Three years later

They were sleeping on the bed. Minds connected. Bodies living in resistance. His fingers were aching to feel her hair. Her fingers were itching to hold his. It was a strange feeling. A strange bond. One that LSD had prescribed. There was an unusual calm. Eerie to the world, scaring the souls. The idea of being together was daunting them. She poured a drink for herself and kept it at the side table. His glass was already there. Half devoured. It spoke of the unquenchable thirst. She knew that. Yet, she poured a glass for herself, or so she wanted to believe.

The Kerouac in him had taken a sabbatical. The Plath in her was inching closer to her destination. They were an odd couple. There was a time where they had hesitantly relished each other.

A half-hearted effort that yearned for justice. It crawled upon them at every interaction. Spoken. And unspoken. He was changing by the week. He called it growing up. She called it drifting away. Her growing hair was testimony for her longing. One inch below the waist, just the way he wanted. Minutes turned into hours into days into weeks, encapsulating time into moments. Fleeting was their nature. Erratic and sporadic, moments were soon turning into memories. Stamped with past, future was dwindling in the horizon.

She took a gulp. The glass was half empty now. He wanted to give this another shot. He was waiting for her. She was with him at this moment. She turned to the other side of the bed. “Are you awake?”



Bohemian Episodes

Gypsies wandered the world sharing one experience after another, gripping the audience with objects and stories of people they’d met along the way. Call it a folklore or myth; gypsies were often termed as magicians. Spinning the world around with their words and an aura you could not help but be a part of. Ever since those days of Yore, many a soul wanted to explore the ends of the earth, wanting to experience a life worth documenting. Even the concept of nirvana found its way in. Elusive turned illusive and many embarked on different shores to seek stories. What the Gypsies did not tell us was that you cannot have these experiences by choice. One chances upon these gems and stories stumble upon your lap. And even if it’s not a life changing experience, the smiles these happenstances bring on your face are nothing short of magical. The following are stories of people I’ve stumbled upon in my short travelling stint.

25 minutes. A girl. And many more what ifs.

There are many jokes circling around the incompetence of Air India. And now, I can say, RIGHTLY SO. I had an 8am flight to Delhi. So, around 7 am, I reached the Domestic Airport at Mumbai. Groggy and hungry, I showed my ticket to the cop standing there, waiting to get in and have a cup of hot coffee. To my amazement and his, he exclaimed that you’re supposed to board the flight from the International Airport. Shocked and about to hit the panic button, I saw her – fair, around 5ft 4 inches, curled hair tied in a bun, going through the same emotions. We exchanged a look and halted the first auto rickshaw we found and asked him to speed along. In silence, we rode. Until the driver said he will have to put us in another auto rickshaw as he was not wearing uniform and will be fined if caught. The rains had decided to play salt by now. The muddy potholes were playing injury. And together they splashed their wrath on my white shirt. She cursed the driver for not being careful and we reached just in time. Before boarding, we exchanged our reasons to go to Delhi. Then we discussed professions. Then we discussed both the cities. We were getting to know each other. A weird first date if you ask me. And all this without exchanging names. We boarded. Sat on different seats and met again at Delhi, waiting to hail a cab. Richard Linklater’s two epic movies were playing in my head. She got a cab and offered a lift. As fate would have it, I had to attend a meeting and was on the other side of the town. We held each other’s gaze. Hers said Only If. Mine said What if.

When the world was hazy, James said “I SEE YOU”

Delhi offers you an old world romance. The best food. And a culture that’s rich at every corner. But the capital of the city has one major problem – erratic weather. And if you’ve flown to Delhi during winters, you would have met my arch-enemy – The Dreaded Fog. This demon had already landed me in Jaipur instead of Delhi once, and when I had to return home to Mumbai, it came back to sting me with its secret weapon – Zero Visibility. So, that was that. No visibility. Flights cancelled. No accommodation. Costa Coffee was playing God that day, welcoming all. Never before had I seen the café full at 2 am in the morning. While all the smaller tables were taken, I sat at a table for 6 reading a book. That’s when a teenager came along and asked if he could charge his laptop there. He sat next to me and started watching Avatar on his laptop. He offered me to watch it if I wanted to, and without having second thoughts, I shut my book. Before you know it, 5 of us were watching the movie, sipping coffee, eating muffins. It took another world to bring this one together. Pandora was right here inside a coffee shop.

