What's in a face?

So I ask. Vehemently. Roxette's "Look" was sung for people like me, albeit with a tad different context. This face of mine has led me to nothing but misery all these years. Let me offer some sample evidences from a long list, gleaned over all these tiresome years.

a) I show up at my hostel on the first day of my college life. Its September and I am sweating like a pig. Ten other freshies are standing like fools in the hallway, looking like nothing but prime beef to a group of seniors. They walk across us, sizing us up and making up their mind as to who to rag first. "Let us begin with this idiot", says one overlord, pointing straight at me. "He looks dazed, scared and is sweating already", he justifies. Now anyone who has lived in Delhi knows what September heat is like, but nooooo!, I have "got the look", and hence it is I who will begin the ragging saga of 1997. And in the process, become one of the most ragged freshmen in my batch.

b) Chweeet little cherubic kids, who are otherwise cooing away peacefully, turn to stone, or worse, start crying when I offer them a glimpse of my mug. This has happened way too often to be a freaking coincidence. I have been beaten in this game by foul-smelling alcoholic males who instantly turn the little tear producers into laughing Budhdhas again. Doesn't help my sagging confidence, if you ask me. However, sometimes crying babies stop their routine on my sight. I guess thats because their vocal cords develop rigor-mortis or something.

c) I can't even count the number of times strangers have looked at me and said, "Oh come on! You look like the kinda guy who won't hesitate to drink or eat non-veg food". Repeatedly denying any such accusations have proven futile. Such conversations usually include dialogues of the kind: "Sweet Moses!!! Really!!!! No meat all all!! I could have bet my right hand that you would chase a chicken and gulp it down". It became so bad a few years back, that I turned to alcohol for support and started the odd non-veg meal, ironically turning the accusation into a tautology. People still haven't stopped using that sentence, but nowadays I just shrug my shoulders and reply, "Yeah I am *that* kinda guy."

d) All my efforts at naive diplomacy fails miserably. Plenty of people have told me that my face is like an open-book, that I can't hide stuff for long. This means that when I am face to face with Shahrukh Khan, I won't be able to mask my disgust for more than two seconds. That should count as a plus, and it is, except that it causes more trouble than gain. When girls ask me if I have thought of them "that" way, it is hard for me to maintain a straight face and say "no". This inevitably leads to sandal-assisted bashings, accusations of perversions, and general curses of the kind that "all men are dogs". All this drama inspite of the fact that I believe in the maxim of "ek ladka aur ek ladki shayad kabhi kabhi dost ho sakte hain".

e) Due to my "non-veg eating and booze-swallowing" looks (see (c) above), many people also think that I am a real bad-ass. Couple that with my Haryanvi roots, and people invariably conclude that I am a war-mongering Jaat. It doesn't matter to them that I am neither war-mongering (usually) nor a Jaat. While in Bombay, this helps me ward people off without lifting a finger, which is good. But the exact reverse happens in Delhi, where almost every guy wakes up in the morning with an excuse to fight.

I could go on and on, but I guess you get my drift. This face has been nothing but trouble for me. I think of changing it at times. But then I look at what happened to Michael Jackson, and say "^@$% that" !! A face like mine is better than an alien's face anyday.

The Midas Touch

Most people are born ordinary. A few are given a special gift. Today I crossed the boundary from the former category to the latter. I realized that I am indeed special. No, not in the my-mom-keeps-telling-me-I-am-special way, but indeed extraordinary. And before this cup of narcissism spills over, let me explain how I came to possess the Midas Touch.

This May, I moved from Bombay to Delhi for a few months and took shelter in Solzaire's spacious abode. Nothing serious, just fooling around and having a good time. But in two months, Solzaire announced something grand. No its not what you think, you sickos! He announced that he is gonna get married in July. This came as a shock to me, as I had no clue about any of this. Dismissing this as a one-off incident, I changed houses and took off to the States for a brief vacation (read: conference). Stayed with a friend in New York for a few days and a few days ago I got an email containing a similar announcement. Yes! he is getting hitched in two weeks.

