My Flatmate Goes on a Date ðŸ˜‚

Accounts of a disaster.

My flatmate, the Kota Guy, is seeing a girl these days. Today they went on a date. Or whatever it was. 
Let me give you a nice little prologue here. A few days ago, he dropped in my room and began telling me about this girl on whatsapp who wouldn’t blink an eye before forty billion Goodnight exchanges. 

“I went to sleep at 4 in the morning. “He said. His eyelids were the first victims of a freshly brewing love story. 

It reminded me of Heer, so I told him about her. No personal details, just the story. Five minutes into it and he was bawling with laughter. I narrate my tragedies very well I guess. It wasn’t even that funny, I mean you already know how shit happens, you just have to add humour to it. 

“Did you get something in the end? “He asked, seemingly excited. He meant if I fucked her. 

“We kissed. “I said, “on her ex-anniversary. ”

God! Is that even a word!?

He gave me a puzzled look, so I told him about the shit that happened on 19th February 2016. 

He told me he was going to meet his whatsapp girl soon. And that he really wanted to fuck somebody. 

“You could go to Qutub Minar. Nice romantic place. “I suggested, imagining Heer and myself plodding through the quiet graveyards. 

“It’s very far. “He said the other day. 

“It’s worth going. “I said, “You don’t have to worry. It closes at 5 pm. No safety issue. ”

He didn’t seem too happy about it. 

“I’ve asked her for a night out. Chances are less that she’ll accept, though. “He said. “We shall go to CP, probably. ”

Ah, the CP. Such a shame people would choose those glitzy blocks in place of beautiful rotting monuments. I mean you can go have your pretentious little dinner in an air-conditioned hall with fancy tables and fancier walls, but you can never feel the love you do while walking under the bowers that have witnessed a million love stories for more than 800 years..

If I ever go out with a girl again, it will be these royal ruins where we shall head to. 

Anyway, my flatmate did go on a date, that’s what I thought when he left the flat. I had already given him a few do’s and don’t’s, and he had repeatedly said he wasn’t looking for a relationship. 

“Tell me, Barbossa, how can I ask for sex on the first date? “He had asked. I imagined him in a little box on Republic tv, already branded anti-national and anti-women and anti-matter and anti-whatever by Arnab Goswami. 

I was sick of writing assignments so I thought I should have some fun. I googled dating tips for men and sent him half a dozen screenshots and links.

see, how I care for people!
Despite everything, there was a teeny tiny possibility..
In case……

 Then, I went back to doing my assignments. 

He dropped in in the evening, and said,

“She almost saw that shit. ” referring to my messages. 

“How did it go? “I asked. He began looking for a word to describe the experience, however, couldn’t come up with anything satisfying. 

“I saw the tips. And I realised I was doing exactly the opposite of what men are supposed to do on dates. ”

“Did you crack some jokes? “I asked. 

“Yeah. Lame ones. “He said. 

“Like? ”

“Like I told her have you ever wondered that CP sounds like ‘see pee’? ”

He told her what!   

“Oh my God! That’s terrible. “I said, shell-shocked.

“That’s what she said. ”

“I mean it’s so terrible that..that…ughh it’s not even a joke, it’s a joke’s death. “I retched and laughed for a solid 15 minutes, wondering if the girl would ever go out with him again. 

“The worst part is that I had practised that joke. ”

“And when she asked me if I played sports, I told her I play chidiya ud. ”

I nearly fell off my chair laughing. I wanted to ask him if he got laid, but I thought I already knew the answer. He laughed too. 

“What did you guys talk about? ”

“The same shit as yours. About her ex-boyfriend. “He said, “She kept telling me about this ex-boyfriend of hers she was very good friends with. They dated for about 3 years and stuff. Then she told me about this cute boy she dated yesterday. ”

At this, I sprang off my chair. 

“Dated when? ”

“Yesterday. She said he was a cute boy. “He said. 

“Oh my God. “I looked at him with wide-opened eyes, “I thought nothing could nullify your lame jokes but this so does. ”

I asked him if he was sure they were on a date and he shrugged his shoulders. Poor guy! Now I knew for sure they didn’t fuck. Had the Kota Guy followed my advice and took her to Qutub Minar and saved himself from being an unfunny comedian, he would have definitely scored. Hell, I had sent him stepwise guides to approach a woman. There was guaranteed success at the end of it. People don’t listen to my advice. Disappointing people. 