You know where the UFO landed? GOA

Not many can boast of a wonderful experience had because of someone who does not exist. 4 of us on two bikes. Mission: Light Tower at North Goa. Time: 10.30 pm. Neither of us had been to the Light House before. Following wrong directions, we rode our bikes uphill a dingy rocky road with no streetlights. At the end of the road stood a mansion that looked haunted. Ruffled leaves and movement around the bushes were good enough to scare the Bejesus out of us. One of us, Rohan, in particular was petrified and we decided to rub it in. And the freaky events that followed simply added to the fun. A black cat came under his bike and disappeared. The street light conked off once he rode past it. We asked him to pray to avoid any further trouble. Around 11 pm, in the middle of the road, Rohan knelt down and prayed in the direction of a church. Petrified we went to the shack for dinner. The candle flame on our table began to flicker only to die down later. Of all the tables there, ours was the only table with no candle light. Rohan could not sleep that night. And we could not stop laughing.

The Gypsies have landed in Goa

If you ever visit North Goa at the fag-end of the season, you’d be heavily outnumbered by the foreigners present there. The following two incidents still remain the high points of all my endless visits to the land of beaches. The first one was at Baga beach. A huge pit was dug in the sand and candles were kept around the circle with a bottle of empty beer placed right next to each candle. It was some festival where all of them were singing songs in their local language and dancing around that circle. Alien to them and their culture, I was simply sipping on my beer with a wide grin on my face. A fine young lady approached me and my girl and pulled us to join them. Even a non-dancer like me reveled in this festivity and danced and drank till the wee hours of morning. Even the best pubs in town will never be able to match that.

The second experience came in at dusk at Small Wagator beach. This old man around 50 came out of the sea and settled himself in the adjoining beach bed. Soon, he took out his guitar and began playing it. Soon enough, he was joined by his weed smoking friends and they began singing. It was some song he had played in Leopold Brussels, he mentioned later.

As the sun was retiring for the day, the Gypsies were rising to the occasion. Travelling to all parts of the world. Singing songs. Telling stories. Continuing to amaze us. Continuing to weave magic.

This is an entry for the contest held at

Mission Impossible – Ghost Protocol



The hype had attracted fans and MI newbies to the latest addition of the franchise. IMAX was where all the action was supposed to be. Hell, even Tom Cruise landed here for the premiere. What more could one ask for.

Pre-booked smug duds. Lucky souls to get tickets on current. Anil Kapoor bashers. I prefer older men – Tom Cruise lovers. All were cramping themselves in. Pop corn tubs and Pepsi had taken over more than half of the seats.

It was time for the award-winning (I will use crippled children for emotion advertising) National Anthem. I hated the anthem since day one, because this is how messed up advertisers think. It’s a professional bug and I cannot get over it. The only reason I can stand the anthem is because it’s been shot in my school. Although I love my school (Bosco Bosco Bosco, Don Bosco), the ideologies of the management are very similar to that of the advertisers. Make people cringe, fall in love with your nobility, mint money and garner accolades for the same. So the two coming together for a “Noble Cause” was a master move!

