Gokarna & Why I Go There

This one goes out to all those unfortunate, uninitiated and uninspired individuals. Get off your high horse and read this.

There may be a hundred reasons why a person goes to Gokarna. People looking to get laid, people looking to score and get high, people looking for a nice, secluded beach and people wanting to offer their prayers in India’s most sacred temple. I don’t know if there are any other reasons, and frankly, I don’t really care why people go there.

I go there for a totally different reason, and its none of the above.

I lead a difficult life. I need to balance my passion to work, my unceasing urge to travel and roam aimlessly across the country, my singularly fierce attraction to beaches and my bank account. Juggling these four volatile substances while playing air hockey with the family, the bosses, the peers, the juniors, the friends, the foes, the creditors, the goons, the loons, the whackadoodles, the geniuses, the crap, the stench and the slippery slopes of bankruptcy, unemployment and loneliness around every corner is taking its toll on my nerves.

There are very few things I’m passionate about, and those that I am passionate about, I am so with a vehemence unseen in anyone else, for anything else. I do not go to Gokarna to ‘do drugs’. I do not go to Gokarna to ‘sleep with women’. I do not go to Gokarna to ‘drink drinks’. I do not go to Gokarna to visit the temple and offer my prayers. I do not go to Gokarna for the sea food. I do no go to Gokarna for the rustic beauty of the village. I do not go to Gokarna to ogle at half-naked women lounging in the sun. I do not go to Gokarna because I love beaches and water. I do not go to Gokarna to swim in the ocean. I do not go to Gokarna to live. I do not go to Gokarna to die.

I go to Gokarna once every three months because I need to get away from the Greek tragedy that my life is fast unraveling to be; to clear my head of all thoughts – good and bad; to reboot myself. I go to Gokarna because its the only place on Earth that welcomes me without judging who I am or what I have done. I go to Gokarna because that is the only place on Earth where I am at peace. Completely.

I have a sea rock, which I call my own, ten feet out into the ocean, at Om Beach. Its a bit of a hike to get to the top of the rock, and once I get there, I sit, looking at the waves crashing into me on all sides, rising twenty feet high and spraying me with a mist of cold, salty water. I listen to the rush, the gurgle, the power and the wordless songs of the waves and as I stare out into the horizon, imagining a place beyond comprehension, where the sky kisses the ocean, I realize that I am peaceful, within and without.

Gokarna - kudle beachNothing of what is happening in life matters here. Time stands still for me, for the 48 hours I’m there. I put my feet up at a cafe, sipping sweet tea and reading a good book, or people watching on the burning, golden sands. I take a nice pleasant trek up to Kudle through thick brambles and open moors and I wade in the white sands until the sun starts to set. I walk back amidst the gathering darkness to Om Beach, walk all the way up to Half Moon and back again. As night descends around me, so does the peace, deeper inside me.

I need this. I can’t do without it. For the unfortunate, uninitiated and uninspired individuals, I recommend it. The only thing I get high on, when in Gokarna, is Gokarna itself.

The City Of No Goodbyes

Warning: This post contains language and description not suitable for minors. Please proceed only if you are above 18 years of age. MirrorCracked and it’s author do not take responsibility for the consequences of ignoring this legally-required warning.

Author’s Note: I wrote this a while back, for someone special, who appeared fleetingly into my life and left an indelible mark. This one’s for you, and no one else. I hate time, distance and all those other Physics 101 terms!

I could feel the stress coursing through my every muscle as I rode my bike back home through never-ending traffic, monstrous trucks belching black fumes of smoke right at my face and millions of people running around on the roads, darting in between the rushing cars and bikes and trucks without, it seemed, a care in the world. I had had enough. I was burnt out and I could feel it – with every breath and every heartbeat. My arms ached as I finally pushed the bike up the incline to my house and parked it beneath the awning. I stood back, stretched my back and burst out laughing.

There was a reason I laughed out that day. It wasn’t very profound; strange, rather. I knew I would quit my job. I had made my mind up on the ride back home and I had had enough of being a needle in a haystack. I had had enough of being a software developer in a country filled with so many software developers that someone had once that if you throw a stone into a crowd in India, you either hit a stray dog or a software developer. I had had enough. I was burnt out and I wanted out.

I took a long, hot shower and washed the grime off my body and stood there under the running water, leaning against the wall and contemplated what I’d do. It was seven in the evening on a Friday and I wanted to unwind. Making my decision, I put on a tee shirt and a pair of jeans and hailed a cab.

“Sports bar, Colaba,” I said and leaned back against the soft leather seats, feeling the air-conditioner blasting on my face and closed my eyes with a blissful smile on my face.

