taking.

God-damned Vessels

"It's a vessel", the voice at the other end of the transatlantic call said.
It was a south indian acquaintance of mine. I was on my way back to the US and he wanted me to carry something for him. He had seemed a bit embarrassed to ask and the revelation had come about after some needless hemming and hawing.
"What vessel?" I asked.
"A pressure cooker vessel."
"Dude, I'm sorry, I don't have space to carry a vessel".
"No it's very small. It'll just slip into a corner somewhere."
"Um, how big is it?"
"About one inch by one inch"
I was a bit puzzled, and fast losing patience.
"Are you sure? What do you use it for?"
"For a pressure cooker"
"I know that", I said, annoyed. "I know the damn thing is a pressure cooker vessel, so it has to be used for a pressure cooker! What the hell do you cook in it?"
"You don't cook anything in it"
Muh?
It was his turn to be exasperated.
"It's a vessel! Vessel Vessel Vessel!! It goes on top. It's heavy. The steam lifts it up. After the vessel blows thrice, the rice is done... steam engines have vessels.. some people can vessel tunes!"

Anyway, in honor of my dear mallu friend's pressure cooker vessel, and having been reminded of 80's television in India by another blogger, with her post about Mr. Yogi, here are three pressure cooker advertisements from the 80's, in ascending order of my liking.

3. At third place is the Marlex pressure cooker ad. This was a fifteen second jingle that was usually repeated twice to fit the 30 second advertisement slots that were available on DD. The ad consisted of a pic of a typical 80's Indian housewife-type (think Lalitaji from the Surf advertisements). She would be holding the cooker. A couple of nondescript food items were on one side, magically suspended in mid air. No, really. It was a magical cooker.

At the top it said "Marlex Pressure Cookers". At the bottom it said, "ISI approved", with a funny looking ISI logo. The jingle went something like:

"Marlex Pressure Cooker, khana jaldi pakaaye kaisi seetee bajaaye. Marlex. Marlex Pressure cooker". Repeat.

Translation: Marlex pressure cooker, cooks curry in a hurry, blows vessel don't worry. Marlex. Marlex Pressure Cooker.

Heh heh. *Looks around sheepishly*. Anyway, it was the simplicity of the ad that made it so perfect. To this day, I can vessel the tune.


2. Hawkins' Pressure Cookers also had an ad that relied primarily on a jingle to carry it through. There was some screen based action (if anything done by Neena Gupta on screen can be called that). The jingle went something like:

Hawkins ki seetee baji, khushboo hi khushboo udee, mazedaar lazaddaar khana hai taiyaar. Murg Musallum, Mutter Pulao, Maa ki daal, this is the part that i randomly hum, Dum Alooooo!!"

Translation: On second thought, no translation. Managing expectations and all that.
Update: See Megha's comment for the entire thing.

1. But of course the most notable pressure cooker ad was for Prestige pressure cookers. Husband and wife enter store, husband looking slightly diffident. This was a theme used a lot in Condom ads in that era. I have no idea why they applied it here. Or maybe i do.

Throughout the ad, the wife stands around looking dumbly. Maybe they did not even show her in the ad. But no, we shall not go into gender biases and such-like.

Husband: Pressure Cooker Khareedna hai.
Shop-guy: (who for some reason, looked a lot like the shopkeeper from the Lalitaji advertisement.) Woh to theek hai. Par pehle yeh bataaiye, ki aap apni biwi se kitna pyaar karte hai.
H: Kya matlab hai aap ka?
S-G: Matlab hai, Matlab hai. Agar aap inhe pyaar nahin karte hai, to koi bhi pressure cooker chal jaayega. Magar aap agar inse pyaar karte hai, to aapko Prestige Pressure Cooker khareedna chahiye.

Husband pyaar-se dekhofies biwi.

H: To Prestige hi dijiye.
S-G: Jo biwi se kare pyaar, woh prestige se kaise karey in car?

Okay, so question: What is the moral of this story? It is this..


What to do? We are like that only!

In the fair city by the sea..