Coming back to the Mission Impossible pun at hand. When it comes to rising up for the national anthem, what you witness is an Indian family with erratic mood swings. Here is a list of people you’d often find in cinema halls

  1. The lazy uncle who will make it appear like he’s a paraplegic and he’s being tortured to get up.
  2. The roving eye teenager who will scan the auditorium for a hot girl
  3. The-Anna-Hazare-I-Wanna-Break-My-Fast fat boy/girl who either eats while the anthem is on or is placing an order to a friend outside
  4. The Airtel subscriber who thinks “Har phone call zaroori hota hai”
  5. ALL WOMEN who will tidy their hair and then stand confused as to where should their hands be – behind, on the side, folded arms, Christ lock, etc.
  6. What? One more chance to stuff my pockets with my hands? That guy.
  7. I’m too cool to sing the national anthem people.
  8. The annoying crying kid who doesn’t know what the hell is happening.
  9. The “I was the last to get up” guy
  10. The “I was the first to sit” guy

There are many other losers who will surprise you with their antics. Once I saw a woman holding her husband’s hand behind her daughter’s back. I never understood that emotion. There are many who take pride and sing as well, but they are easily outnumbered.

While the Indian family was up to its regular antics, there was a rather heartwarming sight right next to me. One you don’t see often these days. A couple had come to see the movie with their toddler girl child who could barely talk, let alone walk. Although she raised havoc later by crying her heart out, her father made one of the best gestures, one that all should model. As all stood up for the national anthem, he held her daughter in such a way that it looked like even she was standing. That was a beautiful moment. One that overshadowed all the wrongs that were happening around me. It brought a huge smile on my face. And that touched me more than the “Silent National Anthem” ever will.

The movie was fun. Bird Brad brought his wiz to the table. You will find your money’s worth just for that Burj Khalifa scene. Anil Kapoor did a nice cameo, but he can do without the accent. I just think it’s the Salman Khan effect.

A nation swimming with false national pride needed a ghost protocol to set things straight. It was a Ghost Protocol indeed. And as Ethan Hunt would say, “Mission Accomplished.



The city of dreams came with its share of nightmares

The indomitable spirit came at a price

With which one could buy dreams

And sell aspirations

Where conscience was battered and bruised

And Gandhian philosophy loosely used

Under the guise of opportunity many perished

Retiring to dwindling hope

The what was and what could have been took over

And talk of the town became talk of the town

The architectural romance is now infatuation

The history – just an institution

They say the city never sleeps

Then how could it ever dream

My city had a soul

And I found mine in it

This is not my Bombay

This is your Mumbai now


This was featured in DNA on 28th November 2011.


The local trains sped past me a few years back. My lazy procrastinating ass met the comforting backseat of a cab. From the day we met, it was love at first sight. Within my love stories, there are many small stories – those of the cabbies. From short journeys to long, I’ve explored this fascinating kind of human beings. Taking into account personal experiences and many shared by friends; I’m throwing light on the different kind of taxi drivers that drive Mumbai. Buckle up for this joy ride.

He’s a Complain Boy

These are the most common found species in Mumbai. Their favourite topic – Pothole Politics. At every bump, my ears pain. They yap. And yap. And yap. The blame is always shot at ruling political party for bringing this upon them. I, too, blame them for bringing this cabbie’s sorry speech to my innocent ears. And when it rains, they pour. The rains refuse to stop, and so do their complains. If you’ve never been into politics, let me tell you, there is no escape. Every pothole and every screeching whine from him would make you hate it as much as the next person.

Picchur abhi pheeki hai mere dost

Their story is much more interesting than our current Bollywood masala capers. And these cabbies too echo the same sentiment – “Story kahan hai boss”. This single-screen whistling and bustling, showcasing joie de vivre, all up for entertainment crowd, have a simple problem – boredom. “Do chaar fighting scenes, gaane aur phoreign location se picchur nahi banti, kuch kahani nahin kuch nahi. Kabhi London mein, kabhi Bambai mein, hero log duniya ghoomte hain, aur unke saath kahaani bhi. Kya phadtoos picchur banaate hain aaj kal”. While your favourite critiques can give you brilliant reviews, trust me, a review from a cabbie is worth more than 5 stars.

