She was the most beautiful ‘item’ I had seen. Looking extremely delicious, sitting pretty with an inviting look. Seducing me. Tempting me to reach out. Making me drool like a pup which has eyed a bone.
One look at her, and all my self-control just melted away.
I knew that the effect was not just on me; everyone around me was also eyeing her with a lustful gaze. Even the girls in the vicinity kept looking at her, jealous of her effortless ability to draw attention from their bling, muttering to themselves, “She makes us look fat”.
As I drew my eyes away with considerable difficulty and tried to move away, her delicious fragrance kept me rooted to my spot. She had a sizzling scent, one which jolted my senses in a pleasant sort of way.
She evoked a strange sense of possessiveness in me. When I saw her in another man’s arms, all I wanted to do was go up to him, kick his ass, and take her for myself.
She had this mysterious ability to make me loosen my purse strings with abandon. She knew she was the best, and she demanded a heavy price knowing that no man can resist her charms.
She was like a drug, extremely addictive. I can never forget the feeling I had when my lips first touched her.
She was HOT. SUPER HOT. A DEFINITE SIZZLER. I knew this affair was not good for me. Every time I had given in to her charms, I had endured the torture of a guilty conscience and en empty wallet. My friends knew my weakness for her, and constantly taunted me. I was immune to them.
In spite of the fact that I had burnt my fingers many times before, the temptation was too much to resist.
I finally gave in.
I called the waiter, and said “One sizzling chocolate brownie please”. And I gave in to her charms “one last time.”
Until the next pang that is.
********************************************************************************
PS: Inspired by the line “Bips looks decidedly edible” - Raja Sen, review of Bachan Ae Haseeno.
PPS: I read rediff reviews. Sigh. And get inspired by such crap. Double sigh. Such is life...
Aug 25, 2008
Aug 18, 2008
Azadi? Kai ka azadi?
“Teri maa ki…”, cursed Raju silently as another car zoomed past him, splashing muddy water all over his uniform, the only one he had. “Saala, tera baap ka sadak samjha kya?” he shouted, knowing fully well that the driver wouldn’t hear it inside the air-conditioned confines of his car.
Raju was wet, hungry and in a terrible mood. He hadn’t eaten anything since morning, except the greasy laddoo that had been handed out at the flag hoisting at the municipal school early morning. It was raining heavily and the potholed roads were going from bad to worse. Plus, he had managed to sell only twenty flags. “Saala, aaj kal desh bhakti ka naam hi nahi raha”, he muttered to himself, “bade bade gaadi mein baithe aish kar rahe, ek jhanda nahi khareed sakte?”
Priced at Re.1 each, the flags fetched him a commission of 25 paise per flag. He had hoped to sell 100 flags at least, so that he and his mother can have a decent masala dosa each. He wouldn’t buy one for his father. “baap nahi, shaitan hai woh”, he thought, “roz peeke aata hai, aur maarta hai”. But the way things were going, it looked like they’d have to settle for a wada pav each.
Raju was an enterprising boy. He sold all sorts of trinkets at traffic signals to fund his meals. Not that he had much choice. His father had been a drunken loafer for as long as he could remember. His mother toiled hard, but all her earnings were duly deposited, half at the arrack shop and half at the local pawn broker’s shop.
He had great hopes for the Independence Day. People who shooed him away from behind their tinted windows everyday, would usually buy the National Flag. Or at least he hoped they would. After all, five years’ experience at various traffic signals across the city had taught him that most people find it hard to say no to the Tiranga. But, this year, even that was not working. The country was surely going to the dogs.
“Saala, woh khiladi log bhi aur medal nahi jeet rahe”, he grumbled. The day after Bindra won the gold, he had managed to sell double the number of newspapers at the signal. He never knew who Abhinav Bindra was, nor what an air-rifle is. But, thanks to that bespectacled shooter, Raju and his mom feasted for a day.
“Kahin bum-wum toh phodo saale”, Raju prayed sometimes, especially on days when the attractive people in the car refused to buy the newspapers, “Sensex doobe, Mallika kisiko chumma de, ya toh Saif aur Kareena ka jhagda ho jaaye. Kuch toh lafda ho jaaye”. Anything to sell the godammed papers.
Presently, he came across an old man walking along the footpath, who beckoned him and bought two flags. The old man was a freedom fighter, and was started talking nostalgically about the glorious days of struggle. Raju stopped to listen, out of courtesy for the old man, but more so because he was bored of standing alone at the signal for hours on end. Plus, those precious flags were not selling anyways.
As the old man finished his story of non-violent marches in the face of sustained lathi charges and concluded with “aisi dilaayi is desh ko azadi”, Raju thought to himself, “kai ka azadi. Mera baap daaru se azaad nahi. Meri maa mere baap se azaad nahi. Main bhook se azaad nahi. Yeh joh bade bade gaadi mein jhanda khareede bina shaan se jaa rahe hain, woh apne kaam, paise, status, dikhave se azaad nahi.”
And as his stomach growled with emptiness, he muttered, “Azadi gaya tel lene, koi jhanda toh khareedo yaar.”
Raju was wet, hungry and in a terrible mood. He hadn’t eaten anything since morning, except the greasy laddoo that had been handed out at the flag hoisting at the municipal school early morning. It was raining heavily and the potholed roads were going from bad to worse. Plus, he had managed to sell only twenty flags. “Saala, aaj kal desh bhakti ka naam hi nahi raha”, he muttered to himself, “bade bade gaadi mein baithe aish kar rahe, ek jhanda nahi khareed sakte?”