The insanity is back in the motherland these days, and busy with family and friends. It's been somewhat of an experience overload, and hence the delay in corresponding with all of you, my dear listeners.
To the north of the drive along the Worli Sea Face, home to Bombay's (yes, Bombay and not Mumbai) rich and famous, lies the little known and even less visited village of Koliwada. In what can only be attributed to history and the peculiarity of Indian bureaucracy, this is not yet part of the city. It's a calm and peaceful place, inhabited by the fishermen, the original inhabitants of the seven islands (or nine, as my newfound knowledge would have it). There is a local government, a village market and narrow lanes between houses that remind you more of fishing villages along the Konkan coast, than the urban sprawl of Bombay.
By a peculiar twist of circumstance, i am here, the day after my flight lands from New York, visiting a temple. I am not a religious person, and most of all, I am against ritual of all manner. But I have never been to this place before, and I am curious. A middle aged gentleman in a nicely cut kurta and pyjama, the head of the village - a stereotype defying, extremely articulate man, accompanies us.
The temple is adjacent to the fort of Worli, from which the fishermen sought to defend themselves against the portuguese. It lies in ruins now, and its history mostly unknown - except for this gentleman here, whose ancestors have lived here for centuries.
"The idols were found in the twelfth century by our king and installed in a corner of the fort wall", he says, "But over time, they were lost and remained only in legend"
"The were found in the twelfth century?"
"Yes, out in the sea. Nobody knows where they came from. Perhaps this place has more history than even we fishermen know".
"So what happened?"
"They were neglected and got covered in grime, and became featureless stones. Then, this year, a part of the wall collapsed during the rains. The layers of grime broke open and revealed the idols inside. So we decided to build this temple"
The band waiting outside the temple suddenly comes alive - drums, trumpets and all. A rush of activity signals that something is happening. I turn around and look at him quizically.
"The heads of the other villages have come. Its their day today"
A gaggle of women in green saris bursts into the temple and lines up along the walls. Noisy and chatty, all of them with flowers in their hair. Their happiness makes me a little envious.
"It's been going on for centuries. Every year this day, the heads of the nine villages that later became Bombay come together in a procession and visit us. We keep the tradition alive."
He notices the skeptical look on my face and says:
"What would i be, without my past? Nobody. In our lifetime, we do things and those memories stay us. Why should we not extend the same logic to traditions? Rituals, traditions - just ways of keeping the memories of our forefathers alive."
He nods his head as he says this and loses himself in thought. I choose not to disturb him.

Later that night, as I drive down marine drive to recreate personal memories at Not Just Jazz by the Bay, I think about what he said. I am tempted to agree.

The question..

The crew of the USS enterprise gets stranded on an alien planet and is captured by an evil king who lives in a medieval castle. He imprisons them all, agreeing to release them if they suceed at a game he wants to play with them. The conditions of the game are as follows:
1. He will, at any random time, choose a random person from the crew and bring the person to a chamber that has two switches, one red and one blue. The person is forced to choose a switch and then change its position. Such visits may, or course, be repeated.
2. All the crew members are kept in solitary confinement, and are not allowed to communicate, except for one time when they are allowed to decide upon their strategy.
3. The starting positions of the switches are unknown.
4. Everyone is released when any one of the crew members tells the guards that everyone else has visited the chamber.
5. The crew members are unaware of the passage of time, that is, they cannot count days or anything like that.
Come up with a strategy for the prisoners' release. Hint: Look at my previous post. Its all there.

Free!

I lay curled up in the fetal position, in a windowless dungeon that lay deep in the bowels of the medieval castle. This was a place unknown to light, a place where loneliness was your only friend. Somewhere outside lay a whole world, where days changed to nights and nights changed to days. But here, time had reneged on its duty in the war against nothingness and had lost all meaning. Here, more than anywhere else, did the meaning of meaninglessness become more apparent.

The clanging of the heavy iron ring on the door of the dungeon told me that they had come for me, again. Barely supported by muscles atrophied from non-use, I stood up, trembling. They cuffed my wrists and shackled my ankles, and thus in chains, I was dragged to the chamber that had come to define my suffering. I knew what would come next.

My first few times had been unlike this - they were more.. hopeful. There would be the steady pounding in my chest as i neared the chamber, apprehension building up. Would today be the day - the day when I would commit the one act that would lead to my eventual escape from this hell? Every one of those visits to the chamber had proven futile.

