Twenty-Four Hours

If  you knew that you had only twenty-fours hours more to live, what are the things you would do?

I know it’s a morbid question, but I’ve been thinking about it ever since I heard about the guy who died three days back. Well, he was a guy in the prime of his life, much like I am, and he was on his way to work thinking, I’m sure, of all the little nuances we think about when we drive to work – the meetings we have planned, the way things are headed, last night’s dinner, the last person we had sex with, whether or not to buy the new phone, whether or not you can trust these online dating sites, whether or not its time to get the car serviced, etc. Out of the blue, he hit a particularly nasty pothole, lost control of his motorcycle, got thrown in front of a speeding bus on the opposite lane. I shudder when I imagine that it could happen to anyone.

So, to occupy my free time these past two days (and I seem to have a lot of free time), I’ve been making a list of all things I would do if someone told me that I had only 24 hours to live. It’s sort of a bucket list, but not exactly. It’s more of a death-row wishlist.

I would probably start off my last day alive with a hearty breakfast without any stops, without any of the usual healthy crap. I would stuff myself to my heart’s content and head out to get some action. I would probably sleep around all day with different women, and in the evening, drive up to a beach and drink some cold beer, watching the sun set. I would end it all by walking out to the sea and start swimming towards the horizon.

But that’s just me.

I’m sure you can think of a lot of better things to do than having a lot of unprotected sex on your last day alive. Anything interesting that you care to share? Free beer for the best one, if you’re a guy. Free date with me, if you’re a chick.

My Pervert Uncles

There’s one in every family. There are two in mine.

The first one is a 70-year old pervert. He’s my uncle on my Dad’s side of the family and has always had the ugly habit of addressing small (male) kids as, “Hi Miss!” and “How are you, Miss?”

If that isn’t uncomfortable enough, he still follows the ritual. I ran into him at a cousin’s wedding recently, and even though I’m taller and bigger than him, he smiled at me through his dilapidated yellow teeth and said, “Hello, Miss!”

I cringed and moved away, oblivious to his hurt sentiment. A minute later, I heard him say the exact same thing to my brother, who  is taller and bigger than me. I caught my brother’s eye and we both ignored the old pervert and moved away.

This pervert family member has kids of his own, who are both grown men and I feel sorry for the fact that they have to endure this kind of sexually explicit torture each day. I won’t be surprised if those two kids grew up feeling very confused abut their sexuality. I think it borders on sexual harassment.

The second pervert in my family is another 70-year uncle on my Mom’s side, who just can’t stop from touching himself in ‘special’ places in front of everyone. I had the misfortune of running into him as well during the wedding, and while he shook my hand, he twirled his other hand inside his white lungi. I rushed to the restroom and washed my hands with soap vigorously. Who knows where that hand of his has been.

As I stepped out of the restroom, my brother ran past me and starting washing his hand.

The Inner Workings Of The Female Brain

Hey there.

Its been a while since I’ve posted anything new. This atrocity on by part is partly due to my hectic schedule of lazing around and partly due to my utter disregard for other people’s schedules. Today, I’ve decided to take a walk down memory lane and remove the cobwebs from my stiff joints.

This one’s called ‘The Inner Workings of the Female Brain’, a piece I’d written a few years ago, before attaining maturity. Hope you enjoy it.

Eve-olutionPromiscuous as the mind is – constantly searching for newer avenues and doors to sow its seeds of maliciousness – the female brain was, and remains to this day, the holy grail of understanding. Many a honest man has lost his sanity, sometimes his identity and his life, questing for the unattainable. What makes these creatures, which share such similarity with men, so different? The answer, if known, would make me a rich man. Alas, I do not. But, I did take the time to painfully assess these creatures, sometimes probing perilously close to losing my life, and have finally managed to make my observations known to the world. I warn you, dear reader, this is not for the faint of heart.