Tu shaana toh mein ded shaana

If you think you’re smart, wait till you meet this kind. For every question you ask, he will have two answers, normal route and short cut. By-lanes within by-lanes, smelly corners, playing kids, he takes you through a ride, you’ve never seen before. Just when you start feeling like Indiana Jones, you soon realize that you’re back on the same road, albeit 10 minutes late. If you try to talk your way out it, chances are, just like his response, you’d be caught in traffic. As every question is met with the redundant word of traffic, the meter quietly starts crawling on your wallet, until you feel a pinch. When you encounter such cabbies, take them head on. File a complaint or just pay the normal fare and walk away. After all, every shaana needs a ded shaana.

0 to 80 kmph in 6 seconds

Mumbai has its own share of Schumachers, Vettels and the likes. They truly believe their Fiat Padmini or Santro is no less than a Batmobile, Aston Martin or a Ferrari. This lot of cabbies was rejected when they auditioned for Fast & Furious. They were also rejected as side villains of side villains in sidey movies. If you still haven’t followed, they love speed, high collars, and chewing gutkha. As soon as you close the door, pray to your Gods, because he is in no mood to listen to you. He does not even listen to the red signal sometimes. His honks turn everyone around him deaf, including you. And his meter is hell-bent in ripping your wallet apart. By the end of the journey, he is still Batman; unfortunately you would’ve become the Joker.

The RTO Topper

He took the test. And passed it with flying colours. And as his close ones congratulated him, he took an oath. “I will never break any signal, even if it’s an emergency or way past midnight. I pledge that my car speed will be around my age, never crossing 40 kmph. I will carry a newspaper to don a more serious getup. ” When Mr. Right is your cabbie, you can meditate. Especially at the speed-breaker, where time stands still, quite literally in this case. You breathe in. Pause. And breathe out. And by now you’d be on the other side of the speed-breaker. He is the face of RTO, and yes, he also tenders exact change.

The Dark Knight

Every night, he gets out of his cave and roams around the streets of Mumbai, saving the city girls from their drunken state and the Roadside Romeos. The vultures are on the prowl in their beasty cars, trying to take her in. But he assures her, he is there and not to pay heed to the hooligans. He drops her home and waits to see her walk in through the gate. He’s a silent guardian. A watchful protector. A dark knight.

Peeping Tom

His eyes pop up. His smile turns sly. And those lusty eyes rove in the rear view mirror in the centre of the cab, taking pleasure in the milder version of Kama Sutra being practiced at his backseat. His voyeuristic gaze never leaves the mirror and his memory never forgets. Sometimes a head shake, sometimes a wicked smile, but always intrigued. To your love story, he is the red-blooded witness.

Captain Bored

He is the king of mood swings. And there’s not much you can do about it. You will find him staring at open skies or ogling at pretty legs. Your destination is the least of his concerns. He and his cab have one thing in common, no gas. Beware of this specimen. Because often mid-journey boredom hits him. And then he will offer to drop you at the nearest auto or cab stand. He is so bored that you’d never want to get on board.

While our beloved cabbies often rant nonsensical things, every once in a blue moon, they’ll dish out a gem that’ll touch your soul, a quality very few authors possess. One masterpiece that encapsulates the emotion like no one else can. To end this piece, I would like to quote this one cabbie, and would like to give credit to a dear friend (Dharmesh Gandhi) for tweeting the same. India had just won the cricket world cup; the entire city had taken over the streets reveling the joyous celebration of the victory. As he got into the taxi, the cabbie said and I quote, “Khushi ke maare aasoon nikal rahe hain sir. Lagta hai ke desh ek aur baar azaad hua hai.”


Yes, you read that right. There is no mention of the word love there. To the famous love-lust debate, this is a side where sex wins. While many manifestations of sex fall on either side, this one breaks the bone, in every sense of the word. Though it’s not as happy or exciting as I make it sound. But it’s more liberating than anything you’ve experienced before.

Sadness – that’s where it was born. Deep levels of sadness. And not situational, contextual sadness mind you. It’s the brooding that keeps you preoccupied. For days on end, you begin dissociating from everyone. Creating cocoon within cocoon. Questioning everything, including the question to question yourself. Black hole had become my cave, one where I could not let any light pass through. With every passing moment, the sadness kept on piling.

