IPL's Calling...Where Are You?

You are lucky. All of you, who are reading this right now are lord-be-darned lucky. You are lucky because you are only getting to read the contents which the author has typed out here - you aren't seeing the author himself. For those who want to know, the author is in a super excited state of being. He has donned an animated avatar. He is pacing back and forth, he is jumping up and down. He is unable to park even half a bum on a chair for a millisecond. He is shouting, he is laughing, he is cursing, he is chanting. He is hyperventilating. His adrenaline is pumped up to dizzying levels, he has generated enough amount of testosterone and estrogen to supply for the whole neighborhood. He is over-the-moon, over-the-sun, over-the-solar-system. The delirious author is doing an excited dance of the jingalala genre around his TV set, wearing nothing but a banana leaf and a matching bikini top. You are lucky you don't get to see the author right now. You only get to see what he has typed out.

Gljsdojfouflmdioaufeqjroiufsdlkjfajfeljraidfoiueriudflajfulwejlhalgjrkjehg. What the... Whoa! I mean, did you just see that? His excitement has reached such a feverish pitch that he doesn't have conscious control of even his keystrokes now. What the heck is wrong with the author? What's got him all happy, excited and delirious?. Nope he has not had cocaine for lunch, he is on a diet you see- so it can't be about dope. Nope he hasn't hired Paris Hilton to do a lap dance for him- so its not about girlfriends. Nope he has not got a multi-million dollar pay hike, his house is still built of bricks and not from money bags- so it can't be about money. Nope, he hasn't replaced Bill Gates at Microsoft or for that matter Hugh Hefner at Playboy- so its not about a new dream job. Nope he hasn't got a shiny new Ferrari for free...his garage still houses a sputtering old Ambassador 1879 model, with the paint peeled off and engine thrown away- so its not about cars. Nope, neither McDonald's nor the Oberoi Intercontinental has offered to supply abundant complimentary food for him daily... he is still eating out of roadside thrash cans- so it can't be about food.


Hmmm...lets pause and recap for a moment here. Dope? Check. Women? Check. Sex? Check. Money? Check. Hi-fi job? Check. Swanky cars? Check. Food? Check. What else can get an average urbane Indian bachelor male so excited? What are we leaving out? What are we forgetting here? Come on, lets think... drum fingers on the desks, doodle invisible thoughts in the brain, think hard... what is missing? Unless, oh dear, but of course, why didn't we remember that earlier? *Boink Boink Boink* - lets slap our foreheads thrice as punishment. There is C.R.I.C.K.E.T, amigos! The game! Ok, so what about cricket now, are they showing a test match between Scotland and Ethiopia on TV ? Hmmm.. not really. Unless, oh dear, but of course... *Patak Patak Patak*- lets slam our foreheads against the nearest wall three times as punishment. Why didn't we remember that earlier? There's the IPL on. What you don't know what the IPL is? You don't? *Thwack Thwack Thwack,* slap yourselves three times- twice on your face and once on your buttocks as punishment. The IPL is the Indian Premier League. The cricket version of the Super-Bowl. A hyper exciting brand of cricket. The 20 over –a- piece extravaganza. The razzmatazz which gets the cricket crazy nomads all nippy and excited. So now we know- that’s what's got the author so excited. We've found out. There...now Sherlock Holmes can rest in peace.

Ladies and Gentlemen, ever since the IPL T20’s kicked off, I’ve been hooked. Of course, Season 2 has got off to a relatively rustic, yawning start, but I am optimistic that it is no indication of what’s in store in the coming weeks. For the uninitiated, this year is the second season of IPL and hence called IPL2. Last year was the first season of IPL and hence was called IPL1. See my math, ain’t I better than Aryabhatta? IPL1 was held in India. It was a roaring success. IPL2 is being held in South Africa. One hopes it will be at least a meowing success. IPL2 had to be exported to South Africa because the Govt. couldn’t ensure the security of the event if it were to be held in India. Fair enough. After all, the IPL2 clashed with another titanic soap opera called the General Elections. The Govt. told the IPL babus that it was more important to use your fingers to press buttons on the voting machine than use them to spin a doosra or count currency notes. “No security, no IPL, nothing doing, go cry to your mama” said the Government. Also, it was rumored that some of the team owners were reluctant to field their precious players in the blazing Indian summer because there wasn’t enough sunscreen lotion around. Well the smart IPL babus, amid desperation and simmering public anger, shifted the event into the first nation that offered to host it – South Africa. That is a shame, because when it comes to passionate following, crowd frenzy and media hype, nothing can match cricket in India. But, with the aforementioned situation on our hands, we cricket lovers were virtually told that we had only two options before us:
1) Watch the cricket out of South Africa.
2) Or spend your time picking lint out of your belly-buttons.

Option 1) was unanimously chosen, and boy was I glad. After all, it is the cricket that matters to us fanatics – the show had to go on and if it had to find a new stage in South Africa, then so be it.


(I'd rather watch Ashish Nehra bat than watch no cricket at all)

The IPL babus should count their lucky stars that South Africa came to their rescue. I’m sure with the amount of money invested in IPL, the organizers would have been desperate to host the tournament even in Antarctica or Somalia for that regard. In fact, rumors have it that they considered these two places to host the game, before South Africa appeared on their radar. Unfortunately, amid much reluctance, they had to rule out Antarctica as a hosting venue because the penguins went on hunger strike and the polar bears took out protest marches against hosting the event on their land. This implied that at least 50% of the potential on-field spectators were ruled out from participation. Then there was the issue of conflict of sponsors’ interests – they wanted iced tea, chilled Coke and vanilla chocobar sundaes to be advertised in Antarctica, which for some strange reason found no takers. And then there was the problem with cheerleaders – I mean who would have liked to see them dancing around in woolen pullovers, stocky trousers, leather overalls, thick sweaters, thicker gloves, mufflers and thermal panties? These issues ensured that Antarctica was out of reckoning as a potential host, even though the conditions for cricket was ‘perfect ‘. (Hey c’mon I’m sure the ice covered pitches would have possibly assisted good seam bowling) .

And then there was the second potential host – Somalia. I’m sure Somalia would have been great, but unfortunately the event couldn’t be staged there because the pirates threatened to kidnap Mandira Bedi! In hindsight, I think it would’ve been a really good thing had the Somali pirates kidnapped Mandira Bedi. I mean, the advantage would have been two-pronged. 1) The TV audience would have been spared of her apathetic cricketing knowledge and abysmal presentation skills. 2) Who knows, the pirates could have as well learnt some cricket from her. Ha ha ha ha… now that is funny… learning cricket from Mandira Bedi, ha ha ha… I’m sure the pirates would have rather preferred to jump into the sea than let such a day dawn upon them. Ha ha ha ha… Ok, so all in all, South Africa was the chosen venue for IPL2. Not bad at all.

(Presenting - The Numero Uno cricketer - Mandira Bedi!!)

