Tuesday, April 24, 2018

Red, Yellow and Stinky

The Red. The Yellow. The Stinky.

They were cushions. On the same sofa. Each one looked different, they were placed different. They also smelled different.

Red was of course red and round, with some silly thread like lace attached around the outer edge. Yellow was yellow, square and bigger, and carried the burn from a cigarette proudly like a battle-scar. Stinky had an obscure color, much like drainage water and smelled almost like it. Part of its entrails were always hanging out like someone did a partial disemboweling. They lived on the same sofa. So close, so alike and so very different.

Their conversations were usually centered around who (or at times what) sat on them. Work place chatter was not different with the three. There were complaints, foul language and some occasional sobbing. Red was usually angry and foul mouthed. Yellow was apathetic and had a wicked sense of humor. Stinky was a cry baby and was suicidal according to Red.

Friday. It was an exceptionally bad day for Red and it was foaming at the mouth. This usually happened around early Friday mornings. 4 am to be precise.

Thursday evening is when an expatriate calls together his/her tribe and tries to find meaning for their existence through war cries, in a plate of fried chicken, at the bottom of liquor bottles. The program usually goes on till next day early morning until one by one, everyone falls asleep.

The guy wearing only a skirt (?) had buried his face in Stinky. A drool approximately 10 cm long had partially dried across Stinky. Stinky, who harbored DNA from another 100 odd people on him, wasn’t pleased but had given up a long time ago to complain. Red, on the other hand was yelling profanity at another guy who was fully clothed but had involuntarily urinated on Red. “Get off me, you dead punctured pencil di*k”. Only the voice was heard. Red was somewhere under the vast expanse of humanity wearing the world’s largest boxer shorts. Yellow was comparatively in a better position and had the best spot in the room. Someone had picked up and flung Yellow high up in the air under a schnockered fit of energy and had it stuck on a ceiling fan. The ceiling fan was still rotating very slowly. Yellow felt giddy.

But Yellow couldn’t help listening to the profanity arising from under the boxer shorts.
“Red, is that you talking, or is that guy’s arse? It all sounds the same, me think!”
“It would, if you were here too, you prick. In fact, you belong here. Matches your color”, retorted Red.
“What a time to discriminate against color!” mumbled Stinky, trying not to breathe in the drying drool.

There were more people in the room. One snored like a spluttering genset. Another had his mouth open and a house fly buzzed around it, as it was afraid to go in. There was a dead fly inside the open mouth. Figures.

The clock struck 10. The guy in a skirt jumped up and broke his drool-connection with Stinky. He looked around through wilting eyes and wrinkled his nose at the boxer shorts. The smell of urine was apparent. He got up, adjusted his skirt, lifted a leg and ripped a lengthy one. The boxer shorts lifted a head in the opposite direction and asked, “Who?”
“You meant WHAT, fatass”, muttered Yellow from above.

The sound of flatulence worked like an alarm clock and slowly human forms got off from their resting places. Red let out a cry. He was soaked in urine. Stinky was laughing at Red’s predicament.
“Ha ha ha…finally they found some use for your sorry ass!”

The guy with the open mouth looked up and saw Yellow doing his rounds on the fan. He climbed on to a coffee table and retrieved Yellow. The big guys in the boxer shorts was looking apologetic was trying to explain something to the guy in the skirt. Others also had joined the conversation. The big guy had Red in front of him pressed against the area wet with his own pee. Stinky was still laughing at Red. The big guy got up, snatched Yellow from the other guy and stuck him to his posterior. Stinky sounded hysterical with laughter.

 “You got it all covered in between you, don’t you guys!...Ha ha!”

That’s when the guy in the skirt snatched Stinky and puked his guts out on to it.

Red & Yellow (in chorus): You didn’t get all covered dude. He forgot the corners!

Sunday, February 4, 2018

What's on your mind!

(pic credit: www.giopetrucci.com)

Facebook asks you all the time; “what’s on your mind?”

It is not mandatory to answer. If you got shit on your mind, don’t speak a word.

It’s also ok not to reveal everything about you and take away the suspense; because Facebook isn’t your diary. There is some stuff that is better off when it is off the Facebook.

For instance…

You don’t have to check in every time you change your seat. For eg: this uncaring world isn’t really concerned about you checking in to 
the neighborhood grocery store. Well..even if it’s in the Bahamas. It doesn’t tax anybody’s brains to guess what you would be doing in a grocery. Unless you robbed the frickin shop; in which case, you should perhaps not tell anyone that you were there.

