Thursday, May 28, 2009

10 Honestly Useless Truths

Greetings, dear Earthlings!

I need you to do three things immediately

1) Step away from your computer for a minute.
2)Walk upto to your windows and swing them wide open.
3) Poke your neck out, tilt it upwards and look at the sky.

Do you see fireworks lighting up the sky?

a)Yes you do? Very good, that was as expected.
b)No you don't ? Please wait until darkness descends on your part of the world and then carefully repeat Steps 1-3 again. If you still don't see any fireworks, then please wait a while until Diwali.
c)So you looked up and the bloody Kauuva Rani ( Queen crow) chose the same opportune moment to take a leak on you? My sincere apologies, these darned crows think that the world is a stage and the sky is the bathroom. Someone needs to educate these crows, really. I'll talk to them. In the meanwhile, lets return to the narrative.

I'm sure at least 99.83% of the people who looked up at the sky right now would have seen a breathtaking array of fireworks dazzling up the sky. Those fireworks are there for a reason, my friends....that is because the world is rejoicing, everyone's celebrating. Why? Because moiself, Shri Parikshith Kumar, has just won an award!!!!!! Yes, thats right people. I doubt if you could hear me over the din of bursting crackers and popping champagne corks right now, but you've heard me right. The world's celebrating because their favourite human has won an award.... an award for honesty! Yaay-yippee-yo!! An award for 'Nonsense Aplenty' :-) . This is the award I've won :

Now don't ask me why its called 'Honest Scrap' award when 'Honest Crap' would have been a more appropriate bestowment for my blog. But hey awards are awards... they should be respected, they should be accepted as is, and more importantly they should not be questioned. I mean, have you ever seen an Oscar winner walk up to the stage, accept the golden statuette , take a look at it and gigglingly remark "Hey why does this gay little goldie boy wear no underpants muwahahaha" ? Therefore, I have accepted this award in all humility and with no questions asked.

Well this is not the first award I have received in my life. The feathers in my cap, among others, include the prestigious Nobel Prize for Nonsense, the Academy Award for Best Actor ( for my role in pretending to work in the cubicle everyday) and oh well, the list would go on and on. But I must say the "Honest Scrap" award is indeed overwhelmingly prestigious. It was presented to me in a lavish ceremony held at the Kodak theatre, which was graced by the presence of eminent World leaders ( Yo Obama! Wassup bro? Beer this Saturday?) , the who's who and who-the-fuck-is-that of Hollywood (I know you love me Pam but tch tch too much silicon, gal...) , and the usual bachchcas and Bachchans of Bollywood ( Oye Shah. KnightRiders ki toh vaat lag gayi yaar. Array Amit sir, kaise ho? Khana ho gaya?) . So in the presence of all the glitterati in their full splendor, I was called up to receive my award. It was an emotional moment. I cried. *Sniff*. Britney Spears pulled out her handkerchief and gently dabbed away the tears that had welled up in my eyes . Paris Hilton took off her bra and offered it to me , so that I could blow my nose into it. The world rejoiced and the spectacular firework display you continue to see bears ample testimonial to the worldwide celebration.

*Sigh* Alright, alright this post is supposed to be about honesty. Be darned, honesty. So in honest spirit, I must confess that some of the things mentioned above, ummmm, didn't really happen. I mean, the ceremony was planned and was pretty much on the anvil, but we couldn't get to book the lush Kodak theatre- only Sarvabhauma Kalyana Mandir was available to host the event. And thanks to recession, we didn't have the budget to serve complimentary champagne to the elite guests- we only had complimentary desi daru at our disposal. These logistical constraints led to the cancellation of the ceremony. So in lieu of attending the ceremony, I accepted the "Honest Scrap" award from Karthik, online. But let me promise you something. For the next award I receive, I'll host a grand reception ceremony and whats more - you all will be invited. Hurray!

Here's the citation for the "Honest Scrap" award:

" This award is bestowed upon a fellow blogger whose blog's content or design is, in the giver's opinion, brilliant. When accepting this auspicious award, you must blah blah blah. And then you must blah blah blah and some more blah. Most importantly you need to blah and then blah blah. List at least ten (10) honest things about yourself. Then pass it on!”