“After a point, I didn’t even know what I was doing. I felt like a dumb person.  She said she had never been to CP but she kept showing me the shops and lanes. Starbucks, Cafe Coffee Day, big words. Those fuckers charge 40 bucks for water. Can you imagine? ”

I could. Even though I am generally poor, I am familiar with the 40 bucks water thing. 

“I ate chicken, though. It costed 260 bucks. “He groaned. 

“It was bad I suppose. ”

“Barbossa, I will have to work on my jokes. “He said. “Chuck it. I will ask her directly if she is interested in fucking. We had a little sex chat, by the way. ”

Okay, that got me hooked. I asked him to elaborate the whole conversation and he said,

“She asked me if I knew they played porn at Rajeev Chowk metro station a few months ago. ”

I puckered my face to show my disgust. That’s not what you call a sex chat. Hell, that’s not even an information. That’s…that’s just shit. 

I wondered if I should suggest him a cigarette date, but then, decided against it. Some things are better kept secret. 

(Have I ever told you about this world-famous cigarette date I went on?) 
Anyway, the date, or whatever it was, was an epic disaster. And as my flatmate confessed, the chicken was more pleasing than the chic. And also, if you’re really interested, he did not get laid. 

Latest Fad on Facebook 

sarahah and stuffs… 😑

When I imagine my Facebook wall, I imagine diversity. I imagine a Hindu Extremist screaming for a Temple, I imagine Cricket fanatics fighting over the greatness of Dhoni and Kohli, I imagine a new unfunny Sarcasm post, I imagine my friend’s girlfriend’s feminist and why-you-should-consider-yourself-lucky-if-you-are-a-Bengali posts. I also imagine Shashi Tharoor’s jibes, Kumar Vishwas’s poems, Leonid Afremov’s landscapes, all painting my wall in a mural of diversity. I love variety. I love the whole color palette, and not just one. 

So when everybody went crazy and started sharing sarahah.com posts, it pissed me off. If there’s one thing I hate about social medias, it’s the Indonesian Forest nature of this medium. Light a match and acres shall burn. The diversity of my ecosystem has been compromised because of this godforsaken app. And what does it even do? Well, it lets you message people anonymously. Or so they say. I don’t know why anyone would say anything to anyone anonymously, unless you are discussing Formicophilia or something. Some people say it’ll urge people to confess, but I’d rather stick with the school of thought that says it’ll encourage cyber-bullying. Not because I have really done a case study on this, but because I don’t want it to disrupt my peace. 

From AIB to stupid friends of mine, from hot girls to intellectual ones, everyone’s hooked to sarahah.com. Everyone’s asking everyone to go drop a question and know them inside out. What the hell! 

Recently, I’ve observed this tendency of social medias. The tendency to make things viral, the tendency to make momentary crackerworks. Fire, explode and extinguish. Poof! Right from the sky you drop, a single speck of dust, a tiny grey ash, you float, struggle for flight, yet another ascent, but you only fall…. This is the dark truth of social media, and the only thing it reflects is our nature. The people who’d stick to anything fancy. The people who’d share the same shit over and over and then forget all about it. Of course you can’t keep all the junk inside your mind, but you don’t have to swallow the junk in the first place. 

Ughh. What I’m saying is it’s fine for me if sarahah.com makes you wet in the groin, everybody’s got fetishes, you don’t have to fill my home with those stuffs. Just post your normal bullshitry. Don’t ask me to message you anonymously and ask for something. Because there’s nothing I can’t ask with a face that I can without a face. 

 Alright. I think I should go on a vacation. Damn social medias. 

Diseases of My Life

Beautiful idle thoughts…

1

I had scarlet marks on the shoulders, so I wondered if I should be worried. The reason I was reminded of those was that I was half-naked, sweating in my chair, observing things so that my brain doesn’t collapse into dysfunction. The fan had stopped due to power cut and my Samsung Galaxy J2 had almost slipped into unconsciousness. It was sweltering hot and I started following my sweat beads out of boredom. Then, I noticed the marks. Red as molten prenatal daggers. Then, I decided to use up the remaining 11% of my phone’s charge and as I was flicking through the web, I googled my symptoms. 
Five signs that you have cancer – It said. 
Fuuuuuck.