Lets begin with the most obvious thing that anyone notices with these creatures – their gait. These sapiens have a peculiar kind of a rambling walk, bordering on a strut, that makes them easier to identify in a crowded room. (Of course, the other thing that identifies them in a crowded room is their habit of dousing themselves with strange smelling fluids! But, we’ll get to that later.) The walk is their one sure way to get attention – they gyrate their body in an unearthly fashion while walking! – and they do get it, no doubt. We men being as we are, can’t keep ourselves from looking at them. The female has realized this. So, the female’s brain – which is one hundred time more advanced than ours’ – immediately latched on to this weakness of ours and the story of Pied Piper repeats itself….
Let me remind you of an interesting remark that was made by the Shah of Persia, a few hundred years ago. He said that the single, surest way of attaining salvation – both physically and mentally – is never to trust a female. Well, over time, this aphorism has lost its charm as more and more trustworthy females graced the world and drove the Shah to exile. But then, the present day situation demands more caution on the part of the male. The female brain has quickly analyzed the greatest weakness that the Y-chromosome accords to us. It is that, while the man has to spend his time, money and efforts to woo the girl, she on the other hand just has to smile, and the guy’s hers! No one has been able to satisfactorily explain this phenomenon, but it doesn’t matter, because now there is a new wave of deception tiding the planet. The female has acquired from somewhere the tools to successfully make the man abide by her whims and fancies – so much, so that if Sigmund Freud were alive today, he would have called the male populace of the planet as a “sad bunch of toilet-tissue-emulators”! Though we must be ashamed of ourselves, not to mention cautious, we’re neither, and end up being the receiving end of nitrogenous treatments meted out to us by the female.

More than everything, the female brain has evolved so quickly, that when we were still trying to make faces at ourselves by looking at our reflection in the river, the female was busy creating masks! This disturbing fact has revealed atrocious allegations against what really went on in the Garden of Eden.  She has learned to mask her true emotions so well, that we really feel baffled when she can smile so sweetly at us, hold our hand so warmly, look into our eyes with her lovely eyes and say, “Get lost, you jerk!”

Ever seen women slap a man? Well, I have, and trust me; it’s not a pretty sight. (I have been on the receiving end of many a slap, though that’s not important to the story right now!) Every time she walks away after slapping the jerk, he holds his bruised cheek in his hands and dreamily stares after the departing female and sighs. He says, “I think she likes me…” We men will never improve.

Coming to the gewgaw that these creatures allow themselves to be part of, the smelling fluids I talked about earlier. Neither countless like-minded fools nor me have ever understood the reasons behind this strange phenotypic character. The female bathes in what are known to be “perfumes” – the very word should have made her shy away from it, because in Greek, “per-“ means toxic and “fume-“ means stench. Well, please try to explain this phenomenon. Something really smells fishy, doesn’t it?

The day the mystery of the female brain is solved, it’ll be Genesis: Chapter 1 all over again! But, lets be honest to ourselves. The day is never going to come. We men will remain the scum of the planet for at least another millennium. Feminism is indeed significant, but it should never border on chauvinism.

Who Ate My Onions?

With the onion prices in India touching the lower levels of the atmosphere and aiming to break the planet’s escape velocity, its only fair that people resort to innovative methods of making money. This will follow the typical Darwinian principle of strong-eat-weak and rich-screw-over-poor. Come to think of it, I think Darwin deserves a Nobel Prize in economics – I’m sure a lot of people think that his ‘Origin of Species’ was a metaphorical work describing the economic recession.

I went to the supermarket last evening to pick up some vegetables for the empty fridge, and after spending some time near the onion counter contemplating the steeply rising prices, my attention was diverted to two people who were fighting close to me.

Here’s how the conversation went, roughly:

Fat Guy With Ponytail: What did you call me?

Thin Guy With Ribs Sticking Out: Nothing, sir. I did not say anything.

FGWP: No, you called me fat!

TGWRSO: No, No! I did not!

FGWP: Admit it. You were stealing onions from my basket and then when I caught you, you called me fat!

TGWRSO: Sir, you got me wrong. I was not stealing. I was just looking at them. Please sir, I am not a thief!

FGWP: Likely story! You should be flogged!

At this, the thin guy with ribs sticking out started pleading with folded arms in a typically Indian and totally pathetic manner. This brought the store manager rushing towards the commotion.

Store Manager: What is happening here? What’s the racket about? Stop fighting, sir (addressing the Fat Guy).

FGWP: Good you came! Are you the manager?

SM: Yes sir! I am. What is the problem here?

FGWP: This guy was stealing my onions! Trash him!

SM: (Looking at the thin guy and then back to the Fat Guy) Sir, he was not stealing your onions.

FGWP: What?? I tell you, this guy was stealing! Are you calling me a liar? I saw him reach out and pick up two onions from my basket while was about to turn around!

SM: Sir, that’s not possible. This fellow works here at the store. He is in charge of the onion section.

At this, the Fat Guy was somewhat flabbergasted, but he held his position and continued his tirade.

FGWP: You hire thieves in your store! Do you know how much these onions cost? An arm and a leg! He was stealing it!

