Long weekends have a tendency to make sure that we are well and truly bored. Thankfully, I’ve had my share of traveling this month, and am back home. Phew, I’m so tired! There were three riddles I came across while doing some mindless browsing. In case you have nothing better to do on a long weekend, then you might as well try to solve these. Trust me, they’re not your run-of-the-mill riddles. These are known to be unsolvable.
I am all and I am nothing
I am light and I am dark
Man and Woman
Sun and Moon
Mortal and not so
Young and Old
Time has no effect on me, yet it has more effect then meets the eye
I am everywhere and no where
Angel and Demon
Destroyer and Savior
One cant be one without the other
Yin and Yan
All elements and not a single one…
Can you guess what I am?
Although broken, it shall always exist and surround us,
Don’t like to be confined in them and they shall outlive us all.
What are “they”?
If you hit upon the answers, then please let me know! 🙂
PS: Thanks for all the concerned comments for my previous post. I was stuck in a terrible situation, but finally managed to survive thanks to the concept of centralized banking! 😀
Having a lousy time in Mumbai. Sigh. I hope to survive this insanity long enough to return home safe and sound. I can’t believe I am in the heart of Mumbai and can’t make an international call. I can’t believe I’m in the heart of Mumbai and can’t access a stable internet connection. I can’t believe I’m in the heart of Mumbai and am cut off from the world with no phone, no money, no internet, no nothing. I can’t believe I ate Ruffles Lays for lunch because I didn’t have money to buy myself a decent meal. I can’t belive I traveled in the handicapped compartment of a local train because I didn’t know it was reserved for the handicapped. I can’t believe I went around the whole city in sweltering heat, and didn’t feel tired because I was beyond fatigue.
I can’t believe I’m in Mumbai. I can’t believe I hate this place so much, and yet, there’s something about this city that makes me want to come back, again and again. I can’t believe I love this place.
A long long time ago, Bangalore was known as the clubbers’ paradise. Pubs boasting of imported liquor and clubs boasting of the sexy dance floors and sexier women in skimpy clothes that would promise a lifetime supply of eye-candy. Somewhere along the evolutionary line, things took a turn for the worse and Bangalore became a clubbers’ nightmare – strict curfews at 11:30 in the night, political bastards beating women up for drinking beer, cops taking a sadistic pleasure in accosting unsuspecting drunk drivers and the worst of them all, a steep rise in liquor taxes, ensuring the public that you could get drunk only if you have a salaried bank account. But, Bangalore being Bangalore, swallowed all these, shrugged and said in it’s trademark laid-back attitude, “Shit happens.”
Nowadays, it’s very ironic when someone tells me that Wednesdays are Ladies’ Nights in most clubs in the city, because if this isn’t the heights of hypocrisy, then I don’t know what is. It’s like saying, “We beat up women for drinking and just to keep things fair, once a week, we’ll give them a free drink.” Ridiculous, right?
Anyhoo, this isn’t a serious post at all. I haven’t lost my marbles and no, I haven’t joined a political party. I haven’t lost my soul and I haven’t slept with the devil. It’s just something I wanted to ponder upon. The main purpose of this post with the scandalous title is to narrate what happened yesterday night, after work, when all I wanted to do was go home and sleep in the comfort of my blue blanket. Three of us decided to get drunk.
I kept insisting that I didn’t want to go a place where there’s Ladies’ Night in effect, because that would mean I’m interrupting all the wonderful women who were enjoying themselves, bathing in the soft glow of green lasers, getting drunk and doing other things that women do when they are drunk. Someone had once told me that only gay men and sexually frustrated men go to pubs on Ladies’ Nights to ogle at women or to feel like one. I know its a twisted logic, but then, I didn’t want to be one of those men. I have never ever gone clubbing on Wednesdays. Till now.
I got royally drunk and reached home at one in the morning and I’m proud of the fact that I didn’t puke. Funny enough, there were more men at the club last night than women. It took me a while to figure out the concept of the free drink coupons and that only I was being asked to pay a cover charge and that as time wore on, all the men started dancing and that it took the women a bit more time to loosen up and join the gay brigade and the sexually frustrated brigade.
So, I’m putting the record straight – I’m neither gay nor sexually frustrated. I have nothing against these two clans and I hope we can live and let live. And let loose a few expletives from time to time.
There were two pills – a blue one and a red pill. “Take one,” he said, and adjusted his black sunglasses. I couldn’t fathom why he was wearing dark sunglasses inside the already dimly-lit room. He couldn’t see a thing.
“Er, I’m over here pal,” I said, hiding an amused smile.
He turned towards me and used his free hand to raise his glasses. He stuck them over his forehead, looked at me through his blue contact lenses and said, “Don’t keep moving about, dude.”
“But I – “
“Don’t interrupt me!” he said, interrupting me. “Take a pill.”
“Why? What are these pills?” I asked, slightly angered with his tone.
“You are the Round One. We’ve been waiting for you for well over a decade. You will save us from the evil machine creatures that haunt us. One of these pills will enable you to see the truth and help us, and the other will enable you to go back to your boring PR life and your boring blogs and your boring PR life. You decide.”
