Saturday, July 25, 2009


This piece is actually 3 months old. I had written this and stored it somewhere in my PC and forgotten. Finally got my hands on it while scrounging for porn in some folder hidden deep inside "c:\windows\system32\", and hence publishing it now. Here goes:

Well there's no polite way to break this in, so I'll be direct: I've joined dancing classes. Ballroom dancing, to be precise ( ballroom dancing, for the uninitiated, is a collection of various dance forms whose names end with -ba: Rumba, Samba, old-monk-ka-Khamba, kuthe-zhaala-aahes-re-thaamba, to name a few). Actually it wasn't entirely my idea. A good friend of the female kind brainwashed me into taking it up. She noticed that i was basically doing nothing on weekends ( by nothing i mean getting myself piss drunk with random people at nights, and nursing the hangover at days while constantly moaning about the glory days when all the bum-chums were right here in Bombay and we would travel 40 km back and forth on a weekday to get drunk at the South Bombay pubs). She also happened to point out my belly which had begun hiding my belt completely now, and the spare tyre that magically sprang up around my waist whenever i sat down. I tried reasoning with her that God didn't want me to dance. But then her raised eyebrow seemed to make much more sense at that time, so i gave in and signed up. I didn't realize that i would be using the popular Hollywood cop-flicks line "i didn't sign up for this" a bit too often from now on.

Anyway, Day One. I enter the room, and see this Greek goddess of an instructor.Oooh lalalala... what a bottom. God must have designed her bottom using AutoCad 9.0, I swear. Absolute perfection. I liked her. (Until she gave me the nickname of "pansy hands", because my hands would always flop out in a girly manner while dancing a particular step). You see, although I had my reservations about taking dancing classes, I didn't have even a bit of doubt in my mind that i wouldn't be absolutely awesome at it. Dancing to me comes like swimming comes to a duck. I was the number one dancer in college ( some would disagree with this, but they're just jealous little cunts). I was the step inventor, step propagator, and the change-the-step-at-the-right-moment-er. Yes, i was the Brahma, Vishnu and Mahesh of dancing. i knew all the steps - amitabh bachchan step, dharmendra step, kite flying step, chapaati making step, chai-waala step, las ketchup song step, the macarena,dil-pe-kataari step, you just name it! Ballroom dancing, apparently, is a whole new ball game. You have to keep pointless things like technique, posture, tempo and mood in mind while doing it.

And it doesn't help that these people take their ballroom dancing bloody seriously. For example, this is how they introduce you to the dance step called cha-cha: " The cha-cha has a base step structure of "1-2-3-cha-cha", with a base tempo of 32 bps ( beats per second), and the primary mood for this is naughtatious, which is a combination of naughty and flirtatious. The base step structure for the cha-cha used to be "1-2-cha-cha-cha" instead of "1-2-3-cha-cha" until 1991, when the Internation Assosiation of ballroom Dancers ( IABD) changed it following a lawsuit by Greenpeace." These guys seriously need to take it easy. It's a dance step, not the technical specification document for the Chandrayaan, for God's sake.

Initially I did have trouble keeping up with all the ultra-precise mumjo-jumbo. I ended up breaking a substantial number of my dancing partners' toe-nails. But things have begun to look up. I am no longer confusing rumba with samba, samba with cha-cha, and left foot with right foot. Give me another 2-3 weeks, and I'll be John-fuckin-Travolta.

But you know what? Ballroom dancing's actually fun. After you've gotten over all the technical crap like 'bend your left ankle at 45 degrees, and take your right foot forward perpendicular to your partner's shoulder-line while bending your left arm at 37.6 degrees to the window on your right while juggling while making love to a tiger', it's actually fun. The best part of ballroom dancing is, that the guy gives all the leads, and the female has to whatever the guy directs her to do. For once, women are listening to me ( good for them). This false sense of power is overwhelming, actually. Imagine... one moment I'm dancing the straight step, and WHENEVER I WANT TO, I can make the female do another step. How bloody awesome is that!