SM: Sir, give him a chance to explain. (Looking now at the thin guy) Rama, explain yourself. Did you pick up two onions from this man’s basket?

TGWRSO: Yes sir…

FGWP: Aha!

TGWRSO: …but I wasn’t stealing!

SM: Then why did you pick them up?

TGWRSO: They dropped into his basket by mistake. These onions belong to this man here.

And he pointed at me.

I looked into my own basket, and true enough, I was two onions short. The Fat Guy looked at me, then at the thin guy, then at the store manager and then back at me, trying to figure out how I fit into his whole onion-thievery theory. Apparently I didn’t. He just handed me back my onions and mutered, “Sorry” under his breath to all three of us and walked away.

Top Five Worst Dates Ever

I’ve been dating ever since I turned 18. To be more specific, this girl at school asked me out on my very first official date on my eighteenth birthday. It was the year 2002 and I was just about to embark on my engineering studies. And my 18th birthday happened to fall exactly one month and two days before college opened. So, I was at home and settling down to a nice quiet birthday on my couch with my favorite TV shows. That’s when Samyukta messaged me. I realized just how much of a mistake it was to reply to the text the next day.

Here they are, by popular demand, the top five worst dates I’ve ever been on.

Number Five:

Samyukta was this tall, lanky chick from my school and she had had a crush on me. I wasn’t always as handsome and charming as I am now, but back then, I had just the right amount of pheromones to attract her. I was also naive and didn’t understand women. In my 10th standard, I used to run down the school corridor and lift up girls’ skirts as they leant against the parapet and laughed. I was that stupid. So anyway, this girl messaged me and asked me if I wanted to go out and have some ice cream. I agreed and we decided to meet at the local Arun Ice Cream parlor around 5 in the evening.

I walked up there at the appropriate time, met her and we both ordered cones. She talked about this and that and commented on my new shirt and my latest hair style (I hadn’t changed my hairstyle since the day I was born). I nodded politely and commented on her dress and pointed out that her ice cream cone was dripping. Once I finished, I got up, washed my hands, thanked her and ran home to watch The Simpsons, which started at 6. I failed to notice that she was still sitting there with a half-eaten cone.

I never heard from her again. I recently got to know that she had gotten married and settled in New Zealand. Oh boy.

Number Four:

Imagine the ugliest woman in the world. Now, multiply that a million. Yeah, that was the first and last blind date I ever went on. I paid 1,500 bucks for my pasta and her sandwich, and I paid more attention to the food and the ambiance in the French restaurant than her. I ran out of there as fast as I could and never called her again. She tried to, but I was always either ‘caught in a meeting’ or ‘busy with some work’ or ‘not in the city’. Trust me, blind dates are meant for people who can’t see.

Number Three:

Of all the places, this happened in New York. She was a fellow member of the BOOBS – Buffalo Organization Of Bangalore Students, and I was fairly attracted to her. I wanted to ask her out but didn’t know how to. Moreover, I was supposed to be in a long-distance relationship back then, which was very quickly going downhill. So, I asked her if she’s ever been asked out on a date before. She said no. So I told her that I would take her out on a ‘dummy’ date and show her exactly how it works. Well, she fell for it and agreed.

We went out to this Indian restaurant in Buffalo called ‘Palace of Dosas’, ordered some $18 dosas and had a pretty nice time. When I dropped her off, she thanked me and said that she’d try this on a guy she was interested in, hugged me, kissed me on the cheek, ruffled my hair and ran inside, leaving me in knee-deep snow. Yeah, I never spoke to that boob again.

Number Two:

This happened in 2007, when I was in between relationships. I had been single for a while now and my job in the PR industry was quite a nightmare. On a relatively easy Friday, I met a girl on Facebook in the morning. added her on gtalk, chatted with her through the afternoon, and got her phone number by 4 pm, called her up, fixed up a coffee date for 6 pm the same evening, met her, had a wonderful time, dropped her back home and got the shock of my life when she asked me if I wanted to come up for a joint of the best weed ever. I was just about to say yes, when she said, “Oh come on, it’ll be fun. I’m sure my boyfriend won’t mind. He’ll be asleep at this time. He works night shifts.”

Yeah, I made and excuse, went home and blocked the weird one from my gtalk.

Number One:

Interestingly enough, the worst date I’ve ever been on involves two women and a guy. This happened this year at Hard Rock Cafe, in Bangalore. I went in as one girl’s boyfriend, became single inside, became another girl’s random kisser and walked out hand in hand with a homosexual guy who kissed me on the neck and told me he loved me.  I’ll spare you the details.