Oh house of horrors! I now need to list 10 honest things about myself? And oh villa of horrors! you, my dearest readers, will have to suffer the anguish of reading thru them? Ah! such a cruel planet we live in. Would Jupiter treat us any better? I don't know. But until we figure that out, here are 10 honest facts about myself, which should help you a bit in unravelling the asshole enigma that I am :

1) I hate reading books. I absolute loathe reading. Now this opening salvo may come as a shock to some of you. The man who talks rat-a-tat and writes like a machine gun hates reading books? Yes, that is true. In all my life I must've read only 3-4 books ( i.e novels/fiction/non-fiction/technical reference/self help and other miscellaneous crap in bound form) . While the world goes ga-ga about JK Rowling, Shiv Khera, Ian Fleming, Jeffery Archer and that Ludlum, Wudlum, Budlum guy, I choose to sit kilometers away from their works. I'm sure even if I were to take printouts of my own blog and bind them into a book - I wouldn't read it myself (Nobody would for that matter, but that's another story)

2) I may hate reading books, but I absolutely adore newspapers. My office subscribes to at least 5 English dailies and I gorge on every single one of them. Infact so serious is my newspaper addiction that if I don't get my daily dose of news, I feel like being enveloped in a strange sense of vacuum. No food? No problem. No water? No problem. No girlfriend?, no job?, no friends?, no bundles of joy? No problem. But no newspapers? Awwwmyyygaaawd!!! Calamity!!! National Emergency!!! Call in the Army, summon the Airforce, alert the Navy!!! Ask them to get me a newspaper from somewhere!!!

3) I am prematurely balding. I'm 25, but thanks to my receding hairline and shining pate, I look 250 years old. Can't help it really, because hair troubles run in my family... my baldness has been genetically handed over to me. I'm sure even the apes who were the ancestors of my ancestors had receding hairlines too. Most of the times I really don't care about my condition, but when it occasionally comes to dating pretty young things, the situation gets a bit tricky. I was out on a date with this beautiful (read dumb) girl the other day. Suddenly, out of no where, a herd of her female pals show up at our table. Amid shrieks of hi-hello and fake air-kisses, one of the girls notice me sitting there. Pointing at me, she tells my date "Wow your Grandpa is so fit even at this age yaar!!!" . My date turns an embarrassed red and screams back saying "He is not my Grandpa boo hoo....." and runs away, out of the mall, never to been seen again. *Sigh*. You know what, I sometimes hope that my toned physique, boyish charm and dimples on both cheeks would somehow camouflage my 250-year-old appearance. But I hope in vain, really. The girls now say "Oh Grandpa's got dimples too?!!!! "
P.S : Guys, baldness is sexy. Flaunt it. Girls, baldness means presence of extra testosterone. You get the hint? Wink wink wink ;-)

4) I am a teetotaler. I abhor alcohol. But that doesn't stop me from accompanying my alcohol-guzzling friends to a pub or a bar. Hey, after all friends are friends and friendship is unconditional. In a pub/bar, this is how my bevda friends summon the waiter and place their drinks order: "OK, three KF's, one Haywards strong, one Seagram Fuel, one Budweiser and one glass Bournvita for this little kid muwahahahaha!!!" . No prizes for guessing whom the joke was on.

5) I am a confident, headstrong, ruthless guy. The phrase "to forgive and forget" simply doesn't find acceptance in my DNA. I still haven't forgiven Pamela Anderson for breaking up with me. Oh well, Honest Scrap. Honest Scrap. Darn! I need to be reminded of it every time!

Whew.... five truths down, five more to go. Lets take a small commercial break now. Washing powder Nirmaaaa. Washing powder Nirmaaaa.. Oh cut the crap Parikshith, and move your ass to fact number 6.

