War of the pimbles

I used to have a beautiful goatee (beard). Now, I don't. Thanks to the dirty pimbles. I am being tormented by rascally pimbles. Tiny, err...kinda biggish, roundish, red-pinkish globules of my skin, mushrooming out of my face, threatening to be extra noses. There's one on my left cheek. Looks like, it's been going to the gym, turning tough! Rough and thick and crusty.
There's a family of pimbles living on my chin. They live like long-lost relatives on either side of the cleft on my chin, like India and Pakistan, separated by the cleft of the Rann of Kutcch.
Nuisance mongers. When in the train, random objects would come n nudge at it, as if people knew how much it disturbed me and were purposely doing it to quench their thirst for sadistic pleasure. The last time I expressed my anger was when the lady with the basket of chickoos brushed her basket against the pimble on my left cheek. Cheekoos! Bah!
It is tougher at night. Groggy with sleep, when the existence of the pimble has surpassed my memory, I set my head onto the pillow, the very side that the pimble sits and clasp my hand over my mouth, not to wake up my folks.
The pimbles had started mating and creating new offsprings near and around the place that they now live, the result of which is my new, clean-shaven look. And how difficult it was to shave without upsetting the pimbles! It was like tiptoeing into a room full of sleeping chicken warming their eggs, when you have to jump over stacks of hay and still not make the tiniest of thumps. Plying the razor blade over the stubble without touching the irritations felt like riding a bicycle on a railway track.
The Government of India and the NASA called upon me last night. The said they feared that the pimbles are the handiwork of certain Martians who landed on Earth a few eons ago. They said they wanted to quarantine me, like they did to all those eggs supposedly infected with bird flu (lol, imagine the chicken going atissue, atissue!) they asked me to take my dearest thing with me. I told my baby sparrow to pack her bags.

A couple of parrots paid us a visit yesterday. They seemed to say, “Kawaak, Kwhappy Kwonam.”

Irk, ire, idiot



I met the Police Commissioner (cyber crime department) in the train yesterday. He seemed to be much harried with all the crimes and other murders happening with the assistance of networking websites and other sites.
He might’ve seen me reading Memoirs of a geisha and must have assumed that I would be interested in rantings, as he tapped at my knee and said, “Good book,” nodding his head like he had spent hours on his job poring over the book.
He must have felt miffed when I just nodded, gave him a polite smile and turned back to my book, because he said, “Do you know who I am?” with the air that he was actually the blackbuck that Salman Khan had shot.
Before I could reply, he introduced himself as the commissioner of police, in charge of the cyber crime department and went on with his saga of how the Internet is a very bad thing and how crimes have gone up on it.
I made my eyes a little big to show my surprise and gratefulness for being allowed to talk to His Highness The Commissioner of Police (Cyber Crime Department) and then continued with my book.
“Do you know there are 10 lakh dirty, unethical profiles are there on Orkut?”
I nodded, not taking my eyes away from the book.
“Half of them are homos.”
It seemed as if someone had pushed him onto a chair with an electric seat, for he sat up in a start. “Did you hear that Naval officer who was married but was going around with another girl, whom he met on Orkut and then she later came to know that he was married and wanted to break off with him, but the guy killed him?”
I hummed. I didn’t care if it satisfied him, but he droned on anyways.
“Are you on Orkut?”
I nodded.
“I hope you do not put your own pictures and personal details like email address or PIN code or phone number of vehicle number or PAN card number or ATM code or bank account number on the dirty Internet.”
I said no.
“Thank god,” he said, brushing his hand against his brow as if he was wiping away sweat after recovering from a very chronic bout of diarrhea. “At least some youngsters are alert and knowledgeable.”
Memoirs of a geisha is so interesting!
I thought he understood my lack of interest in his jabber when he started looking out of the window. I soon got to know that he had only been racking his brain for more topics to entertain me with.
“You know Adnan Patrawala, right?”
I said I had only read about him in the newspapers and did not really ‘know’ him.
“Ya ya, that only I’m saying,” he said. “See how dangerous thing it is. It, I mean Orkut should in fact, be called danjurious.”
He thought I did not understand his pun. So he said, “Danjurious means dangerous plus injurious.” Cheeky grin.
I nodded, wondering whether he could see the smoke billowing out of my ears.
“I think I will ban this site.”
I was already livid. Now this was getting on my nerves.
“What do you think?”

I looked into his eyes. I stood up without taking my eyes off his. I could see him looking at me. I stretched up, took my bag off the luggage rack, opened the zipper, put my book inside, closed the zipper and started towards the door.
“Okay, you are going, but tell me what you think about banning the site and blocking it and disallowing people from using it?”
Shut up.
The train arrived at my station. From the corner of my eye, I saw the cop shifting seats and sitting by the window now, his elbow propped up on the sill, unmindful of the red spittle on it and glaring at me.
I stepped onto the station and walked with a satisfactory air about me as the train glided past me.

Life's monsoon musings

It had rained all day. The clouds yelled, pointed pointy shards of thunder at me, accusing me of things, pointing fingers. Elsewhere molten lava bled from huge caverns. Smoke engulfed the place even as water poured onto the boiling blister-like volcano hissing it down into a cold smoulder.

The ground shook as thunder struck, sending tumultuous tremors around. The rains were turmoil a while ago. Though it ceased to drizzles, it continued to send spasms of sparks, threatening to crack open yet another rain-cloud tsunami.

The system of raining is very hidey. It starts pouring in the north and then it heads southwards. It goes on and on. It continues to move on unless it is met with something like a dam. It also depends upon how strong the dam is. Some dams can hold tell mighty rivers to behave themselves. Some others act like Don- feigning power first, and then turning pesky, meek, uncouth and unfaithful. Such dams can only control big rivers for sometime. As the thunderstorm rages, the strength of the river increases. Rainwater adds to it. The lunch break is over. There are cracks in the damned dam wall. They stand cracked like pursed lips, held together not to let go.