He was twenty-four years old when they cut off his hands. Both of them. They chained his hands to two pillars in an abandoned quarry, pulled them out and slashed them off with a pair of pick-axes. Or maybe Samurai swords, I don’t really remember. The man who cut off the hands was called Gabbar. And the soon-to-be limbless man was called Thakur. No last name. At least, I don’t remember it now. This is a story of an incident that took place close to eighty years ago, when I was still a kid, living in the remote village of Ramgarh, somewhere in the hills of South India. And this story is not for the faint of heart. I call this ‘Show-Lay’.

To understand why Gabbar cut off Thakur’s hands, we need to understand the men themselves. Thakur was a man who had an unswerving belief in the pornography industry. Back in those days, when owning a television was a luxury and condoms weren’t invented, Ramgarh had a thriving adult movie industry, run by the brilliant marketing genius Thakur. At23, he was the youngest porn star in the world at the time, and perhaps the first. The only mistake he ever did was cross Gabbar’s paths. He regretted that day for as long as he lived.

Gabbar, on the other hand, was a foot model. He had the most exquisite feet in the whole of India and brands like Cows and Alli McFeet featured Gabbar in their advertisements. No one could pull off a pair of silver-studded brown leather boots like Gabbar could, and the most famous advertisement to this day, has been Gabbar sporting the latest summer line of Cows, and walking slowly on the Ramgarh rocks, with a leather belt trailing behind him. Women literally fell over themselves to worship the ground he walked on, and naturally, he had a huge female fan following. There were rumors, don’t quote me on this one, that Gabbar had insured his feet for a whopping fifty rupees from accidental damage, sexual damage and gangrene. Yeah, gangrene – he never removed his boots during the night. Or so I’ve been told. And back in those days fifty rupees could buy you a ticket around the world with spare change left over to buy an island.

Long story short, Thakur slept with Gabbar’s girl – the famous Basanthi. With a ‘B’. We had strange names back then. Basanthi was famous all over South India for her, er, horsing around. Yeah, there’s no better way to put it. She used to ride anything that moved and she loved her hooves. I mean, boots. She became so attracted to her stud Gabbar that she had a very special nickname for him – Dhanno. I don’t know what that means, but rumor has it that they liked to play rough – with whips and restraints and a lot of screaming. Her ecstatic cries of “Chal, Dhanno!” reverberated through the village at night. And we all knew that Gabbar was one lucky cowboy.

Thakur not only slept with her, but made a movie out of it and it was called “Basanthi ka Dhanno” starring Basanthi and Thakur. Gabbar lost his mind and chased down Thakur through the hills, caught up with him and cut off his hands. He was still wearing the boots. From that day on, Thakur made it his life’s ambition to take revenge on Gabbar, to put him behind bars and probably, strip him of his boots for good. He vowed never to smile until he achieved this. So, he hatched a plan – a plan so brilliant and so daring, that all of us village folk were astounded at the simplicity and the high projected success rates. We hoped he would succeed not because we liked Thakur, but because the plan was so good that it deserved to succeed.

Thakur paid for and got two of the world’s most famous adult movie stars from Italy – Veeru and Jai. I have changed their names because they are good men at heart and I don’t want to soil their memory. So, Jai and Veeru waltzed into town one fine summer afternoon and Veeru promptly fell into his assigned role – keep Basanthi “occupied” while Jai tries in vain to seduce Thakur’s widowed daughter-in-law from his third wife, while at the same time, trying to piss Gabbar off by copying his moves.

Veeru and Jai succeeded in irritating Gabbar to such an extent that he forced Basanthi to dance on broken bottles as punishment for sleeping with Veeru, and he made the two studs watch until they couldn’t take it anymore. By this time, Basanthi was getting pretty tired of Gabbar’s antics and his penchant for extracting horrendous vendattas and she agreed to help Thakur in his nefarious plan. Thakur smiled to himself – his calculations had been right, and everything was falling into place perfectly. Just when he thought he was ready for the master stroke, things began to fall apart.

He had sent his manservant to fetch vegetables from the market and it was around midday when he realized that his breakfast had been a bit too spicy for his stomach. He dared not go to the loo alone because he knew his weakness – he couldn’t, you know, er, how do I put it? Well, he had no hands, so you get the idea. He waited and waited, jumping from one foot to the other, squirming in agony, when he spotted Jai sitting outside blowing on a er…  a “mouth organ”, if you know what I mean. Thakur sent the naked guy away and beckoned Jai inside and asked him the favor.

