Sergeant Jack: Sergeant Bob! Where are you?
Sergeant Bob: I am in the police station. What happened?
Sgt J: I just heard that Doc X is robbing a bank.
Sgt B: OK. I am coming! All police come to the bank! Wait!! Let me bring the walkie talkies and the guns!
Sgt B takes out his Lego set and builds 2 guns and 2 wireless devices. He hands a pair to Sgt J and together they race towards the bank.
Sgt B: I am going in now! You call the others!
Sgt J: Ok!!
Sgt B dashes in, rolls on the ground and gets up with gun poised.
Sgt B: Oh no! Doc X is escaping from the back door!
Sgt J: Oh no!
Sgt B: Wait! Look what he has let behind!
Sgt J: What?
Sgt B picks up a Stephen King novel lying on the table.
Sgt B: Its a diary! "All About Me" by Doc X it says!
Sgt J: Wow!
Sgt B: Look! His house address is written here! Lets go!
Sgt J and B rush into Doc X's house. They spot him and Sgt B goes for the kill. Soon the camera crew rush in and surround a panting Sgt B.
Reporter: Sgt B! How does it feel to have finally killed Doc X?
Sgt B: Good. And I am warning all criminals! I will find all of them! Be careful!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sgt B was my 6 year old. Sgt J was me. The dialogs and storyline were my son's. They were unrehearsed and impromptu.
My son is a genius!
Oct 31, 2006
Oct 13, 2006
My killer instincts
Although I always try and convey a 'rough, tough, hard-hitting' image, sometimes I get these sneaking suspicions that it may not be true. Anyone who goes roadside-shopping with me will know that in a minute or so. Stories of how I have been duped by sorry-looking salesmen have been doing the rounds for years now. But what happened last month was really incredible.
You see, it was a typical hot Delhi summer afternoon and I was watching TV with a cold beer in my air-conditioned room. The bell rings and I open it to see two men waiting outside, sweating oceans and looking on the verge of collapse. In a croaking voice they ask me if I can spare them a large container. I asked why (see how smart I am?) and they say that they have brought down a beehive and want to drain the honey out of it and sell it. I weigh this over and decide that in response to this the least I can do is lend them a container.
So the container changes hands (a 10 kg jar I thought I would keep rice in) and the transfer process starts.
Within no time the jar is almost full and it must have been a big load on their minds, because no sooner was their work done that their backs straightened, their glazed eyes took on a sharpish look and they took out their weighing scales and pronounced that I owed them 800 bucks. I feebly told them that I hate honey, have consumed a total of 10ml in my entire adult life and that it would take me about 83 years to consume the 8 litres that they had poured out. They looked hurt, maybe shocked at my insensitivity, at my disrespect for the hard labor they had put in, at my total ignorance in not being able to appreciate the health and culinary benefits of pure raw honey.
I decided that it was time I produced the ace from my sleeve. Triumphantly I told them that I had only 500 bucks in the house. They thought his over for about 3.5 milliseconds, and the deal was done. A Gandhi changed hands, they packed their stuff, I carried the jar to the kitchen, lit a cigerette in self-congratulations (i HAD saved 300 bucks you see), and started preparing a list of lucky people I would distribute the honey to.
A few cigerettes and beer bottles later, when I could account for about 500ml of the stuff, I finally realised that I had a problem in my hands. The brainwave came when my bai came. Magnanimously I told her that she can take the honey home when she leaves. Surprisingly she wasnt too thrilled (it would pose a serious storage problem it seemed) but I was not in a mood to take no for an answer (my aggression and people handling skills come from years of Project Management experience) and when she left with the jar I closed the door a happy man, reflecting on all the victories I had achieved that afternoon.
I reminded her to bring back the jar when she came the next day..and then reminded her every day for the next 4 days. She hasnt brought it back yet.
I think that it was the jar she needed all along.
You see, it was a typical hot Delhi summer afternoon and I was watching TV with a cold beer in my air-conditioned room. The bell rings and I open it to see two men waiting outside, sweating oceans and looking on the verge of collapse. In a croaking voice they ask me if I can spare them a large container. I asked why (see how smart I am?) and they say that they have brought down a beehive and want to drain the honey out of it and sell it. I weigh this over and decide that in response to this the least I can do is lend them a container.
