In bed with a Desi babe--part 1, the foreplay

Now people we all know that we the liberated in-our-20s-desis are part of the Gen-X bandwagon, but still, for most of us, SEX is a three lettered medusa like loathsome creature with a 1000 evil heads and eyes. And thus most of us grow up without ever talking about sex with any degree of sensibility with any of the more sex-educated person in our family (eg, a mom or a dad or that favourite uncle who is NOT a paedophile).

I dont know about you but the closest my dad came to having a sex-eduaction duscussion with me was when my mom discovered my huge collection of porn mags and videos. I still remember with vivid details the lecture he gave me which ended with the following precious line "Its ok to be inquisitive, but you should not try any of these". Hellloooo!! I was all of 14 and even if I was spending wet nights fantasizing about threesomes sandwiched between a buxom blonde and brunette, there was no fucking way I could actually try those and get those butt-kicking awesome fantasies to come true, could I? For one thing that blonde and the brunette would take one look at my pre-teen willie and squeal in delight You think that's gonna do anything for us sunny boy.

Thus armed with this sex-deprived handicap and , as further evidence of God's twisted sense of humor, the sex-handicapped desi-babe runs into me. Let me clarify a thought right at the onset. The Indian woman in bed is a fascinating species. A kind of X-manish-Mystique like character who never ceases to confuse you with her in-bed-histrionics, most of which are pretty lousy and amatuerish to boot.

Lets first look into the foreplay aspect of things. In her defense, I should say though when it comes to foreplay my desi-babe is pretty ok. That is these days. BUT when we started out, WHEW!! My man I must tell you it was one awful ball-game to be in.

She, you see, wasnt truly sure what to do with her tongue. Now me being extremely sensitive and caring do understand that, after all she did let me stick my tongue all the way into her mouth till I could examine her toncils, which is a good thing.

But what failed me though was why did she end up biting my lips and for gods sake my fucking delicate tongue, in a really painful fashion more often than not. Infact things got so bad that whenever a hot kiss was on, the voice at the back of my head would go Mind your tongue my man, mind it dont let her bite it off. Now she might have thought that it was damn sexy, but sweetheart let me tell you it was fucking cannibalistically awful. I spent more time thinking about my tongue's possible short-future-life-span than about that hot kiss, when we were making out. But then in her defense (being your friendly neighborhood chauvinistic pig) we did have some kick-ass messy wetty and great make outs later on. One on a particularly unsuitable piece of furniture still stands out.

And then there was the groping. Now I firmly believe in the saying that a makeout is only as good as the groping and the probing that your hands and fingers can do. Trust me when I say this that my desi-babe did let me do all the groping and probing I wanted to do. She let my hands and my fingers wander up and down the length and breadth of her frame with infinite degrees of freedom. That was again a good thing.

BUT and this is a big BUT. It took me several days of those foreplay sessions before I could actually get her to grope me down south on my anatomy. I am a generous lover and I am proud of that, I let my desi-babe have all the orgasms and climaxes that she wants to have, but I dont want to go home after those groping sessions with a tent sized elevation between my pants and jerk myself off in the loneliness of my damn bathroom sweetheart. I would have appreciated if you had done the honors during our groping sessions. While I appreciate my hand smelling all shitty and funny with your sex all over it, but believe me when I say this I would have liked to return the favour to you in an equal if not greater measure.

And then when all the foreplay was done we finally decided to move onto the more oral aspects of our smashing sex life. But then thats another mystical and painful saga all together. Let me keep that for part deux, till then get seduced in truly desi fashion.

Introducing--- a sex obsessed female

Incase you did not know, there is a fascinating female lurking nearby. Someone who promises to uphold the sex-legacy willingly or unwillingly passed on to her.

She lives here and talks about her sex life, past and present, about an indian girl's sexual-coming-of-age and about how she learnt of her sexual needs and desires. Her writings weave a story of passion, of illicit sex, of that "he" who seduced and screwed her out off her fucking mind.

Go read her and maybe you'll know what makes an indian girl's sexuality tick or not.