You see people often wonder what the fuss is all about. What’s the big deal about T20, they ask. Why go ga -ga over it? Traditional cricket lovers have often sniggered at and chastised the T20 format as prostitution of cricket. “Slam-bang-thank you ma’m cricket” are their precise words. One of my friend’s grandfather, who is 186 years old, and an avid Test match lover, often tells me how watching IPL saddens his soul and rips the pacemaker in his heart apart. “Test cricket is real cricket. What is this IPL-BPL or whatever” he says. I agree when people accord the highest respect to Test matches. The Test format deserves all of it – it is still the purest form of cricket and the ultimate test of your cricketing skills. Make no mistake, I am a passionate Test match lover too – I always apply kilograms of super-glue to my ample posterior and park them firmly on the couch, while watching a Test match for all of its five days on TV. But I certainly take umbrage at the purists for according disrespect to the T20 format. T20 is a different game, it has a different charm. You see the primary, number one attraction about IPL T20 is kinky cheerleaders in skimpy outfits the fast and furious nature of the game itself. Twenty overs a piece, the batsman going hammer and tongs at everything thrown at them, the bowlers bowling their guts out, the power-packed shots, the switch hits, the paddle sweeps, no balls going for free hits, frequent toe-crushing yorkers, the screaming crowds, the dancing girls… it’s all there. And its all over in three and half hours. It goes without saying that the color, the entertainment, and the adrenaline rush offered by the T20 is unparalleled elsewhere. So what is my unsolicited advice here? – don’t try to mix up or compare the two formats of the game. Learn to enjoy both of them, in the way it is meant to be enjoyed. Enjoy Test cricket sipping a glass of wine and enjoy T20 by dousing yourself with beer. That’s exactly what I do – well, I douse myself with water instead, as I am teetotaler, but I nevertheless am charged as a bull while watching IPL T20.

Thank you IPL, thank you T20, for bringing in a splash of vibgyor to my otherwise monochromatic life.

Have a great time folks!

Love,

Parry.

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Note:

1) The IPL has not paid me to write this post. Pay?... ha ha ha.... my own employer is reluctant to pay me, toh IPL kya ghanta pay karega?

2) Coming up in my next post: IPL, Cricket Widows and Workaholic Bosses.

3) Today is the one and only Sachin Tendulkar's birthday. I salute you, master. Wish you a very happy birthday.

4) Talking of IPL, this blog called Fake IPL player is generating tremendous buzz and apparently, has been authored by an insider from an IPL team camp. Authentic or not, this blog is providing some absolute rib-tickling fun.

The Human Behaviour and Relationship Guide

Foreword by Dale Carnegie:

Parikshith Kumar is one of the world's foremost experts in 'human behaviour and relationships' . Such is his expertise in this field, that it rumored that he's well capable of writing books like "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus and Eunuchs are from Pluto" , even while lying in deep coma. Parikshith, or Parry as he is lovingly called (my wife calls him Hotty Pants) has wowed millions around the world with his deep insight on human relationships and gender behaviour. His classic books on human relationships have found their places in the hearts of millions of readers around the world and have smashed publishing records all over. His books have been made into psychologists' course materials, have found their way into MBA classroom case studies, and also been placed inside thousands of public restrooms around the world - so that people can read them when they go potty. From the stables of the great relationship guru and one of the world's most original thinkers comes another post which destined to change your lives and the way you look at people around you.

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At the very outset, I must say that I'm really humbled to have the great Dale Carnegie write a foreword to my post. Its an honor. For those of you who don't know who Dale Carnegie is - err.. never mind, ignorance is bliss.

Contrary to popular judgement, I am not the silver-haired, furry-browed expert on human relationship that I am purported to be. All that I do is to sit around and observe people around me. ( Applause! Applause! Holy Me! What modesty from the great skunk! ) . You see, to be a judge on human relationships and behaviour, you need to have an above average emotional quotient. Well, my emotional quotient is a zero drawn with a huge diameter. My emotional quotient, emotional remainder, emotional dividend, divisor - everything is a zero. I fall into a rare category of humans called 'Emotional Retards' - an oh so lovely bunch of people who are devoid of all emotions (except a few bare basic unmentionable ones), and bereft of all sentiments and sensitivities that are found in normal human beings.

To illustrate, let me tell you a fact about my self. The last time I cried or had moist eyes was 7 years ago. I can almost hear gasps from the other side of the computer screen, particularly coming from the women. "How can you not have moist eyes even once in seven years?!! You bloody robot!" , - I can hear them say. Now of course, women have tear glands that resemble the Ganges, I am not trying to compete with them, but the fact is even men cry. Yes, men do cry. According to a highly scientific survey I recently conducted, I found that an average male cried at least once a year (I have excluded Karan Johar, Roger Federer and my business manager from this survey- these men cry or are made to cry at a far more regular basis). So, once a year is the statistical tear-jerk figure for the men. ( The tear jerk figure for women is slightly higher - they only cry 365 times in a year and 366 times if it is a leap year) . Mind you, even on that one solitary occasion, men don't cry openly. Most of them lock themselves up inside a restroom and bawl their eyes out- often hugging the commode for comfort. I do this once in 7 years- so you can imagine my levels of emotional retardation.

Let me further my case. A couple of years back, a movie called Taare Zameen Par hit the Indian screens. Taare Zameen Par (TZP), a melodrama about a dyslexic little boy, his mentor, his parents, his classmates, his Sony Playstation, his pet alligator... -- is considered, till date, to be one of the most emotional tear-jerkers to hit the Indian screens. Such was the emotional impact of this movie, that the theatres screening this movie often had little puddles of human tears in their lobby-floors. ( Someone had told me that the puddles were genuine human tears- I had initially thought that it was dog urine). It was a common sight to see little boys jumping and splashing around in the puddles of tears and little girls trying to sail boats made of paper in them. Such was the impact. The scene inside the theatre was no better - it resembled a mass funeral- everybody was crying. Everyone, regardless of their gender, were going boo-hoo, sob-sob, waaaa, sniff sniff, mumme mumme etc, watching TZP :'-( Everyone except me that is. Sample the scene inside the theatre :

Protagonist (on screen) : "Boo hoo.. *Sob* Sob* ... * Sniff *" :'-(

The other protagonist (on screen) : "Boo hoo.. *Sob* Sob* ... * Sniff *" :'-(

Obese Aunty in red saree sitting next to me : "Boo hoo.. *Sob* Sob* ... * Sniff * So sad" :'-(

Her equally hideous daughter in the next seat : "Boo hoo.. *Sob* Sob* ... * Sniff *" :'-(

The old man in sweater : "Boo hoo.. *Sob* Sob* ... * Sniff *" :'-(

Everybody else : "Boo hoo.. *Sob* Sob* ... * Sniff *" :'-(

Me : "Hey, why does this fucking popcorn have no salt? "

Get the point? That is my emotional sensitivity for you. So that's why I say that I have no authority to write on this subject per se. But since one of my primary pre-occupation is to sit and look around at people, I have, through the years, grown tiny invisible antennae on either sides of my head that senses and gauges the way men and women behave in general.

Men are logical, decisive and practical. Women are caring, nurturing and emotional. Ta da , Ta da , Ta daaaaaaa!!! That's the breaking news-cum-enlightenment bulletin of the day for you. OK troops let's move on. Well, as I said, that's how men and women are wired up. Like it or not, agree or disagree, and discounting a few exceptions here and there - men and women always fit the aforementioned stereotypes to the T. Now its none of my business to pass judgements as to which stereotype is better - I'd rather spend my time scratching my butt than enter a boring gender superiority debate. But what interests me is the way the sexes stick to their stereotypes in whatever they do. Its only when the Mr. Logical clashes with the Ms. Emotional, does the stadium come alive, spark off fireworks and gives jobless fuckers interested spectators like me something to write about.

Men can be logical and practical to the point of crass even during their rare attempts to touch upon emotive topics. Here is a sample of a one such conversation between a group of male friends:

Guy 1: "Hey dude, do you ever get sad for no reason and cry" ?

Guy 2 ( responding) : "Me, cry? Asshole what do you think? I am some sort of a sissy bed-wetter? "

Guy 3 : " Of course, you can be a sissy bed-wetter. Maybe you should buy Huggies diapers for yourself... "

Guy 4 : "...Or borrow your girlfriend's Whisper napkins"

Guy 1 : Muwahahahaha...

Guy 2 : Muwahahahaha....

