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Insanely Inane Thoughts

If fate doesn't make you laugh, you just don't get the joke.

The Great Indian Laughter Champions

Wednesday, September 28, 2005
I have no idea why we needed to have a talent search for a laughter champion when we have the BCCI championing the cause.

Whenever the BBCI want to get something done, be it telecast rights or the right to cast, it seems to end up in the legal domain. I’ve heard rumors of the SC setting up a hotline with the BCCI so that the matters could be fast-tracked. The SC is also thinking of testing their bench strength when it comes to such issues. That it does this more often than the Indian cricket team is another issue altogether.

Yesterday, the review committee came to the conclusion that both Chappell and Ganguly should stay in the team. And it has also stated that from now on ‘performance’ was tantamount. So, were our cricketers playing gili-danda for so long? Maybe, there is going to be some accountability in team selection.

Interestingly, this clause is also applicable to Greg Chappell. I don’t know what the BCCI can do if we lose the home series with SL and SA. They had awarded Chappell a contract that would be valid till 2007. Are their chappals in store for Chappel? Only time will tell.

The only positive to come out this whole fiasco is titled in favor of the wives of the players. Finally, performance would be criterion that the players would look into.

Hair today, hair tomorrow

Monday, September 26, 2005
In India, people say 'Bacche bahgwan ke roop hote hain' (kids are like God)
In Japan, people say 'Bacche shaitan ke rrop hote hain' (yadi yadi yada Devil)

Why do I say that? Read on.
Even if you don't want to know why, read on.

If movies like ‘Ringu’ and ‘Ju-on: The Grudge’ are any indications of Japanese culture, I would have to say that they hate kids and love long hair.

Both the movies have kids as the spooky protagonists and the kids always have long hair. In fact, you can also add ‘Dark Water’ to the mix and still get the same result.

Of course, Hollywood has adapted these ideas to hit box-office gold, one might even say that Americans love to see kids with long hair and an absent sense of dental hygiene.

Another startling observation I’ve made is that Japanese ghosts love to talk. They make calls from wells and attics and warn their victims of their impending death. The victims, almost always dumb, skim over such warnings and run over to the spook’s house for a house-warming ceremony. On seeing the spooks, they end up dehydrated with the frozen look of surprise that they were actually killed.

Ghosts can be mean sometimes.

Also, since it rains so bloody much in Japan, water is an integral part of such movies. The ghosts hide in wells, live in an apartment with no plumbing or laze around in a clogged bathtub. No wonder they like to give their human counterparts the ‘in-look’ amongst ghosts.

I almost forgot to touch upon the hair bit. I do not know if premature balding is prevalent amongst Asians because never have I seen such an obsession with long, matted hair on ghosts. Why can’t they have a crew cut? Or they could have a bad-ass bald look. Imagine Samaara (of Ring fame) coming out of the TV with no hair. What an impact she would have made. It does make for an hair-raising watch, but I think it’s a little too much.

The Chatter Of Blood

Sunday, September 25, 2005
My blood talks.

Yes, it does.

It talks when hungry. It gets hungry often. The feeling is surreal at first. It whispers then. But when it talks, it's like bugs.

Yes, bugs.

It gnaws at my skin with sharp teeth. It’s got that rhythm. I want to touch it, curse it, scratch it. Talk to it.

So when it gets hungry, I talk to it. More so, my nails talk to it. It's talking now. Because of her. I curse her.

Yes, her.

She wants to me clean. Else she’d leave.

She doesn’t hear it talk. No, she doesn’t. How could she? It talks only to me. But she sees my nails talking to it. The bugs. She doesn’t like it.


I tied her. To a bed. My nails talked to her earlier. She wailed. I was louder. Cursing her. It was the blood that made me do it.

Yes, it made me.

It talks when it needs that push. A push of steel and it stops. The bugs go away. My nails need washing. I know this because I’m not cursing. I can see my skin. There are no bugs. They vanish with the talk.

Yes, they do.

But now, it talks. The bugs are gnawing. I don’t know where it is. She hid it.

Yes, she did.

She doesn’t like me talking. I can’t stop hearing it talk. It wants the push. One little push and it will stop. Most days, I never hear it because it has ten pushes.

Now it has none. I can feel the bugs coming. They are hungry. I want to scream. She is watching me. She is smiling. My nails talk to her again.

Give it to me, bitch!