A taste of her wetness:

I lick my lips nervously. His eyes follow my tongue, latch on to it. Slowly they travel lower, over my throat, down between my breasts. The shirt I’m wearing seemed very decent when I wore it, but his eyes can see right through it to my breasts. Breasts which are rising and falling softly with every breath. Breasts which give a little jump when I swallow. His eyes rest on them for a minute before glancing up to meet mine. My eyes tell him what I’m feeling. That I’m waiting for his touch. For his hands to go where his eyes have been. But he’s not done yet. Once again his gaze travels downwards, lingering over my lips. Lips that he’s always loved. Lips that he’s made promises to. This time his eyes don’t stop at the V of the shirt. They go lower, trying to see my belly, zoning on to the navel. I had my navel pierced for him. I know he’s fantasized about my navel. I’m fighting an urge to lift up my shirt and invite him to explore my it with his tongue. My hands are shaking and my core is throbbing. I can feel myself getting wet, just anticipating his gaze.

Booty check realities-- in a pervert's defense

I confess. Anytime in a bus or a train or a room or even a class, whenever a pair of nicely shaped legs and ass tucked in a pair of tight clinging jeans/skirt/dress and a not too long t-shirt walks in, my eyes inadvertantly hones in on them. Now, I know femme fatales, that it does qualifiy me to be one of those creeps who are always giving you the once-over in your books. Some of you who are even more blunt would label me as a lerching leering staring fuck-ass pervert.

But you misunderstand me O lovely ladies, you really do. You write billions of words of prose denouncing my noble-intentoned stares, that whistle that unconsciously escapes me and my friends' lips, as an act of pure admiration, when you walk past us leaving that smell of jasmine perfume behind like a whiff of fresh, pure piece of curvacious heaven, you even brand that as a cheapo act. Did you label Mozart as a cheapo when he finished composing the 5th and whistled in awe-struck admiration at the beauty of the piece. Did you?? And yet when I, enamoured by your mere walk, let out that same awe-struck soft whistle that Mozart had used, even adding a Govinda-like teri pant bhi sexy teri shirt bhi sexy tune to it (all for you), you brand me as a cheap fucking eve-teaser. Oh how you misunderstand me.

When I'm giving you that longing, creepy go-over stare in the classroom, I'm not leering at you for Pete's sake, I'm admiring 5 feet 5 inches of pure curvaceous natural beauty from the bottom of my heart. You should realize that you (or your booty or maybe both) have made me completely forget that complex wave propagation equations, which happens to my bread and butter, that the profie was talking about. That stare of mine which you have labelled as an act of pervertism, is in reality my ode, my tribute to you. I can forget my rozi-roti (livelihood) but I cant forget leering at you the moment you walk in, can anyone give you a bigger or greater tribute??

And then you break my heart even more by saying I grope at you surreptiously, in the bus or maybe in the train or maybe in the metro, or maybe whenever I get a gropable opportunity. Oh how you hurt me by saying this. Didnt you know that there are saints and bishops and popes and fathers and sisters and groups who spend a life-time looking for God, searching for him, trying to reach out to him, and still cant find him. And I that poor leering pervert standing in that crowded train or bus see you, my Goddess right in front of me. And theres my chance to reach out and actually touch you O Goddess, actually get a feel of what it means to have a handful of God's (in this case Goddess') bootylacious heaven in my hands. And you call that groping?? Thats not groping O dear ladies, thats me finally making contact with you, the elusive Goddess.

It is with a broken heart that I'm penning these words. I know you and your clique and your brand of feminism can never see that noble intention, that divine ode, that heavenly love that my leering stares oozes everytime you walk past me.

In closing consider this:
You see a shining sex oozing Lamborgini whizz past you on the road, what do you do?? Do you not stop what you are doing and stare at it with longing eyes. Now does that qualify you to be a leering pervert, or does that qualify you to be an admirer of pure 400 horse-power worth of beauty?? Does that guy driving that Lamborgini make a U-turn and come back at you with the words "you fucking jerk stop leering at my car" or does he not feel proud wth the "Check my beauty out guys and girls" line going through his head.

Why cant you be like that Lamborgini driver, O ladies of this world?? Why?? I rest my case and leave the judgement in your able lovely hands.

The DaVinci Dodo

It is a surprisingly quirky experience when you realize five minutes into a movie, that you've actually read the blockbuster book that inspired the movie, and not just that, you've actually posted an article just a few moons ago proclaiming at the top of your voice that you havent read the book. In that post I even made the claim that the church and the religious groups and what not that are planning to ban the movie's screening are a bunch of droogs who have nothing better to do.