Guy 3 : Muwahahahaha....

Guy 4 : Muwahahahaha...

Women on the other hand can be highly emotional even while discussing something as direct and logical as Mathematics.Here is a sample of a one such conversation between a group of female friends:

Girl 1 : OK, everybody 2 plus 2 is 4. I think I am sure... Umm.. yes, I am sure.

Girl 2 : Wow, really?

Girl 3 : Oh so sweet na....

Girl 4 : Yeah really sweet. 4 is such a lucky digit na? It can never be lonely because it always has two and two together.

Girl 1 : Awwwww...

Girl 2 : Awwwww...

Girl 3 : Awwwww...

Girl 4 : Awwwww...

Now, it's not that these behavioural stereotypes have been existing since, like, yesterday. Men and women have been the way that they are, since times immemorial. Why, the behavioral tendencies can be dated way back to the times of Adam and Eve. History tells us that Adam just couldn't stop being the logical being that he was - and Eve couldn't help being the nurturing soul that she used to be. ( I print my own history books and no I'm not gonna show them to you alright?) . Sparks used to fly whenever their personalities clashed. Here is a sample of one such conversation:

Eve: "Adam, sweetheart, here... have an apple"

Adam: "Naaa... I prefer jackfruit"

Eve: "Now where will I go searching for a jackfruit tree? Have the apple na, sweetheart... Its good for you"

Adam: "I'm sorry. I can't have that apple. There may be maggots inside it and its logical that I may fall ill"

Eve: "Do you want me to wash it? Or do you want to make apple-pie instead?"

---10 minutes of silence.... And then again,---

Eve: "Adam, sweetheart, here... have an apple"

Adam: "I told ya lady, I don't want the apple. I don't like apples. Period.D'ya hear that?"

Eve: "Ohh... you don't like apple ?"

Adam: "That is correct. I don't like apple"

Eve(sarcastically) : "Would you prefer an iPod then?"

Adam: "Wow... okay!!!"

Eve: #@$%*^@$

See? Natural behaviour differences between the genders. It's an obvious fact. Along the same lines, it's also a fact that a woman demands undivided attention, perennial love and unadulterated affection from her man all the time - whilst a man can be distracted with other things and may not be able to reciprocate as per her expectations. Even this behavioral tendency of the genders can be traced back to the times of Adam and Eve:

Eve: "Adam..."

Adam: "Yeah..?"

Eve: "You don't pay attention to me?"

Adam: "Of course I do, dear"

Eve: "You don't care for me?"

Adam: "Of course I do, dear"

Eve: "You don't love me?"

Adam: "Of course I do, dear"

Eve: "I don't believe you. Tell me, is there any other girl in your life?"

Adam: "Who else can be there? Muwahahahahaha"

Eve: *Hmmpffffff*

Another behaviour tendency of the sexes is that a man always looks for action with a fixed goal in his mind, while a woman is also goal-oriented, but in a slightly different, roundabout way. Ditto was the case with Adam and Eve:

Adam: "Eve, sweety, come lets go out hunting"

Eve: "But its cold outside..."

Adam: "I know dear, but we have to hunt down something to fill our stomachs. Besides, we are new to the planet and we gotta go out and explore..."

Eve: "So, we have to go out?"

Adam: "Yes"

Eve: "But I have nothing to wear... "

Adam : #$@*#$"

Since 'Nonsense Aplenty' is such a widely revered forum and has a social responsibility(muwahahahahaha... oops sorry, just couldn't contain the laugh here... tee hee) towards its readers, I would like to offer some of my two bit advice to the sexes. The intention of my unsolicited advice that's coming up, is to help the sexes understand each other a little better. Mind you,I am not here to re-write the law of sexes. I am only here to make fun and laugh hysterically provide analysis and offer food for thought. I don't expect gender behaviour to transform overnight. I don't expect an average woman to understand the vagaries of the off-side rule in soccer, or for an average man to know about the primary causes of post-menopausal depression. All I am hoping is that my advice can help the sexes co-exist with more happiness and less friction, and as Jackson said, make the world a better place.

So in that spirit, here is my advice to the men and women folk. ( I know my regulars readers will be having an evil grin on their face by now :-) . They know whats coming up. Of course, some of them also feel that my arguments are totally biased, my logic is completely skewed, and that I should quit blogging, switch over to agriculture and make love to bullocks. Well, maybe they are right - but lets take that debate to a later day. I have an important social responsibility right now) .

Advice for Men:

1) Avoid picking your nose while in the company of your girl, no matter how desperate the urge or how great the twitch. If you really have to, then politely ask her first "Sweetheart, could you please look away while I pick my nose? "

2) Please remember all the important dates and anniversaries. Never forget your girl's birthday. Have the Intel guys install an extra chip in your brain if you have to - but don't forget the dates. And keep assuring your partner that you remember her upcoming birthday. - "Hey sweety, your birthday is on 32nd March right? See I remember" .

3) Work on your romance. Work on your mush-talk. Learn to woo her, sing her romantic songs. If you are confident that your voice doesn't sound like a donkey on its deathbed braying out its last prayers - then congratulations you can consider yourself a singer. Well, the track "Jhoom Barabar Jhoom Sharabi" can be a good start- but its not exactly a very romantic song.

4) Take a bath once in a week, you idiots. A woman likes a man with good personal hygiene. Using a soap while bathing can be advantageous.

5) Never let your girl catch you ogling at other women's breasts. If you really have to ogle, then do it discreetly - but if she catches you, don't tell me that I didn't warn you of the consequences.

Advice for Women:

1) Never interrupt your man during a cricket/football/tennis/kabaddi/ludo match. Don't mouth lines like "Come honey lets go shopping for carpets,curtains,cutlery... " - when India is playing Australia and need 15 runs from 11 balls.

2) Please don't force your man to wear baby pink colored shirts/T-shirts. Even though there may be exceptions, a vast majority of men revolt against wearing pink. You may succeed in forcing your way and have him wear pink, but that will only leave him with a scowl on his face and end up making him feel like a cross between George Micheal and Elton John.

3) Please don't cry at anything and everything. I know, your crying ability is your ultimate weapon. It will bring any rigid man down on his knees and instantly wean him away from his trusted path of logic. But should you cry at everything girl? Cry sparingly, cry intelligently, and cry only when needed. Don't cry for stupid reasons like "Oh my pet grass-hopper died today" or mouth even stupider lines like "Boo hoo I myself don't know why I am crying- will let you know when I find out"

4) While it is your right to take your man out for shopping with you, but please hurry up with your shopping, finish things quickly and show some mercy on your poor man. I mean, please don't take half a millennium to shop for a pair of earrings. I can tell from personal experience. I went out shopping with this female friend of mine last week. I was crew cut and clean-shaved when I entered the shopping mall, and when I came out of it, I had hair that had grown up to my shoulders and a beard that extended till my torso.

Alrighty ladies and gentlemen. I hope the purpose of the post is met ( providing useless enlightenment that is) and I pray that less sparks will fly from now on. *Sigh* I know that I've got to be a really big jackass to hope like that.

Love,

Parry.

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Afterword by Dale Carnegie.

Parikshith Kumar had promised that he would pay me $100 for writing a foreword to his post. He is yet to pay and I have not seen him ever since. Could anyone please tell me where he lives? When I last called him up asking for my promised remuneration, he said "Jaa gaand marao bhutnike" and slammed the phone down. I know that was in Hindi, I couldn't understand it fully, but it certainly wasn't very gracious of him. Could someone please tell me where he stays. I need the money and I...

The Writer is Blocked...

Writer's block...

