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.

Calvin And Hobbes: The Last One

He opened his eyes to darkness. He felt around with his hands and found the wall to his right, along which his bed lay. He groped around until he found a switch and flipped it on. Harsh white fluorescent light filled the room and hurt his eyes. Reflexively, he closed them and groaned. His head hurt – no, pounded from within, and it felt like a million sledgehammers threatening to break open his skull. He turned on to his side and winced as sharp points of pain pricked his joints and when he couldn’t take it anymore, he sat up. Still dressed in his clothes from the night before, he looked down at his hands and feet, wondering how he ever got home. The last thing he remembered was his tenth beer. There had been a lot of shouting, a lot of music, loud music, and a lot of dancing. He vaguely remembered throwing up somewhere, and sure enough, he saw the dirty yellow stains on his white shirt and blue jeans.”Shit,” he muttered, and swung his legs off the bed.

Standing in the middle of the room, he stretched himself and took a step towards the bathroom when he stepped on something soft and furry. He looked down at the old stuffed tiger he used to play with as a kid, and kicked it under the bed in anger. He had suffered enough because of it, and he had no intention of ruining his life further.

“Twenty years,” he said to the bit of furry tail still visible from under the bed. “Twenty years of my life ruined because I thought you were real. They stuck me in a nut house and asked me to swallow pills every two hours. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Then, calming himself, he took a few deep breaths and said, almost chanted, “You’re not real. You’re not real.”

He walked into the bathroom, showered, shaved and came out feeling refreshed. As he stood looking at his thirty-year old beaten, worn-out, pot-bellied frame, he thought back to the day in his youth when he had burned his parents alive. The tiger had asked him to do it. The tiger had said it would be a good idea. He had listened to the tiger and killed his parents. Pain wracked through his mind and he shut his eyes tight as tears rolled down his wet cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he said to no one in particular.He was different then, before the medication, before the doctors, before the black-outs…

When he turned away from the mirror, he was about to reach down to grab a shirt from the floor, when he stopped dead in his tracks. The stuffed tiger that he had kicked under the bed was now back where it had been. The single remaining beady eye and the empty socket where the other bead had been looked up at him in a cold stare, unflinching, as if daring him to talk. As if daring him to scream, to shout, to say something. He stared at the tiger, frozen in mid-step and too scared to do anything. He swallowed a large gulp of fear and said, “You’re not real. You’re not real. You’re not real.”

He turned away closing his eyes and shut both his ears with his hands, still chanting his mantra. When he stopped to catch a breath, he heard someone call his name from behind him.

“Calvin,” the voice said. “Why won’t you talk to me anymore?”

“No!” he screamed. “Don’t talk to me! You’re not real!” He still was turned away, now crouching near the wall, his head resting against the corner. “Shut up!”

“You think I don’t miss you, Calvin?” the voice asked.

“You’re not real. You’re not real…” he continued in monotone, rocking back and forth, drowning out the tiger’s voice.

“Of course I’m real. I’m right here. Turn around, Calvin.”

And he didn’t know why he did it, but he did. He turned, opened his eyes and saw the tiger standing there in the middle of the room. The tiger was smiling at him, standing on its hind legs, holding out its hands as if waiting for an embrace. Calvin took a tentative step towards the tiger, still confused and the madness showing on his face with no inhibition. “NO…!!” he screamed. “You are NOT real!” and he ran towards the bed-side drawer, pulled out a gun from inside and put it in his mouth.

He looked at the tiger’s eye and saw the tears rolling down to its cheek and forming tiny puddles on the floor. He was crying himself. He couldn’t stop the tears.

“Don’t do it, Calvin,” said the tiger, stifling a sob.

“I’m sorry, Hobbes,” he said and pulled the trigger. As the last shard of life left his body, he thought he saw a stuffed tiger lying at his feet. He tried to smile and tried to tell himself that the tiger was not real. He tried, in vain.

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.

Suresh Kalmadi Humiliates India Again, This Time With His Sausage

kalmadi 'pole' vaultingA few months after the worst-ever Commonwealth Games ended in New Delhi, disgraced Chairman of the CWG Committee Suresh Kalmadi found himself entangled in a fresh controversy in a string of never-ending disasters. He woke up yesterday morning cursing the day he ever accepted becoming the CWG Chairman, and perhaps, his own lousy strategies. After all, any Indian politician has to be an expert in making dirty money without getting caught.

I’m sure you all remember the weird, eel-shaped thing floating around in mid-air above the Nehru Stadium during the Games. I’m sure all of you, like me, looked at it and said, “What in God’s sweet name is that eyesore?”  And all of you, like me, tried really really hard not to stare that ‘thing’ directly in the eye. Innovatively called the ‘Aerostat’ (I wonder why), the sausage was supposed to be the main attraction of the Games. Unfortunately, it did nothing but sit (fly?) there and look menacing. And after all that crap about crappy toilets and collapsing infrastructures, the people who actually danced beneath this monstrosity should be given medals of honor for bravery beyond imagination.