I saw her standing at the other end of the bar, nursing a beer and talking to a few friends. The sports bar in Colaba has a corner where people can play mock basketball and make fools of themselves, and I preferred the more mature game of billiards. A beer in my hand and some spare betting cash can go long way in making a good evening better. I had just won my third table in a row, when I noticed her standing there. She was wearing a white dress that came up to her knees, billowing around them, and I couldn’t help but notice her long legs and the pretty white shoes she wore. As I took my gaze up, I noticed her perfect body, the firm breasts, the slender neck, her heart-shaped mouth, her long lashes and her long straight hair that came up to her shoulders and did a poor job of hiding her smile – the smile that even from that distance, made me want to reciprocate.

It is said that we are all born with a sixth sense, and that we can actually sense someone’s gaze on us. Even in that crowded bar, even amidst the noise and the soccer cheers and the crazy yahoos, she sensed my gaze and turned to me. I stood there, leaning on my cue stick and holding the beer in my hand, and smiled at her. What happened next remains, to this day, my most memorable memory of the city that never sleeps.

It was back at my place, at eleven in the night, when we first kissed. Her lips were on to mine in mid-sentence and there were no awkward pauses and no drum-roll as we drew closer, unbeknownst to each other. Her wet, tender lips were crushing against my rough ones, frantically trying to accomplish something in a savage battle for dominance, her tongue found mine with scary ease and wrestled savagely for the same unsettling prize. We were sitting on the couch, my hands in her hair, hers on my face and we kissed long and hard, and with no apparent end to the lip wrestling in sight, we groped for each other‘s clothes. I struggled out of my shirt, and she, out of her dress, while still kissing with a kind of otherworldly passion.

I managed to get out of my shirt and I fumbled with her brassiere. I unclasped it with one hand while fighting her panties with the other. Her hands found my trousers and forced them down. I broke contact with her lips and traced my way to her neck, still kissing and licking and sucking on the sweet, soft skin and she moaned with pleasure. She threw her head back and moaned louder as I cupped her breast with my hand and kissed her gently on the nipple. I could feel it harden in my mouth as I nibbled on them softly. She screamed in pure pleasure as I bit down hard and gripped my hair and tugged on them.

I entered her in one swift motion and she gasped. She looked into my eyes and I, into hers and we began a slow rhythmic dance of carnal proportions, with gasps, moans and screams. We picked up momentum and soon we were hurtling along the tunnel of desire at breakneck speed and burst through the clouds of mist and emerged into the bright sunlit skies of satisfaction. We lay back on the couch, thoroughly spent, sweating and exhausted. She nestled her head under my chin and I could smell her sweet shampoo mixed with my coarse deodorant. Her hands closed around mine and we fell asleep there, on the couch, just as midnight struck the sensual city.

“Let’s not say goodbye to each other,” she whispered as she went to sleep. “Ever.”

Two weeks later, when I had to leave Mumbai for the last time and move back to my home town, I called her. She never answered. To this day, I wondered whether if I had stayed back there, I would have had the chance to do something about this woman who had come into my life in a whirlwind of passion and shown me the best two weeks of my life, and disappeared without saying goodbye. I wondered about all the things that we had talked about and about all the things we didn’t. I most vividly remembered the nights of intense passion, where we would turn into animals and feast on each other until we were both thoroughly satisfied. I wondered if she missed me.

To this day, we haven’t said goodbye. Yet.


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.

50k – The Art Of Getting Drunk! :)

drunkThe scientists at the MirrorCracked Labs wish to thank all the esteemed readers who have carried this blog past the 50,000 hit milestone. Since it’s humble beginnings in March of this year, it has taken nine months to reach here, and every single person who’s read this blog is much appreciated.

Being the brains behind this outfit, I have decided to dedicate this celebratory post to all of you. We, at the MC Labs decided to get drunk on Saturday night to celebrate this milestone, and in the stupor, made a few life-altering decisions.

Every person has a threshold value when it comes to drinking, and it follows a close relationship with the person’s body mass. If you weigh anything less than the chair on which you are now sitting, then you’ll get high by the fourth mug of beer. I weigh close to a thousand pounds, and it takes a lot to get me drunk. 😀

It all started with a simple phone call – I was bored to death at home when my friend called me and said, “Nikhil, you’re getting drunk today.”

I was a bit confused. “I am?” I asked.

“Yeah. Purple Haze. Kormangala. 2:30. Be there.”

So, that was it. I knew it would be a crazy session, and with the blog stats crossing the elusive milestone, I had a reason to celebrate. So, off I went, despite bad traffic, dirty roads, terrible heat and a reluctant bike.

Slowly and steadily, I built up from a large shot of scotch to 4 large shots of scotch and 5 beers, and promptly crossed the borderline of being tipsy and being punch drunk. I started talking nonsense, screamed out the songs that the DJ was playing, swayed dangerously on the bike while driving and threw up thrice in a coffee shop.