All writers have suffered from it. Leo Tolstoy has suffered from it. P.G Wodehouse, Ian Fleming, Valmiki, Jeffery Archer- they all must have suffered from 'Writer's block' at some point or other during their glorious writing careers. Well its now the turn of one more writer in this illustrious lineage to suffer from the condition - Yours truly, Me!!!

Before, I trudge my ass further on this issue, a definition of 'Writer's block' is due:

Definition: Writer's block is a phenomenon involving temporary loss of ability to begin or continue writing, usually due to lack of inspiration or creativity. Writer's block can also be a hindrance even when the writer feels that they already have a story in mind but can get no further than part of that story.

(Note: I have copy-pasted the definition from Wikipedia. I have writer's block and can't write - Remember? )

I noticed that I've been hindered by writer's block since this morning. Coming to terms with it was a strange, unfamiliar feeling. I arrived at my computer this morning, all pumped up and feeling the usual urge to blog. My plan was to write a classic blogpost on a very serious issue that I hold very close to my heart - " Investment and Financial Advice for Jersey Cows" . After all, I had spent days after days doing my research on this topic. I had visited hundreds of cattle-farms, interviewed millions of cows about their preferred investment and money-management methodologies. For the record, I found that 62% of the jersey cows invested their money in equity stocks, 10 % of them invested in bonds. 8 % of the cows chomped at and swallowed all of their money, because they found the taste of paper too good to resist. 10% of the cows stashed away their money in the nearest pile of hay-stack and 5% of the poor bovines hid their savings in their dung. And there were 5% of utterly stupid cows, who blindly handed over their savings to their respective doodhwalas, trusting in him to make a secure investment on their behalf. And the doodhwala went ahead and just blew away all of that money in the nearest strip-club. So all in all, I had seen that there was gross financial mismanagement among the cows - and I wanted to write an article on my blog, that provided the poor animals with sound investment advice . It was a noble cause. But horror of horrors - before I could even type half a key, I discovered that writer's block had struck me. I couldn't think about a vowel to write. I realized that I just couldn't get the neurons in my brain to shimmy out of snooze mode and get them flowing as usual. I am sad and helpless- I feel guilty of having let down all the cash cows, and I am devastated. :'-(

Come to think of it, this is not the first time I have been affected with 'writer's block'. But calamity, as they say, always strikes in the most unwelcome of times. I clearly remember during my engineering college days, I was always bothered with writer's block during the exams. What an irony. I mean here I am-bang in the middle of an examination - and the writer's block virus would make its way into the hall, zero in on me, discreetly enter my brain and wallop the neurons into a state of inactivity. So the next time you have the opportunity to see my engineering report cards, please don't blindly attribute my abysmal grades to a lazy unprepared bum. Its the writer's block virus that has to be blamed ( Dad, are you reading this!?? What does it take to convince you, huh?) Here is an excerpt from an engineering answer paper of mine from the past. You can see writer's block in its full glory.

Question 17) Explain the computer database normalization process in brief and banian ( 5 marks)

Answer: The ...

I really did try to get past the 'The' , but I was helpless, the stupid writer's block virus was already at work. You know I often think, why is that only us- the poor writers- have to be affected with this condition all the time. Its so unfair. Why doesn't writer's block affect, say, a traffic cop when he is filling out your traffic violation form? Just picture this - the cop catches you riding your two- wheeler without a helmet and trousers. He stops you in the middle of the road. You try your best to smooth-talk or bribe your way out of the situation - but fail miserably. The cop is filling out your violation ticket. Suddenly he says 'Oooh I have writer's block, I am not able to write this thing any further. So go away young man, be free, have a beer or two and ride away happily." Sad. It seldom happens with those cops. But a well-meaning writer who earnestly wants to help the cows, has to remain tied-down and frustrated with the condition.

One of the first persons I confided with and broke the news of my sad condition, was my roommate. In bachelor lifestyle, your roommates are always the default, first-in-line victims of all your actions and reactions. My roommate, the bakra that he is, always happens to be the first person to read the new posts on my blog. That is because, as soon as I hit the 'Publish' button on Blogger, I make it a point to scream into his eardrums and say "Hey dude, I have a new blog post. Read it, read it... you get to read it first". I do this even at 3 in the morning. My roommate's reaction is usually the same. He jolts awake from his sleep, gives me a big, warm smile and says "Oh wow, thank you... I'm so happy and privileged, you rotten asshole" . You see, he is a true fan. Anyways, I told him that I was suffering from writer's block and would be unable to update my blog for now. His reaction was that of genuine sympathy. First, he jumped to the ceiling in euphoric joy. Then he ran out of the building in Archimedes style and distributed sweets to the entire neighborhood. I don't know where he is right now - I think he's probably on a pilgrimage tour of all the temples in Bangalore, offering devout thanksgiving prayers. Why do I need enemies when I have friends like him. Bah!

I went to the office yesterday, still reeling under the effect of writer's block. I am thorough professional. Needless to say, my block has affected my coding ability too. You want to know how my day was eh? Here is a sample of a conversation between me and my boss.

Boss: "So Parikshith. Have you finished your code?"
Me: "Yep. Here it is"
Boss: "Heck, what is this? I thought I had asked you to write a code to streamline our business domain critical processes"
Me: "Yes, sir."
"But the code that you've written here calculates the average turnaround time required to seduce and mate with Paris Hilton!! ?? "
"Yes, sir"
"Yes my ass. Enough of your tomfoolery. Where is the original code?"
"I didn't write it sir."
"Why the hell not?"
"I am having a writer's block"
"You what?"
"A writer's block. The inability to think of writing anything"
"Oh, I see... writer's block eh?"
"Yes, sir"
"Then, I think I won't be able to sign your paycheck for this month..."
"Why not, sir"
"I have writer's block too..."

Well, nobody understands. Idiots. Anyway,I visited a doctor, next. I was hoping at least he'll be able to diagnose and offer a cure for my writer's block. Here's what happened...

Me: "Doctor, doctor... I am in big trouble"
Doc: "Sit down, young man. Just calm down. Tell me your problem"
Me: "I am suffering from writer's block"
Doc: "What?"
Me: "Writer's block"
"Writer's block? Now what is that? I think I must've bunked my classes at medical school when that was being taught"
"Oh no!!"
"But relax young man, tell me what exactly happens to you during this writer's block?"
"I can't think of anything to write about. I am unable to write anything"
"Then stay with me for a few days and write out all my prescriptions na. That should cure you"
"No no... I am not that kind of writer. I am a creative writer"
"What do you write?"
"A blog called Nonsense Aplenty"
"Hmmm... can I have a look at it?"
"Sure"

I gave the link of my blog to the doctor. He finally emerged from his chamber, an hour later, looking a bit hassled.

Me: "Yes, doctor?"
Doc: "I read your blog..."
Me: "Really?"
Doc: "Yes. And I think I have a diagnosis of your condition"
"Oh God! Thank you so much. So you think you can cure me, doc?"
"Yes. Let me write you a prescription. Here, have this twice daily. You may not need this for more than a day"
"Oh, thanks, doc. Err... I can't read your handwriting. What's this you have prescribed for me?"
"Rat poison..."

No more comments, ladies and gentlemen. But I shouldn't be complaining too much. Hey, everybody goes through writer's blocks. But it is the literary world that really stands to lose. Lose a lot, really. I mean, God only knows how many potentially great books have gone unwritten, unpublished, just because their respective authors suffered from serious bouts of writer's block. Some of these books, that went unpublished as a result of this situation are:

• "Oral Hygiene" - by Emran Hashmi
• "How To Play a Cover Drive" - by Munaf Patel
• "124 Ways to Press a Computer Key and Get Stinkin' Rich" - by Bill Gates
• "An Expert's Guide to Virginity" - by Paris Hilton
• "World Peace" - by Osama bin Laden

Anyways, this writer's block is not allowing me to write anymore. I hope to get over it as soon as possible to get back to my full-fledged writing form. But please be patient, dear people. It may not happen immediately- my chances of a recovery right now is as bright as finding living bacteria in dinosaur dung. But, as Arnold Schwhatsispelling said in Terminator - "I'll be back. Where else can I go, baby? "

Love,
Parry.