Stop being a cry baby. It doesn’t paint a very smart picture of you when post “Oh I hit my shin against the sofa!”…accompanied by a mobile phone click that shows a leg, 5 inches above the knee. Girl, we know what you did there!  Or..”Oh I’ve got the flu”... accompanied by a snotty face, looking like you just delivered triplets through your arse. In most cases you wouldn’t die. You didn’t, last time. Remember!

You do not approve of Jay Z’s choice of the color of the burger he bought for Aaliyah. It perhaps broke your heart irreparably. So you have what everybody else has got. An opinion. However your 120 word motivational piece titled “Men are blind” won’t make it to “movers and shakers” of the year. It sucked. It will continue to suck as long it is on your timeline. 

That server who didn’t give a third helping of the wild mushroom sauce was perhaps not the world’s best. But she doesn’t “deserve to die”. She ain’t a “bitch”. Even if she “had a fat ass”. Even if “her parents were related”. Your rant might have got 496 likes and comments such “Are you related to George Orwell!”. But it was in poor taste. A rant is a rant. Not literature.

Your kid is special. So is every other kid. “Oh lil Johnny said ga! Oh he just undid my button. He said ja. He speaks latin! He cooks his own breakfast!  Gosh…my lil 2 year old Johnny said his 1st 4 letter word today!” Well..a few years down the line he will post his own 4 letter word online. Don’t be an incessant, vain parent online. Keep it classy.

You got ditched. Most probably not for the first time too. Happened to somebody else too. Shit happens. Don’t smear that on a Facebook wall and go on a “beat-my-chest-till-I-die” mode. Talk to a real person. Call a friend. Share the grief. Stop wailing. Facebook isn’t your therapist. You are making somebody happy when you wail on Facebook.

You took a Facebook quiz and it says you are a unicorn. You took another one and it says you should be the King of Scotland and after you give up the ghost, there will be flood. Stop taking quizzes. Try scrabble. See how well you fare.

Somebody died. Perhaps someone real close. It is traumatic. You feel utterly crushed and you are in a lot of pain. Go ahead. Cry your heart out. Mourn. But if you have posted your dear one’s lifeless face and a sad emoji on Facebook, well..something else died inside you. Stop turning death in to a celebration on Facebook.

I have another thought now. But it’s ok if it’s not on Facebook. None of us are that important. 

Sunday, February 26, 2017

The Covariation model

Day before yesterday. 6 pm.

The little bird wanted to cross the road; not because it was ingrained in its DNA. It wanted to, because the grass on the other side was greener and green grass signified live worms. Or whatever lived underneath it. So, the little bird crossed the road.


The dogs were already there and were bored. They were not there for the worms. They were there because that’s where they could be what they wanted to be. They could walk on two legs; growl at the kids or raise one leg and shower the bushes. Today they wanted to do something else. That’s when they spotted the little bird. “She is asking for trouble wearing that red crown on her head”, said Dick, the short tailed one. “She is singing to herself. Must be a slut”, muttered Poke, the one-eyed dog. “She is alone”, grunted Stinky, the smallest of the group. 

The proud faces of their forefathers who had troubled a lot of birds since the beginning of time flashed through their mind. “I am a mongrel. This is cool. Here I come”, cried Stinky.

The little bird had almost reached the other side when it saw the bush, some movement and the dogs exactly in the same order. Before she could say “cluck”, Stinky pounced on her. She shrieked, feathers flew in all directions, and traffic stopped on the road.

Four plump ducks in a car, slammed on the breaks and looked out. Eyes opened wide, beaks opened wider. A teenage peacock with a large mobile phone aimed its lens at the scene in a trance. A portly bull coming back from work, stopped, looked at the scene, looked back at his watch and broke into a jog, in the same direction his horns pointed. A mentally unstable chimp begging alms, threw his coins away and darted towards the scene.

More cars stopped on the road and there were faces in the windows. Some seemed shocked, some were amused, some were impatient. Few broke into a jog and sped off after the bull. The brown fox selling popcorn on the street side, smacked its lips in anticipation of a walk-in crowd.

The chimp raked a hand across Stinky’s face. Poke and Dick froze to their ground; then took off like they had seen a ghost. Stinky fought back for a second; then ran after his friends. The little bird picked herself up and covered her face. She started to sob. The chimp asked awkwardly, “Got a dollar?” The little bird fainted. 

There were more mobile phones pointed in the general direction of the scene.

Yesterday. 6 pm

The television channels had expert panels discussing the story of the little bird. The psychology professor from Harvard, a tusker who had seen the industrial revolution first hand, explained the Covariation model of social behavior. The popular actress who had just returned from the Swiss Alps observed that “such things do not happen there”. The priest with long feathers and a Rolex around his thick rhino neck reminded everyone that “the dogs always go after the bone; the bone has to be careful”.