You know, just about a month back, I was at the Hawaiian Shack ( a discotheque in Mumbai) and somehow managed to find a girl to dance with ( all thanks to my superpretty friend petti, who with his cute face always manages to find a girl to dance with, and then gets me her erstwhile partner to dance with). Anyway, we were dancing our stupid random steps, when the girl suddenly asked me "Do you know jive?" The following conversation ensued:

Me: What? i couldn't hear you... it's too loud here.
Her: Do you know Jive?
Me(Doing the I-am-deaf action): Whaaaaaaaaaaat?
Her: Jive! do you know Jive?
Me: hell yeah I know Clive...he's my boss... but how do you know him?
She: Not Clive, JIVE!!!!
Me: Yeah man.. this party is so ALIVE!
She: {some Konkani swearwords}
Me: Oh Jive.... no, i don't know Jive.
She: Ok, I'll teach you :-)

She then proceeded to teach me the basics of Jive. In the following 30 seconds, I broke her left toe-nail, elbowed the poor guy behind me, and broke my 5th pint of beer that I thought I could manage to hold while dancing Jive. So hopeless I was at doing the Jive, that another WOMAN came and plucked the girl I was dancing with from me, and started doing the Jive with her. Imagine... a girl coming and stealing your girl. I sincerely can't think of a worse insult. It didn't help that all my haraami guy friends were on the floor laughing when they saw that. That day I swore that I would learn Jive, and hunt this woman down, and do the Jive again with her. Now guess what? I can now do the Jive, goddamnit! Now all I have to do is find that girl again. (I have enough information to hunt her down. Her name starts with S, and she's a Goan... I mean how many GOan girls can there be with their names starting with S...).

Anyway, that's that, and before I sign off, here's a Top-Gear top-tip: Guys, learn some dance form other than what your seniors taught you at college. Your awesome kite-flying step isn't appreciated by the girls anymore. Neither is a good heart, solid moral values, beautiful brown eyes, and a body like a Greek God ( All this I've learnt through personal experience). Girls want you to know the Jive now.

Update: 3 months since I've learnt the Jive. No sign of the girl yet. There are way too many Goan girls with their name starting with S. And they slap a lot when they're drunk.

Tuesday, November 04, 2008

Thanks Dad, for beating the crap outta me

If I am the man I am today ( i know, I'm not much of a man, but it could've been worse), it is because my dad beat the living daylights out of me every time i went astray. Why, you think am i digging up old graves? Well, basically because of two reasons: 1. I saw the Russel Peters "somebody gonna get a hurt real bad" sequence once again a few days back, and 2. This weekend, during the regular booze session with friends, this topic of how-my-parents-beat-the-crap-outta-me-when-i-was-a-kid came up, and i realized i had wayyyy too many stories to narrate compared to the other guys. To socha kyun na blog mein chipkaa diya jaaye.

Well, before you set off judging my dad as stone-hearted, let me tell you something about myself. I was a difficult kid. I'm sure had any of you been in my place, my dad probably wouldn't have laid a scratch on you. But I...oh boy, I was a piece of work. I virtually asked for it. Like painting your face red in front of a bull, poking its ears with a straw, and then doing the "mukkala muquabla" dance in front of it. Anyway, with that cleared up, we shall continue( I really wouldn't want to show my Dad in bad light here... i mean if he reads this and doesn't like it, he still has the capability to kick my ass to the moon)

Now you say what's the big deal? This is hardly something to blog about. everyone get a few knocks from their dads. Except everyone's dad is not a Para-commando with 29 years of service in the Army, trained to kill with his bare hands and eat snakes for lunch when Mc'Donalds is a bit too far away. You see, there's a difference in getting bitch-slapped by an accountant and getting roundhouse-kicked by a paratrooper. My dad's old now, but in his prime, he was the Alpha and the Omega of manliness. he was Walker-Texas Ranger, John Rambo, T-1000 and Shahenshah (the "rishte mein hum tumhaare baap lagte hain" dialogue actually fits here) put together. He was so goddamn manly, that this is what he looked like 15 minutes after he shaved:

To be fair to him, he always used to give me an advance warning that a thrashing was-a-coming. He'd say "very bad, Barun" nanoseconds before i found myself flying across the room like a table-tennis ball. God, how i feared the three words. "Very bad, Barun". very bad indeed.