Pappu Can't Cook Saala....

I suffer from 'cookslexia' . For the benefit of those scratching their heads and butts in perplexion, cookslexia is 'cooking dyslexia' - the sheer inability to cook. It is the condition where a man just cant cook even if someone were to point a Colt .32 at his thick skull. It is a condition where the poor male cant distinguish between sugar and salt, between tomato soup and tomato puree, or for that matter cant tell a jar of Glucose powder from a bottle of cocaine , just because they happen to appear similar. While inside a kitchen, the cookslexic male feels like Alice in Wonderland , going oooh and aaah at everything around him ( Oooh... is that thing over there really a potato peeler?..Wow! What do they use it for?)

I've been suffering from cookslexia all my life. Till date I don't know how to boil water, forget making a glass of lemonade. My room is reverberating with loud sounds of 'Thwack' - that's all you people collectively slapping your foreheads... I know I know... But, sadly, I still remain a cookslexic. All through my life I have survived gluttoning on Mom's cooking, roommates' cooking, roommates' girlfriends' cooking, inadequately subsidised office food, Hotel Swadisht Aahar, Kakke Da Dhaba, roadside thrash cans etc. Make no mistake, I am not trying to howl away my condition on the blogosphere in vain... There have been moments where I have tried to pull up my pants, turn a blind eye to my disability, and still enter a kitchen and try to cook. Unfortunately, the only person who had the courage, conviction and the will to taste a sample of the hotch-potch delicacies that I prepared was Golu - the streetside doggie. Even Golu used to refuse my dishes and take pity on my condition sometimes. "Bow wow, Parikshith..." he used to say to me "... you poor human being, you will have to eat that all that stuff yourself? Oh poor you, you don't have to. Here, let me offer a share of my dinner... Look what I picked from the garbage can for you. Have this, this should taste better than the stuff you made". Golu is a nice dog.

Anyway, despite my disability, I strongly believe that there are times when I can cook well, regardless of what others think. There are occasions when the dishes that I had prepared turned out to be truly tasty and mouth-watering. Since these occasions were very rare, I have photographed some of the excellent ones that I prepared, which I am proudly sharing with you all. Have a look.





Masala Dosa.





Green Salad






Pizza





Butter Chicken

(I'm sorry, but the chicken flew away before I could photograph it)

My female friends are quite aghast at my cooking skills, or rather the lack of it. They don't understand my fight with cookslexia. I have heard them say "That Parikshith, how can he be so dumb in cooking yaaa... and he doesn't even know how to switch on the gas stove. I mean how yaaa?? All he knows is computers, sports and sex" . Point noted, dear ladies. Well, speaking of sex, there is a gross misconception among womenfolk that sex tops a man's list of desires. That is incorrect. Sex comes in at a close #2. It is food that occupies slot #1. If you need proof, then go approach a genuinely hungry man at lunchtime and ask him if he wants to enjoy a dressed salad or an undressed Paris Hilton. You will always see him beggingly opt for the former.

To top my long list of ironies, I am a vegetarian. In other words, I don't eat anything that walks on its legs or crawls on its belly. And I would prefer to leave the fish in lakes, ponds and Oceans rather than convert my stomach into a marine aquarium. Strictly and technically speaking, the only non-vegetarian food I consume is the ubiquitous white liquid that is squirted out of a buffalo's nipples. But I must say, I have a grudging admiration towards the non-vegetarians. Hats off man!, I mean those non-veggies can survive anywhere, anyplace. Even if they were to be shipwrecked and marooned on a remote uninhabited island, they can still survive by eating 'tadpole manchurian' for dinner. But I, oh boy, am a masterpiece, ain't I? Can't eat non-vegetarian, can't cook vegetarian. Ha! Actually, I shudder to think what would happen to me, if my job requires me to be posted long-term in places where the availability of vegetarian food is as scarce as water on Mars. These places include parts of the U.S, Europe or why, even Kerala ( During a recent visit to Kerala, I approached a stranger on the roadside and asked him if there was any pure vegetarian Kerala-style restaurant nearby. He died of a lung failure caused due to excessive laughing) . Thus, common sense says that I should learn to cook. But I cant cook because I am cookslexic.

As I type away, flashbacks of a cookslexic incident from the past come rushing into my mind. It was a romantic evening in the winter of 2004, and I was flirting with a beautiful (read dumb) girl from college, at a swanky neighborhood diner. Like a typical man, I was in my elements, literally on cruise mode, interspersing smooth talk with boastful rants about extra-ordinary qualities that I possessed. Smooth talk included "Hey, isn't it cold in here? Let's go sit on the tandoor to warm things up". Boastful rants included " I have 24-inch biceps, you can't see it because the shirt is kinda thick at the sleeves..." , and " Hey did you know I am an artist too, I helped Leonardo draw Mona Lisa's eyebrows..." etc. etc. I could see from her rolled-up eyes that she was really enjoying my company and getting really impressed with me. And that is when I took it a bit too far. In a moment of pure foolishness, I told her how great a chef I was , and how friends just adored the wonderful dishes that I made. I realized my mistake a split second after I let the last syllable out of my mouth. "Oh shit, you fat-ass" , I silently screamed to myself. And just as I feared, the girl believed me and took up the matter.

Girl: "Wow, oh wow Parry. You cook too? Really haan? Wow, you know I love cooking too".
Me: "Oh nice, same pinch"
Girl: "So what dishes do you prepare? Any good Italian dishes?
Me (thinking in private:) : Italian, yeah right. I don't know how to roll a chapatti here and Mamma mia has reached Italy.
Me (responding) : "Italian, well I know just the pasta. That too only two or three varieties. Its so boring to make pastas, you know. And it is messy to make. Its been long time since I cooked pasta..."
Girl: "Oh... yeah pasta is messy. Hey you know yesterday I was trying to make samosas..."
Me: "Umm... hmmm?..."
Girl: "And I simply am not able to get its stuffing right..."
Me: "Yeah, you should know how to 'stuff it'..."
Girl: "Yeah, and I was trying and... hey do you know how to make samosas? Do you have a recipe?"
Me(thinking in private): No, no, Say no, say no - you moron
Me(responding) : "Yes, definitely."
Girl: "Oh wow! great... Can you share your recipe with me? Pleeeaase? Puh-leease?"
Me(thinking in private) : Last chance, say 'NO' , you idiot
Me(responding) : "Yes, of course! Making samosas is child's play. I know the recipe by-heart" Girl: "Oh thats great. Can you mail me the recipe tomorrow? Puh-leease!"
Me: "Sure"
Girl: " I am soooo happy"
Me(mumbling under my breath) : "And I am soooo fucked"
Girl: "Did you say something?"
Me: "No, was just wondering if I could kiss you"
Girl: "Of course not!"
Me: "Thank you."
Girl: "Ok, don't forget to send me the recipe tomorrow. Awww, you're so cute".. Nighty 'night.
Me: "Err... OK, bye"

I walked back home silently that night, fiercely resisting the urge to bang my head against every concrete structure in the vicinity. Darn,what a spot had I put myself into? Now this was a queer situation- I could not ask my folks or friends for the recipe- they would have laughed themselves to the moon and ridiculed me silly had they they got to know the reason. And I couldn't Google for it, as the girl wanted something original from me. Darn my honesty. Now- men would understand this bit of emotion- I had pride at stake. I mean here was a girl who had asked me for something , and was I going to wander about town asking for help? Certainly not, sir. I was going to do this myself. I had to do this myself. Sadly, that's what happens... when you mix boisterous male ego with unnecessary bravado and an unadulterated dose of stupidity- what you get is a dangerous moron like me. So, I rolled up my sleeves and wrote her the recipe myself. The original, delicious samosa recipe, straight from the kitchens of yours truly. I think I did a good job, I am sharing the recipe that I had sent her with you all. Have a look.