So the container changes hands (a 10 kg jar I thought I would keep rice in) and the transfer process starts.
Within no time the jar is almost full and it must have been a big load on their minds, because no sooner was their work done that their backs straightened, their glazed eyes took on a sharpish look and they took out their weighing scales and pronounced that I owed them 800 bucks. I feebly told them that I hate honey, have consumed a total of 10ml in my entire adult life and that it would take me about 83 years to consume the 8 litres that they had poured out. They looked hurt, maybe shocked at my insensitivity, at my disrespect for the hard labor they had put in, at my total ignorance in not being able to appreciate the health and culinary benefits of pure raw honey.
I decided that it was time I produced the ace from my sleeve. Triumphantly I told them that I had only 500 bucks in the house. They thought his over for about 3.5 milliseconds, and the deal was done. A Gandhi changed hands, they packed their stuff, I carried the jar to the kitchen, lit a cigerette in self-congratulations (i HAD saved 300 bucks you see), and started preparing a list of lucky people I would distribute the honey to.
A few cigerettes and beer bottles later, when I could account for about 500ml of the stuff, I finally realised that I had a problem in my hands. The brainwave came when my bai came. Magnanimously I told her that she can take the honey home when she leaves. Surprisingly she wasnt too thrilled (it would pose a serious storage problem it seemed) but I was not in a mood to take no for an answer (my aggression and people handling skills come from years of Project Management experience) and when she left with the jar I closed the door a happy man, reflecting on all the victories I had achieved that afternoon.
I reminded her to bring back the jar when she came the next day..and then reminded her every day for the next 4 days. She hasnt brought it back yet.
I think that it was the jar she needed all along.
Oct 4, 2006
Scent of a woman
I wont dare to try and write a review of probably the greatest movie of all time. What I would do is copy two of Lt Col Slade's monologues, ones that I could listen to a billion times and not get tired of, scenes I could watch a million times and still get goose pimples. So, here they are:
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Women !
What can you say ?
Who made 'em ?
God must have been a fuckin' genius.
The hair --They say the hair is everything, you know.
Have you ever buried your nose in a mountain of curls...and just wanted to go to sleep forever ?
Or lips --and when they touched yours, it was like...that first swallow of wine...after you just crossed the desert.
Tits ! Whoo-ah ! Big ones, little ones, nipples staring right out at ya...
like secret searchlights.
Mmmmm.
And legs --I don't care if they're Greek columns...or secondhand Steinways.
What's between 'em....passport to heaven.
There's only two syllables in this whole wide world worth hearing: pussy.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
There was a time I could see.
And I have seen.
Boys like these, younger than these, their arms torn out, their legs ripped off.
But there is nothin' like the sight...of an amputated spirit.
There is no prosthetic for that
As I came in here, I heard those words: "cradle of leadership."
well, when the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, and it has fallen here.
Makers of men, creators of leaders. Be careful what kind of leaders you're producin' here.
I don't know if Charlie's silence here today...is right or wrong; I'm not a judge or jury.
But I can tell you this: he won't sell anybody out...to buy his future !
and that, my friends, is called integrity.
That's called courage. Now that's the stuff leaders should be made of.
Now I have come to the crossroads in my life.
I always knew what the right path was.
Without exception, I knew, but I never took it.
You know why ?
It was too damn hard.
Now here's Charlie.
He's come to the crossroads.
He has chosen a path.
It's the right path.
It's a path made of principle...that leads to character.
Let him continue on his journey.
You hold this boy's future in your hands, Committee.
It's a valuable future, believe me.
Don't destroy it. Protect it. Embrace it.
It's gonna make you proud one day, I promise you.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Women !
What can you say ?
Who made 'em ?
God must have been a fuckin' genius.
The hair --They say the hair is everything, you know.
Have you ever buried your nose in a mountain of curls...and just wanted to go to sleep forever ?
Or lips --and when they touched yours, it was like...that first swallow of wine...after you just crossed the desert.