Anyway, here are some random memories about the very well deserved thrashings that I have received over the years:

He used props a lot. I've been whacked, among other things, with a hawai chappal, an Army belt ( The Ashok Chakra that was on the belt was engraved on my ass for weeks), a bottle of frozen pepsi, a TV antenna, and even the Sunday Times ( my face had the front page printed on it for the next two days.. people would look at my face and exclaim, "oh.. India lost, kya"). Actually he whacked me with whatever he was holding at the exact point of time when i pissed him off. Sometimes, when i was really really lucky, he would be holding a pillow. But most of the times, he would be repairing his car with a spanner or polishing his DMS combat boots or admiring his collection of golf clubs.

My mum loved it when my dad beat my ass, and I would be a good boy for days to come. She would actually say " Awww Barun, you're such a darling till two weeks after the thrashing. Why aren't you so well-behaved all the time?". I would reply with a sheepish grin. Some sense of humour she has, I tell you.

Of all the 57,342 beatings I've gotten from my dad, it is surprising that the reasons for the thrashings were only one of these two: 1. Lying, and 2. treating my brother like shit.
It has taken me 57,342 beatings to learn just two things. No wonder I'm in the IT industry.

There was one really cool side-effect of the beatings. You see, the next day i would go with a swollen lip or a black eye to school. And all the kids would pester me wanting to know how I got it. And I would cook up some story like there were these four guys misbehaving with a girl at that corner and i went and saved her. I did take a few blows as they were all seven feet tall and professional wrestlers, but I did manage to rip their heads off and sacrifice them to lord Shiva, while the girl couldn't stop kissing me. Then all the kids would go " whoa man, you're such a badass.... we wish we could be half as brave as you. Autograph please?" The black eyes, the swollen lips and the dislocated shoulders gave me a total Super-Commando-Dhruv image at school. Thanks to my dad, no one messed with me in school.

I think this disciplining jackass kids with a well-deserved socking is common with many Army officers. I had a friend whose name was Gaurav, who was a bigger jackass than me, and his dad was like three of my dads put together. Gaurav wasn't really good at maths. At a particular unit-test in school, he scored zero out of 35. Following my advice, he buried the test copy in his garden. Ten days later, on a fine evening, it so happened that i had just gone to his house to ask him to join us for a game of cricket. The gardener was doing the garden, and suddenly started digging out pages from mother earth with a lot of crosses and zeroes and comments like "you imbecile, i need to meet your parents" in red ink. He showed it to Gaurav's dad. I saw this with my own eyes, and I shit you not, his dad was so angry, that the sheets of paper that he was holding in his hands caught fire. This brief conversation followed:

Gaurav's Dad: Barun, go and play cricket.
Me: But uncle, Gaurav has to come. Otherwise we have no one to bring the ball back when it falls into the gutter.
Gaurav's dad: Gaurav, tell your friend that you won't be playing cricket today (while muttering under his breath... and probably for the next six months. You need two hands to hold a bat)
Gaurav: Barun, go. You really shouldn't be seeing this. It's gonna be disturbing.

Well, as i stepped out, i saw him flying out of the rear window, and promptly being dragged back inside. Their neighbours later told me that they saw the same thing happen about 27 times that day.

The last time my dad beat my ass black and blue was about 6 years ago, when I was in my 1st year of engineering. Yes, my CATP ( Cut-off Age for Thrashing from Parents) was as late as 18 years. It so happens that I had just come back from college for vacations, and my driver picked me up from the railway station. The driver was a chutiya, and I somehow convinced him to give me the wheel. Please note that i had never driven a car before in my life. I hadn't driven 10 metres when i banged in onto an incoming Tata Sumo. Major tamasha ensued. Parted with a lot of hard-earned pocket money in order to pacify the Sumo owner. But what i did next, was a stroke of genius. I knew my dad wouldn't be back home until late evening. So I gave the car to a mechanic, and told him to undo all the dents and fix another head-lamp while i begged/borrowed/stole money to pay him off. Got the car fixed, borrowed enough money to pay the mechanic off, and got the car back home before dad was back. Yeah! Game,Set,Match! Except the mechanic left one dent uncovered. And my dad spotted it. What happened next is too graphic to describe, but if you ever happen to meet my neighbours, ask them about that night in December 2002 when they thought that a jackal had strayed into our colony and was howling because it was full-moon.