6) My aforementioned ruthlessness aside, I can be very kind to beggars, particularly the old, frail ones (who, going strictly by appearance, are qualified to look like my Siamese twin) . I know there is a lobby of thought which says that one shouldn't encourage or give to beggars- but I don't really subscribe to it. One incident remains fresh in my memory to this date. An old, frail lady approached me at a traffic signal one day, begging me for alms. I didn't have any loose change, so with a sigh, I handed over the lone, solitary five-hundred rupee note in my wallet to the beggar. So alarmed was the old lady with my offer , that she reached into her dirty gunny bag, plucked out four hundred fifty rupees of change, and handed it back to me saying "Ye lo, change rakh lo sahib". A beggar asking you to keep the change in return. Has it ever happened to you? Its happened to me. I lead an eventful life.

7) I love taking long hot showers. At the end of a long tiring day at work, nothing can be more relaxing than a long indulgent stint under the shower. As clocked by my roommate, my average long shower lasts anything between 60-80 minutes. No matter how much my life sucks all day and no matter how much grime and dust I get to face, I am grateful that at the end of the day, my rickety one room paying guest accommodation has a hot shower that sprays generous bursts of water. It washes all my stress away. Sad, there's no luxury jacuzzi in my shanty bathroom yet, but the simple shower will do. ( There is a commode, but it sadly cant accommodate all of my 5'8" frame for bathing purposes)

8) I have been an atheist since times immemorial. Even as a kid, I was an atheist at heart. Of course growing up, I had moments of wavering faith in God ( specially when exams neared or when India needed 2 runs to win from 1 ball) , but on the whole, I've been very much at peace with my atheism. I still remember being spanked left and right by my sixth grade class teacher for wondering out loud in the classroom - "If God exists, ma'm , why doesn't he show up and do my homework?" .

9) I can competently play six different types of percussion instruments ( please note that 'competence' is a highly subjective word here, but take my word for now, will ya) . I will someday attempt to upload a video of me playing all the instruments together. Boy, now wouldn't that be fun? I can gleefully visionize the torture that would befall you, my dear readers. I am sure pandemonium will break out in the World Wide Web. There will be widespread clamor among the people to close the webpage window and people would surely be running helter-skelter , away from their computer screens. Now wouldn't I love that to happen? You betcha! :-)

10) I always eat cream biscuits by separating them into two. You know, the regular Britannia/Sunfeast ones? - I usually de-sandwich the biscuits, separate them into two parts, lick away at the cream like a cat and proceed to bite into the now naked biscuit halves. Whats the big deal, you may wonder? No big deal really, but this deep rooted habit of mine has managed to seep into my corporate life. I had to give a presentation to a group of American clients, the other day. Now this was a jazzed up, hi-fi presentation ( read as 'fake everything presentation'). So here I was, decked up in a crisp gray suit, with slick gelled err... hair, and with my teeth and shoes shining brightly in the amber projector light. The presentation went on flawlessly ( nobody understands my jargon, I tell you). After an hour or so, we broke for coffee. To my delight, I saw that they served some delicious sandwiched cream biscuits in the room. True to my habit, I went ahead with my carefully choreographed split-lick-eat routine. Pin drop silence engulfed the room. I then looked up to see 10 senior American heads stare at me with amazement and 10 senior members of the Indian staff stare at me with embarrassment. Unmindful of the business and cream biscuit etiquette, I continued to lick away biscuit after biscuit. These corporate rules, I mean I don't get them. Licking your boss' ass to get a promotion is OK. But licking cream from your biscuit is a strict no-no. I don't get it.

Anyway, the count has reached 10 and I've done my duty towards being a deserving recipient of the "Honest Scrap" award. I've had an overdose of honesty. I'm sure you've reached the end of your tether too. But you should count your lucky stars, my dear people. In this part of the world, Saridon and Aspirin are sold real cheap.

Until later,
Sincerely yours (no pun intended)

Friday, May 8, 2009

IPL, Cricket Widows and Workaholic Bosses

Statutory Warning : This is a pretty long post. You are advised to plan your bathroom breaks in advance.