Slightly startled at this fascinating turn of events, I returned to Delhi to pick up the threads of my life. On one fateful Sunday, I spent an afternoon at a wingmate's place in Noida. Again, nothing special, just two guys engaged in good old fashioned 'fun'. And, yes, you guessed it right, a week back he announced that he too is going to be a family man in December.

By now, I was 90% sure that I had a gift of certain sort. Whomsoever I touched (figuratively) suddenly found his soulmate in a few weeks time. Whatever uncertainty I had, was soon to be demolished. My colleague and new roommate in Delhi and Bombay, announced yesterday that he too has found the love of his life (whatever that means).

I am in the "zone" now. I am da man! The divine matchmaker. Offers have started pouring in. Single men from all over the country are calling me to spend a night at their place (no, not for that). They are ready to pay me handsomely for my "services". I am seriously contemplating of leaving my full-time job and throw myself completely into this unique social service.

A toll-free number is on cards. Watch out!

Country anxiously awaits SRK's next hamming performance

Bombay (28th Aug): Reports indicate that Shahrukh has become the topmost obsession with the country as of today. Riots broke out in Bombay and Bangalore as his fans went on a looting spree after watching SRK's extraordinarily mediocre performance in Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna (KANK). This kind of mob behaviour has only a few precedents, such as the sacking of Manchester after Man United won the English Premier League and the plunder of Buenos Aires after the Argentines lifted the World Cup in 1986. Everywhere, SRK's fans displayed scenes of ecstasy and total satisfaction, with a sexual equivalent of a hundred orgasms per fan. Adultery on screen was never sweeter, it seems.

In the movie KANK, Shahrukh plays the role of a failed footballer with the characterstic ease that has now become a part of his persona. Eating ham and cheese for breakfast all these years has finally paid off, as he juggernauts his way into the movie, doing complete justice to a cheesy role with his hamming mega-performance. For the lazy (and intelligent) readers who haven't seen the movie, here are some gory details.
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As soon as the movie starts, we are treated to a football match in which His Highness King Khan is a striker. Taking a kick, he displays his ever familiar feminine grace, as his eyes are captured by the camera and shown on the stadium screen. Sigh! if such an amount of optical zoom was available in the Pakistan-England test match, the world wouldn't be tearing its Hair apart right now. Ok ok, I am done with the cheap puns for now. But, as usual, I digress.

A few minutes later, much to the delight of Shahrukh-haters, he meets with an accident and is forced to retire. Rumors say that he was replaced by a kid called Wayne Rooney. Anyway, so he is forced to live at home, watch TV all day, drink beer, make sarcastic remarks and get some action with Preity Zinta at night. So far, everything is going to his plan you would say. He is living the great Indian male dream. But SRK thinks otherwise.

For beneath the thin veneer of cynicism, lies a void. No, not the void in his brain, but a void in his heart. Which no amount of Budweiser and free marital sex with the hottest dame in Bollywood can fill. So he goes ahead and starts flirting with poor Rani a.k.a. Maya. Now Rani, with her brusque masculine voice, has no chance against the coquettish charms of Shahrukh, so she promptly falls for him before the audience can say "What the ...!".

For a while, both the newfound lovers compete in the game of "Who is the silliest?", as exemplified in the furniture-shop fake-sex scene, plagiarized (or "inspired") from the famous diner scene in When Harry met Sally. However, things start getting serious soon. No, not the "main tumhare bacche ki maa banne waali hoon" type, but that their adulterous relationship is soon exposed. The exposure happens when Amitabh (who plays the awe-inspiring character of 'Sexy Sam') discovers the two canoodling in front of Grand Central.

So now, poor SRK, abandoned by the hot-hot Preity, and separated from Rani, is very distraught. This was definitely not something in his grand plan of free Sex in the City! Totally devastated by the lack of female attention, he makes the daring move to Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love. But after enjoying brotherly love for three wholesome years, he realizes that the void is still there.

What happens after those three years? Did SRK take a strapping African American dude as his lover? Did he finally come out of the closet? I am afraid I am gonna leave you hanging here. Go watch the movie and enjoy your two hundred minutes of masochism!
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Back to the real world now. As of today, there is only one question that the common man has. Will SRK be able to essay the role of The Don in the movie with the same name? Or will his dimples betray his boyish charm? That, my friend, only time will tell. Time and SRK.