Because of the *rules*. The stupid g-d-damned rules that all twenty three of us had come up with before we were sent to our own personal hell. Frustrating rules that killed a man even as he obeyed them. Yet, in them, lay redemption. Following the rules was not *an* option, it was the only option if i ever wanted to be free.

And all the same time, to hope against hope that they would follow the rules, and that *he* would not make a mistake..

Of late, i had grown numb to these visits. I no longer even dreaded them. They were the only punctuation marks in my life. As the guards threw me in to the chamber, I expected to see the small red switch on the right hand side of the room in the off -postion, like it always was. I expected to sigh and head to the other wall - the side of the blue switch. I would flip the switch. I would go knock on the door. They would come to get me, shackle me again and throw me back into my cell, where I would lay whimpering in defeat.

But something was different that fateful day. A little lamp glowed above the small red switch. The red switch was on! I could have fainted with joy as i scrambed across, weak kneed. And I did the one thing that I had been waiting to do, the only thing that meant anything for me.

I switched it off.

epilogue: Freedom came eventually, of course. How could it not? The inescapable laws of mathematics were on my side. The very laws that, during the few lucid moments I had in those days, told me that I would be free, and that was a fact.

[This post might *actually* make sense to some of you. The only thing I can say to the others by way of explanation is that it is an answer to a question. The author gratefully acknowledges the one who posed the question and gave the author the idea for the answer. To those who do not know the question, let me know.]

the other point of view

the R train runs shuttle late at night. it connects upper brooklyn with lower brooklyn. as i stood waiting at the station, it announced its arrival by a rumbling in the rails and a distant squealing of brakes. the doors opened, and i got in. there was the usual warning to "stand clear of the closing doors please". A ding-dong sound announced that the doors were closing- a sound that, if you happen to be running down the stairs to catch the train, sounds a lot like fate saying "f**k-you".

The car was empty except for an old homeless man who kept giving me knowing glances. As he got off at the next station he said, "I know you saw him. Know that you are miserable because you want to find out what this is all about". I got off the station, and crunched back through the packed two day old snow, contemplative, worried when the cellphone rang, and I picked it up.

A musical "Hi" greeted me.
"So, I hear you met someone in the subway.."
"Who are you? How do you know who I met?"
"Lets just say i represent *him* - a guardian angel, if you may"
"Never knew such things existed."
"Now you do."

"He told you about his plans, did he not? Told you that your path could only lead to him. Such a fool."
"He has a point, you know.."
She laughed. It sounded like the tinkling of little bells.
"I expected you to be smarter than that. that outline is not exactly lucid."
"In what way?"
"Curiosity is not opposed to fear. Curiosity arises from consequence, the consequence of not knowing, not finding meaning. Curiosity is the fear of this consequence. He is mistaken. That is why, around here, we are not worried"
"I think i see your point."

As I walked along the street towards the place I call home, I saw the joyously lit christmas trees in the houses of my neighbours, and the flashing "Merry Christmases" and the "Happy new years" in their windows. They served to somewhat brighten up the gloom.

But I had an objection.

"That still does not address his point. He is convinced that the curious mind in quest for meaning will be led to the conclusion that there is no meaning, and all consequence is arbitrary. And if all consequence is arbitrary, including the consequence of not finding purpose, then surely there is nothing to fear. And as per the contract you folks have with him, that leads me to him."

As i said this, I turned the key in my lock and entered my gloomy apartment. I dumped my bag in a corner, tore off my winter layers and got into my bedclothes as she continued..

"Ah, that is an argument he always makes. But first let me tell you what the two basic feelings are. Everything else is explained as a reaction to these. They are physical pain and meaninglessness. Man is in every way equipped to avoid the former, but the second one is harder to deal with. Not all hope is lost, though. In fact, that is why we are here - me and *him*. By the way, I hope you are in bed now. I will put you to sleep."

"Physical pain and pointlessness - pleasure and purpose, interesting counterpoints". I closed my tired eyes, and the angel whispered a lullaby.