It’s still okay – I thought, at least it’s not in my testicles. Yet. I don’t have a problem with cancer, but I’d rather not have it. There’s nothing romantic about cancer unless you’re kissing Shailene Woodley in front of 50 people in Anne Frank’s house. 

Talking about cancer, my mother would probably take that deal. Once she got a 6000 buck test and the reports declared – everything‘s normal. She was so disappointed she went for a second opinion which costed another fortune and gave the same result. 

She then called Goldy’s dad, who is a chemist but who my mother has more faith in than she has in a doctor, and asked if there was, by any chance, a teeny tiny possibility of her having a disease. He said no, but my mother insisted so he asked her to take pomegranate juice twice a day.

“Didn’t I tell you? There was something wrong with me. “She told us later. 

Anyway, I dismissed the very possibility of cancer. Why?
2. 

I read horoscope. There are only so many things you can do while taking a dump. I used to listen to radio, but since the birth of jio, I usually browse through news and stuffs. I read horoscopes too. Horoscope of today, of the year 2020, and which career suits my personality, and if a Sagittarius, by any chance, is the ideal match for a Capricorn. It never mentions death. Never says – Blah Blah Blah, and oh, maybe you’re dying today. It talks in hints. A few years ago, the newspaper horoscope asked me, for a whole month, to be careful on the road. Then, there was this Facebook post that promised to foretell exactly how one was going to die. The person had to type his name along with a few random letters and post it as a comment. 

When I did it, it suggested accident as the cause of my death. 

I have been so careful on roads since then. I avoid busy roads and walk on the extreme left of the footpaths. Sometimes you’d even find me in the hedges by the sidewalk, hacking my way through, plodding carefully to avoid any truck that might be running in the bushes. With trucks, and Salman’s driver’s car, you can’t take any chances. A National Highway runs through my city and the newspapers often publish the reports of entire huts getting trampled by insane trucks, killing everybody inside. Imagine you are cooking Biryani in your home and an 8-wheeler drops out of nowhere and squashes you like a lemon. That’s a nasty way to die. At least you get to see a hospital in cancer, and your body remains intact, in a single piece. As my stars suggest, when I die, I’d probably be lying in pieces, bloodied and cold. 

So I had to dismiss cancer. 
3. 

When I decided I didn’t have cancer, I felt kind of lonely. I am so single that even a disease won’t go out with me. Roads reminded me of Heer, and something crossed my mind, and this was the funny thing. I would always ask her to get on my left when we were walking. I thought it would be safer for her. The bikes would often graze my sleeve, and I’d almost wet my pants, but I’d keep her on my left anyway. 

Things you do for love!

Thinking of her made me even sadder. I needed to eat. When I’m sad, I eat in tonnes. I wanted to be locked with food, and AC. 

I was drenched now. Delhi is a shitty place, I tell you. And if you ever build a house make sure you don’t build it like my apartment. The heat was unbearable, so were the memories. 

I thought about Doctor and all the possible dots on earth where she could be. I was bored so I typed her name on Google and clicked search. It talked about the word origin and its meaning and NGOs by her name. I memorized the names and purpose of a few organizations. 

Things you do for love!

Happy Friendship Day ðŸ˜‘

I don’t know why I wrote this. 😂

See, I have no problem with people celebrating fancy days – it’s their constitutional right, as is uploading dog-filtered photos on social media. But I too have a constitutional right – to not participate in this circus. It has nothing to do with nationalism or whatever, for I don’t celebrate Holi or Eid either. It’s just that, as a person, I don’t like celebrating festivals or events. Except for Diwali. Because it’s much more than a festival – it’s a metaphor, it’s a poem, it’s blinking lights under dark sky. I mean don’t you see!

So it was a pretty tough morning when all of my social media apps went crazy. My phone went on a buzzing spree and I felt an urgent desire to bid farewell to the wordly pleasures and start for Himalayas. There, I’d don saffron and sit for penace. Then, I’d be distracted by a heavenly angel and we’d end up exploring each other inside those caves. How amazing! 

