J.P bhaiya jinndabaad!!!!

Weeks of screaming my craw out at J.P (newspaper walle bhaisaab) finally yields. The roll’s fatter than usual. He has, to my absolute delight, stuck a small scrap of postid that in his rather pleasantly illegible scrawl, reads: encl—mainstream, OT, RSJ all issues September. TO BOLO TARA RA RAAAA…….

JOURNAL JUNK...from some time long back!!

6:00am --- the fuckin panic timer making her point more than clear….wake up assface, time to go, take some more of their shit.

7:00am --- assemble near the senior labs, to be ‘escorted’ to our new coffin-houses. Everyone’s nicely done up…nicely done up for new nice session. Crisp white collared complete with cherry blossomed shoes (hah…cherry blossomed). New non-graffitied furniture and all freshly coated walls, smell of fresh paint…unscratched fresh. Everything’s official, in order… order order. Happy happy-ever-afters everybody. Whoop di doo.

8:00am --- linger on in the corridor for a while, want to breathe out the hardness…its been sitting on my chest all morning. begin to take steps towards the door when Dee slides her hand across my waist and pulls me towards her “hey ho… you ok?” she asks dotingly (hard to remember when I was last doted upon). “Yeah…am fine…I guess…feel nauseous”. My best shot…that’s the best I’ve got…phaa. “That’s ok, you’re just nervous” she smiles. NERVOUS; I search for the butterflies down in my gut. Nope, aint any. Just a loud thumping noise, like a tribal drum beat. My heart…damn thing’s been palpitating all through.
We’re walking into the class. It’s pretty airy but the giant tree outside the lone window blocks sunlight.
“Old one. They’ve given us an old board. Not fair” Gego is already cranking up. “Hi Gego”. “We need more chairs…more chairs”. I can see his foggy pic adorning a best seller’ jacket already. ‘1001 reasons why you should go kill yourself (right now)’.
All the good spots are already taken. I choose the one in the far corner, next to the window. Gaping at blue budgies during algebra a…aah pure bliss. Lolo comes and plunks down beside me (AAAAARRRGGGHHH). “You don’t mind do you”, she twitters, her huge ear hoops flashing about obscenely. ‘Oh no sure go ahead…drumbeats, heart palpitations, hernia; life’s a huge big party for me.

THE ART OF CHAUVINISM!!

.....I jump on my white horse, Cadillac
I ride across the border line
I rope sixty five girls
I kiss them all the same time
I take twenty five or thirty
I'd put them all on a freight
A million dollar reward for me
Each and every state
The Sheriff says, is you Guitar Watson?
In a very deep voice
I say, yes Sir, brother Sheriff, and that's your wife on the back of my horse'

Cause I'm a gangster of love
Yeah, I'm a gangster of loveHey, yeah
When I walk down the street
All the girls that I meet
Say he's a gangster of love!!!
- johnny "guitar" watson.

you're still seventeen....arent you!!!

I got this invite for an evening do at decibel a couple of weeks ago (rephrasing:- a couple of weeks ago was when I got the invite, the do was yesterday.). And well I, being me, was, as an obvious routine, pretty darn skeptical about the whole thing. I mean not that I have anything against “shaken ma thang” in front uv a couple a hundred ppl but just as a general norm that I have against most scool (bwah…yuck…make 5-year-old-puking-on-his-broccli face here!!) related gatherings. But then since I had had my fill with the countless “night-out” posts on some off the blogs I regular at, I thought well if for nothing else the ‘excursion’ wud do my blog some good. So I wake up on Saturday morning at the grandpeople’s place in dwarka (my weekend getaway) and am in no mood to make it back home let alone go all the way to chanakyapuri for the party. But turned out the folks there had a lunch-thingie somewhere, so I caught the 10:20 metro and…huh… got back home. Countless SMSes and trying to figure out how to make the evening possible without any commutation later I was almost (…being the operative word here) ready to go. Now I had this shameful secret of how I have never ever been to a club and how I don’t know scrap bout parties, so I figured w(ai)ell there really is no theme per say so why get all dolled-up, thus pulling up wateva I cud, I was off. I reach the venue and eeeeks!! There are about a handful of girls outside all dressed up with all sorts of shit in their hair…now how do ya beat that. But nada ppl…I didn’t just spend bloody 80 bucks on a damn auto to go back home. So I, giving them a HA HA UR ALL DRESSED UP look make it straight in. There I find a couple of losers frm back at school who happen to be in charge of the entry even more dolled up (yes…yes… compared to the aforementioned ladies) and going “hey!! You made it”, with everyone. They take my siggi, rip my invite, ink my wrist and am all officially a party person (sounds very cryptic Harry potter ish eh?). Now outside I was like phrrrrrrrr while am young guys, and once inside am all oh howdy doody everyone. The place is all nicely done up and since am pretty late the party is well into action. The track changes from ‘hips don’t lie’ to ‘play ma song’ and am all wooohooo, (consider: I have NEVER EVER done this before) takes me a few seconds to spot my set at the other end of the dance floor and a few more to actually get to them. Again…more people dressed up but then since my set is my set..they really don’t give a hoot bout the fact that am not all flashy. Takes bout two songs before I find my beat and once I have boy am I rockin it or what. (Sudden realization: I lurrv to dance, so much so that I don’t care if they start playing bhojpuri music). The best part about the whole thing was that since everyone knew everyone well enough there was no real chance of me being either picked up or felt up. And given that am surrounded by people who are as amateurish as I am there even aint any chance of them being all, hey what the hell do u think ur doing either. No problems there save for one teeny tiny icky little thing, little into the do and I realize OH hell no. I don’t have any deodorant on. Now bearing in mind that when indulging in anything physical I have a tendency of sweating a tad bit too much means that about half an hour more before I start smelling like a pig. The good part however, the place is so damn crowded that I bet so are some of the other peeps around (gnna start smelling that is). So well off with that. Drinks were on the house and there being a huge flat screen TV with the live match on, they (organizers) seem to have really put their thought into the do. We danced our asses off for a couple of hours more and by the end of the entire thing I was very much partied out. Nothing very gripping other than all that…i said it was a scool thing didn’t I?