Greetings, dear Earthlings

As promised, I am back with the sequel to my previous post. Sorry for the long delay in uploading this post… I hope you were not wondering if I had vanished into thin air or fallen off the face of Earth ( you really wish that had happened? Yes? Oh you bad people) . One of the feeble excuses that I can offer to justify the delay in posting, is the IPL itself. You see, my work keeps me busy in the mornings, lunch and the subsequent naps inside the cubicle walls keep me busy in the afternoons, the IPL keeps me busy in the evenings and my trainee watchman duty keeps me awake and busy at night. Hey, by the way, did I tell you that I am training to be a watchman at the neighbourhood factory gates? Just in case the recession nips my techie job away, I can at least ensure employment by signing up for the attractive job as a night-watchman in that factory. And being a man with a remarkable degree of self-awareness, I know that I am very well qualified for the job of a watchman. I am rigorously participating in the pre-employment training. The training curriculum for the post of a gate watchman, includes:

  • Juggling and balancing an ill-fitting ‘topi’ on top of my head.
  • Wielding a ‘lathi’ that is as strong as a tooth-pick.
  • Chasing noisy street dogs away - the ones which utter more than 10bps (10 bow-bows per second) .
  • Dozing off in an upright sitting position.
  • Saying ‘Salom shaab’ , without giggling, and in a perfect accent.

I have my alternate profession all planned out, folks. See, I am a busy man with a busy 24/7 schedule. So from where do you think can I carve out time to pen blogs huh? *Sigh* Alright alright, I suck at giving excuses don’t I? Well people, the real reason for the delay in posting is that I simply couldn’t bring my lazy bum to the computer and type. Now that all three of us – myself, my bum and my computer – are in perfect harmony, I have the promised blogpost ready to be uploaded. In hindsight, my inability to come up with proper, believable excuses is a real worry, I must confess. In another three years, I’ll be a married man, and by then if I don’t have the skill to dish out proper excuses, then it is guaranteed that my life will be miserable. But lets worry about that another day shall we?… I mean why look ahead and worry about contracepting the future when you’re being fucked by the present. OK folks, enough said. Lets move on from useless nonsense to useful nonsense.

The IPL… ah what an absorbing affair is it turning out to be. At the time of writing this, we are into the second phase of the tournament. The contest is split wide open, predictions are going haywire and it’s a free for all. It seems to be anybody’s guess as to which four teams would line up to face each other in the semis. Given the unpredictable nature of the game and the inconsistent form of the teams, it is going to be a real tough guess to hazard. Heck! I’m sure guessing Shilpa Shetty’s real age would be an easier task than speculating on the semi-final line-up of IPL2. My favorite team Rajasthan Royals, lead by an extremely passionate man, is continuing to surge forward, even though they don’t have a reigning superstar in their lineup. The Royal Challengers Bangalore team, who until a few days back looked destined to graze the grasses at the bottom of the table, are now looking to be a contender for a semi-final spot. Honestly many a Bangalorean had given up on this team- me included. Many of us had felt that under Mallya’s tutelage, the Royal Challenger boys would have made better bartenders than cricket players. But hey presto! now they’ve surprised everybody with three wins on the trot. Bring on more action, baby, I’m loving it.

OK. Now all said and done, it should be realized that not everybody is a fan of IPL or T20 or why, even the game of cricket. This blog is written by me, a cricket fanatic, and read by you, who could possibly be a cricket fanatic. But the world does not comprise of just you and me, my friend. The world also comprises of people who hate cricket… you know, the kind of people who equate cricket with rat plague and absolutely abhor the sight of bat hitting ball. Surely some of those people may be reading this blog and nodding their heads in approval and acknowledgement. It is important that in this busy IPL season, we cricket fanatics should respect the presence of non-cricket watching public and not disregard their very existence on the planet. However, avoiding the non-cricket watchers is easier said than done, particular when they happen to be in your family or friend/acquaintance circle. For a cricket fanatic, for whom watching the game on TV during the game's peak season is his sole reason for existence, having to deal with the non cricket watching types can be a real pain in the neck and obstruct his viewing pleasure. Chime the bells and blow the bugles, because now I will introduce you two categories of such 'cricket obstructers' - Cricket Widows and Workaholic Bosses.