"Sleep in peace tonight", she crooned, as I started drifting off to sleep.
"Who are you?", I asked, with the final dregs of consciousness that I could muster.
"You still don't know?"
"No"

"I am the meaning of your life"

A subway story

I work late nights. It's less distracting, and the gloominess of a new york night suits my taste a lot more than the garishness of sunshine. A consequence of this is that I spend a lot of time late at nights at subway stations, waiting for trains running off-peak schedules. It can be an interesting place to be at night, primarily so for the people you run into.

Take the other day, for instance, when I sat at a station in upper Brooklyn waiting for the R-train that would take me home. It was like any other day. My mp3 player was out of charge and I was getting rather bored, so I looked around, pondering at the pointlessness of it all. Apart from the MTA workers who were changing trash-bags, the only other person around stood at the far end of the platform - a pleasantly portly man of indeterminate age, in a hat, round-frames and a well-cut three-piece suit that looked rather out of place there. I thought it rather strange. What followed was even stranger. He noticed that i was looking around, and walked over.

"Do you mind if i sit here, young man?", he asked in an oddly soothing voice - the accent part BBC and part network english.
"Sure"
Making himself comfortable on the adjacent seat, he pulled out a silver pocket watch and frowned.
"Never on time, these people. I must have a word with them sometime."
"So", he turned around, "what do you do for a living?"
Quite an uncharacteristic question in this city, but the sincere crow's feet at the corners of his eyes were rather reassuring.
"I study"
"Well, so do i! I study people. You might say I am a.. what do they call it?"
"A psychologist?", I ventured.
"Yes! A psychologist. But not exactly, since I am in the spiritual business"
"A priest?", I asked.
"In a manner of speaking. But priests and godmen are little but minions working for Religion & Co. , wouldn't you say? I have much more, dare I say it, *extensive* interests in the business".
With that, he bent over and whispered conspirationally, "Lets say, for the sake of the analogy, that I am a very influential partner"

I was too confused to say anything when he pointed an index finger upwards and asked me, "So tell me, do you believe in *Him*?"
"Mostly agnostic. I cannot find rational justifications for why he should exist. He may or may not and either way i do not think it directly affects me."
"Have you never sinned?"
"That depends on how you define it, right?"
He laughed. "Let me tell you that he does exist. Both of us do."

Then it hit me.
"I thought you looked different. Not so.. friendly."
"Ah, you mean the horns and forked tail? I still do it occasionally. It was a clever gig, but lately I have diversified into another line of business. You know exactly why the costume has to be there if i had to harvest my fair share, right?"
"Because sin cannot exist without fear?"
"And what does *fear* need in order to exist?"
"Consequence"
"Precisely."

I grew curious. "What is the nature of this diversification?"

"Good question. Not only the question, but also the reason that makes you ask it. Let me first tell you about the agreement i had with *him*. Leaving aside the fine print, the basic idea was that those who feared consequence would be *his* and those who did not would be mine. The whole religion thing was just a way of implementing it."
"I see"
He pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose and continued,"Then I had a better idea. It would allow me to have greater reach, while still remaining true to our agreement. I realised its potential long ago, but for very many years, i could not implement it. For most of history, man was just too busy just trying to stay alive. But lately things have changed, and it's been rather easy".
"Most of all," he chuckled, "this line does not involve Halloween costumes and visions of fire and brimstone and imagined reincarnations as lower life forms."

An approaching train rumbled in the express tunnel, three blasts of the horn indicating it was a service train.

"Ah", he stood up. "Its time."
"Wait, I don't understand", and followed him to the edge of the platform, as he leaned over the edge and peered into the tunnel.
"Its easy, son. We - me and *him* that is - built the edifice of religion around one of the basest of human emotions - fear. But there is another emotion that is equally fundamental, and, for my purposes, more potent, because it does not involve *him*. Fear is important for keeping religion going, but without this other thing, we would not have been able to sell the concept of it in the first place."

The train rolled in - a service train pulling open wagons meant to carry trashbags. It stopped for a brief while and the workers threw bags into the wagons.