Until one day, you turn numb. And within that overwhelmed emotion, something takes over you. A ghost that sticks to your side. And a possessed you exudes a robotic confidence previously unknown to you. At that point, you can break any shackle. Any barrier. Any damn body.

The ghost owns your body. And you own hers. She becomes yours to finish and not devour. You’re not thinking of pleasuring her. Or yourself. It’s just you and your sadness alone. It’s a confrontation you had been delaying for long. And now you’re talking. It’s like you are making a point, a hard and definitive one.

You lose track of time, space and energy. You go on ranting, without taking a break. You carry forward the conversation to your living room. The bedroom. The bathroom. The floor. You just don’t want to stop. Yes, it is selfish. But then this is the selfish kind that all need to have. Strangely, you can never practice or imbibe it. The ghost knows no love or lust. Frankly it does not even know sex. It’s just a play of mind with body. And when that happens, I suggest you just experience the calm. It’s a cold feeling. Not hot. Cold but meditative.

Bombay. And it’s dying romance.

24 years I’ve been in Bombay. 19 of which, I recollect. And in front of my eyes, I’ve seen the electrifying city lose its fizz. And mind you, not in comparison with any other city. Many of you must be questioning/cursing me for entitling it Bombay and not Mumbai. But for me, it will always be Bombay, because those were the Golden years. And even if the name change took place in ’95, it was still Bombay for me for a few years after that.

Before making such an emphatic statement, I did consider the generation gap syndrome as well. But times were simpler then, more human. Blame it on globalization or the political scenario, with its development came the demolition of its nicety and innocence – maybe here, the seeds of decline were sown. Never before did people want to move out of Bombay before. The claustrophobia itself is encroaching, and people can no longer breathe.

Diwali was an amalgamation of each apartment, each society and each locality coming together and celebrating this festival of light, but Diwali was never big in Bombay as compared to North India.

Bombay although cosmopolitan, celebrates 3 festivals with vigour, Ganesh Chaturthi, Navratri and the New Year. Barring the first one, the rest have become commercial properties and the former too slowly but surely is bending towards the same.

Back in 90’s, these festivals would literally hold the city in ransom, and its inhabitants would willingly pay their dues. These festivals were reasons for families to unite, brothers to bond and this is where peaceful, harmonious, happy communities existed. With no time limits, people used to merry until the wee hours of morning, only till some Jacks rose and decided to misuse and create havoc with freedom, rules and regulations thus came into place. With many running behind the buck now, and a life that befriends stress, these festivals have become nothing but another paid holiday. This is the case with Ganesh Chaturthi.

Navratri is now a place to dance and fornicate. With alleged reports stating condom sales are at its peak during this season, 9 nights have found a new meaning in Mumbai. It’s Mumbai’s shameful answer to ban St. Valentine. While love remains unceremonial, pre-marital sex gets the company of music and dance for 9 nights.

New Years used to be ‘Burning the Old Man’ culture. But then again there are a few who still indulge. Sadly, the parties enjoy the extra hours levy and profit heavily during this time.

Though these festivals are dying and Bombayites are turning into I-don’t-know-my-neighbours New Yorkers, the festival of IPL, though enjoying a commercial corpus is bringing people closer – and this is not restricted to Bombay.

While the cultural flavour is dying, the new gaming generation has successfully pwned the outdoors. Although this is an established fact, and not a revelation of sorts, the sorry state of today’s children is appalling. While books and a cricket bat have become furniture, the consoles are controlling their lives. Don’t we all remember the days when we bought a new bat and showed it off in the entire colony? The times we used to add additional grips or use brands as stickers or resort to rubber balls, light tennis and hard tennis balls? The exciting monsoons of football every season? Unfortunately kids these days await the latest versions of these games.