“You said that already, man,” I said.
“My boring PR life…”
“Yeah. I know. Now decide!” he said and held out his hand, on which nestled two innocent pills – one red and blue.
“Tell me something first,” I said. “Why am I the Round One? Is it because I’m fat? Why can’t I be the Chosen One or something cooler?”
“Stop wasting time, Round One! Take a pill and save our lives!” he pleaded.
I took the red pill and swallowed it with a glass of water. I waited. Nothing happened. I looked at him. “Now what?” I asked him.
“You bastard,” he said softly. “You’ve decided to go back to your PR life, Round One. You have damned us all.”
As I woke up, back in my boring life the next day, I decided to reduce some weight. Round One? WTF!
In all my 6 years of blogging, never have I been so excited to celebrate a one-year birthday of a blog. But MirrorCracked has become more than just a blog – it’s become a way of life. I hope I’ve upheld the quality of writing all through these twelve months. There are a lot of people who are responsible for making this journey so overwhelmingly memorable.
I’ve met some fascinating people through this space. Everyone who knows me personally, professionally and online, know me a little better because of MirrorCracked. I got drunk celebrating this on Saturday, and caused quite a flutter on the streets of Bangalore. Thanks everyone! Never thought I’d last this long!
Ok, now the stats. Quite astonishing, I must say.
A total of 78,655 hits since March 16, 2008! That’s an average 6,600 hits a month. Wow! Each and every person who’s visited this blog since it’s birth deserves more than just a free beer – they deserve two free beers.
Calling For Testimonials: Call me a fisherman, but I want to know what you feel. I want to know what sort of an experience you’ve had with MirrorCracked, for however long you’ve been reading this blog. You could mail them to me, or you could just use the comment page on this post. Either way, I plan to publish all the testimonials on a separate post/page soon.
Once again, I thank you all! I’m off to get drunk! I suggest you do the same! 😀
Almost exactly a year ago, on the 16th of March 2008, this blog was born. It started off as an experiment in open, creative writing, and soon became quite well-read. Celebrating the birthday of this blog can be quite a task, and would involve the following:
Thanking all the initial readers of MirrorCracked, without whom, it wouldn’t have been possible to come this far.
Acknowledge all the major critics I’ve had on MirrorCracked.
Write flowing eulogies to all you beautiful people on my blogroll.
Create a set of awards to those bloggers who are close to my heart.
Be a cliché and display the blog’s overwhelming statistics that have accumulated over the past year.
List out and apologize to all the assholes that I’ve slandered on this blog.
Create the new ‘Testimonials” page, to display all the testimonials I’ve received for the blog so far.
Figure out more things to do, because I’m sure this list isn’t complete.
It’s quite a nostalgic week ahead. I’m humbled. I guess I don’t really have many words to describe it.
No one wants to be a stereotype. Even if we are, then we try hard to keep a low profile. Everyone hates stereotypes. Stereotypes suck. Stereotypes are perhaps, the scum of the earth. They have no business being alive because all they can do is be a stereotype. Stereotypes are often categorized as desperate individuals seeking attention, and in most cases, it’s right. Stereotypical people piss me off beyond imagination – they make my blood boil and I’d much rather ignore their existence than rant about them, but unfortunately, last night I discovered a horrible truth about myself. I’m a stereotype.
I was on my way home, riding my disgustingly rickety bike (which is going to fall apart any day now), and I rode slowly. Very slowly, waiting for the rain to pour down. Its been close to seven months without a rain in Bangalore, so when the skies became dark and overcast at 5 in the evening, and when the wind picked up, bringing with it the familiar feeling that comes before a downpour, I hurried to finish my work and rode back slowly.
The drizzle started ten minutes into the drive, and it felt so good. For once, I was looking forward to a heavy downpour. When the first drops of the cold rain fell on my skin, my thoughts went to something the bastard from the cigarette shop across the street from my office had told me: “You South Indians are all alike – you grow a beard without a mustache and before it begins to look good, you shave it off! You have no self-control when it comes to facial hair! Look at my father,” he said pointing to an old, withered creature sleeping on the sidewalk next to the cart, “He hasn’t shaved for ten years now. His beard is longer than him!”
“Hey!” I said, getting slightly offended. “I shaved my beard-without-mustache off because a special woman told me I looked better with a complete French beard. That’s why I shaved it off. Don’t stereotype me!”
“If I knew typing,” he said, “I wouldn’t be here selling cigarettes, saar.”
Futile as it were, the argument ended with him short-changing me by half a rupee. So, as I drove back, I couldn’t help but notice the men around me and in particular, the general area around their mouths. As I re-read the last sentence, I feel so horribly disgusted with myself. Most people had a french beard. Some of them had a beard but no mustache. Some were clean shaven. Some were women, whom I’d mistaken for men. Anyway, I realized that the cigarette guy was right – South Indians have absolutely no self-control when it comes to facial hair maintenance. We constantly waver between worrying whether having a mustache will get in the way of kissing a beautiful woman or whether having a beard will spoil the fun of slurping sambar.
I’m such a stereotype. I’m not gonna shave for the next ten years.