“Creatures for a cause” sat on the road and blocked traffic, blaming the government who had had a bad history in dealing with hapless birds. A minister who used an allegory that sounded like “dumb chick” and apologized on national television, shook his mane and said he forgot what he said earlier.

Today. 6 pm.

Stinky's parents had called for a press meet. They held up copies of his certificates he had earned while in college to all present. He was “Head boy” in high school and won the high jump at the inter university meet. His mother said he was always a sweetheart. His father appeared heartbroken; had quit his job abroad and came back to console his family during this time of distress. Dick and Poke were not to be found. The Police had gone to the neighboring state to look for them.

The “Youth Wings” put a bus on fire on the highway and demanded that “chivalry” should be taught as a mandatory subject in the primary classes. The Facebook campaign started by “Wings of hope” taglined #crosstheroad got 2 million followers. “Neuter the mutt”, the rap song performed by the band “Moo it” had gone viral in just one day.

I am a responsible citizen and I am above all this madness, this pettiness. I shall continue to be non-biased and nonjudgmental. I intend to continue to write and bring the world’s attention to this unfortunate incident. I will change this planet one page at a time.

Tomorrow I will be writing about “How to nail spaghetti to a darting dog’s posterior”.

Keep watching this space, fellow creatures!

Saturday, June 22, 2013

Birds and bees (originally written on May 13, 2010)

Bird: you are indeed a fast bee!

Bee: Well..gotta be one when chased by birds all the time!

Bird: I am not chasing anyone.I just ...happen to have big wings.

Bee: Every bird I meet says he has a big one. Tell me some thing new.

Bird: Like what?

Bee: Dude; dont u know anything that might impress a bee?

Bird: Ok...well..I read Paulo Coelho.

Bee: Oh yeah; when you so badly need a bee, the whole world will conspire to have a bee hive delivered 
to your nest.

Bird: Oh that reminds. I have a nest on the marina. Isn't that impressive?

Bee: Now we are talking! So..

Bird: May be I shoukdn't ask if its your place or mine...?

Bee: You are sooo naive. Anyways....marina its is.

Bird: Lets ride!


(kissing sounds)

Bird: Hmmm that was nice 


Bird: hmmmm

(more kissing sounds)

Bird: Can I just...eat you?

Bee: You naughty!!

(more sounds)

Bird: mmmmm (lights a cigarette)


Bird: Ooops...sorry!! (burp)

Bee:Bastard! you actually ate ate everything except by head! I am gonna die soon!

Bird:I am really sorry :( Guess I was hungry!!

Bee: I thought you were horny :(

Bird: I mean...are you gonna die?..really?

Bee: Seen any bee flyin around with no wings, no body..you moron?

Bird: awww

Bee: See you in hell.

( Scene fades. Cutting crew sings " I just died in your arms tonight" in the background)

Princess, Dragon, Knight. (originally written on March 7, 2010)

I am here standing between the creature and you. I play the knight tonight. 
What r u tonight?

Me? I play the damsel of uncertainty. Strong but unsure. Fun but morose. Ready but cynical.
I am the power on a leash.

That is no good. It sounds nothing like the story I've heard when I was a kid. 
Aren't u supposed to thank me now? kiss me now? Ive heard such stories a lot!

Well..you choose to hear the stories u like or u choose to remember the endings that appeal to you. 
I am sure that u never heard the one where the Princess slayed a dragon.
Stereotypes, lame plots, dull endings. Times have changes , Sire!

I am no dull ending anyways. I am the hero in all my stories. 
I refuse to destroy the hero's stereotypes.
Are u coming?

I refuse to be rescued. I can do it myself. I can rescue u for a change!

Alright, Then carry me over the burning bridge.
U think i wud b heavy? 
But again..how about the kiss?


hmm....that was..nice!

u think so?

yes. Am I heavy?


El Matador (originally written on Feb 10, 2010)

The eyes meeting from 20 feet away and the wind waiting for some one to move. The last of the tiny dust swirl settles down in its seat to watch.

I peer from under the shade of my montera. A sharp blade hidden in the red mutela's folds. An impatient hoof kicks up enough dust betraying the animal's intention.

Between us is the decision.To play, fight, flirt, or to retrace a few steps.
Between us is the distance. To cover on quick feet or to measure and stay vigil.

But first blood has already been drawn.Regardless of the spectators, the "tanda" begins. The game is on.

There is no hunter.No hunted. The roles aren't defined.

I flourish the cape and meet the beast half way through..... 

Red, Yellow and Stinky