Taking the encroaching apartments in the city, many areas have benefitted, and I won’t deny the spread of joy. But then they too have come at a cost. The western suburbs are already claustrophobic and the encroachment at the National Park is simply intolerable. While the suburbs have become cooler, the psychographics of these areas have become warped. Every suburb imitates a certain sub-culture or a western culture altogether. Development has come with a price. The only area that remains true to its old world charm is South Bombay. The town still has its romance intact, the architectural brilliance and the vibe of this area remains the same. While many single screen theatres have bitten the dust, a few prominent single-screen theatres still hold their ground, reminding us of an era gone by. Bombay cared. It wasn’t indifferent. It had a heart. It all changed when Mumbai was born.

(Didn’t want to dabble into the political side of the debate)

Baal Ki Dukaan

Hair-raising chronicles

Hairstyles now complete the look. There are thousands of styles and millions of stylists. From a low paying job to a minting profession, getting your hair cut has seen the light of day. But not without a few comedy of errors. What follows are memoirs of the same, spanning over two decades.

From haircuts under a tree to swanky salons, my hair has seen its share of scissors, razors, and the animated hairdressers, who catered to it.

Adarsh – a small joint sitting under my building, true to its name remained ideal in its vocation. Like a lawn mower, the man did what he was asked to do – keep it short or Baarik as my dad instructed in Marathi. My childhood passport photographs are a manifestation of what you know as the spike look today. It’s a different story that electrocuted stands at random parts of your head were not considered fashion. Futuristic as they may seem now, the porcupines I sported back then were as irritating as someone poking you in the eye.  At Adarsh, the barber’s methodic diligent Scissorhands just got the work done; never quite delivering the finesse of an Edward, but the man behind the scissors was equally good at heart. It’s ironic that Edward Scissordhands and Sweeny Todd were played by the same guy. Anyways, within that goofed up look, where hair was the last thing one cared about, I spent my initial years in a happy oblivion. And I thank him for that.

Years passed by and my hair too jumped all over the place.

Oh, I missed out on the under-the-tree barbers. My first encounter with these freelancers was after a lice attack. I visited them a couple of times to enjoy a cut in open air. But my dad butted in with hygiene, and those freelancers were hit by recession.

Around 16, I met a dear friend, called side partition. Puberty had hit me and I upgraded to a “stylist”. In those days, salons did not exist, but you had these upcoming small setups which charged a meaty 40 bucks. Living in a world of 15-17-20 bucks for a decade now, 40 rupees was a big deal.

And the next 4 years were spent sporting the “Apple Cut”. If you’re confused, look at every Gujju/Jain kid around and even now you’d see this cut. It’s so out of fashion that it will never go out of fashion.

Talking about bad haircuts, just like you, I too have had more than my fair share. From early accusations of Chuhe na khaaya hai kya (Has a rat feasted on your hair), did the barber get bored mid way?, to more modern hazards of stylists experimenting with hair, abbe tu Milind Soman nahi hai, ki kuch bhi suit karega (You are no model to sport any look given to you).

I started earning. With great buying power, came great irresponsibility. I splurged on hair. Salons took over saloons. The bad hair days slept in the past, and the good hair days woke up from the slumber. It was their time to shine. Oh, my hair had finally arrived.  And so had the stylists.

The stylists too came with their own style. Some referred to the manuals. Some were hell-bent in giving you a cut you can style in 5 ways. Now, it really did not matter if neither of them suited you, because never before have you had five styles in one cut.

From the JUICEs to B: BLUNTs to L’OREALs to DILSHAD’s to MAD O’ WOTs, we became consumers of skill. Now the individual stylists garner more attention than the place. And that exclusivity too comes at a heavy price. From saloons to salons, getting your hair cut has seen the winds of change. Now, I’m sporting a short haired look, with a few electrocuted strands. It’s in ‘fashion’. It’s in ’vogue’. It is ‘in’. They call it the messy, out of bed look.

The hundreds and thousands you spend will get you a fashionable look, but the freedom gifted to you by your local barber will remain priceless.

In the end it’s just a haircut, unnecessarily baal ki khaal mat nikaal.