Ahh.... sweet memories. But you know what, I'm glad my Dad beat my ass. He didn't do gay things that today's parents do like ground me, or send me off to my room to think about what i had just done while i could just close the door and shag. He beat my ass. Like a man does to a man. And thank god for it. Had it not been for the discipline that he taught me, I would probably be peddling dope in Allahabad Railway Station today.

So, I close this post with a thank you to Daddy dearest, who, apart from teaching me 57,342 ways to discipline my future kid, taught me many more things about life. Today, as I have grown up to be a fine young man ( i know this is debatable... but just go along with me for now, won't you), he has become a true friend. Hell, he even opens his favourite bottles of single malt whenever I go home and pours me a drink twice as large as his own. Thank you dear Father, I owe you big-time.

Note: People who do choose to comment on this piece, kindly give your CATPs as well.

Monday, October 27, 2008

UK Survival guide for the average frustrated Indian Male

Annnnd... I'm back! Bloody long time it's been since a blog. Actually i was too busy having a good time in the real world ( i think anyone who posts more than 3 blogs a year is a loser). But it's that time of the year again... Diwali... and my leave request got denied, so here I am, sticking out in the office like a sore thumb, while everyone else has gone home to their mommies and poppies and are having a gajabuja time in general. So with all my beer buddies away, and only a limited collection of porn ( and stamina), i have had to succumb to the last resort for timepass: a blog post.
Anyway, here goes: I had the good fortune of travelling to the UK for about 2 months this year. I thought i would rock the place with my awesomeness. I couldn't have been more wrong. I was wronger ( if there is such a word) than I am wrong at the English section of mock-CATs. I was thoroughly under-prepared. So, i think it is my duty to inform the average beer-swiggin'-crotch-scratchin'-oglin'-bald-fat-bastard-who-is-only-marginally-cool-in-India-but-comes-across-as-a-thorough-bum-anywhere-else Indian male about some peculiarities of that land, and how to prepare for them so that you emerge safely out of all the cultural traps the bloody white man has set up for us all over their country.

I shall enumerate the survival tips in the order of their importance:

4. Wear shades - AT ALL TIMES
You see, when you're walking down the many streets of London, you are bound to see something like this:

or maybe this:

or maybe this:

or maybe this:

But given that you're an average Indian male ( most probably an IT engineer), your luck has always been shitty, and going to the UK won't change a thing, you'll most probably see this:

or this:

Don't worry... I've seen worse.

Anyway, my point is this: On an average stroll through London, a frustrated loser like you is going to stand and ogle at inappropriate stuff atleast 24,000 times.
Here's how it usually goes: Depravity, perverseness and unnecessary curiosity being your flagship virtues, you are bound to just stand there and ogle at the kind of things illustrated above in the pics. Until some firangi guy/female walk past your muttering " ugggh ... these sad, sick brown bastards".
Now there are two ways to avoid such a situation:
1. Don't ogle - Yeah... right. I know its impossible. This is the first time you're seeing wild shit like this which isn't stored as "GRE_tips.avi" in "c:\>program files\backup\...\New Folder".

2. Don't let anyone know where your eyes are looking. And here is where a nice pair of extra-dark Ray-Ban Aviator sun-glasses come in.

To drive my point home, here's a simple demonstration:

See, no one has any idea now where I am staring and what kind of illegal shit is going on in my twisted mind.

So friends, wear shades... AT ALL TIMES... day or night, indoors or outdoors... you never know when the next scantily clad babe will walk past you and drop her handkerchief and then bend down to pick it up... or when the two girls you always thought were good friends suddenly decide to show the world that they are more than just good friends.

