What the f---? http://in.rediff.com/news/2006/sep/27spec.htm

I think the greatest of the many problems facing India's establishment on the world stage in the 21st century is the sheer bloody small-mindedness of so many associations, bodies and groups. It's bad enough in a homogenous nation, but for 30-countries-in-one India with such pressing developmental needs, this micro-splintering is absolutely insane. Such blindingly foolish acts have to be deemed anti-national and banned by the Supreme Court, or else we are just shooting ourselves in the kneecaps in the name of 'democracy' and 'cultural heritage'. Goddammit, 200 years of British rule and the adoption of English are as much a part of India's cultural heritage as anything else.

A random short-short i wrote three years ago (and yes, i know there is a logic loophole.. buuut anyway):

'One plus one'

Under the shade of the big oak tree right in the centre of the Garden of Eden, her long copper-bronze hair spread out around her head like seductive quicksand, Eve was feeling rather itchy today, and no amount of juicy red apples were helping. She stretched cat-like, and let out a slow deep breath.
It was a fine day – the sky was streaked bedsheet blue and cotton white, here and there mirrored by placid aquamarine ponds nestling amidst gentle green waves of grass. Two little sparrows cheeped love poems at each other in the branches above, while a cricket on a mushroom revealed aspirations of violin stardom. It was the kind of day that made Eve want to fling her fig leaf in the air and shout: “Yoo-hoo, Adam!” So she did.
“Uh?” came the answer from a few trees away. “What’s the matter? I’m making dinner!”
“Be right there,” replied Eve. Her lithe, young body uncoiled and snapped taut as she picked herself up and walked over, hair riding the balmy breeze, to where Adam was turning three hen’s eggs over on some glowing embers from last night’s fire.
She let herself stare at him for a few moments before he noticed her. God, he was attractive! Strong features, lovely roast tan, toned body (just a fortnight older than hers) with one neat scar from his Ribbing. And his smile… oh, Heavenly Architect, my compliments to the chef! Okay, so his love-making was a little clumsy and ill-at-ease, but to be fair, they’d only tried twice so far, and, as she had told herself the morning after, practice would make perfect.
“Mmm, that looks delicious, Adam!” You have to love a man who cooks for you.
“Thanks, Eve… I’m experimenting with adding herbs to the eggs,” he added, holding up a chlorophyllous sprig with one hand as he carefully extricated the blackened ovoids from the cooling coals with the other. “Adds a marvellous flavour, I think.”
Eve knelt down behind him, placed her hands on his shoulders, kneaded gently. “So how hungry are you, then?” she murmured softly, suggestively in his left ear, lips almost at the earlobe. “Fancy furthering the human race?”
“Uuh… I haven’t milked the cow yet…” he said, looking at his scorched-eggs.
“Pondwater’s fine,” said Eve, gently nuzzling the back of his neck.
Adam turned around, and their faces were centimetres apart. His hands were still laden with herbs and eggs, so he placed his forearms around her neck. Eve’s lips parted as he drew her closer, looked straight into her eyes
and said: “Eve, I’m gay.”
A rumble of distant thunder sounded like a giant hand clapping a giant forehead.

This rotund little fella on my left arm is getting lonely, hanging out as he has mostly under a sleeve for a couple years. I'm wondering whether to give him a grizzly biker or a slinky chiquita for company. Man, needles are addictive.

Tagged by the prolific, profound and pint-swilling WishfulThinker: eight things about myself. So here goes..

1. I can't speak any Indian language fluently. Raised with and schooled in English, working at English-language jobs, I have an 8.5/9 IELTS score but can only speak very limited Hindi & Tamil and understand slivers of Kannada, my so-called mothertongue. I'm not thrilled about that, but it's one of the reasons I feel comfortable living in England now.

2. Probably as a result, I've seen less than 10 Indian (not NRI) films in my life - Nayakan, Pushpak, Kuruthipunal, Roja, Bombay, Sarfarosh, Dil Chahta Hai and Hum Tum, plus a couple of unmemorable ones.