He climbed into a wagon and continued, "My new line would just need thinking, questioning minds. And the more men found time for it, the bigger would be my harvest. You see, this thing that I talk about leads most people to the realization that consequence is an arbitrary concept and hence not to be feared. And as per our contract, they are mine."

The train gave another blast on the horn and started moving. "If you still don't know what I am talking about, recall how you felt life was when you first saw me".

"Meaningless?"
"And what brought you that conclusion?", he said, receding farther and farther away.
"The quest for purpose."
"And what drives that quest?", he shouted as he disappeared into the bowels of the underground.

"Curiosity", I mouthed silently and smiled.

On torture..

if you have been catching up with current affairs over the last couple of weeks, you would be aware of the stand-off between Senator John Mccain and the Bush administration over the torture of detainees by US government entities. McCain spent five years being tortured in rat-infested vietnamese prisons and he knows a thing or two about torture. Which is why, in this case, we have reasons to listen to him. And before you get worried about where this post his headed, let me tell you this is not a political rant. You see, I know a thing or two about torture too.

Surprised? Don't be. For you see, I regularly torture frankfurters. Not the people, but the sausages. Here's the how to of it in a few simple steps:

1. The first thing you want to do when you feel like torturing frankfurters is to get hold of them. Frankfurters are notoriously hard to capture. At the first sign of danger, their ears perk up and they hide. Fortunately modern technology has developed a way to keep them sedated in the meat section of supermarkets. Approach them quietly and carefully. You don't want them to awaken. When you are close enough, grab them quickly, and hold on to them tight.

2. Even after you have laid your hands on them, there is still the tricky part of getting them out of the custody of the supermarket guys. You will have to resort to bribery at the check-in counter. The bribe usually goes under the name of "Retail Price", so that supermarkets can keep their accounts clean and not be accused of abetting the torture of innocent sausages.

3. When you get them to your place, lock them up immediately in your fridge. The other day I forgot to do this, and I found them later, cowering under my kitchen table. I would have missed them completely had it not been for the fact that I am such a pro at this game.

4. There are several methods of extracting information from them. Some people prefer to cut them up and otherwise mutilate them. I like to do it whole, either boiling them alive or grilling. Show no mercy. Only then will you get the answers you seek.

5. preheat a pan, pour a little oil on it, and show the frankfurter the meaning of a proper grilling. Alternately let them know what it means to land in hot water. Be careful. They have a mean bite and if you don't watch out, they will jump out and scamper away. If you want to increase your pleasure, make the frankfurter's mates watch it.

6. Sometimes a frankfurter will die while you are at it. Since we want to be humane, and since we are morally superior to them, we respect their dead. The best thing to do is to give them a dignified burial. Out of respect for frankfurter traditions, lay them on a soft hot dog roll and, in accordance with their rituals, cover them with mustard, relish and ketchup. Let them rest in pieces in your stomach.

7. Even if a frankfurter dies, don't let it bother you. There's the other frankfurters, they will surely know. All frankfurters are in on the big secret, so a little collateral damage is acceptable. If all the frankfurters you have in your custody die one by one, you can always head out to the supermarket to capture more. Don't worry, some day, they will reveal the big secret. Till then, in the interest of national security, it is our job, as conscientious citizens, to keep trying.

Heh. Not for nothing is this site called mental deviation.

doing g-d's work..

So I went through a bout of the *cough cough* and the *sniffle sniffle* last week, because of which I missed my regular post. Apologies hence and a promise, mes amis, that I will make up for it. on to regular programming.

I hate happy people. Happiness is an unnatural state. If God wanted us to be happy, he would have filled the world with sunshine, hot women and reshmi kebabs. (replace 'woman' with 'man' if you are a woman or are gay-not-that-there's-anything-wrong-with-that)

Take that simple question: "How was your day?" I mean, come on. Surely *something* is always wrong: Maybe you got constipated, maybe your boss yelled at you, maybe you haven't gotten to nail that hot chick (women: substitute, substitute) who sits across the aisle from you at work. I hate it that social mores require us to answer that question with a "Not bad". Whatever happened to honesty?