3. Carry cigarettes and a lighter after 9:00 p.m.
Even if you don't smoke. You see the percentage of females in the UK who are not drunk after 8:00 p.m. is 0.00001%. And by 9:00 pm, all the drunk females run out of their own stack of cigarettes and explode out of the bar and into the streets begging for a smoke to anyone and everyone. This where you need to be ready with an Indian brand cigarette ( they love Indian cigarettes..esp. Wills Navy Cut , i shit you not... the Indian cigarettes conk them out much faster than their crappy Dunhills and Marlboros), and a Zippo lighter. Bonus points if you know any cool Zippo tricks. These two should be enough to get you lucky.

Again, to drive my point home, illustrations:

See what my non-smoker friend Mangu who always packed a Wills Navy Cut packet and a Zippo lighter got home:

And look at this idiot who obviously forgot to carry smokes:

Notice how there’s no one else in his bed…

2. Get a fancy haircut
It'll save you from sticking out like a sore thumb. You see, the guys in UK actually have a hairstyle. I didn’t see a single guy whose hair was growing accidentally. Every damn strand of hair is there because its meant to be there. Not exactly what Paplu Yadav, your regular barber in India is capable of. So go there, shell out a few pounds and get one of ‘em wild ones. It’ll increase your chances of being allowed within 10 metres of a female exponentially.

Again, illustrations:
Note: AMPC=Average monthly pussy count

His AMPC: 57

His AMPC: 34

His AMPC:92


See? The only difference between me and those bums is a non-accidental hairstyle. Look at the impact it has on my AMPC.

And the Number one survival tip:
In fact, its so bloody important, that I’ll number it Zero.

0. Shave your arsehole
Because they don’t use water. They use tissue-paper. Believe me, you will not find a source of water within 10-mile radius of a commode. Even if you do, you will not find any means of transporting it up to your…well… the general area of application. And that stuff dries up faster than you think it does. Damn, I wish I could explain in more detail, but I’m too grossed out myself right now. So just remember: shave your arsehole before leaving for UK. You’ll understand what I’m talking about once you get there.

So, that’s all folks. It’s a great country otherwise. Follow these 4 rules, and have a much better time over there than I did. Cheers!

Reader discretion advised: Attention girls and prudes, you might find this post offensive. You might not want to read it. There. You've been warned. What? You've already read it and you're totally grossed out? Too bad... go watch Notting Hill or Oprah and you'll be okay again...

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

And now, the man behind the bullshit.

Okay, all my fans ( all three of you), I'm sure you must've read my previous posts ( all two of them) and been wondering, who IS this guy? How is his mind so keen, and yet his nature so humble? I wish i knew what brand of ice-cream he ate, and whether he slept with stuffed animals. If only I could become a little like him.... well, your prayers have been answered. There's this stupid game called tag, which I'm sure originated from the nerd-gang of my electrical class in college. What they do is, they give you this set of questions, which you are supposed to answer (they "tag" you). For example, I was "tagged" by Meera. ( I wonder how the nerd-gang got their hands on such a sweet little girl. Meera stay away from them. They can ruin your self-confidence i tell you...). Anyway, enough bullshit. Now for some more bullshit:

1)LAST MOVIE YOU SAW IN A THEATER: Chronicles of Narnia: Prince-Supergay. LOTR for bed-wetters and little girls.

2)WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING?: Functional Specification Document for Geneva Exchange Layer for Forex and Options, Version, by my Project manager, one of the greatest writers in the genre of Fixed Income and Treasury. Well actually just finished 3 Mistakes of my life by Chetan Bhagat. No great literary value ( The document by my Project manager has more literary value, i tell you), but it was more fun than a barrel full of drunk monkeys.

3)FAVORITE BOARD GAME? : Ludo. I like it because the game is based purely on luck,and hence no one calls you a dumbass after you lose.

4. FAVORITE MAGAZINE? : I've stopped reading them. I DOWNLOAD porn now.

5. FAVORITE SMELLS? : The smell of my girlfriend's hair right after she's taken a bath. Drives me crazy every time.

6. FAVORITE SOUND? : The sound of the clock striking 6 o'clock on weekdays.

7. WORST FEELING IN THE WORLD? : Well, this Sunday, I was taking a mock CAT, and i forgot the value of Cos30 degrees. I always knew that I was a dumbass, but i didn't know i had reached such heights.

8. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU THINK OF WHEN YOU WAKE UP?: "Wtf, why didn't the alarm go off?" Well, it always goes off, and it keeps beeping till all my roommates wake up and one of them shuts the alarm, kicks me five times to wake me up, curses my mother and then gives up.

9. FAVORITE FAST FOOD PLACE? :Sudhir Chainis Restorent, just below my office.Their speciality is South Indian.

10. FUTURE CHILD'S NAME? : Well I'll have 3 kids. A boy, and two girls. The boy will grow up to be a rockstar, so I'll give him a name which can be easily anglicized, like Sameer->Sam,Devraj->Dave, Omkara Zalaaluddin Zubin Yahudi ->Ozzy. The second girl will be a model, so her name has to sound sexy. Something like Saloni ( have you ever met a girl whose name was Saloni and she wasn't hot?). The third girl will do all the chores in the house, so I'll name her Bimla.

11. FINISH THIS STATEMENT. "IF I HAD A LOT OF MONEY I’D...? : be 75 years old.

12. DO YOU DRIVE FAST? : I have to. I wake up at 9:20 am, and office starts at 9:30. No choice there.

13. DO YOU SLEEP WITH A STUFFED ANIMAL? : Well, sometimes when my roommate is really drunk, he crashes on my bed and its impossible to move him. So yeah, sometimes i do end up sleeping with stuffed animals.

14. STORMS-COOL OR SCARY? : Storms are always cool. What happens to the roads of Mumbai two hours after the storm isn't.

15. WHAT WAS YOUR FIRST CAR?: I still don't have one. I'm poor. You don't have to rub it in by asking such offensive questions.

16. FAVORITE DRINK? : Water. After I've had 5 bottles of beer. After i've had 6 shots of whiskey.

17. FINISH THIS STATEMENT, "IF I HAD THE TIME I WOULD..” I always have time. It's money that I don't have which keeps me from going to Jamaica.

18. DO YOU EAT THE STEMS ON BROCCOLI? : Depends, on how many pegs I've had before I have to take this decision.

19. IF YOU COULD DYE YOUR HAIR ANY COLOR, WHAT WOULD BE YOUR CHOICE? : I've always wanted to dye it in the colours the Indian flag... some day i will, if i have any hair left on my head by that time.

20. NAME ALL THE DIFFERENT CITIES/TOWNS YOU HAVE LIVED IN : New Delhi, Bagdogra (WB), Hashimara (WB), Devlali (MH), Talbehat (UP), Nasirabad (Rajasthan), Ambala (haryana), Guwahati, Calicut and finally Mumbai. Phew... things you have to do when your dad's in the army...

21. FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH? : Who needs sports when you've got Reality TV? No game of football or cricket or F1 can come even close to "When Police car chases go horribly wrong".

22. ONE NICE THING ABOUT THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU : One is not enough, i have to tell you three:
1. Unlike 99.99% girls, she has a sense of humour.
2. Unlike 99.99% girls, she doesn't have her head shoved up her ass and hence is able to think straight, and talk sense.
3. She values and respects her friends.

23. WHAT'S UNDER YOUR BED? : Let's see ...My CAT material, my pillow, DVDs of Rosemary's baby and A Few Good Men, harry Potter 7, the late Bittoo ( cockroach.. poor fellow was whipped with a jhaadu to death by the Baai), my old mp3 player, comb, atleast 2 pairs of jeans, a packet of Marlboro lights, a vase ( which i got in L&T as a prize for being the "life of the party") ... well these are the things i can't find since the last 2 months. Well, come June, and the landlady will kick us out of the house. We'll look under the bed that day.

24. WOULD YOU LIKE TO BE BORN AS YOURSELF AGAIN? : I was okay when I was born. It's the engineering education that fucked up my life. Would love to change that, please...