Happy Friendship Day – the photo said in fancy fonts. These people didn’t even care to write a message, they just forwarded the whole goddam photo which had been doing rounds from one person to the other. I imagined them clicking share on their screen and choosing select all when it displayed the contacts. It made me madder. So, how much do you mean it when you send me that photo or GIF? Do you even give a fuck about me for the rest of the 364 days? 

So I did the same. I typed the text same to you and then pasted it everywhere. That was all. 

Safarnama : Qutub Minar #1

The prologue to the Qutub Minar visit.

It had been pouring all morning. The rain pelted down like Spartan arrows, and as whatsapp texts swore, the lower half of Shyam Lal College was already drowned. Some of my friends though, despite the torrent, had travelled all the way from Rohini and Nangloi to Shahdra to attend college, but now they sat with sullen faces, playing Balloon Pop in their generous smartphones, waiting for the rain to go ebb away.

the rain…

Rohit dropped in at around 10 am, followed by two more people. We set up the chessboard and played a few boring games. It was decided that we would take a day off, but sitting idle only wakes up the wanderlust inside Rohit, and so, he came up with this great idea,

“Let’s go somewhere. Qutub Minar? ”

It took me some time to make up my mind. Lazybones! After I prepared myself for a long drenched day, I started calling everyone. A few of them said it was pouring in buckets and they hated rain and everybody should hate rain because rain brings flood and that we should drop our plans. As you know, every adventure comes with a bout of hitches. There were plenty in this one too.

Two of them didn’t have a metro card, so, as we reached Welcome Metro station, we went upto this vending machine to get the tokens. They put the money in and waited for the tokens to drop.  But the machine was a bit of a runt – it won’t take anything but fresh crisp notes. Some billion light years later, it took pity on us and accepted the note. But didn’t release the tokens. 

“What the fuck! “They shouted together. The screen promised that it was processing the transaction, so we stood by, waiting patiently, wondering if it was Mishra that should be blamed for the ordeal. Mishra is a jinx – once he had accompanied us to the zoo and it turned out that they kept it closed on Fridays. 

“That’s not fair. “Mishra protested. “You should have known zoos are closed on Friday. ”

Nobody believed him. 

The crowd behind us was growing fretful with time. 

We called the staff and he pretended to study the screen carefully. 

“There’s a countdown. “He pointed at the upper right corner of the screen where infinitesimal numbers were decreasing every second. “Wait for it to finish. ”

And so, we waited. It was just a 90 second wait, but when you have a digital clock making you aware of the existence of every single second, the wait becomes a billion years long. The tokens dropped back, eventually. And we took the train and reached Kashmiri Gate at around 12:00pm. 

There, we met Shivam, and as the train arrived, we jostled through the crowed to bag a seat. Three of us got the seats, one being Mishra. It was a long journey, so we spent it playing the game How-Jinxed-Mishra-Is? Everybody started throwing their ideas, and somebody said Mishra is such a jinx that when he visits a haunted house, the ghosts rush to the priests to get themselves cleansed with Holy Water.

On the way, it started raining again. The train stopped at a bridge, from where all we could see were wet lush green trees and a dense valley, and it seemed we had been teleported to a hillstation.

the panoramic view from the train…

 

It was a beautiful stillness, and the only thing that budged was raindrops on the window pane.

all we could see was green…

 The train started again, and the rain grew stronger by the time we stepped onto the platform. We clicked a few selfies on the metro, and then exited the station. We waited outside for some time,waiting for it to go slow, but it never did. 

“Maybe we should take an auto. “Hemant suggested. I didn’t know of a way to fit 7 people in an auto, so I wondered if one of us will have to sit on the lap of one of us. When I was a kid, I sat in a jeep on the lap of this uncle of mine. A few seconds later, I felt something hard beneath my butts. (No I wasn’t raped). I hate to sit on men’s lap since that day, though. 

outside the metro….

We waited for some time, and when the rain slowed down, Mishra walked out and we followed him. It was a mistake, because seventeen steps later, it started sheeting down. We ran, completely deficient of a strategy. I was sure we were running for an auto, or some cover, but a minute later, I realised we had left behind all the autos and were still galloping aimlessly down the road for some heavenly reason. 