There and back again

Shortest post ever. Back to Bombay today! :) Immense joy results. Highest density of happiness per word. Will miss Delhi a lot but a few dozen beers should take care of that!

Blogger disappointed with the performance of his blog

In an exclusive interview, area blogger Rahul Gupta (juvenile nickname: Asterix) told us that he isn't satisfied with the progress of his blog on any level. In this newspiece, we cover an extensive 'analysis' of the past, present and future (if any) of his blog.

The blog was started almost an year back on 30th July under immense peer pressure and the fear of non-conformity. Midway, the blog's name was changed from the zero-information phrase of "Rahul's blog" to an equally useless "A blog about nothing" after watching an episode of Seinfeld, which is called "The show about nothing".

While the blogger can take solace in the fact that he hasn't blogged about what he had for breakfast yesterday (yet) or what colour is his toothpaste, he hasn't exactly become an epitome of blogdom either in the past year. His forte lies in covering jaw-droppingly awe-inspiring news like the Rakhi-Mika fiasco and the Prince debacle or making self-indulgent posts on the lack of tags or girl friends.

With tasteless subjects like these, its no wonder that he cannot cross the physical barrier of 21 comments on any post of his. We talked to him about what makes him go on and on, punishing his readers every week or so.

We: So is writing about such topics the only reason you blog?
Asterix: Err...no. There was an ulterior motive.
We: May we dare to enquire what that was?
Asterix: Well I thought that some female readers would visit the blog and get impressed by my awesome writing skills and would sleep with me.
We: Hmm...your 'awesome writing skills' you say.
Asterix: Well I did get 90 out of 100 in English in Class 7th-A and I was voted the person most likely to memorize all the entries under Q in the dictionary.
We: Ooookay! Well we looked at the profiles of the people who comment on your blog and there indeed are a few single female readers. How that happened is beyond our comprehension but any leads from there?
Asterix: Well they are single, and they are looking. But I guess they aren't looking in my direction. What a sad irony! I feel so used!!

Apart from such pathetic attempts at losing bachelorhood, the blogger also faces allegations of plagiarism. His writing style (if you would call it that) reeks of 'inspiration' from Onion. With such dark clouds, his blogging future looks bleak indeed. On asking about any possible policy changes in his blog or any modifications, he chuckled and replied, "Well lets see how long I can hold fort. And there always are the breakfast/toothpaste posts!"

It would be interesting to see if the blogger runs out ot topics before he runs out of readers. And that if his blog-code turns into a reality. Until then, lets pray that he doesn't write about the Owl-in-the-temple story.

A hole in one

How does one earn quick money? If you are a dumb moron like me, chances are that you would put in nine hours every day at the office. And get a few measly lakhs per year as the compensation.

Or if you are really smart, you would fall into a 50ft deep hole. Thats what a five year old chap named Prince did in Haryana, although he didn't have money on his mind at that time. Now Prince (not to be confused with the arrogant "all-rounder" from Kolkata) was just playing around when he fell into a hole that had been dug for a handpump. Immediately, fecal matter hit the fan and the whole village surrounded the magic hole that had swallowed the child. Fortunately, Haryana's ground water table is as bad as Delhi's, so the kid was safe and dry.

Soon, the press reached the village, with the army and the honorable CM of Haryana in tow. People prayed all over the country for Prince's survival and his story was on all the news networks for 40 consecutive hours. Even our dear old Moneymohan Singhji ordered that the kid be speedily rescued. Such a reaction was missing when 200 people were killed in Bombay a few days back, but we will let such trifling details pass.

Prince, on the other hand, was heavily paying for this sudden fame. Along with food and water, a camera had been lowered into the hole to continuously monitor him. Now I like to think about all the possibilities of a particular scenario, so I couldn't help thinking how on earth would he answer the calls of nature in the invaded privacy of his new habitat.

Anyhoo, to poop or not to poop wasn't the question. Rather it was a question of waiting for the army to dig up a tunnel. That happened after around 45 hours and a scared Prince emerged from his subterranean abode. The quick money thingie happened soon after that. Star TV offered a sum of five lakhs to him, Zee News promised two and another channel announced that it would sponsor Prince's studies.