25. MORNING PERSON, OR NIGHT OWL? : Morning: owl, night: person.

26. OVER EASY, OR SUNNY SIDE UP? : wtf does this question mean? does it have anything to do with making eggs? In that case, it doesn't matter coz sudhir (refer qn.9) makes only bhurji.

27. FAVORITE PLACE TO RELAX? : Office. These guys have some deadly chairs, I tell you.

28. FAVORITE PIE?: American Pie. Part 3.

29. FAVORITE ICE CREAM FLAVOR? : Pista is the current favourite. Im just waiting for someone to invent beer flavour.

30. OF ALL THE PEOPLE YOU TAGGED THIS TO, WHO'S MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND FIRST? : I don't have anyone to tag. My friends don't blog. Its difficult to type while holding a beer can, you see.

Phew...that's lot of typing. The last time i typed so much was when my girlfriend got pissed at me for flirting, and i didn't have the balance to call her up and clarify things. I had to pacify her over google talk.

Monday, July 03, 2006

My first kiss

My first kiss
Well, all those expecting a romantic little piece are advised to go away now. What follows is one of the grossest blogs ever posted.

All of us have such great expectations from our first kiss. We all remember how it went, how we felt hot in the mouth, how your tongues interlocked, how your head went all blank, how she/he touched you all over, etc. the same happened with me. but there's a minute detail i still haven't divulged. Refer to the third clause: how he/she touched you all over. In my case, it was actually a he/she .... yeah..MY FIRST KISS WAS FROM A EUNUCH. Here’s how it all happened:

Setting: The Guwahati-Cochin express. a cold, December morning. I am traveling back to college all alone.( thank god I was alone. had any of my friends witnessed it, he would have convinced me to jump off the train after the disgraceful smooch). The train starts from Guwahati at 5:30 a.m., so I fell asleep soon after boarding.

Ground zero: somewhere near the Assam Bengal border.

Now, usually, during a eunuch attack, I flee to the toilet. if I cant do that, I remove everything that can be snatched by a eunuch ( cap, specks, MONEY). But alas, I was asleep, that too on the lower berth, and that too with my glasses on. I was a sitting duck for an attacking eunuch. i was completely unprepared, and as my luck would have it, I was struck by one of the most elite eunuch teams in that route. They attack swiftly, quietly, and leave no prisoners. Yes, if eunuchs could be compared to a crack infantry unit, the team that attacked me would be Delta Force (or SAS for anti-Americans). All I felt was a slight nudge and as I opened my eyes, I saw my glasses being snatched away and holstered safely into his/her blouse. I tried to follow them, but they had an extraction plan ready. the eunuch with the package escaped while I had to deal with covering fire from backup-eunuchs. Finally I ran two compartments and caught up with them, begging them to gimme my glasses back. Now this compartment was full of some school kids going for some camp somewhere. It is in this compartment that I was subjected to all the trauma. Anyways, the eunuchs and I agreed on a ransom on 10 bucks for my glasses. I paid the money. But they didn't gimme my glasses back the decent way. One eunuch said, "mai pehnaaungi ", and lunged towards me. I fought with all my might, trying to wrestle the specks out of her hand, while he/she was trying his/her best to place it back on my eyes. I said what the hell, why break the specks for such a trivial thing, let him/her place the specks. Maybe he/she is just good at heart and wants to make it up to me by showing this kind gesture. So I stopped wrestling, and put my arms down. I guess the eunuch just couldn't resist the temptation- a handsome stud, completely unprotected, ready to be deflowered by him/her. The bitch, under the garb of placing the specks on my eyes, came too close, said "jawaan hai, sundar hai"..and then .... SMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOCCCCCCCHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!. Right on the lips.

Have you guys seen Saving Private Ryan? In the beginning, there's this scene ( Omaha beach-head) where everything goes blank for Tom Hanks... he goes all numb... and then slowly he regains his senses... this is what happened to me too. By the time I got all my marbles back, the eunuch team had extracted, nowhere to be seen. All I saw was a compartment full of stunned school kids, some of them about to throw up. Then I felt my mouth... why were my lips wet? Did the bitch kiss me? Holy shit! He/she kissed me! Now wait, why does my mouth taste of supaari and guthka, though I never had any of that? Did his/her tongue go in too? Holy shit! His/her tongue went in too! I was so bloody disgusted with myself, so ashamed of myself, that I couldn't even throw up. I just walked back to my own berth, like nothing had ever happened, and went back to sleep.