People like me have an important role to play in a hypocritical society like this. I belong to that little-known band of people dedicated to carrying out God's *true* intent: we are the happiness-destroyers. I don't want to toot my own trumpet here, (heh, 'TOOT my own trumpet', don't you just *love* the sound of that phrase? :)), but I am a pro at making people miserable. Here's a sample conversation that happened between me and an acquaintance called P, a fellow graduate student, who like me, left a comfortable life to pursue intellectual ambitions. This was a few days ago, on the way to the subway station.

"How's life?", I asked her.
"O-kay", she replied, eyeing me suspiciously.
"Surely its not Okay"
"No it is. Actually my day was quite good. I got some work done today."
"So?"
"So, it means I've fulfiled my purpose for the day, and I have the right to feel happy about myself"

Oh, sweet. A home run.

"Reaaaally?", I asked her, "You are old and fat and ugly. Nobody really likes you, and what you do is pointless. After you die, you will have made no difference to the world. To top it all, you left a cushy job with a chauffeur driven car to be in this hell-hole, and now you scrounge around for free food in graduate seminars. What makes you think you have the right to feel happy about yourself?"

I would have thought people would be grateful for having been shown that big picture perspective. Sadly it is not true. P doesnt talk to me any more. Some people just love to live in denial.

its a thankless job, this one, i tell you.

Friends and their worse halves

So its that time of the week when I spout nonsense on this page. And todays little nugget of a rant is about idiotic friends who used to be normal till they hooked up with random people you cannot get along with. These worse halves, or significantly bad others, so to speak, come in different flavors. Since some of these are unique to genders, they will be presented as such:
1. Mrs. "You never visit us"
Typically female, this is the ever so unpopular chick who manages to snag a popular guy, and then proceeds to assume that all his friends are her friends. The trouble: there is a *reason* why she was unpopular. Maybe she was just a whiny annoying snitch, maybe she didn't like to hang out with all the bad guys because they drink, maybe she's just plain hideously ugly. For whatever reason, she will proceed to take liberties with his friends making statements like, "you are such a good friend of ours. Why do you never visit?". The cause, my lady, is you. With these types, things are okay, till the mysterious process of marriagification eventually causes your friend to behave like her.
2. Mr. "I'm better than you"
This is a male type. Typically, a loser who is married to your cool female friend - the one whose panties you won in a wager at a bar. The guy suffers from perpetual insecurity caused by a belief that he's not good enough for her. Which he is not. To make it worse, your cool friend, instead of cursing her utter lack of judgement about the fool, actually gushes about him in his absence. Socializing with these dudes is a traumatic affair where you are constantly challenged to drink more, talk louder, drive faster/better. If this happens to be a loser who also makes lot of money, incomes will be discussed and cool addresses will be flaunted. And all the while your friend gazes adoringly at him as if he is a Greek God.
3. Mrs "Look at me i'm so pretty"
Female. Attention seeking. Attention seeking behavior not restricted to the husband. She will openly flirt with you, while the husband, your friend looks on. Things can get very embarassing. The other day, one of these types kept commenting that the mole on the tip of my nose was very cute. Reason: "I have a mole on the tip of my nose too, and I'm cute". These ones will accompany their hubbies to the pub where you and the bloke used to hang out before he terminated his effective life by marrying the chick. They will proceed to hog the attention of all the males around. It gets worse when he looks at her adoringly even as she manages to completely disgrace herself. You can only drown your annoyance in pints of beer.
4. Mr. "Perfect as an antique book-case"
An overachieving male, very successful. Cloyingly nice, and he treats your female friend like a princess. The only problem: the guy is about as interesting as the antique book case that he and your friend lovingly imported from italy. Interesting in a "Oh, here's an antique book case" kind of a way, but dead as far as conversations go.
5. Mr. Hawk
Male chauvinist pig. Expects your friend to manage her career and the house at the same time. And heaven forbid if she makes more money than him. Basically an idiot. Should be shot. Gets worse when your female friend rationalizes it by uttering the dreaded "C" word: Compromise.
6. Mrs. woolly mammoth
Female. Ugly. Fat. Hairy. To make it worse, she is not even a nice person. Tried to convince your buddy - a very decent bloke, that you are the root of all evil in the world. Later, when he was sufficiently domesticated, prohibited him from meeting up with the buddies. Eventually succeeded in sucking all the life force out of the guy. Proceeded to dance on his lifeless body.