Recipe: Samosa.

Ingredients: Nothing specific, any choice of ingredients should be fine, as long as they all add up to make a samosa.

Description:

1) Take a clean pan.

2) Politely greet the spider and promptly chase away the cockroaches hiding inside the pan.

3) Pour some oil into the pan and heat it. Any oil should be fine- cooking, lubricating, sewing etc.

4) Make sure that the oil heats for a few minutes. Be patient.

5) Add 1/2 teaspoon of whatever powder that is in that little box on the shelf.. yeah that one. And then add 1/4 tablespoon of that whatchamamacallit green colored thing over there into the mixture. Gently keep stirring the pan.

6) And then pray, pray and pray. Pray to the Almighty. Light candles, chant verses, do whatever, but pray real hard.

7) If your prayers have successfully registered in the Internet servers of Heaven, then a blinding flash of white light will appear from the skies. And voila! the samosa will be found ready in the pan.

8) Serve hot.

I mailed her the recipe. Sadly, I never heard from her again. I don't know why. These stupid girls have no courtesy, I tell you. I thought she didn't like my recipe, so to make up, I sent her a lovely bouquet of cauli-flowers. No response, either. *Sob* :-'(

Well, coming back to me, I must say there have been near and dear ones who've tried to extend a hand of help , and made an effort to teach me the art of cooking. Mom was the first person to try, but quickly gave up after I burnt part of her kitchen down. There was however, one dear friend of mine- a fellow bachelor who happened to be a mindblowing cook. Now this guy was a bloody modern day aberration- a bachelor who cooked like a dream. Bah! Anyway, one fine day the great chef decided to take it on himself to teach me, his culinarily illiterate friend, the fine art of cooking. What followed next was a Commando-style training, which included fetching vegetables from the market, learning to wash them ( I always forgot this part) , using a knife in a non Bollywood-style etc. I learnt to deal with the mood swings of a pressure cooker, I went about identifying the right mix of ingredients to make edible food. Slowly and steadily I began to make progress. I started recognizing grocery items and vegetables.... the Radishes, the Beetroots, The Cabbages. I learnt to look at a Lady's finger without exclaiming "Hey no engagement ring, so she should be single!" .

But as they say, all good things must come to an end - and that's exactly what happened to my cooking sojourn. A week later, my trainer friend decided to test my knowledge. The bastard. The task he gave me was simple - "Make a bowl of sambar". That's it... I just had to prepare some sambar without any one's help or supervision. Okey-dokey, I thought. What's sambar for me... a stupid liquid that can be prepared in a flash. I sauntered into the kitchen with the kind of swagger, that would've made people think that I was Mr. Alexander going out to conquer the world. And that's when disaster struck- I had a severe attack of cookslexia. The brain went into screen-saver mode, the hands stayed firmly inside the pockets, and I stared around the kitchen, blank, perplexed, and wondering what the hell were those little boxes of ingredients doing on the kitchen shelf. I regretted the condescending opinion that I accorded to sambar a few minutes back- making sambar now seemed to be an exercise of Herculean magnitude. But I still went ahead and prepared it.

First, I boiled some water in a vessel and waited. And then I waited some more. Just before the water entered into the evaporation mode, I quietly added some yellow and orange colored Holi powder into the vessel. I stirred the mixture with a spoon until the mixture acquired a brilliant color. Then, I plucked some leaves from a nearby tree and added them for garnishing. Voila! My sambar was ready! I thought I had done a decent job. But my trainer buddy, who happened to taste it, certainly didn't think so. In fact, I had a tough time in restraining him from killing himself - he desperately wanted to jump off the terrace when I told him what the recipe was. I don't know why. But anyway, that was the last time I tried cooking.

Ok, now that you have read so far and empathize with my condition ( please suppress those smirks and the tee-hees, will ya?) , I have an earnest appeal to make. This appeal goes out to all the single and eligible ladies reading this post. Doctors say that there is only one possible medical cure for cookslexic men - MARRIAGE!!!! . No, no, I am not trying to be a chauvinistic pig here - this is really a scientific, medical opinion... I can show you the note from the illiterate doctor who diagnosed my condition. Well, all you wonderful ladies out there are so naturally endowed and blessed with extraordinary cooking talent. That is a wonderful, wonderful thing for you ladies to have. And cookslexic men like me need support, care, love, Butter Roti, Green peas masala and gajar ka halwa to survive. So, putting 2 and 2 together, dear Ladies, will anyone of you please marry me?... ( Just a sec, since this is an emotional moment, let me go find some canned tapes containing sounds of 'Awwwwww' to fill the background).

But please be forewarned, dear ladies, please don't get seduced by my rock star looks or my Greek God body. Please always remember that the package called myself, comes with a caveat of being a severely cookslexic moron. But one thing I will promise you. I will eat anything and everything that you make without a murmur of a complaint (at the count of 3, lets all go 'Awwwww'). I promise, I will eat the sandwich prepared by you, even its as burnt as charcoal ( 1-2-3 Awwwwww). I promise I will eat the curry prepared by you even if you've added all the salt from the Arabian sea into it ( 1-2-3 Awwwwww). I promise I will shower you with eloquent praise and sweet kisses, for each dish you've made for me ( 1-2-3 Awwwww) , ...even if the dishes you prepared caused me to spend an entire day in the lavatory (1-2-3 Aww... oops hold on hold on , this is the wrong line to go Awwwww) . So there, thats how it is, dear ladies. I am sure it will be a very long time before medical science discovers a new drug to cure cookslexia, so till then, I am heavily relying on one of you to marry me. :-)

OK, people. I presume the issue is settled, the matter is done and dusted. I have bared my heart, soul and stomach. I am a cookslexic. I guess that's how it will be. I am the Pappu who can't cook. And lets raise a burnt toast to that!

Culinarily yours,
Parry.


*************************** THE END **********************************
**************************** GO HAVE YOUR ASPIRINS*******************

Love Poetry on Valentine's Day

Today is Valentine's Day. Today is the day when love flows more freely than water out of a municipal tap. Today, couples around the globe express their unconditional love to each other.

As for me, the sworn singleton and the blissful Champion of Indifference, today was just to be another normal, no-fuss day. I had brought home some work from office and had been feverishly typing away on the laptop , getting a particularly stubborn piece of code to work. My style of coding is similar to a trainer trying to tame a dog. The trainer keeps yelling away "Sit doggie, stand doggie... Doggie, handshake" ... and the doggie casually looks away, wags
its tail, pees on the adjacent lamp-post and goes to sleep. Thats how code behaves with software engineers like me.

Knock-knock Knock-knock. The sudden knocking on the door rudely interrupted me from my coding pleasure. Knock-knock-knock. The knocking grew more incessant. Irritated, I put my laptop aside, went up to door, and opened it. At the door stood two strange men/creatures who looked something like this.

"Yes?" I asked quizzically. "Who do you want?"

No answer.

"I said what do you want, who are you?"

No answer again. I was beginning to get irritated.

"Are you a kabadiwala (guy who collects thrash) or something? Or are you here to sell credit-cards? " I asked, hoping to get some reply.