She cries. I laugh. It laughs. I ask again. She cries. I laugh. It commands. I can’t bear it.

I need it!

My nails are red. She is redder. What am I doing? I shouldn’t. But I am. I ask again. She cries. I cry.

In the drawer.


I struggle with the wood. I thrash the clothes. I see it. I hold it. Touch it. I laugh.

She cries.

My blood chatters. It wants the steel. I look at her. She looks at me. I feel the steel. It’s shouting. The bugs are feasting. Then they stop. I see my nails. It needs washing. I see her. She needs me. Clean. I laugh. I can feel the tears.

It’s over.

I can hear the hum. The hum in my blood.


Saturday, September 17, 2005
“Two minutes and forty," his coach said. The boy was busy breathing so he said nothing.

“Two minutes and forty,” the coach said again. He handed the boy a towel and a drink.

“Is it good?” the boy asked, wiping away the sweat.

“It’s fast.”

The boy drank.


“I don’t want custody,” his mother said. The boy was going to bed when he heard this.

“So you'll dump him on me?”

“If you'd been smart in the first place, we wouldn’t have had this problem!”

“Blame me now.”

“I wanted to go to college but you’d to knock me up...”

The boy shut the door and went to sleep.


“Go!” his coach shouted and the boy ran. The coach punched at his stopwatch as the boy crossed the line.

“You ran well today,” the coach said. The boy was busy breathing so he said nothing.

“You ran well today,” the coach said again. He handed the boy a towel, a drink and a chocolate.


“Two minutes and twenty-seven. Faster than before.”

He bit into the chocolate.

“I’m still not fast enough,” he said.

The boy drank.

Lipstick Boy

Jared was lying on the picnic sheet, which was replete with stains of the past. There was a gentle breeze blowing across the ocean, spraying grains of sand over his wrinkled but tanned body. The wind tousled his ginger-red hair, strands of which stuck to his forehead while a few fell over the sunglasses. Others felt that Jared was fast asleep but only a few knew that sleep didn’t come easily to him.

Jared’s eyes followed his son’s playful antics by the ocean. Timothy was trying to build something that looked like a sandcastle but all it really was a pile of wet sand. The moist mud clung resolutely to his trunks before getting washed away by a wave. Timothy laughed at his friend who was staring glumly at the wrecked sandcastle. He said something to cheer up his friend, who hurled a handful of sand at Timothy before breaking into laughter.


It had been a day like this for Jared, many years back. Climbing to treetops and plucking mangoes from the orchard, playing with the family dog and not having a care in the world. His father, who used to be gone long at sea, was home that day. Jared was pleased as punch because he never got to spend time with him. He was hovering near his dad all day long, showing him his paintings and telling tales about his friends at school and home.

“Come with me, Jared,” his father said after Jared had finished talking. “I want to show you something.”

Jared walked with his father, hand-in-hand, towards the bedroom.

“What is it you want to show to me, Pa?” asked Jared, sitting on the bed, his feet dangling over the wooden flooring.

“Lie down, son. I’ll show it to you in no time.”

“Alright, Pa.”

“You are a sweetheart. You know that?”

The sheets on the bed rustled with weight.

“What are you doing, Pa?”

“You trust me, don’t you?”

“Yes, Pa. More than anything in the world.”

“You were always very special to me. I like you a lot.”

“It’s hurting me, Pa.”

“Shhh! Be quiet now, Jared. You are daddy’s brave little boy, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Pa,” Jared said, trying to hold his whimpers.

“That’s more like it. From today, you are daddy’s lipstick boy. Do you know what a lipstick boy does, Jared?”


“I’ll show you.”

In half an hour’s time, Jared was back in the orchard though his mind was still in the bedroom. Days turned into months and months into year but his mind was always there.


Timothy, who had been tugging at his trunks, snapped Jared from his reverie.

“What’s the matter, Tim?”

“I’m feeling a little hungry, Dad.”

“You want a burger?”

“Sure, Dad.”

“You want me to come with you?”

“I’ll go with Richard, Dad.”

“Are you two old enough?”

“I’m brave enough.”

Jared didn’t say anything more and handed over the money to Timothy, who was busy kicking the sand. Timothy ran towards Richard, money in hand and wind in face. Jared looked wistfully at his son and smiled, “You’re a brave little boy.”


Monday, September 05, 2005
Some of my recent posts are being sent out to various publications. Hence the lack of updates.

I'll keep you guys updated.

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