Anyway, the reason I mention this and write a post about this is to reflect on all that has gone wrong with the CWG and things that continue to go wrong for Suresh Kalmadi just when he thought the worst was over.

Two days ago, a consortium of Australian logistics companies threatened to sue the CWG Committee and Kalmadi for over $500,000 in unpaid dues and held-up equipment still stuck in New Delhi, which were not returned to them. I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, yell or ignore this ridiculousness. I also do not want to dismiss this as a “typical Indian mentality’, a cliche what I’ve heard many times and disagree with. This is not typical. We don’t hire an agency and not pay it once the service has been rendered. (We usually try to negotiate on the price.)

Yesterday, Suresh Kalmadi faced yet another embarrassment with this Aerostat Sausage Thing. When he was busy skimming off the top and fattening his wallet, neglecting his duties and allowing the Games preparation to dive into the ditch unheeded, the Sausage was taking shape very nicely. Except for actually working like it was supposed to, it did very well. The initial plan was to have athletes dangle from the Sausage and do stunts in mid-air. But then, as everything else, the plan went to utter ruins as there was no time for practicing, and no one seemed to be bold enough to sacrifice their lives for Kalmadi’s Sausage.

The Sausage has created a debt of Rs. 70 crore (almost $1.5 million) and the events company that was supposed to be responsible for the dangling athletes hasn’t been paid over $200,000 in dues for not ‘utilizing the Aerostat’s maximum potential’.

If you don’t say it, I will. “What the fuck.”

Kalmadi is probably better off managing some good-for-nothing department in the government like stone-cutting or past-recollections committees, and never again should he be allowed within a mile of anything that can be skimmed off of. Because if there’s one thing he does not know, its how to make dirty money and get away with it without bring the whole damned country to her knees in shame and humiliation.

Suresh Kalmadi brings shame yet again to his country. This time with his huge Sausage.

Do Your Part. Don’t Vote!

Ever wonder what it would be like to live in a Dystopian world without rules and regulations and people in power ruthlessly expanding themselves at the cost of the general population? Here’s what you don’t see on BBC World News and CNN International News:

The people of the state of Karnataka are currently standing around their TV sets scratching their heads and wondering how they became a part of a zombie movie. The local and national news channels didn’t have anything more interesting, entertaining or bloody than the crisis worsening in this state. And they didn’t have to, because one look at the mindless murk that we call politicians and their actions today in Parliament and we know that our chances of survival are much better in Raccoon City, without Alice. (Ref: Resident Evil)

Twenty to thirty MLAs bursting into a secure Parliament house, assaulting the cops, ripping their clothes off and trying to get past a barricade behind which hapless, unarmed cops are trying their lousy best to get out of the way of clawing arms, well-aimed spit and breaking glass – this was the scene that we woke up to this morning. And to think that we elected these clowns into office makes me wonder about the shortcomings of the democratic process.

India has quite a lot of issues to address at this point of time without the added ridiculousness of farmer-turned-politicians (who flunked 8th grade) acting like they deserve an award just for their existence. We have a crisis going on at the Commonwealth Games being held in the nation’s capital, where the very image of the country is being put to the acid test. Surely enough, behind all the muck over there, criminal politicians played the fiddle and made money for themselves. Geographically, the country is in a violent fight against itself to hold on to Jammu & Kashmir, where bloodshed has, unfortunately, become a part of a normal lifestyle. Power crises in almost 90% of the country’s length and breadth coupled with water and food shortages paint a very bleak picture for ‘India Shining’.

The word ‘Corruption’ is thrown around a lot in the media these days – this guy’s corrupt, that woman’s corrupt, the whole bloody parliament is corrupt. But what we fail to realize is that this apparent corruption is just an extension of basic Indian nature. Not human nature – Indian nature. We are a race of people who would do anything for money and fame. I’m sure there will be do-gooders who come out and make advertisements and write articles about how we are not a nation of thieves and how we can behave better and how we can avoid bribes, but in the end, everyone does it. There’s no point in feeling offended at this observation, because if you do, then you and the high horse you rode in on can go to hell. This is the sad truth.

So, let’s stop trying to change who we are and start trying to live with that realization. Let’s do our part in trying to screw our country over. I don’t have to be a member of parliament to do it – isn’t that one of the great things about democracy? Power of the people? Let’s do it, then.

Don’t vote. Ever. It’ll be fun to watch ourselves burn.

If ever a politician reads this post, then do me a favor. No, do yourself a favor and kill yourself.

 

Why I Deserve The Nobel Prize

With a little less than three hours to go for the Nobel Prize 2010 Announcement Ceremony in Sweden, I have decided to enter the race in all the available categories. This post is meant to be read by the arbiters of the Swedish Royal Academy and I do hope that they don’t make the mistake of overlooking me and my remarkable achievements in this regard. I deserve the Nobel Prize for the following compelling reasons. I am an honest man and none of what I write below is falsified.

