Monday, December 21, 2009
Durai: Morning.... Mister.... Robert Chettilingam.
Robert Chettilingam: Bob, Sir. And that goes to you too (at me).
Bob (changed from Robert Chettilingam): Well that's more like it.
Durai: So... Bob... What's your problem?
Bob: I appeared for a counselling conducted by your esteemed firm. I have gone through all the thorough examinations and procedures so meticulously researched by your dedicated team.
Durai: I see you have taken the special offer with which you have to endorse our services.
Bob: Oh, by gosh! Why would I have to endorse your service? It endorses itself with its quality.
Durai: Let's not oversell here Mr.Bob. Apparently, the observations made by our team, we don't advertising is the right profile for you.
Bob (sad): Oh... is it Fighter pilot, then?
Durai: No. Not a fighter pilot either. Unfortunately, a person who falls unconscious in the 12th floor of his office cannot be a fighter pilot.
Bob: I have survived 13th floor of a rather not-so-tall high rise, Sir.
Durai: Let's forget about becoming a fighter pilot Bob.
Bob: A cricketer.
Bob: A ventriloquist.
Bob: A cunnilinguist then.
Durai: First of all, that's pornographic. And second, no, that's not really your field.
Bob: Oh please, don't tell me. I know.
Durai: What are you hinting at, Bob?
Bob: I think you will deem me irrepressibly drab and boring and condemn me to the life of... a chartered accountant.
Durai: I see where that notion might be coming from. But well, it's not Chartered Accountancy either, Mister Bob.
Bob (sad): A Banker, then?
Durai: Nope. Not a banker, either.
Bob: Ok. I wave the flag of defeat. I lay down my weapons. I bow my head. I let out the pigeon. I drop my badges. I beat retreat. I fail to second guess you.
Durai: That was quite dramatic.
Bob (emphatically): An actor then! I don't want the big limelights. A day time serial or soap opera is fine for me.
Durai: Forget limelights or day time soaps. On the contrary, we think that you should be a serial killer.
Bob: A serial what?
Bob: Is it like a butcher?
Durai: No. It's like a killer.
Bob: So I kill wild animals? Like a hunter?
Durai: No. You kill human beings.
Bob: Like an executioner.
Durai: Like a murderer, Bob.
Durai: Yes Mister Bob. I think you should murder people serially.
Durai: Yes. You should find a pattern in the murders you commit. By that, we mean you cannot murder people based on random instincts, but your targets will be chosen in accordance to rules set logically, socially or politically. It is but a series that you assign to your murders. A line that connects one target to the next.
Bob: Seems like a lot of hard work.
Durai: Indeed. Indeed. But that's not the only way you can get the tag of a serial killer. You see, Mister Bob, serial killers are a notch above being ordinary murderers. It requires a careful observation of your prospective victim's behavioural patterns and an acute knowledge of socio-political schemes of the world. You will then have to choose your method of murdering.
Bob: So, it's not just hack and slash you mean.
Durai: Not at all. You have to device your specific way of putting someone to rest. It will be like your brand. Complete with trademarks and guidelines.
Bob: Hmm. This sounds quite interesting. It's almost like Marketing.
Durai: Yes. You see, you have to distinguish yourself from the rest of the killers out there. You have to carefully place enough hints on a crime scene to ensure that the investigating officers identify that the murderer is you.
Bob: But won't they catch me then?
Durai: No, Mister Bob. Your real identity will not be known to the authorities. You will have a pseudo moniker, like Stone Man or The Ripper.
Bob: Or.. or... THE CAMEL'S TAIL.
Durai: Well, it's up to your discretion really. But don't you think, the Camel's Tail is a little on the lighter side?
Bob: No. No. The Camel's Tail is exotique. It gives this very Persian hashashin kind of an air.
Durai: I see. I have to say, I do not disagree. But what will be your modus operandi?
Bob: You see, I will stab the victim initially with a pocket knife. I will ensure that they are dead and then proceed to gouge their eyes out and stuff it with camel's hair.