3. I've been an atheist for 13 years, but a few years ago when I rode the Ladhaki Himalaya, alone and severely altitude-sick at 16,000 ft, I prayed.

4. Strictly, strictly a tees/jeans/sneakers person. I've worn a tie all of four times, and had to get someone to knot it for me. (Yes, I did wear a shirt and trousers with it..)

5. I'm crap when it comes to saving money. Absolutely crap. However, somehow, money has had a way of appearing unexpectedly, in small amounts maybe, but at just the right times to avoid total brokeness. So I believe in keeping the karmic cycle going by paying/spending/lending when I can, and sometimes when I can't as well.

6. I feel vaguely unsatisfied with the tag of my profession. A 'writer' - what the heck. Everybody writes, so bloody many do it so well. I'll stop feeling like a fraud only when I write and publish a novel. Yes that'll happen within five years. Seven, max.

7. I think - or have learned - if you really love someone, you should jolly well tell them. Equally, don't tell them you do, if you don't. (Ah, but the scary thing is, to quote a one-hit wonder of the 90s - what is love?)

8. I would beat up an old man for a huge steaming plate of idli-sambhar (with lots of ghee) and a filter coffee right now. Well okay I won't really. I'm a softie.

And to tag six people: okay - dunno if any of you have already been tagged but: Tart, Nevermind, Nome, Sines, Rael and Bananarana.

that's where i live.. my house is to the left. for the past six years, since i left the family nest, i've had a fast-moving relationship with dwellings - much the same as the ones with women, cities, motorcycles and hairstyles.
lived in close to a dozen places, cramped bombay studios to minuscule student flats, bummed acco to nasty PGs. for a long time, i'd think, it ain't a home till you can walk about naked, put out cigarettes in the sink and safely abandon the dishes till the weekend. (well, i still stand by that).
but nowadays, i find myself also thinking, it ain't a home until someone opens the door for you. growing old, eh Sac?
well, i have my hair proper short now, and the next bike i buy, i'm going to keep her for more than one winter.

got my UK residence permit today. that's fifty more months without having to worry about my goddamn visa status. NOW i feel like i've properly moved. a resident, baby, yeah! the cow jumps over the moon, and its udder brushes the sea of tranquility.

last fortnight four of us went on a driving holiday to South Wales. three days, 600 miles, tents in the boot of a Zafira - Cardiff, the Gower peninsula, Pembrokeshire and St Davids, right up to the Celtic Sea. i didn't drive, but it was so terrific to be on the road again, even in a car. damn i can't wait for spring 07 to buy my bike!! but let's not get ahead of the story.



I have no pictures of Cardiff (in fact I have none at all - my fancy camphone ran out of juice and died quietly in its sleep the first evening; cheers G for these pix) because visiting the Welsh capital was one mad Friday night of watching people beat each other up in clubs and a large woman yelling insults at some poor sod of a companion at like 120dB and choking on the rank testosterone+beer-fumes of a large gang of pumped up drunk guys out on the hunt and dodging a creepy guy who started walking with us back home (I was with three girls). But fun on the whole.



What was incredible was the scenery from Swansea onwards. Let the pics do the talking. Camping (my first time!) despite chilly winds and even a thundershower one night, cold vast empty spooky beaches and sunny rocky ones, narrow winding roads, spectacular coastal views, beer gardens and lovely little town pubs, the imposing Pembroke castle on a postcard day (yes I bought a postcard too!).. it was so brilliant to get away from the urban routine. Properly recharged my batteries, that did. Probably why I'm posting so frequently nowadays.. :)



Can't wait to head out again. Perhaps the Scottish Highlands or the Orkneys. Sweet!

Was browsing through some old files on my pendrive and came across a bunch of poems I'd written way back. Now I'm not a poet; neither tortured, inspired nor consistent enough - I've written all of maybe fifty little poems over the past seven or eight years, and two-thirds of them on one night. They're all written for or about girls. Yeah, motorcycles make me write prose, women make me write poems. Anyways, re-reading them makes me realise there's a good reason I don't write poetry more often: I'm pretty crap at it! But here are a few I still like. Maybe it's just cos they bring back fond memories.