Nobel Prize in Physics:

I was the first man in the world to explore the physical properties and inconsistencies of photographic film, paving the way for stronger and more secure forms of image storage. This happened when I was ten years old and I took a brick and promptly broke open a 32-exposure Kodak film, the one that rolls into itself. You know what I’m talking about. I took the spoils over to the National Security Agency in the US of A and explained why they needed to invent digital cameras. They took my advice and the history (future?) of photography changed forever. I hereby nominate myself for the 2010 Nobel Prize in Physics for the discovery, invention and exploitation of digital cameras.

Nobel Prize in Medicine:

I was the first, and perhaps the only man in history to record a ten-second footage of what happens to the facial muscles when excessively stimulated by rock music. The video is available here. This discovery paved the way for the recent improvements in plastic surgery and permanent disfigurement clauses in the constitutions of the almost every country in the world. The very fact that you can walk up to a plastic surgeon and tell him/her that you want to look as handsome and stimulated as I do is a testament to my great discovery. I hereby nominate myself for the 2010 Nobel Prize in Medicine for great advances in plastic surgery.

Nobel Prize in Chemistry:

I was the first man in the world to ascertain the true nature of the drug whose comemrcial name is Aspirin. Acetly Salycylic Acid (ASA), as it’s chemically known, was a CIA invention aimed at monitoring the world’s population. Each and every molecule of ASA contains roughly 13 carbon atoms. What the CIA did was replace one of these Carbon atoms with a molecular camera. Anyone who swallowed a pill of Aspirin literally swallowed a tiny camera and gave the CIA complete access to their body’s interior. I discovered this great conspiracy when I accidentally hacked into the CIA’s database when I was five years old by solving a puzzle in a kids’ magazine. (This true life story of mine was then adapted into a movie called Mercury Rising and I made a lot of money out of it.) I brought the whole ASA conspiracy to the attention of the Interpol and they decided to stop the manufacture of Aspirin completely, thus safegaurding the privacy of the world’s population. I hereby, humbly, nominate myself for the 2010 Nobel Prize in Chemistry for revolutionizing the pharmaceutical industry with my own non-traditional ‘drug discovery’.

Nobel Prize in Literature:

MirrorCracked. I won’t say any more. I’m sure you agree.

Nobel Peace Prize:

Well, though I don’t exactly qualify for this award, I would like to bring to the attention of the Royal Swedish Academy that if I’m not given this year’s Nobel Peace Prize, I will sell the other four Nobel Prizes and buy cigarettes and distribute it to freshly-graduated smokers. Read as: 18 year olds. In order to avoid this, I think you should just call it a clean sweep and give me this prize anyway.

I will be available for comments and interviews.

Update: October 8, 2010, 00:01 AM: This article made the wordpress homepage.

Writing A Musical, Trying Hard… Hope Springs Eternal, Sharp As A Shard…

Oh here I am, lost in thought,
Trying to write a musical this day…
Looking out the window, into the sun,
Into the faces of men, women and children who play…

I saw the faces walking past me, lost in their own thought, lost in their own little worlds of deceit, greed, lust and love, and didn’t think twice about the challenge that lay before me. I, who have never before embarked on the journey of poetry, never before undertaken the arduous task of making simple little words sing a tune and dance to it, I, who have always hid behind the safe mask of prose and paragraphs, thought to myself, albeit foolishly, how difficult can it really be?

I turned back into the gloomy room,
Saw the mismatch walls and the lack of life.
It needs a woman’s touch, yes it does, I think to myself,
I need to get me a wife.

Pushing these frivolous thoughts away from my head, I sit at my desk and stare at the coffee and the plate of untouched bread. I pick up my laptop and open it’s hood, and I try oh so hard, not to brood. As I type these flimsy words, my head breaks into song – songs of love, songs of death, songs of everlasting breath. Songs of chivalry, songs of beauty, songs of virtue, joy and revelry. I try to catch the thoughts, I try to hold on to them long enough to write. But, it seems, I am bound, irreversibly to a life of prose, bland and contrite. Just then, a voice rings out in the room and I turn to see my cook, standing in the doorway, gazing upon my confused look.

Oh sir, what will it be, your choice,
For today’s lunch – will you have rotis or will you have rice?
I am your humble servant, please get me a cell phone,
And a connection, some decent clothes and a cycle so I may roam.

I send him away for some Pepsi and a smoke, as I continue my attention to the musical, that was disturbed by the funny bloke. Why can’t I rhyme to save my life, I ask myself. It’s because you waste too much time, reading trash, wizards, warlocks and house-elves.

Oh Darling inspire me, I call out to the woman I love,
The woman whose touch I miss, one with whom I fit like a glove.
Inspire me enough to call out to you in your own sweet way of poems so true,
The art that I can never master, never as good as you.

I give up my mundane effort, trying not to think of my failure. I give up my childish dream of using words to lure. I am never as good as her, I can never be. Even when she writes to kill time, with effortless ease, she outshines me. I guess I will leave it here, with nothing more to come. I guess I’ll get back to my coffee and bread and dream of things to come.