Monday, October 12, 2009
I own a Blackberry.
A typical Blackberry day of mine starts at 4 in the morning.There wouldn't be any text messages I haven't read or haven't replied to because I always respond asap no matter what time it hits my device. But I will check it just one more time, just to be sure. At 12 midnight, 2 in the morning, while I am taking an afternoon power nap, I would get up and diligently answer everyone except the frequent adverts on free credit cards and the discount sales at the Armani Exchange. No body is ignored. I try to go back to sleep; but I am awake, looking up at the ceiling, bleary eyed.
I used to meet friends, have a beer, talk about family, work, women. But now conversation is different if the guy I am talking to owns a blackberry. We end up talking Blackberry. We share wicked jokes on the "storm" and the "curve". We exchange insane ring tones and sleazy mms all the time glancing at the others in the pub, wondering if they would all die one day missing all the Blackberry fun. We feel proud that we "have" and they "havent". We feel sorry for them and order another beer.
The story isn't any different in the restaurant. I never order pasta because it would mean using two hands to coax that food down your throat; which means that until I am done eating, my Blackberry would be out of the warmth of my palm,left alone, cold in the air conditioned solitude of the dining room.I would rather suck pasta till I am red in my face.
Official meetings can be slow death if you have a Blackberry on silent mode. Every vibration quickens your pulse rate and pulls you agonizingly through the blackberry-withdrawal-symptoms. My fingers twitch to check those life-saving text messages. My heart yearns to answer that call from a bored friend waiting for a taxi.And once the meeting is over, I pull out my Blackberry and Richard Marx sings "right here waiting for you" right into my soul.
I have recently noticed that my right thumb looks a wee bit larger than the left thumb. There are some parts of my right palm that feel slightly different than before. I feel an occasional fake vibration in my right trouser pocket even when the Black berry isn't there.
I facebook at funerals. I text while making love. I browse when I work, not at work, at home, not at home, when i am breathing.
I do not own a Blackberry. Blackberry owns me.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
As a kid I dreamt of becoming a crime fighter one day. To be a daring cop When I grew up. The dreaming part was done in all its intensity but I screwed up the growing up part. When I was in my 9th grade, my younger sister was atleast 2 inches taller than me. I over took her only 2 years later. But the growth spurt stopped right there.What ever it took to grow further, I had a short supply of it, by default. I hung from tree branches, drank horlicks, did stretching exercises, dreamt a lot more; but.....the scale froze at 5'6".
The tragedy did't stop there. Soon I found out that my 5' something frame was incapable of putting on weight, no matter how much I ate. I could run my fingers over the mirror reflection of my ribs and still count them accurately.I was a nutritionist's nightmare.
There was no chance of me becoming a cop. They will never have a khaki uniform that will fit me. I might even become the first cop to die of a gun shot recoil.
My best friend Thomas was a big guy for his age. T-shirts always looked good on him while I looked like a coat hanger holding it up while wearing one. I decided to find out what did it take to be like him.
Thomas was aiming a stone carefully at a bunch of ripe mangoes in our neighbour's yard when I presented my first question."Thomas, do I look skinny?"
He took his squinting eyes off the mangoes, looked at me without changing that expression, gave me a look-over and snorted; "You don't look skinny. You ARE skinny".
That answer was not going to help me at all. So I continued in a sterner voice; "Thomas,I want to be fat...like you".
Thomas threw the stone at the mangoes, missed, grunted, looked back at me and said; " I am not fat you lizard, but you are a skeleton and you screwed up my shot!".
I was convinced that Thomas just grew up with out having any clue as to why he is fat and how he could be of some help to someone who was an aspiring fatso. I ate one mango more than Thomas just to irritae him. I ate less for dinner that night.
It was a few more years later that I decided to study karate. I had two objectives behind this venture; 1) gain some respect from the bullies in the high school 2) try and see if I could gain some weight during the process.
The first objective was partially successful; the second was never a possibility; which lead to me to join a gym. I sweated buckets in both the places but never gained a kilo. But soon I found that I had a great effect on people when ever I talked to them, in the Gym.
I couldn't go near the muscled hunks in the Gym. They always pretended that they couldn't see me. One of them would just walk past me, bang his big shoulder into my bony chest, send me flying to a weight rack, look back at me and say "sorry" and would continue to do the same thing th very next day.I hated them.
Then there were the skinny guys just like me and most of the time, slightly better of than me. I saw a smile on their faces and empathy in their eyes. That was the last thing I needed; two skinnies trying to console eachother. There was no positivity in that relationship. I hated them.
Then there the real biggies. The buckets of lard who wore XXL T shirts and formed sweat pools on the Gym floor. I watched them with fascination as they panted, howled, heaved, straining under their own weight. When they took breaks in between, I watched them from the corner of my eyes, like a school kid looking at a beached whale.
I would never forget the day when I talked to one of those guys. He was comepletely gassed out and looked like he could do with some encouragement. I put my hand on his shoulder and said this much; "Look, I was once like you.Just keep going buddy! You can do it. Here, let me show you how to work those glutes".
He was my first fan. I soon started loving going to the Gym because I knew that there would be this group of extra-large extra attentive guys who would listen to every word I uttered and did what I told them to do. Skinny does it at times!
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
I was half way across the road when I saw her in a car, passing by, so close. I crossed the otherhalf a lot more slower. Slow enough for One guy to stop his car and give me that universal finger sign. I just smiled, holding my bi cycle, one handed....
Sitting in my class, I stared at the lecturer and noticed that she too had dimples like the girl I saw in the car. I didn't hear a single word said that day but I heard the faint whistle of air as it rushed past an open window, carrying in the smell of the first rain....
Against my habit, next day morning I gave my rusty bicycle a hurried wash and waited at the road side, hoping to catch another glimpse of the girl in a car. It was drizzling. After an hour and a half, I left feeling quite stupid,wet but still hoping...
Badminton with the guys in the evening didn't feel all that nice and I just wanted it to be morning again. I slept late and dreamt of a car that had crept into my porch at night...and woke up in a sweat...It was still raining.
Days passed by and then one day I saw her in my college on the stairs. I coudlnt believe my eyes. My knees wobbled, my heart missed a beat and I suddenly wished if I had my favourite shirt on...
It took months, patience, luck, perseverance, fate, planning, cunning, drama, suspense...and a thriller..but not exactly in the same sequence before we could sit and have a coffee together. Coffee had never tasted sweet like that before...
Time put on spurrs and took flight before I knew that a year had come to its end. It was my last year in college. The last few days...
The stairs were empty and we were alone with each other. There weren't any words but just the dreadful feeling of losing it all soon....and then she leaned over and kissed....
That night i reached home, ran up the door, opened the stairs, said my pajamas and put on my prayers - turned off my bed, tumbled into my light.....God! that first kiss on the stairs!....
I never saw her again. It hurt for a long time. Years later somebody stole my bicycle. Few more years later somebody else stole my heart.. again. And many years later, it happened again..and again...I think I got used to it.
I was half way across the road yestarday when I saw her in a car. But it can't be her. She was driving. She didn't have dimples. She looked old. She looked bored. She looked familiar though. But it can't be her.
I crossed the rest of the road faster and almost walked into a car. The driver honked his horn. I gave him that universal finger sign. He smiled....I didn't.
Day before yesterday. 6 pm. The little bird wanted to cross the road; not because it was ingrained in its DNA. It wanted to, bec...
The forwarded mail was inflamed with just anger and indignation. The one who sent it and the ones who saw it before me had entered their na...