Saturday Night Grazing

The following piece is written for a very dear friend. And I was relatively drunk when I wrote this. Nonetheless.

A nonchalant Saturday. People flocked in. And the shepherd played a good host. Within casual banter, a bored sub part and an animated lot, people were losing themselves to conversations. About music. Movies. People. Stories. And everything else. They spoke.

Some were contemplating. While a few were biding time. The talking lot was having a ball. As time passed, the bored ran out of reasons to prolong the stay. The happy high were enjoying a suspended drug. The shepherd in the meantime, was waiting for a beautiful distraction. Marking the nonchalance of the evening, its very definition walked in. And the usually smooth shepherd dove into effort. It was evident. It was for all to notice. But all let him be. Some found this endearing. While the relative souls broke into a familiar smile.

Knowledge she brought. Aura she created. And within her spell, an innocent soul turned convoluted. The stranger made a move. The shepherd followed. Encroached in those four walls, two souls found their space.

Sunday had just begun.

South Indian Women: The Subsets

Disclaimer: Other cultures, please do not take offense. I shall observe harder and write about you too.


Why am I talking about you? Because you’ve left impressions. Some kind, some unkind. Basically, there are three categories. The Retards. The Associates. The Opinionated. And I will take you through them with my eyes. It’s just an observation. You can refute it, accept it or add to it.


The Retards

A nonchalance that attracts the smart kind. The real shit, beauty with brains. Now let me cave in each of these two words.


The eyes dazzle. They captivate. They express. They conceal. It’s something what Billy Joel had in mind. The body. Slender with some meat on thighs. Well endowed. The hair. Often wavy, straight other times. But always, experimented with. From that elegant side braid to vibrant colours. The step cuts to the fringes. The clothes. Often sporting a simple ganji, her casual style quotient can ease in wherever she goes. An evening event is adorned with a dress, one that makes your jaw drop. And the nail in the head is the Indian attire. A beauty so pure, your heart cannot help skip a beat. The above nuances only hold true because of the following part.


She can hold a conversation. She can supersede the same. With wit and charm at her disposal, and knowledge running in her blood, the impulsive reader and ever inquisitive soul can fascinate you, excite you, and in the process turn you on. Add the eternal earthiness that she exudes, and like the Kanjivaram, she drapes you in her spell. The sex – I guess you get the drift by now.

She’s retarded. And yes, you will go mad.


The Associates

In two words, this is the ME TOO kind. She associates with the cool people and clings on without invitation. The effort to being effortless is so evident that subtlety walks off from the dictionary. Is she dumb? Definitely not. Is she ugly? Definitely not. Lost between the need to belong and the need to find her own, she floats in a suspended space. “I don’t hang out with girls. They gossip. I’m not like them. I think I just can’t be like them. So, I hang out with boys. They’re cool.” Unfortunately, you’re not.  Metal, Old Monk and sex/poop conversations become your thing, because it inherently is what the boys do.

(The Retards on the other hand, who are into the list mentioned above, go the distance and play or sing or at the least don’t come with pre-conditions/pre-set notions)

Unfortunately, the associates can never upgrade. Because when they find their own, they won’t get into the retarded space. They’ll be sorted. And happy. And content. Sigh.


The Opinionated

The following words may not go down well with some of you.  Read at your own risk. So she has a thing to say. About politics. Life. Traffic. Food. Culture. Language. Books. Issues. Democracy. Blah. Blah. And blah. Sometimes it can be interesting. There is just one weird, weird observation. She does not look good. She doesn’t care about her looks. She will be wearing Indian, will be mostly plump (I’m being nice) and is of the ‘opinion’ that fashion does not warrant an ‘opinion’. I am not pimping fashion here. What I am pointing out is this ignorance to looks. What’s the problem in looking good? Some grooming? You might call me shallow, but looks matter. You can dismiss it by terming it as indifference, but really it is plain ignorance. *Insert joke here* (Ugly people cannot have an opinion. Because they have no face value)


Anyways, to all the retards in my life, a big thank you.