It’s over. The dam is broken. Water gushes out, forcing things out of its way. It is mad with rage, angry at nothing particular. It is suicidal. It is a tidal wave hiding a suicide bomber’s coat inside its womb. It cannot stop at will. It is being forced to flow. It cannot help it. But it is actually good. It must flow. It must break barriers and bunds and emerge victorious and stand on the podium, not the third or the second place. There’ll be two first places and the rain god and goddess will stand there, watching all the rain that they made and all the dams they had broken together. And then the priest referee will come and so will all the audience. They’ll bow down together and the audience and the referee will garland with a golden medal- a medal for their bravery and for winning and for blah blah..

I had been watching all of this from my window. Then I had to go into the other room to look for a handkerchief.

Happy Indipindi Day

August 15: Hoisting the nation’s flag. Saluting it. Singing the national anthem. Hugging each other. Pinning paper flags on to each other. Wishing each other happy this day.

August 16 onwards: The flag’s taken off the pole, which is fine, why should it be up there all year? The paper flags are on the road, torn, worn and weathered. Flush out noses on the road, wipe that very hand on the streetlight pole or anything in sight. Spit out the snot that travels down to the mouth. Spit it on the road, spit it out of the train, sitting at the window seat, denying a seat to other weary co-travellers. Just spit spittle or mix it with red-coloured spunk available in tiny packets. Spray the mixture at the corners of all floors of the Dombivali Nagri Sahakari Bank and the State Bank of India, the Brihanmumbai Municipal Corporation, General Post Office and also colour the stones along railway tracks. Munch the contents of those packets, buy extra packets for later use, buy them for friends, and share with friends. Spill the contents into the mouths and tip the packet out of the window. One man- may be four packets a day. Four men- sixteen packets a day. Hundreds inside one train. Thousands of tiny packets on the tracks. Hundreds of trains. Lakhs of packets on the tracks. Ruffles Lays. Roasted groundnut packets. Polythene bags. Offerings of leftover and used flowers for the water-god in the Thane creek and the Mithi river. More packets. Less rainwater drains. Rainwater drains clogged with packets. Buy oranges in the train. Peel them, relish them, and put the peels under the seat. Then say, “Peels, what peels? How would I know who put it there?” Make unnecessary noise. Honk too much near Anmol Ratan Apartments. When in the train, play songs on the mobile phone with the earphones alternatively used as anal plugs. Hang out of the door and hit people walking on the platform, steal their caps, kick their bottoms. Drink and drive and rechristen yourself Alistair Pereira. Bribe the judge, ride in his car, make him resign his post! Forget everything like nothing happened. Spit about, colour things, places and finally people red. Pin flags on each other, be goody goody, hug each other, salute the flag, sing the national anthem and say, “Happy Indipindi Day.”

Liar liar!

One’s lie getting caught can feel sheepish. Silly. Queasy. Squirmy. More so, when it is people who trust you.

My lies got caught just a while ago. I had been shaking with guilt till a while ago even as words as soft as pincushions with pins still stuck in them, were being hurled at me. I’m just an amateur at lying. Have learnt, won’t lie again.

When you’ve lied and get caught, say so and it will be light. When you’ve lied and get caught and deny lying, you are in for greater danger.

more on this later...

“Culture, traditions, alignment of stars, who knows what will happen if these don’t match?”

Who knows what follows next- bouquets or brickbats?

If the purpose of this weblog is to chronicle my lifetime, this day (August 5, 2007) must be enshrined in it as a red-letter day. This is the day that I, the undersigned, Hari Chakyar told his mother that he likes a girl.

The pair of scissors in my hand was doing my sister’s craft project- making a flower bouquet. My brain, agog with activity was playing and replaying least resistant ways to tell mother what I had been intending to tell since a light year but which only became clear recently. Now that I have spilled the beans, everything seems so bright and out in the sun. Opened door.

I was almost done with the craft. We were clearing the clutter. Mom had got an empty plastic bag to stow away the paper cuttings and cardboard shavings, when I said to her that I wanted to tell her something…after my sister had slept. Mom said, “Is it something scary?” I know that was a very funny thing to say, but I did not feel like smiling then. I said, “Why would you be scared?” “It’s about me,” I continued. I waited for a moment. Do I just tell her now or do I wait for my sister to sleep? No, she’ll insist mom accompany her to bed.

“I like a girl,” I sing-songed purposely downplaying the seriousness of the issue. “You know who it is,” I added.

The half an hour before this conversation had been wonderful. Mom, sis and me were sharing beautiful jokes, I, from my collection, sis from her school and mom from her memories. That would explain that light-hearted confession.

I looked up to face mom. Her eyes had grown big and all the mirth that had been there till a while ago had drained out.

“Father and I were happy that everything was turning right about you…”

“What’s wrong now?”

“What’s wrong, you ask? Nothing is wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong. (cold) You did not ask who it is…”

“I don’t want to know. All I want to say is that if the person belongs to a different community, then I’m sorry to say, we wouldn’t be able to support you whole-heartedly. And there’s still so much time left to make such decisions. Culture, traditions, alignment of stars, who knows what will happen if these don’t match? The one who had made the horoscope said that such decisions regarding this horoscope should not be taken before consulting planetary positions.”

Sister entered. “What happened? “ asked the innocent angel.

Mom looked at her and sighed. Big. “Nothing.”

“I want to know, what is it?”

“I said I’m going to sleep, are you coming?”