Pointers for next time (is there gonna be a next time…HELL YEAH!): -

1. You can shorten you skirts and boot cut your pants all you want, the school uniform Is still gonna make you look like a buffoon…but then that’s the whole point isint it?

2. Never try and dance with people who are all “coupled up”. Not only are they not interested but also there other halves are gonna give you real shady looks if you try to.

3. On the floor, it doesn’t matter even if ur in your undies UNTILL u know all your moves well.

4. Sweaty people must carry their deo-sticks, Clint Eastwood style. U KEEP THEM HANDY THEY’L KEEP YOU DANDY (background fake laughter…. BWAHAHAHA).

5. (this ones for the guys) its ok if u do your ooh-leave-the-stage-and-see-me-go-all-cartwheely jig once EVEN TWICE but then it really gets irritating and extremely desperate.

6. NEVER go up to the dj more than once and never try and be rude (“looks like u left all ur good music home buddy”). The worst thing will be when he turns around looks u in the eye and says “sweetheart if you come up here one more time am seriously gonna consider calling the security on you!!!

i only ask for so much.....

Bring me life and bring me lots of it. Bring it the way I asked you to bring it. Wash it clean off all airs and watch so you don’t ruin the copper hemline. Shave off the fake goatees, and pull open the pointless ear hoops. Rub off the phony tattoos and the bogus punk rock shit. Don’t let my share crawl back on to the dance-floor…. fake stilettos pinching my feet, ruining the delicate curves. Chop those braids off, I never asked for them. I wear my hair down…always always. I have waited in line…silently. I can wait longer. Yes I can. Who put those slits in my jeans, I don’t want them torn…I don’t see the point. Who told you to put that skylight up there? Those pricey sconces are a bloody eyesore…take em off. I registered for the sun. I wont settle without it. I take my tea with milk in it… several times…over nd over again. Until I feel milky enough inside. I don’t cry but when I do, my tears are never forged. See, I don’t do “khool”, never could. And I hate cocky…the desiccation that comes with it, unavoidable. I want “abbe yaar” and chup re” and “dilli” and “wah”. I want earth. Yes I know its better, with them around, more “fun”. But I jus don’t want it. I always knew that it was out there but no one told me how there are ten different shades of it all. Well am picking mine and its not fiery red or a murky black. But it’s me. And I like it. Life the way I always dreamed about it, not knee kicking shin digging better but just the way I called for. Earthy…

about a song.......

I find it dreadfully amusing, how one has to practically wipe out every last trace of ‘gray’ in them to even bear Hindi music today. And as if that wasn’t enough, we now have Mr. Polypsic crooner, your majesty, pepping the lyrics up further with bullshit like love-you-unconditionally. I mean why would you say that to someone…even in a song….why would you. I feel so violent everytime he goes oooon and aaaaan that I feel like lynching myself off my own skin. But then just as am about to pack my bags and move to greener pastures (seriously… where do I pick up these phrases) I stumble upon to this amazing no., startling almost. Its one of the lesser-known songs from Omkara. ‘Namak ishk ka’. The song, in a characteristic thumri style, has an old-world charm to it. Penned by GULZAR, the words ooze Gulzarian elegance and grace. But the aspect that makes it most fascinating is the way he deals with the lyrics. Half way through the song and you come to a sudden realization, hey wait just a freakin second…this is porn. The man is talking sex, aint he? Of course it’s pretty darn hard to make out at first, its Gulzar for crying out loud, the man who shoved life into old ‘Ruswa’ poetry in umrao jaan. The man who wrote almost all of Naseer’s dialogues for the series on mirza ghalib. But then it slowly climbs over, the beauty of the words, the subtle ease with which he talks about the act—before, during and after. You giggle at how if explained in layman’s terms, the words are fit to make it into some c-grade upanyas, the ones hidden at the back of some cheap newspaper stand with the sleazy pictures of plump women with heaving bosoms and fake, repelling pouts. But then he doesn’t let it fall down to the average dhin-chak standards. You can almost feel him watch over the song, with his deep-set eyes studying each verse closely, etching every little word to perfection. His prehistoric horn-rimmed chashma in hand, chewing on one of its legs, almost living each couplet he writes. I guess that is how one can tell a Gulzar song from the rest of the recent bullshit. Pretty simple, the rest of the recent is bullshit.

P.S: if this post inspires you to give the song a try, then I’d prefer you download it. The video is no good. The whole weird bipasha basu hip gyrations spoil the fun.