Radha

Disclaimer: This is based on a true story. If you do not believe in ghosts, it is not my problem.

Deep inside a national park in Central India is the tribal village of Belkund. Belkund means the pond of the Bel tree, named so for obvious reasons. The pond itself is located at the base of a cliff: it is a watering hole frequented by tigers, deer and other big game. at the edge of the cliff is a dak bungalow that has seen better days. big verandahs, high ceilings, faded black and white photographs of british officers proudly posing with their trophies. electricity is yet to come to these parts.

A small path leaves the dak-bungalow and switches back and forth down the face of the cliff, leading to a wildlife observation platform disguised amongst the branches of a bel tree. a brief note on the bel tree is in order here. Its leaves are believed to have healing properties, and find use in both hindu religious practice, and in traditional medicine. It is also the preferred abode of ghosts.

Late one summer night, he sits up, ghost-like, hoping to catch a glimpse of a tiger that is known to frequent the pond. Its a warm night and he dozes off. He is woken up by the soft clinking of anklets. ordinary anklets of the kind that are frequently worn by tribal women in india.

It's too late for any of the villagers to come down to the pond, and walking around at night is unadvisable. Unable to see well enough in the light of the half moon, he scrabbles down the rungs of the ladder, only to hear footsteps up in the tree. Scared and disturbed, he heads back to the bungalow. He turns around the first switchback and realizes that the footsteps are following him. He runs. All 500 or so feet up the cliff face, chased by the unseen sound.

Gasping, he reaches the bungalow. The door to their room opens into the verandah, and he knocks on it, as he hears the approaching sound of footsteps across the stone floor. Thankfully S, his hiking companion groggily opens the door just in time; he shuts the door and bolts it.

"What happened?"
"Shhhh..."

For he can hear the footsteps in his room. S turns and looks around, wide-eyed, terrified. As they cower under the blankets, she walks the room, unseen, given away only by the sound of her anklets, and the occasional self-satisfied soft laugh.

The next morning, they relate the incident to the caretaker of the dak-bungalow, a wizened old man of seventy years. His father had been the caretaker of the bungalow, and before him, his grandfather. It is a familiar occurence for him, he says, happening only to single males who stay in the dak-bungalow. In any case, he knows her.

She would have been his great-aunt. In nineteen twenty six, she was a girl of eighteen. His name was wilson, an englishman five thousand miles away from home, in the sweltering jungles of the Central Provinces. He had raped her, and she had jumped off the cliff to hide her shame.

They stay away from people, the undead do. They prefer the wild, and in cities, the back alleys and the hidden nooks and crannies. But they will occasionally drop by and make their presence felt, as a gentle reminder that there is more to the world than meets the eye.

Little did he realize that fateful night that she would fall in love and, unknown to him, decide to be with him. She menaces the women he wants to be with and he wonders why he remains single. Little does he realize on the lonely nights when he is woken up by the sound of her footsteps and her laughter, that he has an unseen lover.

Oooo Oooooo!

I'm scared. Scared of those of you who threaten me with bodily harm for not putting up posts. Besides i like to keep my dear readers happy. So here's a new one on how you can have fun at interviews. This is for all those of you who have a fire in their belly (no, not the kind that comes from eating too much spicy food) and are ambitious and motivated and other such things.

Oh, and don't feel too proud. You may have your zeal for life, but we have our own private rain-cloud that follows us where-ever we go, and continually dumps water on our heads. Occasionally we also have little private flashes of lightning that singe our hair and peals of thunder that perforate our eardrums.

So here is the secret to successful (depending on your definition of the word) interviews:

a. Go for the cute seeing-eye doggie angle. Nothing makes an interview more successful than being imaginarily blind and having an imaginary seeing-eye dog. Make sure the dog is large, friendly and enthusiastic, you know the kind of dog that goes and immediately licks people's faces? Walk into the room with your dog. Don't let him get overly friendly, though! We don't want to annoy the interview panel, do we?