"My name is Valentine... Saint Valentine" said the old guy, slowly.

"Excuse me?" I blurted out. I thought I didn't hear properly. "Who did you say you were?"

"St. Valentine. " the old man repeated.

"St. Valentine, who?" I asked, unsure

"The man after whom Valentine's Day is named and celebrated. I am the man who made Feb 14 famous" said the old man. He had a confident air about himself that was impossible to miss.

" Ooooh... that Valentine" I exclaimed in surprise. " But err... would you still mind if I see some identification please?" I asked.

The old man whipped out his driver's license, a ration card and a voter's card. All bore his name & address - Mr. Saint Valentine, Rome, Italy.

"Wow, so nice to meet you Mr. err. St. Valentine" I said. " But I thought you were dead!?"

"Oh no, I am very much alive" the man said, shaking his head. "It's just that I was in hiding"

"Why?" I asked, unable to understand.

"Too much publicity" he remarked. "I dont like publicity one bit. If I show up too much, then Archies Gallery will start pestering me to be their brand ambassador"

"Oooohh... " I said, enlightened.

I then looked at the other creature next to him

"Who the heck is that, I mean what is that..... tooth fairy??" I asked, pointing at the creature

"That is Cupid" replied Valentine.

"Excuse me? What? Stupid...?"

"He is Cupid" said Valentine. " He is from Italy too... He is the Roman God of Love. A buddy of mine... we often hang out and have pizza together"

"God of Love, eh?... I see... That explains his wings. But what is he doing with a bow and arrow? Discarded from the national archery team or something? " I asked, unable to hide my sarcasm

"The bow and arrow... " explained St. Valentine "... is his symbol, his weapon. He uses the borrow and arrow to spread love"

"How?" I asked

" Nothing special. He just aims his bow and arrow at a person and shoots it to inspire and arouse erotic love in that person" said St. Valentine

"Erotic love? Ha ha ha ha ha ha. We have a fancy porn industry out here to arouse erotic love. Why does he want to keep shooting arrows at people?" I said, bursting into an uncontrollable laugh

"Not just erotic love, fool" said Valentine in a serious tone. " But even the simple, non-sex love too"

"Oh, I see... But pardon me, what's with his attire? I mean, why is he wearing a thong? Is he gay or something" I asked

"Shut up. Not another word against my friend. And no, he is not gay" replied St. Valentine

I kept silent. It had been a puzzling last ten minutes for me to speak more.

"Now aren't you going to let us in?" said Valentine, breaking the silence. "Or are we gonna do all the talking at the door" ?

I ushered them into my room, getting more puzzled by the minute. Being the ever-gracious Indian host, I even ordered some pizzas from Pizza-Hut to keep their Italian taste buds happy. In between all the munching and drinking , we shared interesting bits of conversations... some of which I am highlighting below.

St. Valentine: "Nice Pizza you guys have"

Me: " I am glad you liked it, Saint"

St. Valentine: "Yeah. The topping is fab. What's this thing, paneer, eh? Delicious"

Me: "Ummm... hmmm"

"So, Parikshith... do you know why the two of us are here at your apartment?"

"You never told me"

"We'll tell you. But first, do you realize what day is it today?"

"Yep. It's Feb 14th. Valentine's Day"

"Ahem! Do you realize what you should be doing on Valentine's Day?"

"Oh I am so sorry... Happy Birthday to you... Happy birthday to you.. Happy B'day dear Valent"

"Cut it, idiot. It's not my birthday today"

"Oh ok. What do you think I should be doing on this day, then?"

"Take a look around, young man. Look outside your window. You will find couples deeply in love and painting the town pink and red. There's love all around. There are roses, balloons and ribbons everywhere"

"Yeah. Even the garbage dump would smell of love today."

"And look at you. You are cooped up inside this room and working on that dumb computer project of yours. I mean, what is that stuff anyway.... Java? .Net? VC++ ?

"Neither. It is COBOL"

"Ha ha ha ha ha... COBOL? Ha ha ha ha... They still use COBOL? Ha ha ha ha. I mean, they've been using COBOL every since I was in my nappies... ha ha ha ha"

"Do not poke fun at my livelihood"

"Ha ha.. OK, I'm sorry. So the point is you are sitting locked inside your room on Feb 14th"

"What else do you want me to do? And why the hell are you guys here anyway?"

"Me and Cupid have come here to make you fall in love"

"What???!!!"

"Yes. We want you to fall in love. That is our mission of coming here"

"Are you serious?"

"What, you think we came half way across the globe to kid ourselves? Plus, we came by a British Airways flight. You realize how painful that is? They misplaced all our baggage. They had misplaced Cupid's bow-and-arrow too. But we were determined to come here and meet you"

"To make me fall in love?"

"Yes, to make you fall in love"

So it had come down to this. I had never believed or been in real love for the 25 years of my life and then one fine day, I find these two ambassadors of romance hell-bent on making me fall in love. Anyway, the conversation continued...

St. Valentine: "Do you feel no love, young man? Look into your heart and tell me what do you see?"

Me: "Arteries, veins, ventricles, auricles and lots of blood. If you want more details, then I need to have an endoscopy done."

St. Valentine: "Never mind. So tell me. Is there anyone you like? Anyone special you have in your sights?

Me: "Ummm... yeah... there is this girl. But no love-schmove. Heck, I have not even spoken to her. I see her everyday in the bus. She's pretty, she's got beautiful hair and this really big pair of err.... eyes. "

St. Valentine: "Perfect!"

Me: "Perfect, what?"

"She's gotta be the one for you, Parikshith."

"Heck no. There's nothing...I mean I dont love her or anything. "

"You leave that to us"

"Shit"

"Don't worry. Now lets see, how do you express your feeling. What special talent do you have?"

"I play excellent table-tennis. And I can eat noodles using 4 forks simultaneously"

"Shut up. Oh yes, I got it. You write decently. Why don't you write her a love poem?"

"Write her a love poem? Have you gone completely mad? "

"Not at all. Write her a beautiful, mushy, romantic love poem. Buy some tiny ,red heart-shaped cushions.... And a little teddy bear, lots of lovely chocolates. Gift wrap all of them together and give it to her"

"Err... wouldn't she gift-wrap her chappal to me in return? "

"No. She won't. Let us be optimistic. Now write the poem"

"Write a love poem.Yeah right. You think I am a mushy adolescent? I am frickin' 25 now"

"Why not? Why not think like an adolescent and let the love flow?"

"Adolescence was the time when I thought that the beauty of a girl was directly proportional to the size of her boobs and inversely proportional to the length of her skirt"

"Ha ha, you pervert. Don't you believe the same even now?"

"Oh no no... Not at all. I am all grown up now. I have learnt to respect women and all that..."

"Anyway, don't digress from the issue. Write the love poem"

"Damn you. Ok fine I'll write it. What next, you want me to do prior literature survey by reading Mills & Boons?

"Not needed. You have it in you to write."

"And who will convey my letter of love to her? Will you give it to her?"

"I am St. Valentine, for Christ's sake... not an American Express courier boy. But anyway, yours is a special case. So I will ask Cupid to hand over the letter to your girl"

"Ok. Wow. Thank you... I mean, I am honored that you've come all the way from North Pole to do this for me"

" I don't come from North Pole, you moron, Santa Claus does. Anyway you better start writing the poem now. If you waste one more minute, I will ask Cupid to shoot an arrow straight up your ass"

So now it had come down to this. I was supposed ( or rather threatened) to write romantic poetry straight from my heart to woo the girl. With a sigh, I stared penning the poem. I've tried my best and I believe I have put in true, warm and genuine feelings of love. I am sharing the poem that I wrote, with all of you. Have a look at it:

I sit here, putting words to paper
To express my love to thee
I don't know why the heck I'm doing it
When I could've downloaded e-cards for free.