'Cloud Nine'

Heavenly exhaust;
your smoke, my breath,
curling up together,
far above.

'Overflow'

Scratch nib.
Scratch nib.
Hoping to crystallize
your warmth
onto room-temperature paper.

'Three little words'

Chocolate mush,
Swirling on my tongue:
Milky, bitter, sweet...
Nuts!

'Abort me gently'

Caesarean words
extracted
by the forceps of your tears,
stillborn.

'Shatter'

Crystal love –
clearly I see
shards within,
waiting to be free.

'Question words'

Why do you
slip in slowly
flash by quick
recur
reside?
How do you
draw me in
fill the day
renew
recharge?
When do you
hold me close
tell me thoughts
sigh
breathe?

After growing up and working in cities with millions of people swarming around me, being in my small english town of 50,000 - the population of a handful of housing colonies in andheri - is quite amusing. of course, spending a year as a student in another small town up north a couple years ago has taken the culture-shock edge off it - but everything's different when you're a student, as every ex-student knows.
anyways, having settled into a 9-6 routine for the first time in my life, i've begun to see the Truman Show aspects. every morning on the way to work - a 12 min walk - i see the same people. it's almost choreographed. bald guy cycles past downhill. fit middle-aged woman, in black blazer over low-cut white top. south asian girl with double chin in a store uniform. mixed-race teenage girl sitting at bus top. and so on. all usually at the same points.
that, mates, could almost be disconcerting.
to top that, i know passing faces by now. that's the (hot underage) girl from the photo studio. that's the polite kid from the evening shift at tesco. that's the crass corner shop guy who speaks in loud gujarati, the eastern-european-looking fast-food counter girl with a hint of vulnerability, the friendly chubby chap at the bakery who for some reason i think is gay, the supermarket transsexual who always has the shortest queues.
crumpled old grey men, taut young schoolgirls spilling pheromones, wiry tattooed pub brawlers, people i've shared a smile with or whose hostility i've almost smelt as i passed.. all my townspeople.
and so i, mr big-city guy, have made my peace with this town. as long as i get my fortnightly london friends+club/pub fix, i'm okay. i'm even getting to like the homeliness. after all, when a human being knows his surroundings, he feels safe. sometimes, small is indeed beautiful.

It was close to 30 degrees C today, but the feeling of summer slipping away is palpable. Less physically than psychologically, September is the beginning of the end of blue skies, barbeques, beer gardens, spag tops and miniskirts.
It's been a fantastic summer, with one of the hottest Julys on record. I have awesome memories of Greek beaches in July and camping in Wales at the end of last month, a string of visitors from home, house parties and birthday dos, barbies and big-screen footy.
But very soon, it will be time to kiss the bright heat goodbye, haul out the jackets and sweaters, and knuckle down to the steady onset of six long grey months of cold, slush, rain, snow, and weak, watery sunlight grudgingly revealed for barely eight hours a day.
Rally forth, my trusty lieutenants: Fireplace, Hot Wine, Duvet and Body Warmth - hold the fort!

Heh, look at this. This was me some five years ago. (Yeah, yeah, i look nothing like this now.. you should see the suspicious squints i get when i hand over my passport to immigration officers.) A completely different person back then. Different looks, habits, thoughts, vocabulary, desires, plans.. a different life in a different place. I almost don't recognise 2001 Me. I almost don't remember what it was like being him. Then, I'd never have thought I'd be where and who I am now. And five years from now, I'll be someone else again...

There's this pub in town i visit occasionally. serves the most wicked local cider i've ever had (some embarrassing results, ahem). anyways, i was there an hour ago, and for the tenth or fifteenth time, found myself at the wizpot above which there's this framed sign. a how-to on cross-country running (don't ask). but a sentence struck me, and i'm compelled to reproduce it here now. "There are usually three types of mud: sticky deep mud, soft mud, and slippy shallow mud. Sticky deep mud is the worst." Isn't that a brilliant parallel to life in general? if you think so come over to my town and i'll buy you a couple pints, and you can learn how to deal with life's quicksands when it's time to hit the gent's. is that a deal or what?