“Why can’t you do it yourself? I was busy with the mouth organ. I have a few new tunes,” said Jai.

“I can’t. I don’t have to explain it to you,” told Thakur, furious.

“The loo is right there. Why can’t you go on your own? I am not cleaning anyone else’s shit. I stopped doing that a long time ago,” said Jai.

“Try to understand!” screamed Thakur. “I can’t do it!”

Just then, there was a gust of wind and Thakur’s blanked that he had wrapped around himself blew off and Jai saw that Thakur was, well, crippled. He tried hard to keep a straight face at the sight of the old horny geezer with no hands,  and helped him into the loo. Some people say that Jai slipped on a piece of soap, but others are not too certain about whether what he slipped on was a piece of soap or something else altogether. Whatever it was, he hit his head hard on the cast-iron sink and bled to death.

Veeru, in his alcohol-induced state of near-comatose stupidity, believed Thakur’s story of Gabbar sneaking in the loo and killing Jai, and went off in search of the notorious foot model. He found him hiding among the rocks, and promptly went on to beat the shit out of him. No puns intended. Thakur intervened at the last minute and ordered Veeru to stop killing the guy. He put on Gabbar’s famous boots and told him, “You took away my hands, now I take away your boots, Gabbar.”

“No!” screamed Gabbar.

“Give me those boots, Gabbar!” Thakur screamed like a rabid dog in heat.


“Give! Me! Those! Boots!”



And when both of them screamed “Aaaa!”, the whole village heard them. It took us a while to realize that it wasn’t another one of Thakur’s porn movies, but the real deal. Gabbar never dared to wear boots again. In fact, he ran away and was never heard from again. Thakur lived to the ripe old age of forty before passing away in the middle of an intense 3-day marathon. No, not the running type, if you know what I mean.

Veeru and Basanthi lived happily ever after, being ridden and riding, respectively.

I grew up, moved to the city, lived my life to the fullest and now, I can barely remember my name, but this story of Ramgarh shall remain with me forever. Vividly. Someone should make a movie out of this or something. It’s really an intriguing tale.

What The Fish?

What the Fish?Have you ever heard people saying the word ‘Fish’ instead of ‘Fuck’ in a sentence? I’ll explain exactly how annoying that is.

I dropped a piece of pie on someone’s carpet the other night and the woman said, “Oh, Fish!” I looked at her strangely and said, “No, ma’am. I’m Nikhil.”

It was her turn to look at me strangely and say, “No, I meant the pie.”

“Fish? I thought it was apple pie?”

She looked at me even strangely, half-angry at me for having ruined her carpet and half-annoyed at me for trying to be funny. I wasn’t being funny. In fact, I was genuinely stumped. I blabbered some incomprehensible apologies and ran out of there, and later realized that some people use fish as an alternative to expletives.

True, its a 4-letter F-word, but so is free, flan, flag, fork, fine, flip, flap, floo and fits, among others. Why not use these words instead of fish? And why fish, exactly? Is it because they’re dumb creatures who can do nothing but swim around all day long, staring at us with those cold eyes? Or is it because they have highly evolved sexual capabilities that threatens our potency?

The other day, someone asked me what the fish I was doing there instead of working, and I replied that I was fishing his happiness. He didn’t understand what I said and left me alone. So, if we were to use fish as a replacement for ‘fuck’, then here are a few things we could consider adopting in our vocabulary:

  1. Hey, baby. You’re so hot. Wanna fish? (Please, for God’s sake, don’t try this anywhere)
  2. Fish you, asshole!
  3. What the fish?
  4. Fish the fishing fishers.
  5. I didn’t realize he was such a fisher!
  6. I went on a fishing trip! Awesome weed, bro.
  7. Fish! I missed the bus.
  8. I got fished in the bank today.
  9. Fish me baby, one more time. (Fish you, Britney Spears!)
  10. … and so all the men started fishing all the women, happily ever after.

So on, and so forth. The list is endless.

But ever wondered what might happen if we actually want to go on a fishing trip with someone? I mean a real fishing trip, with boats, and water-bodies and fishing roads? Er, damn! The above sentence sounds so pervert! My point is that we’re probably ruining the sea-food experience of millions of people by using this alternative. Imagine asking a waiter in a restaurant for a fish, and he winks at you and calls you to the closet? Ugh! Scary thought.

So, let’s play safe and say fuck. Like normal people. Go on, say it. Make my fucking day.