Priced at Re.1 each, the flags fetched him a commission of 25 paise per flag. He had hoped to sell 100 flags at least, so that he and his mother can have a decent masala dosa each. He wouldn’t buy one for his father. “baap nahi, shaitan hai woh”, he thought, “roz peeke aata hai, aur maarta hai”. But the way things were going, it looked like they’d have to settle for a wada pav each.
Raju was an enterprising boy. He sold all sorts of trinkets at traffic signals to fund his meals. Not that he had much choice. His father had been a drunken loafer for as long as he could remember. His mother toiled hard, but all her earnings were duly deposited, half at the arrack shop and half at the local pawn broker’s shop.
He had great hopes for the Independence Day. People who shooed him away from behind their tinted windows everyday, would usually buy the National Flag. Or at least he hoped they would. After all, five years’ experience at various traffic signals across the city had taught him that most people find it hard to say no to the Tiranga. But, this year, even that was not working. The country was surely going to the dogs.
“Saala, woh khiladi log bhi aur medal nahi jeet rahe”, he grumbled. The day after Bindra won the gold, he had managed to sell double the number of newspapers at the signal. He never knew who Abhinav Bindra was, nor what an air-rifle is. But, thanks to that bespectacled shooter, Raju and his mom feasted for a day.
“Kahin bum-wum toh phodo saale”, Raju prayed sometimes, especially on days when the attractive people in the car refused to buy the newspapers, “Sensex doobe, Mallika kisiko chumma de, ya toh Saif aur Kareena ka jhagda ho jaaye. Kuch toh lafda ho jaaye”. Anything to sell the godammed papers.
Presently, he came across an old man walking along the footpath, who beckoned him and bought two flags. The old man was a freedom fighter, and was started talking nostalgically about the glorious days of struggle. Raju stopped to listen, out of courtesy for the old man, but more so because he was bored of standing alone at the signal for hours on end. Plus, those precious flags were not selling anyways.
As the old man finished his story of non-violent marches in the face of sustained lathi charges and concluded with “aisi dilaayi is desh ko azadi”, Raju thought to himself, “kai ka azadi. Mera baap daaru se azaad nahi. Meri maa mere baap se azaad nahi. Main bhook se azaad nahi. Yeh joh bade bade gaadi mein jhanda khareede bina shaan se jaa rahe hain, woh apne kaam, paise, status, dikhave se azaad nahi.”
And as his stomach growled with emptiness, he muttered, “Azadi gaya tel lene, koi jhanda toh khareedo yaar.”
Aug 1, 2008
The Century!!!
First of all, yippieeee, woooohooooo, hurray, dhinchak dhinchak dhinchakdhin and all that happy sounding terms...
Ladies and gentlemen, please stand up and applaud the monumental effort... this is my 100th post!!!! *raises bat to crowd, looks up to heaven*
For a guy who cribbed recently about everything being measured by numbers, it is ironic that I feel so happy about this...
But, when I started the blog with a typically crappy post, I never thought I would continue to write gyaan for so long... ok, ok, i know there are people who have written posts by the thousands, but I still feel good...
I have written about happy times, I have written about senti themes, I have written stupid rhymes, I have cracked the most idiotic PJs, and typical of me, I have frequently written about crap... and more crap... and indeed, more crap...
I have wished for girlfriends, listed my previous crushes, even made up a proposal to say to the most unfortunate girl on the planet... though after calling them the unfair sex, I don't entertain much hopes of any girl falling for me...
I have cribbed here about my lacklustre social life, I have highlighted here my disinterest in movies, about how I spend my weekends doing nothing.
I tried my hand at writing stories once or twice, and realized that it takes far more skill than what I originally thought... but I still plan to write fictional accounts more and more...
I have attempted to question my religious belief by mocking a lot of things... God, priests, godmen, astrology, numerology, astrologers (again and again)... if each of them curses me even once for such stupid posts, I can look forward to rotting in hell for a long time to come...
However, I wouldn't say I am entirely rational... when things go wrong, I find it easier to blame my friend, or my birthcharts... although I finally end up accepting that sometimes things get screwed up and it is all because of me...
I have also mocked life at a b-school (attitudes, jargons, placement process, presentations, group discussions, their know-it-all behaviour)... it is but natural, since most of my blog writing happenned during the two years of timepass that they call MBA...
I have also mocked a lot of random other things... bollywood babes who refuse to kiss, salma hayek and her god-given gifts (drool, excuse me while I wipe off the drool), b-schools with outrageous ads, my students, an expensive IPO, compulsory social service...
If you think this blog was all about mocking things around the world, I should assure you that I have tried to do some thinking too... I keep thinking about whether man created god or vice versa, whether man makes his own destiny, whether your entire life boils down to a roll of a heavenly dice... and I must confess that I am thoroughly confused about it all...
All said and done, I have thouroughly enjoyed this blogging thingy, and hope I can get to the double hundred real quick... wish me luck!!!
******************************************************************************
PS: Thought long and hard about a special topic for "the century post", but couldn't choose any one topic... so, decided to go back nostalgia lane, and found that I do enjoy reading my old posts!!!
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