Durai: Great Mister Bob. I see that now you are on the right path to become a terrifying and cold serial killer. Now that the counselling has helped you, you mind presenting me the fees?
Bob: Yes. Of course, of course. But first you must take this.
Durai: Oh my God. I am your first vict.... Hey Bob. Look. A comet.
Bob: You don't fool me with that....
At about this point, life as we have known came to an end. Comet Copped struck a killer blow to Earth and wiped out all forms of life from this otherwise beautiful planet.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
The blu-ray movie collection in India is rather embarrassing. The latest blockbusters come with few features to redeem its 2000 rupees price tag. And then you get movies like Spider Man 3 for 800 rupees. I have that movie with me, and it sucks.
So I had to order the blu-ray disc from US.
It came in a rather tacky cardboard case. But I knew it was what's inside that matters.
The blu-ray has been specially converted from the film original to great effect. The scenes are stunning. The colours, more vivid than I expected. The textures are breathtakingly gorgeous. The movie just takes the visual experience to another level.
Roger Ebert had apparently mentioned that Baraka is the reason you need blu-ray. And that is a bold statement. Because, Baraka is a movie that was released in 1992. We have come a long way since then. And for Baraka to be there in the forefront of HD, is an amazing feat.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Thursday, December 03, 2009
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Monday, September 28, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Our database doesn't show any records of such a call Mr.Jack. Are you sure you called from exactly this number?
A big pin on the middle of the road??????
Well, what do I say. You can test your luck, I guess.
Road sign you mean.
No white stripes. It's a yellow road.
You gotta be kidding me. Look mister. This is not funny. I am near the mall. There's a shop here named 'Lille's'.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
"Where are the hunug begums?"
Thursday, August 06, 2009
I watch porn for sex education
I do dumb things for fun
I bark at dogs thinkin’ I’ll get a boner
I do dumb things for fun
I say yes when they ask me for my sex
I do dumb things for fun
I’m writin’ this even when I’ve topped in Physics
Coz I do dumb things for fun.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Saturday, July 04, 2009
Saturday, June 27, 2009
"He was always great."
"Yeah. He was. But I don't think he was always great. He had his downs. Ye' know what I mean."
The study had eight chairs. Actually it was only three. He didn't like too many visitors -- not in his study room anyway. That was his personal space. He always wanted one. Right from the time he was living with his folks in that dump near the railway tracks. That house had just three rooms. And his brother and sister all had to pack into that tiny room for the kids. But he always dreamt big. So when he finally made it big and had enough cash to splurge on a mansion, he insisted on a big study room.
He lined it with books. Not all of them he read, though. Being a big star in this circuit meant he had to project himself as an academician. But he had read most of them. The interesting ones. Which they were, no one had any idea.
His family pulled up the other five chairs in the study. Occasions like what they were having now called for such. His Granddad (still alive, even with a major nicotine hook) was always a little negative about him. Grans attributed his success to 'excessive luck'. His entire family was there for this meeting. From Grans to his favourite nephew Jack.
Jack was always in awe of him. He is in his early 20s now and aspires to become an actor as big as him. Talent he possesses not, but still he had starry eyes.
His Brother and Sister got settled much before he became famous. So they weren't all well off.
"He always told me that it was I who supported him the most. Remember when he returned from the screening of that movie. Which one was that dear? It didn't go down too well with the them journo kinds," said Sister.
"The Swan Brigade?" her husband helped her out.
"Yeah the swan one. He came straight to me. Said he wanted my support."
"Bah! He called me up from the theatre when that movie was screened. Was in much distress that boy then. Said, 'Grans... I don't know if I will be able to come up from this ditch.' I told him he will. And he did."
"Everyone liked him. But he always appreciated my sense of a story. Remember it was I who suggested he take the role of that cowboy. That was such a blessing for him. He thanked me for that." His Dad wasn't his biggest admirer. But he always believed that the lad inherited his talent. And his talent was mostly limited to the fake smile he gave to convince people into buying crappy cars.