Tits ! Whoo-ah ! Big ones, little ones, nipples staring right out at ya...
like secret searchlights.
Mmmmm.
And legs --I don't care if they're Greek columns...or secondhand Steinways.
What's between 'em....passport to heaven.
There's only two syllables in this whole wide world worth hearing: pussy.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
There was a time I could see.
And I have seen.
Boys like these, younger than these, their arms torn out, their legs ripped off.
But there is nothin' like the sight...of an amputated spirit.
There is no prosthetic for that
As I came in here, I heard those words: "cradle of leadership."
well, when the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, and it has fallen here.
Makers of men, creators of leaders. Be careful what kind of leaders you're producin' here.
I don't know if Charlie's silence here today...is right or wrong; I'm not a judge or jury.
But I can tell you this: he won't sell anybody out...to buy his future !
and that, my friends, is called integrity.
That's called courage. Now that's the stuff leaders should be made of.
Now I have come to the crossroads in my life.
I always knew what the right path was.
Without exception, I knew, but I never took it.
You know why ?
It was too damn hard.
Now here's Charlie.
He's come to the crossroads.
He has chosen a path.
It's the right path.
It's a path made of principle...that leads to character.
Let him continue on his journey.
You hold this boy's future in your hands, Committee.
It's a valuable future, believe me.
Don't destroy it. Protect it. Embrace it.
It's gonna make you proud one day, I promise you.
Oct 3, 2006
Getting old
I was never a fanatical durga puja bong. As a child, it was just a time for new shirts and pandal hopping. Things started getting better after crossing 15, when puja started to represent 4 days when there are no curfews, no questions, no rules. Till the time I left for B'lore at the 'tender' age of 20, those 20 days spreading across those 5 years gave me a lot of firsts of my life - my first drinking binge, my first girlfriend, my first visit to Sonagachi (returned unopened, I assure you..the atmosphere scared the living shit out of me), my first experiences of mob rowdisms (atop a truck, going for the 'bhashan') and so on and on and on.
But then life moved on. I became independent, first personally, then financially. All the rules of my life fell apart and 4 days without rules lost their significance. Friends moved on, muhalla kids grew up and started to occupy the prime seats in the pandals and puja time lost its charm.
The fanatical bong carried on. Taking vacation to visit Cal during the pujas was something that had to be planned months in advance. Spouses leave applications synchronised, children school leaves planned, tkts booked at exhorbitant rates...and then coming back with stories of drinking sessions and bad food and mad queues.
I have always felt myself to be 'above' these people. Once I left Cal I have never missed being there during the pujas. So it came to me as a shocker when suddenly, out of the blue, I felt myself desperately yearning to be in Cal on the oshtomi. Drop by on all friends and relatives, soak in the special treatment that is usually accorded to someone settled outside Cal (and the treatment is the same regardless of whether you settled in Bombay or Bahamas), eat phuchka at 2 AM in the morning, wake up to the beating of the drums and to that amazing shorot sky and the slight nip in the air..
Its official. If your root has started calling to you, you have finally crossed youth. Goodbye youth, welcome middle age.
But then life moved on. I became independent, first personally, then financially. All the rules of my life fell apart and 4 days without rules lost their significance. Friends moved on, muhalla kids grew up and started to occupy the prime seats in the pandals and puja time lost its charm.
The fanatical bong carried on. Taking vacation to visit Cal during the pujas was something that had to be planned months in advance. Spouses leave applications synchronised, children school leaves planned, tkts booked at exhorbitant rates...and then coming back with stories of drinking sessions and bad food and mad queues.
I have always felt myself to be 'above' these people. Once I left Cal I have never missed being there during the pujas. So it came to me as a shocker when suddenly, out of the blue, I felt myself desperately yearning to be in Cal on the oshtomi. Drop by on all friends and relatives, soak in the special treatment that is usually accorded to someone settled outside Cal (and the treatment is the same regardless of whether you settled in Bombay or Bahamas), eat phuchka at 2 AM in the morning, wake up to the beating of the drums and to that amazing shorot sky and the slight nip in the air..
Its official. If your root has started calling to you, you have finally crossed youth. Goodbye youth, welcome middle age.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)