Maybe I love your smile
Maybe I love your eyes
Or maybe it's your posterior
Or the lovely, shapely thighs

You lend a helping hand
You lead a caring life
When Mary had a little lamb,
Weren't you the midwife?

My heart is beaten to pulp
My soul smashed to smithereens
I shed tears for you
Sometimes aided by glycerine.

With me you stay, night and day
Joys will be plus, sorrows will be minus
I promise I'll keep trouble away
Just like Norton anti-virus

My pockets are empty
I so wish I could buy you a rose
But my horse just lost the Derby
At the darned, stupid race-course

My love will grow on you
Slowly into your heart I will encroach
I will cuddle up to you, I will snuggle up to you
Just like a cute little baby cockroach

You'll have my undivided attention
For you I will long, care and wait
But not today honey, the match is on
Oh darn! India is 134 for 8

Do you love me too?
Do you find me handsome?
Please say yes, please say yes
This gay archer has held me to ransom

Into the sunset let us walk
Letting out a carefree hum
Sing a song, both together
Dum-titi..... dum-titi...... Titi-titi-dum!

That is it. I had written my first ode to love. I held up the piece of paper and triumphantly handed it over to St. Valentine to get his feedback. He took one look at it, stared up Heavenwards, let out a yelping scream and fell down to the ground unconscious. I dont know whether it was due to de-hydration or if it had something to do with my poem. Anyway let me try to revive the Saint and find out. Meanwhile, on his behalf, I would like to wish everybody a "HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY"

With Love, literally,

Parry.

Hit-wicket!!

Greetings!

This post is about cricket. No, not the the little green insect that goes chirpy -chirpy- cheep -cheep, but about the game. The Game...

Precautions:

1) Dosage: 1 paragraph at a time. Continuous reading of the post may cause violent behaviour (like wanting to kill the author)
2) Store the web page in a cool, dark, safe place, like err.. the junk mail folder.

3) If irritation and symptoms(like brain numbness) continue even a week after reading, please consult a physician or the local undertaker.

4) Keep out of the sight of children. I don't want little kids to be inspired by my writing and later ask me to author their school text-books.

5) If you like the game of cricket, then this post is recommended anyway. It will drive you so insane, that you may start finding even Duleep and Irani Trophy matches interesting.

6) If you don't like the game of cricket, even then the post is recommended for you. By the end of it, you'd wish that you had rather spent your time watching a game of cricket instead.

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Even if a space alien were to visit the Indian atmosphere, he/she/it would be overwhelmed by the following which the game of cricket gets in India. Visiting India and not recognizing the game of cricket is akin to going to Siberia and wondering if the white thing strewn all over the place is snow or salt. In a country, which presents a myriad, kaleidoscopic offering of people,cultures, religions and languages - cricket happens to be a single, unifying craze.

I was born a few months after Kapil Dev had held aloft the World Cup in 1983 , so unfortunately couldn't get to watch that epic Final match live in the stadium. My cricket crazy Dad was apparently hell-bent on naming me Kapil Dev, but relented only after my Mom dissuaded him from doing so. "What if he grows up to be a smuggler?" Mom is learnt to have asked Dad. "Would that name suit him then?" (I wonder how Parikshith Kumar would be a suitable name for a smuggler either, but then that is a different story.)

I too grew up with dreams of playing cricket for India. As a child, I too dreamt of adorning the Team India colors. Like any average teenaged boy in India, I too dreamt of playing cricket in front of packed-to-capacity crowds in large stadiums. I too dreamt of hitting big, huge sixes that would soar high into the skies, thud against Jupiter and fall back plonk down on the ground. I too dreamt of being a rich, sporting celebrity having endorsement deals worth millions of dollars and canoodling hot, smouldering babes, who were again worth a million dollars.

Unfortunately, many dreams go bust when you wake up and rub your eyes in the morning. My cricketing dream was also a similar one. I came to realize ( in my teens I think) that had it not been for my lack of skills in batting, bowling and fielding , I would have certainly made it to the Indian cricket team.

1) My batting: I had an elegant stance alright, and a stylish backlift to go with it. I used to execute my strokes with an almighty flourish of the bat. However, for all my panache and glory, whenever I hit a cover-drive or a square-cut, the ball never travelled a millimeter beyond silly-point fielder. So much for my ferocious hitting. Never the one to be coyed down, I switched over to bowling.

2) My bowling: I would've classified myself as an orthodox off-spinner. I had a classical high arm action, a decent wrist position, and a run-up to the crease that would have even had a Cheetah nodding its head in approval. Poetry in motion till now. However, there was a slight problem thereafter. Whenever I used to send down my off-spinners, the ball would always pitch two kilometers wide of the batsman. On either sides. And sometimes, my off-spinners would sail right over the batsman's head and land outside the opposite boundary rope. Just a tiddly little problem with my sense of direction, but the ball always spun as intended. I tried to reason with my coach, but he would hear none of it.

3) My fielding: My coach always made me field at the deep mid-wicket position. Not that I had a strong throwing arm or something, but he feared that my apathetic cricketing skills would spread to others like an infection. I still fielded in the deep with great fervor. However, there was one small problem. There was this all-girls school a few metres beyond the deep-midwicket boundary. Often in the middle of a match, when no one was watching, I used to quietly sneak out of the ground and visit the girls school. What do you expect? I was 16 years old, with freshly discovered hormones throbbing up and down inside me like curves of a sinusoidal wave. For all my effort, I did manage to befriend a pretty young girl from the school though. However, one day, my coach learnt about my escapade. When he came to know where the deep mid-wicket fielder had gone, he really blew a fuse. That was it... out of the team I went. I mean, do you believe that? I was debarred from cricket for bowling a maiden over!

I never had an opportunity to play competitive cricket after that. Unfortunately, studies took priority. But I should say that even though I was lacking in cricketing skills, I was never lacking in super- star quality and celebrity endorsements skills. What? You don't believe I have star endorsement power?! Let me dispel all your doubts, dear people. Make no mistake, I have the charm, sex appeal, stardom and celebrity endorsement power which would provide serious competition to the following Bollywood stars:

Tushar Kapoor and K.R.K (next to only S.R.K)..........


Johnny Lever................................... A.K Hangal

..... and these stars from the South Indian movie industry:

(T. Rajender, Jaggesh and Balakrishna )

.... and the following movie stars from the world of monkeys:

(James and Bond)

Well... what? You think there are no cinematic icons in the world of monkeys? Really? Then where do you think this one came from?

Sorry sorry.... I am digressing... This was a cricket post. So as I was saying, I couldn't make it to the Indian cricket team. But that hasn't stopped me from being one of the most fanatic followers of Indian and World cricket. I am not alone, there are millions of cricket fanatics spread across the length and breadth of the country.

I am sure many of you must have witnessed this craze first-hand. You may have also been a part of the craze. I am sure hundreds of marriages have broken down because the husband decided to stay at home and watch Bangladesh play Nicaragua rather than take wifey dear shopping. Also, millions of engineering students have flunked their University exams because they chose to watch a high-octane cricket series a week prior to their exams. You will meet people who wont remember what they had for breakfast, but would rattle off Sachin Tendulkar's statistics from an obscure series from the 1990's.

I am proud to be part of the cricket craze. The emotions it gives me and all other cricket fanatics can't be explained. I mean, I would have loved to explain, but India is playing SriLanka today. The match's about to commence and I gotta run to the television.

Will see you all later....

Until then,

With Love, Regards, Fours, and Sixes,

Parry.