Cricket Widow : Definition (derived from the Web) : A cricket widow is basically a woman involved in a relationship with a male cricket fanatic who pays more attention to the game than to their female partner, during the sport’s season of play. Cricket widows (usually wives or girlfriends) usually have little or absolutely no interest in cricket themselves. The cricket widow simply does not understand the madness which overcomes their male partners during a cricket match.

Make no mistake, the husband or BF is not a heartless man from Old Stone Age.. he is usually a very doting partner. But it so happens that with the cricket season in full-swing, the game takes precedence for him over everything else in the world. So with the husband or BF glued to the TV screen and literally forgetting his wife’s or GF’s existence, the cricket widow is left to fend for herself. Now, Nonsense Aplenty is not a coochie-coo, Agony Unc, pour-me-your-heart-out-I-will-listen-to-you-sweety kinda blog, so don’t look for comforting talk here. Practically speaking, I must say that a cricket widow can be a real obstructing irritant for a cricket fanatic who is devoted to the game. With the IPL season hotting up and matches getting more interesting, the irritancy factor of a cricket widow can get magnified manifold. Here is an example scenario of one such household. The husband here is an IPL T20 fanatic. He is sprawled on the couch, glued full-on to the match being played out infront of him. His eyes are transfixed to the TV screen and understandably, little else matters to him right now. The wife (a potential cricket widow) can’t understand what the whole fuss is about. She is done with her office work, finished rounds of shopping, fed up with hanging around her pals, has browsed thru 6 Feminas, 3 Women’s Eras, 10 Filmfares, and the entire Internet. She has slept off. She has woken up. But she still finds Hubby dearest glued to the TV, cursing every dot ball and cheering every six hit. The disgusted wife tries to strike up a conversation. Lets join the action from here :

Wife : “Cricket, cricket, cricket. Ufff.. all you watch is this stupid cricket”

Husband: “Ummm… hmmm…”

Wife: “ You know I went to the parlour today….”

Husband: “Ummm hmmm…???”

Wife: “And I got my hair layered and permed and colored. First I got this strand colored dark brown and then this… “

Husband: “It’s a six!!! What a shot!!”

Wife: “What the… hey are you listening to me?”

Husband: “Yes yes…. And you were saying…. ?”

Wife: “Ya, I got my hair coloured. See, its nice na? And then I got a manicure and then I applied nail polish to this finger and….”


Wife: “Ufff…. You never listen. By the way what is this match. IPL?

Husband: “Yes”

Wife: “Ooooooh… so India is playing Pakistan?”

Husband: *gives an exasperated stare*

Wife: “Oh… so India is playing India?”

Husband: *silence*

Wife: “See such a yuckie colored uniform those players are wearing na. The color of their outfit is not at all matching with the color of their shoes and… “

Husband: “Ssshhh..”

Wife: “Sorry”

Husband: “Don’t disturb me. Don’t you have anything else to do?”

*10 seconds of silence, and then *

Wife: “Hey why is Kumble bowling to Dhoni? I thought they were in the same team”

Husband: “This is IPL for Heaven’s sake. They are in different teams. Now just shut up and watch for sometime"

Wife : " Yeah whatever. Hey, can you flip the channel once? I need to watch my serial"

Husband: "What serial?"

Wife: "Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bevdi Thi"

Husband: " *Grrrr* Don't you touch the remote"

Wife: "Stupid..... *Hmmmpfff* "

*5 seconds of silence, and then *

Wife: “Hey, must those cheerleaders wear such short skirts?”

Husband: “Shut up and let me watch”

Wife: “And must those cameras focus right up their skirts?”

Husband: “Shut up and let me concentrate”

Wife: “Ewwww… is it the Indian Premier League or the Indian Porn League?”

Husband(losing it) : “ Cant you just SHUT UP, lady? Do I need to call a locksmith to lock your big mouth shut?!! “

Wife (in tears) : " *Sob sob* You just screamed at me? "

Husband(staring at TV): “ Oh good shot. Good shot. Come on boys, another 10 balls to go…”

Wife: “*Sob* You screamed at me?”

Husband: “Sssshhh quiet… 9 balls to go…”

Wife: “ *Sob* I am not gonna stay here. *Sob* I am going to my mother’s. D’ya hear me? I am leaving”

Husband: “Why? You don’t want to watch the second innings?”