If the dog gets too excited, reassure them that it's friendly. And make sure the damn beast sits down when you start talking. Curb the dog if he gets fidgety. "Down Boy!" and "I *told* you to *sit*" are two commands that work remarkably well on imaginary seeing eye dogs. Trust me. I know.

b. Yeee-haww! Interview panels like cowboys. Not just when they are gay, but even otherwise. Wear your favorite ten-gallon hat, hip-hugging wranglers and cowboy boots with spurs. Gallop into the room, Monty python style (making clip-clop sounds with your mouth while hopping into the room). Make sure your horse is tied up and fed before the interview. Fuss over him. Horsies like being fussed over.

c. If you are a bloke, aim to seduce. Wear a dress. A Sharon-Stone-in-Basic-instinct kind of dress. Move your chair away from the table so that your panel has a good view and then repeatedly cross and uncross your legs. From time to time, keep mouthing the "You know I'm not wearing panties" line.

d. If you are a chick, try the 'Happy Kielbasa' trick. It works wonders, but requires a bit of preparation. First look at this picture. Get the point? The sausage is taped to your thigh at one end, the other end is free and tied to a string. The string goes behind your back over the shoulders, down your sleeve and into your hand. A tug on the string, and there is a distinct bulge in your trousers/skirt. All you need to do now is to think of a suitable target in your interview panel. Preferably choose an old geezer. Everytime you look at him, pull the string, and let the bulge show. When ever you look away, let go. It works trust me. A friend of mine tried this and they made her a spot offer. Apparently the head guy had a thing for alternately- gendered individuals. I swear I am not making this up.

Or maybe I am.

e. If you sense negative energy in the room, tell the panel you want to hold a communion. Hold hands. Make everyone hold hands. Then recite this prayer, "I can see that the presence of the dark lord has touched the people in this room. May the power of Satan be with me. *Behold* his servant cometh in all his glory!!", as you turn into a demon with horns and a forked tail. Proceed to tear their hearts out and leave them as sacrificial offerings at the altar of your dark master.

Dude, that's really f***ed up!!

How to make effective presentations

Here's an almost foolproof plan for making excellent presentations:

1. Go in with a sheep and a goat. For effect, have pens ready to hold them, one to the left of the audience and the other to the right. If someone asks a question, say:

"All questions will be directed to.."
>gesture towards the sheep< "My sacrificial Lamb or.." >gesture towards the goat<
"My scapegoat"

2. Go in carrying two baskets: One full of deadly cobras, and another with a couple of mongooses (point of debate: is it mongooses or mongii?), and a troupe of dancers. At the start, release your cobras into the audience till they bite them and half the audience is dead. Once this is accomplished, release the mongooses (or mongii, if you please). They will kill and eat up the snakes. In the end you are left with half the audience and a couple of mongooses (or mongii, if you please) scurrying about the room.

How does one get rid of the mongooses, you ask?

Hmm. Thats where the dancers come in.

Why dancers, you ask?

To seduce the mongooses back into their baskets, what else?

acknowledgements to friend W for contributing to this madness. Coming up: Tips on interviewing in style

on being reality-challenged

A gloomy evening, grey skies and people burrowed deep into their Manhattan-black overcoats and jackets make my heart sing with schadenfreude. Happiness is relative. In a world where everyone was sad, a chronic depressive grump like me would be the happiest person around.

There are seventeen of us who share this body. It is a singularly warm feeling, in a very "Let us all hold hands and sing Kumbayah" kind of a way. In a world whose sole purpose seems to be to betray, we have found the perfect solution to loneliness. Even when there is no other human being to talk to, you can talk to the voices in your head. Or laugh. Like I just did. The voices - they said something funny. You will find out what, eventually. Or maybe not.

I find the word "insane" offensive, for it has connotations of something being wrong. I'm not insane, I'm just reality-challenged. Don't you think it strange that society considers "sane" to be normal and "insane" to be abnormal? I mean, just look around you. Do you think there is any semblance of sanity in what's happening around this place?

Yanyway, welcome, all of you. Those of you who know me from my previous avatar can expect some more of the madness here. To those of you who are new, all of us welcome all of you and are pleased to make your acquaintance. And rest assured, over time, you will get know who we are.

ps: Many thanks to Megha, the template queen, for all the help.