Yeah, I threw up thrice. My friends had dragged me to the coffee shop for some hot, strong black coffee and one sip of the bitter fluid, and I rushed to the men’s room and… well, you get the picture. 😀

So, don’t bother opening the champagne for MirrorCracked’s success – I did that already and then some! 😀

Thanks everyone for giving me an excuse to get drunk! Cheers!! 😀

Letter to Cupid :)

Dear Asshole Cupid,

When you first met me, you chose a lovely, red, pointy arrow and shot it right through my heart. I bled and bled but you didn’t really care. You moved on to your next victim, impaling everyone you met! I so hate you for pulling that arrow out forcefully and hurting me more! When you did that to me, you not only ensured that two lives would never be the same again, but you also made sure that I can never be affected by your childish charms and sharp arrows again!

Just because you’re a child with wings and you carry around a bow and arrow, you think you can play around with people’s lives and emotions and feelings? Who gave you that right, you idiot child? Just because you are written about in books and sung about in stupid love songs, you think that you are the ultimate puppet master, making your victims dance to your tunes? You’re nothing but a spoiled brat, you hear me? Your curly, blonde hair, your red and rosy cheeks and those brilliant blue (apparently) innocent eyes may fool others but not me! I think I know what you’re planning for me!

You want me to take the tried and tested path of begging for your arrow to be impaled again in my heart, drinking myself silly in filthy places and in my stupor, calling out for that cardiac pain again and stabbing myself with chemicals in the hope of seeing your bright wings again – think again, asshole Cupid! I am not going to give you that pleasure. I am well and truly in control of my emotions and for all I care, you can take those arrows of yours and thrust it up your ass. I don’t really care how you do it, but given a chance, I’d do it for you myself! I dare you to come before me again, as you did last time! Stand before me like a man and face me!

Oh, I forgot – you’re a child! 😀

So, here’s what I really had to say to you, Cupid. Drop Dead! 😀

Yours sincerely,

Beers, Laughs and WordPress Themes!

Thursday night was a blur – it was May 1st, Labor Day, and I was working hard in office till almost 8 pm. If that wasn’t ironic enough, then try this: I had to attend a press conference the next day and I was supposed to go in complete formal wear and be on my best behavior – so, I got drunk that night, celebrating Labor Day and went to the press conference in an unpressed shirt and carrying a mega-hangover! I know a lot of people will read this and judge me and call me an irresponsible jerk who doesn’t deserve to be employed, but in my defense, I didn’t plan on getting drunk and I don’t have formal wear! I wonder if this argument will hold up in court or if I’ll be thrown in a mental asylum to be evaluated. Hmm… 😀

Anyway, that night, I met Rags and Panday – two of my closest friends – and we went to this place called Tavern. The place was quite empty when we reached at 8.30 pm and by the time we ordered the second pitcher of cold draught, the place was overflowing and the music drowned our voices. We laughed and laughed and remembered all the strange things that have happened to each one of us, and wished time could stand still…

By the end of the night, this is how we looked:

Rags looked quite sane because all she drank was two mugs, constantly being paranoid about her health cehck-up as part of the Australian Visa thingy! And Panday is a regular fish-tank when it comes to booze, and we both gulped down most of it. I felt so buzzed that I decided to change my wordpress theme!!!

Ok, here’s where logic is thrown out of the window. I was high on alcohol and in that dazed state of mind, I realized that my wordpress theme looked gay-ish. 😀

I’d better change it!! So, here’s the effect! A new theme that’s here to stay, hopefully as long as my old, faithful Light did.

Akhil and Chucks, if you both are reading this, then we missed you both big time!

Cheers!!! 😀

The Case Of The Disappearing Currency

4:09 pm – I bought a couple of packs of chewing gum at a roadside store, paid with a hundred-rupee note and got ninety rupees back, including a 50-rupee note.

4:20 pm – I’m driving in heavy traffic towards Barista to meet a friend and have a cup of coffee.

4:32 pm – I stop to pick up some smokes at some other roadside store and pay the guy ten bucks.

4:59 pm – I think to myself as I’m parking my Mom’s old, worn-out Luna that I need to fill up a water bottle with fifty bucks’ worth fuel for my bike, whose tank was bone dry.

5:45 pm – Rags and I leave Barista and walk over to the gas station across the street.

5:47 pm – The attendant fills up the water bottle with fuel and I open my wallet to pay him…

What happened next was a complete shock to me. There was no money in my wallet. There should’ve been close to sixty bucks in there, and all I saw was some dirty old ten-rupee note. I gulped and looked at Rags. She pitied me and gave me the money for the fuel.

I called the Hardy Boys to investigate the crime, and they came promptly at around ten in the night. We ended up getting drunk and woke up this morning not knowing why I had called them.

Ah, my hard-earned fifty rupees! 😦