Wife: "*Sob* What sort of a jerk are you? *Sob*"

Husband: "I am yet to classify myself, he he"

Wife: "Useless talking to you. I am leaving."

Husband: "Take my car, I wont be needing it today. Oh shot! Its a six! Yippeee!"

Wife: "I don't need your bloody car. I'm leaving forever."

Husband: "Shot! Hey on your way out could you just toss me a Coke from the fridge?

The wife literally tosses the can of Coke at her husband, which lands boink on top of his head. And then she proceeds to storm out, Gucci handbag in tow. The husband recovers from the blow, but is too occupied to think about it because the final over of the innings is being played out and the batsmen are slogging at everything.

Wife(at the door, holding it ajar and looking back over her shoulder) : "I'm leaving. Goodbye forever. Is there any final thing you wanna say?"

Husband: Fouuurrrrr!


There you go folks! The wife in our story is the latest entrant into the cricket widows' club, albeit her mode of initiation was slightly on the extremes. Now the sequel to this story is also among common lines. A good month and a half later, with the tournament finally over, the husband gets up from his couch, clears the cobwebs from his body, puffs away the layers of dust around him. He then stretches his arms and legs, looks around for a minute, pauses and suddenly wonders "Hey, where's wifey?"

Alright folks, time now to introduce to you the second category of cricket obstructers - the Workaholic Boss.

Workaholic Bosses are the kinds of people who expect their subordinates at work to stay back late into the night and put in extra hours of work- whether there be a genuine need for it or not. What makes them the worst species of supervisors is that not only do they expect their minions to stay back late, but they themselves stay back late and choose to 'lead by example'. These sons of bitches have no social lives for themselves, have no interest in cricket and don't understand others' passion for cricket. They only fear that the skies would come crashing down on their thick skulls if their subordinates do not work late into the night.Now naturally, if you are the kind of employee looking forward to scurry an scoot home early to watch a game of IPL, the presence of a workaholic boss in your life can prove to be a real pain in the neck. But with a little skill and bravado, you should be able to navigate around these assholes like a smart, slippery eel. Here's an example:

Boss: "Hey, where are you going? Its only 5PM"

You: "I'm going home. The match begins at 5PM"

Boss: "What match?"

You: "The IPL"

Boss: "Bah! those two-hoot cricket matches. Don't you think you should rather stay back a bit late and finish off some more work?"

You: "But what for? I'm done for the day"

Boss: "But still, you can stay back and improve on your err... productivity?"

You: "But I need to go home and watch the match"

Boss: " OK fair enough, but can I ask you a few questions first?"

You: "Sure, sir"

Boss: "Do you earn any money by watching those matches?"

You: "No, sir"

Boss: "Are you playing in those matches yourself?"

You: "No"

Boss: "Is your girlfriend cheerleading for any of the teams?"

You: "No"

Boss: "Then why do you have to watch those matches? Why can't you stay back and work some more?"

You: "OK, fair enough sir, but would you mind if I now asked you a few questions?"

Boss: "Shoot, boy"

You: "Do you earn a multi-million dollar bonus for putting in a few hours extra?"

Boss:"Well, no..."

You: "Do you think they'll promote you to be the CEO, if you merely spent extra hours at work?"

Boss: "Hmmm... no"

You: "Working late, with no one around, do you download porn to your official computer, use the office printer to take sleazy printouts, and take them home to arouse your impotent wife?"

Boss: "Heavens!!!! No!!"

You: " Then why do you have to stay back and work late? Why can't you go home and enjoy those matches?"

*10 seconds of silence, and then *

Boss: "Fine, go home and watch your darned cricket match"

You: "Thank you, sir"

See folks? You can navigate around any type of human obstacle that prevents you from watching your beloved IPL. I pray that you don't get to face up with such 'cricket obstructing' specimens in your lives, but in case you do, I hope that my blog has endowed you with some related education. Have a great time, folks! Wish you a very happy cricket season.



P.S: If you have read the entire post and desperately want to throw a shoe at me, please bear in mind that I am a size 8 and my favourite is Nike!