I woke up four hours later, brushed my teeth away with half the tube of the bada-waala pepsodent that mom had loaded me with, fagged 4 navy-cuts in a row, till I could finally feel normal. Then I chuckled to myself, and went back to sleep, thinking "wait till my girlfriend hears of this".....

Thursday, March 16, 2006

The difference between goal and aim

Sometimes i wonder why we learn what we learn. Allow me to illustrate my point. I'll start off with a small anecdote. This happened when i was in S-6, in the Principles of Management class.

time: 08:00 hrs.
the teacher started rambling about Decision Making. What i heard was " decision making is the process of ...while keeping into view the bo bo bo bo .... bo bo bo bo bo bo bo ...zo zo zo zo ... zz zz zz zz...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz". Out of the class and into dreamland in 7.35 minutes flat.

time : 08:15 hrs.

teacher : Last bench, black t-shirt.
my fellow back-benchers, driven into a similar state of stupour, but somehow still conscious enough to deduce with a moderate amount of difficulty that i was the only last bencher with the black t-shirt yanked me awake.
Me (wondering if Pakistan had attacked): huhhh??? ....
teacher: what is your name?
me: errr.. Barun(i think)
teacher: Barun,what is the difference between a goal and an aim?
me: goal and aim???
teacher: yes, goal and aim.
me:errr....goal.. and aim???
teacher:either you answer this question, or you get out of the class.
me: ma'am, aim and goal sound like pretty much the same thing to me.
teacher: get out.go sleep in your room.and no attendance for you today.

There. I knew it was futile to protest. Futile to even beg. I already had 5 out of the maximun allowed 7 bunks in this subject.( what else do you expect? You keep a subject like this in the first hour and expect me to go?) .Cutting sideways from the plot, i now remember why we used to affectionately call the teacher 'Gabbar'( the heartless daakoo from Sholay, for the uninitiated). Anyways,one more attendance gone up in smoke. I started my journey towards the door. But the optimist in me never dies. I thought there was still a way to salvage some of the lost image.

me (on my way out): ma'am, could you atleast tell me the answer?
At that point, I swear I saw the teacher saying "what the fuck??" under her breath.But this is NITC baybeh. Anything the student asks must be answered by the teacher, even if its an enquiry into their favourite colour for pyjamas( the Director says it aids in the learning process of the students).
Gabbar: An aim is short-term, and a goal is long-term .( or vice-versa.. i don't remember properly now).

Believe it or not, i got kicked out of class because some self-obsessed idiot at some point of time had decreed that aim is short-term and goal is long-term( or vice versa). I lost an attendance for this. Could anyone explain to me how knowing the difference between aim and goal was going to make me a better engineer( or a manager, for argument's sake)? Here's another thing that's a point of active discussion in the field of management: is management a science or an art? This question has appeared 24 out of 25 times in the history of end-semester exams in NITC (and CREC earlier).Well, i remember the brief outline of the answer. There were about 10 points supporting the argument that management was a science, and 10 points that suggested it was an art. The funny thing is, that 5 of the points were common to both. And the teachers taught it with such a straight face that it almost seemed sensible.
I'm sure that these are not stray one-off cases. I'm sure that, had i paid more attention in class these four years, i would have been able to point out many more such instances of megacrap being taught in the name of engineering education.
Oh yes, go ahead and laugh at my misery. But don't miss the big picture here. Why do we learn drivel like this? Is it just the name of the degree B.Tech that has value? what about the things that are taught under its garb? I thought the aim of teaching Principles of Management was clearing the fundamentals of how to manage an industry, or atleast a small team of people. Instead we learn trivia that has absolutely nothing to do with making us a better manager. I now wonder what in the holy name of management is taught in the IIMs.the highest paid guy in IIMK this year grabbed a package of $84,000. I'm sure he must know that aim is short-term and goal is long-term( or vice versa).