"No matter what, I was his first fan. From the time he did that three scene role for Hunting's movie. I told him to take. That it will be his real break. I knew he was good. I saw all his school plays. And even Mamma hasn't done that."
His Brother's remarks failed to invite a response from his Mom. She sat quietly at the corner -- part of the discussion she was, and part she was not.
"But as the oldest in the family, I think it's rather easy deciding this. I don't have much time left myself." It was kind of weird when he said those last words. If he was least concerned about how much time he had left, he would've quit the stick long back.
"But they don't need old people. I think they need someone young. Someone who still has the same charm that he had," Jack was insistent.
"The same charm you say. How exactly do you have the same charm? You were rubbished even in that role of an extra you did. Stan told me personally that this little bugger is a black sheep of the family." His Sister never really liked Jack -- or Jack's Dad for that matter. Maybe it was sibling rivalry.
"Hey! Watch who you calling the black sheep. I am sure he will do well. He has another major role coming up," an ever-doting father his Brother was.
"Now now. We have all come here to discuss and not to fight," his Dad interfered.
"Yeah. Let's get to that," supported his Sister in fear of another rift.
"As his Dad, I think it should be I who get to go."
"Maybe Aunt Gene should go," came the voice from the far end of the study table. It was his Sister's son. Dennis was the quiet one in the family -- and he never really had an opinion. Even if he had, he never expressed it to others. But this was one time he expressed it.
There was silence all over the table. His Mamma still didn't look up. She had this white napkin clutched in her palm. She occasionally wiped her face with it. It was rather futile. There weren’t any tears. It had all dried up.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
She still had her white napkin in her hand. She clutched it ever so tightly. It had his initials on it -- 'J.K.' She had stitched that for him. He always used to sweat when he was tense. And was he tense during his first shoot. The napkin was her small gift to him. They say he always had it with him; even when he wasn't tensed. People thought he considered it lucky.
And as she climbed the stairs to the stage there were tears in her eyes. The host of the show handed her the golden statuette. She could barely see through her moist eyes the rows of celebrities all standing up in an equivocal ovation. She held the napkin to her eyes. And he felt the tears on his cheeks.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
It was all over his brand new white shirt. Roe's Dad got him this white shirt for job interviews. And there've been a lot of those. Not white shirts. Job interviews.
These days they all blamed it on recession.
"So do I get a raise?"
"You know... salary hike."
"What?!?!?! They are paying you a salary????"
The boss rang a bell. That's weird. Because these days no one has that kind of clerical bell. That's such an 80's government office phenomenon. Anyways.
"Accounts? This boy here says he's getting a salary."
Roe just stood there. "Bastard! Didn't even offer me a seat," he thought.
"So waddyamean it's peanuts. There's a goddamn recession on, and I am not entertaining any salary."
He put down the phone. Now, wait. Didn't he ring the 80's government office bell? Anyways.
"Ha! Salary it seems!"
The boss eyed Roe with mock disgust. On second thought, the mockery was either very subtle, or non-existent even. It was pure disgust.
"Some people think they are still working centuries ago with such medieval notions like salary." he kept mumbling.
He looked up again at Roe.
"What are ya lookin' at?!!!? Go on. You are fired!"
"Well, so much for a raise. Now I am in gutters." With that thought, he'd started his journey. For a new job. In a recession-plagued society.
And this happens.
Roe's Dad's intentions were good. You know. Anyone would want their kid to have a new shirt and a new pen for interviews. Especially when they are in the gutters. Shows that someone's there in this world for them. But the mistake was. Ink pen.
Roe hadn't used an ink pen since he was obsessed (and then irrevocably dis-obsessed after a few months) with the Hero pen. Oh yeah! The sleek hero pen with its shiny golden cap and microscopic golden nib. Its ink sucking mechanism was almost space age.
But this one wasn't anything like that. It was black and bulky. Like what you'd see in British actors from the 70's. And it never worked when you wanted it to. Like British actors from the 70's.
So what does one do? Not to the British actors! To the pen.