“What are we doing? “I screamed.

“Following Mishra. “Shivam shrugged his shoulders. 

A minute later, Mishra stopped beneath a small tree. Everybody else stopped as well. I peered out into the distance, wondering if we had reached the Qutub Minar. Was Mishra jinxed enough to displace Qutub Minar from its place?  Mishra looked at us in utter confusion, we looked at each other in utter confusion. 

“What the hell just happened? “I asked. 

“Were you guys following me? “Mishra asked, baffled. “I was just looking for a shelter. “He explained. I was so apoplectic I felt like punching Mishra. I ran for cover, and everybody followed me this time. People are fool, they will follow you for anything. 

We found a shelter, a roof above a flight of steps, and sat there, watching the rain come down like magic, dipping the world in lush green. 

The board above us read – Sulabh Shauchalaya

To be continued

Raincoat : movie

One of the best Bollywood has ever produced. 💕

Not all artworks have to be a Leonid Afremov landscape, some can be bland, simple, and yet moving and beautiful. Welcome to the world of Mannu and Neeru, and the drab dark room littered with antique pieces and furniture in the most unaesthetic way – something that would give Sanjay Leela Bhansali the cringe of a lifetime – and the conversation they have, and the soul wrenching sacrifices they make for each other towards the end. It’s not an epic fantasy created with a budget of over 500cr, nor is it a chic flick drowned in Arijit’s sentimental singles, with a forcefully patched tragedy in the end. It’s what a movie is supposed to be – a moving story. And just that. No glamour, no cheap crowd pleasing tactics, no sex scene, no hero, no villain, no posh location, no overthehead dialogues, no overacting, no stupid climax and no pointless background music. Written and directed by Rituparno Ghosh, Raincoat is a bittersweet tale of unrequited love, that surpasses its contemporaries by miles and miles in terms of tugging the heartstrings. It’s a masterpiece. 

I don’t want to spoil it for you but I so feel like doing it. I mean you just have to tell everybody when you’ve seen a really good movie. Ughh. Go watch it for its hidden inner beauty.

Caveat : If you are one of those people who’d go for a movie only because they want an escape from their boring life, so a 2 hour entertainment packed Salman Khan movie is just perfect, then please do humanity a favour and don’t watch it. Also, don’t watch it with your girlfriend/boyfriend. 

Watch it only if you’re hungry for a good story, and if you don’t get pissed off by just-one-godforsaken-location and the entire-movie-is-composed-of-goddam-conversations-only. 

Short synopsis : Mannu (Ajay Devgan) is in dire need of money as he has no job and he wants to start a business. So he goes to Calcutta to ask for some financial assistance from his friends. Neeru (Aishwarya Rai), his love/friend/ex-half girlfriend (whatever), also lives in Calcutta with her husband. On a beautiful rainy day, he pays her a visit. And then they start to talk. As the movie unfolds, they go on lying to each other and also discovering new things about each other, about the present that’s so much different and unexpected. There are colorful flashbacks to the past, which are diametrically opposite to the color pallette of the present. The present is shown within closed windows and dark walls, while the past is drenched in colors of Bhansali’s scale. This contrast, which is unusual as flashbacks are often in sepia, gives you lumps in the throat. The masks they wear in front of each other are finally undone, but not in each other’s presence. The second half slowly tears your heart and the ending gives it the thud of a lifetime. 

I won’t say much. Just go watch it. It’s a simple, beautiful, innocent, poignant love story.

A Day in the Bank

Yes. There was a girl.

A few days ago, I had to visit the SBI office in my city to report a minor bug in my message alert facility. Given the triviality of the issue, I thought dressing up would be a bit too much. So I just slapped my face with water and touched my hair a bit. I haven’t had a shave for two months, and I looked like a person you would rather stay away from on the subways. I wore the same short pants and shirt I was wearing a few weeks ago when I ran into Doctor. If you really want to know, I wasn’t somebody a girl would masturbate to. 

“You know what, sometimes I wonder if you’re adopted. “Said my mother, who never leaves the door without wearing eyeliners and lipsticks and Shehnaz Hussain 24 Carat Gold Facial Kit. 