Well I am sure I can fit into a hole. Not one dug for a handpump but surely one made out for a tubewell. And I promise to look shit scared after my 'ordeal'. And some people have claimed that my mental age is five too. And I need someone to sponsor my PhD so that I can study fulltime. Seen any nice deep holes lately? One with an attached toilet and a DSL connection would be preferred.

Zen helps me strike back. With a vengeance.

A 14 hr flight makes you ponder about stuff. Hardens you and builds your character. They try to break you and snatch your very soul but you resist and fight back. You learn and zen it out.

The flight in question is the long-haul Continental flight from Newark to Delhi which included yours truly as a passenger. The completely full flight also included hordes of tiny tots, ranging from zero to twelve years old in age. And in order to make every passenger's life miserable, Continental had sprinkled the little devils uniformly across the economy section.

Now I usually am not a big fan of kids and normally wish that they should STFU, and this time was no exception. With frequencies ranging from ultrasonic, which would make a dog cry out loud, to the cracked voices of the adolescents we had them all in the flight.

The first half an hour is the easiest because you are optimistic that would indeed STFU and go to sleep or something. The next few are those of intense agony and anger as you wish that their parents had used protection while fornicating. And then you enter the state of Zen when nothing can touch you. More like when Neo dies in the Matrix and becomes the super overlord of the domain. In the Zen state, you have absolute control of your body and mind and you become one with the universe.

" 'ssup dawg? You live in India or what!", asked an ABCD kid with a horrible accent and an even more horrible vocabulary.

Now a lesser man would have recoiled at the question, slapped him a couple times and not answered but I had attained Zen after three hours of torture that violates all rules of the Geneva convention. So I was unfazed.

"Na man, I just chill them niggers out back in the hood with my homies.", said I with my best possible Afro-American accent, before making a "peace" symbol with my index finger and my pinkie. He fell for it and assumed that I was indeed from Harlem and hence, a real badass. I didn't hear from him throughout the remainder of the flight. I felt like Neo did after he killed Agent Smith in the Matrix. This took care of the eastern defence.

The real power of Zen comes from the fact that it helps you do stuff without you having to lift a finger. Some kinda weird psychokinetic stuff. Real scary shit if you ask me.

There was this kid playing in the aisle with two other kids, generally screaming, talking loudly and making life generally miserable for his neighbours including me. So I decided to take the matters in my own hands, but not literally. Remember Zen! It so happened that he was in the middle of one of his generic screams that we happened to lock our eyes. One cold lifeless stare from me, devoid of any emotion and empathy, threatening to suck the very breath out of his lungs was enough to make him STFU. For the rest of the flight, he became deathly quiet whenever he used to pass me. The western front was won without lifting a finger.

But the real challenge remained in the north. Where there was an infant crying incessantly for hours altogether. A pre-Zen Rahul would have committed suicide, or worse, started watching the in-flight entertainment system. Staring coldly or rapping at the infant won't have helped. However Zen came to my rescue again, but before that, a simple mathematical fact begs to be explained.

In a 14 hr flight with three meals and many drinks, there is no way that you won't go. To the restroom. Even Zen won't help you there. Its a cold mathematical fact and you cannot beat maths.

Back to the crying monster. So I had succumbed to my biological need to go to the restroom and had gotten up from my seat. Generally surveying the neighbourhood, I zeroed in on the family in the next row - the one with my crying arch enemy. Naively trying out the stare at the kid won't help. So I turned 30 degrees and stared at the mother. Not one of those lecherous stares that we Delhites are world-famous for, but one of those "I will wipe out your family if you dont pay heed to my order" stare.

The young mother was no match for me. She had no chance. Kinda like when Voldemort vaporized Harry Potter's mother except that I am way better looking than Voldemort. Really.

With that, the area was secure. Peace reigned all around me. As a sign from the Gods, food began to be served. Wherever I looked, grateful eyes of my co-passengers greeted me. Some of them had tears of happiness. Maybe it was because of my deeds or the food really sucked. But anyway, no amount of Zen was enough to make me ignore that. I nodded in return and went into a dreamless sleep.