Shake it like you are trying to bring a dead rabbit from its grave.
And what do you get?
Ink splatters all over your sunshine white shirt.
Roe didn't see any point in going for the interview now. He was more of a pessimist, you see. And the recession is a bad time for pessimist. It's like too good a home for the pessimist. And you wouldn't put up with much struggle in your home, would you? Roe was like that. He wasn't gonna put too much effort during the recession.
So he went back. Not to his home. Not to his parents. Not even to his neighbouring Midnight Booze Bar. He went to Dango's place.
Dango isn't his real name. It's Elango something. One cannot remember much at Dango's, let alone Dango's real full name. That place is just kinda abusive. So Roe went to Dango's.
He opened the door. Dango's doors are never closed. There's not much in there to steal anyways. But I am sure the cops would have a truckload of stuff to take away if they ever got a sniff of Dango's. For starters, he had an aquarium that didn't have any fish. Or water. He grew some plants in that. Plants of a 'banned' variety. So Dango was never really scared of the cops. He was an optimist. A little bit too much of an optimist. And Roe wanted an optimistic trip. That's why he was at Dango's.
"Heyyyy.... dude....," said Dango in his trademark drawl. He always drawled. Even when he wasn't stoned. But Dango was always stoned. So you wouldn't know if he ever talked straight.
Roe sat down in this flamboyant pink carpet with the picture of Shiva on it. Usually people wouldn't sit on such carpets. But Dango wasn't very religious. Neither was Roe.
"Don't ask man. This recession. It just kills me."
"Ah... aspirations from life. I tell you...," he paused, trying to scan Roe's name from his smoky little brain.
"Roe... the whole existence is pointless. Job is a 20th century invention. All you have to do is breathe. Let your soul loose. Let it wander the world. See the beauty of the Spirit's creations. The mountains, blue lakes, green hills. Hold on."
Dango got up and walked to his laptop. He played some song. Actually, you cannot really call it a 'song'. There was a woman wailing, a wolf howling, sirens screeching, monkeys playing guitars, hamsters snipping off a chimpanzee's hair, and an owl playing the piano; all at the same time. No. You couldn't really call it a song.
"Well, where was I...," Dango fell down on to the carpet. "Ah... yes... spirituality, man. That's everything. You should know... there's the Spirit... and nothing more. You'll detach yourself from the world's sufferings."
Roe never really believed in all this crap. Being a pessimist and all. But today he wanted it. He took a deep drag from the joint.
The stuff slowly started hitting him. Dango said it was Afghan. It didn't really matter to Roe.
Roe took another deep drag. The grey cloud enveloped his vision as the stuff clouded his awareness. He took another look at the ink splatters on his sunshine white shirt his Dad bought him for job interviews.
Blots of blue ink transformed into majestic oceans. Blending slowly into each other. Separated by white sands. Bright white sands. It shimmered under the bright sun. Almost blinding Roe. The water started sparkling, reflecting a clear blue sky above it. Majestic waves slowly started forming. It crashed into the white beach leaving a small, frothy trail. He took five steps backward. Like those old toy cars. Couple of inch backwards. And he hit the blue ocean like a kid who's found freedom from school.
And Roe wasn't pessimistic anymore.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Buy a mocktail for the teetotaller chic at the counter.
Buy a cocktail for the girl on the dance floor.
Share your drink with the girl in the lounge.
Buy yourself another drink from the bar.
Buy a cocktail for the teetotaller chic at the counter.
Throw drinks at each other with the girl on the dancefloor.
Keep the girl in the lounge waiting.
Buy yourself another drink from the bar.
Offer a drink to the teetotaller chic who’s no longer at the counter.
Wait in the lounge for the girl on the dancefloor.
Why’s that girl in the lounge staring like that?
Buy yourself another drink from the bar.
Buy a cocktail for the teetotaller who's doing trick bartending now.
Play with the teetotaller's cute little goatee.
Kiss the teetotaller's burly hand placed on your shoulders.
Buy yourself another drink from the bar.
Hey! You're flying out!