I went in, and to my surprise, there were a few hot girls waiting in the chairs. Tight black clothes in the month of July – they must have been aliens for pulling off this – and no hint of sweat. They kept moving their head around aimlessly, presumably bored with the unending wait. Their eyes would pass through me as if I was invisible. Sometimes I wonder if girls have an auto-reject button inside their brains. They spot you and then totally ignore your existence. I touched my beard – it felt no different than pubic hair – and wondered if I had made a mistake. 

I went ahead towards the counter and oh my God! There she was, A Goddess in glasses! Parrot green suit, parrot green specs, and a face made out of snowflakes. She was a girl you see in movies, beautiful and intelligent and oh my God. I started to sweat profusely. I felt like running back. How I wished I had been to a salon before dropping here! 

I moved back a few steps and turned around. I cleared my throat and whispered to myself, 

“Ahhmm..Excuse me miss. ”

No. That’s too cocky.

“Ahhmm..Mam. ”

Are you going to ask her a calculus doubt? 

“Ahhmm…”

Stop coughing for Santa’s sake. 
“Hey listen. ”

She’s not your clingy ex.

“Ummm..”

Confused moron.

“Uh. ”

Dumb fuck.

“Argghh. ”

Goon.

“Fuck. ”

Molester.

“Okay. Okay. I’ll just go and speak whatever comes out of my mouth. ”

That’s always landed you in trouble. 

I switched off the other-me and turned back to walk upto her. I stopped at a glass door and pretending to be a curious art lover who just hit upon a masterpiece, started checking my hair. As already mentioned, I was invisible to the girls. As I was fixing my hair, trying to give those frail strands artificial erections, I saw two ugly eyes staring at me through the glass door. 

“What the fuck! “I flinched. A short round face, pencil mustaches and tired sunken eyes. He looked like someone with a terminal disease – so like myself, only older by a thousand years. I glared back at him for a good 30 seconds and then I looked above at the small plate on the door. 

Manager – it said. 

I slid away like Tom the cat. 

I went to the angel at the counter, who had defied the concepts of blackheads, pimples and dark circles long ago, and who was waiting just for me. She would have been 5 years older at most, and I was sure that that wasn’t much of an age gap to start a family together. You see, when girls say, “Boys just care about sex ” they are wrong. They have been with wrong guys all the time. If you go out with me, I will treat you with all due respect, like those polite males in Ekta Kapoor serials. We could have sex – umm, make love – every Holi, blitzed out by Bhaang, with the most romantic chartbusters in the background, as a result of a conspiracy planned by your nemesis or something. Wait, getting back to the subject, there she was and there I was, a transparent yet impermeable glass between us, and how amazing she looked… All those stupid ions in my body started having their own Hedron Collider experiments. 

“Yes? “She said. 

Will you marry me? – I almost blurted out, but I told myself to maybe start with the basics first. How about a

“I am facing difficulties with my registered number. Could you help me? ”

Wow! That was easy peasy. 

“Write an application. Get a xerox copy of your id proof. “She said. So romantic! I imagined our babies playing with debit cards and singing SBI theme songs in their cribs. So nice! Hunky dory. 

Hmmm. I had written applications before. But in all those applications, I was either terribly sick or had to attend my relatives’ marriage ceremony. Why don’t they ever teach you the actual applications you’ll need to write?

I googled and Google helped me without a hiccup. I wrote the application as if I was designing my tombstone epitaph, making swirly Ys and all, and it took me half an hour to write it full. I was sure she’d be impressed – I had devoted my entire artistic experience to this boring job, so it was only fair of me to assume she would get my handwriting xeroxed and save it in her secret album. Boy, was I confident? 

I erected my hair again.

And strutted upto her with full confidence.

She saw my application and yawned. She covered her mouth with her slender porcelain fingers and said,

“Get it signed by the manager. ”
“The who? “I asked, just to make sure I heard it right.
“The manager. There. “She pointed to the office I had found my older version in. Damn.

The manager had a good look at me once I went in. He interviewed me like Chanakya IAS academy does to UPSCE aspirants. And then he asked me to go fill the Net Banking form. 

All in all, it took about 3 hours. By the time I got the kit from the gorgeous lady, I was a miserable heap of sweat, not sure anymore if she’d still go out with me.