To those people I render a heartfelt apology. You people were right, you knew something that I did not. And now that I have sat through two and a half hours of symbols and cryptexes and geometric duality objects and glass pyramids that act as tombs I know why you people wanted this movie to be banned. You, the kind hearted religious zealots, did not want us, the non-believing mass of movie-going humanity, to sit through this celluloid masterpiece created by Ron Howard and Tom Hanks and that brilliant screenwriter Goldsman that would rival a dodo in its ability to send you into a dumb stupor.

And now I even feel sorry for the pope for whom a private screening was organized. I can picture him snoring all by himself with his bag of holy popcorn and holy pepsi, slowly tipping off his slumbering hands, locked up in his private one sitter movie hall in the Vatican, ten minutes into the movie. Just as the guy sitting next to me or the two couples sitting behind me or the three girls sitting right in front of me or that huge bunch of chinese sitting to my left did.

Since I had little trust in my rapidly failing memory, I asked my friend sitting next to me who was swearing by Dan Brown's literary genius right through the evening, whether the book was really a cult potboiler. Only on receiving a resounding answer in the affirmative, did I realize the brilliance of Avika Goldman, the screenwriter. Goldman and Howard in a spark of absolute Einsteinerque genius had succeeded in stripping Brown's potboiler of all its suspense or tautness or fast pacedness. To say that the movie crawls would be the understatement of the decade. It doesnt just crawl it drags its fucking boring ass all over Europe till you want to bang your head in despair and scream FOR GOD'S SAKE STOP, PLEASE STOP. SOMEBODY BREAK THE DAMN PROJECTOR PLEASE.

Forget Tom Hanks' miserable hair, forget that banshee faced, thin, shrivelled Paul Bettany (Silas) who for some unexplicable reason spends the bulk of his screen time muttering in an Evil Dead like scary voice May the father forgive me, forget Sir Ian McKellan's SRK-style over the top jamming and hamming (the scene at the end where he starts frothing at the mouth and starts stuttering and screaming and over-acting his ass all over uncle sam land as hes shoved into a cop car would do a KKKKiran muttering SRK proud), even forget those dog-chasing-its-own-tail chase sequences that keep on appearing at a frequency of one every five minutes, what really killed me were those history lessons that both Hanks and Mckellan under Howard's masterful non-direction decided to shove up my ass faster than I can say Pop goes the weasle.

But to every great tale there is a catharsis, and believe it or not even Howard and Hanks' dodo has one too. If you've been having sleepless nights due to whatever reason and even the strongest sleep pills have had no effect on you, then go see the Da Vinci Dodo. Howard and Hanks promises to make you sleep like a cuddly baby for two and a half hours.

First break

Cat scan of an oil reservoir in 2D in the gulf of mexico. For a sense of scale the horizontal extent is 16 kms and the vertical extent (indicating depth into the earth) is 4km. Image obtained using a new algorithm developed here that takes 20 fucking hours to run on a 64 node parallel computing environment. The actual reservoir is below the box marked C, incidentally owned by a big oil major. The solid block in the middle of the image with a dick shaped top, is a huge sub-ocean salt dome with steep flanks, that are notoriously difficult to image (see discontinuity in the box B as evidence). The layer at the very top is the ocean bottom.

This image confirms my suspicion that I should take the day and the weekend off and stop reducing my eye-life staring at a pair of LCD displays before I move to 3D.

When Robert Frost took a walk in the woods

One day Robert Frost, that guy who writes those poems that people like me find difficult to understand, decided to take his poodle doggie for a trot. Living in the countryside and being surrounded by moors, the best place to walk the dog was the surrounding woods.

Walking towards the woods, led by his pooping poodle, lost in thought, dark, deep and heavy, ever-ready for the verses till they are properly wrought, Robert Frost hit a crossroads of some sort. Two clear roads diverged into the woods. He stood there, as if shell-shocked, and wondered, though in reality there was little to be pondered. But difficult poets you see do wonder and ponder, a lot.

The first road, observed Robert Frost, was pretty, laden with a bed of flowers even in that cold English frost. Songbirds sang a beautiful tone, dove-tails accompanied them with the perfect baritone. Tones of rosy merrymaking, of joy and of wonderful love. Fruits hung from the branches, so delicious that they could rival those grown in the best tended ranches.
While the other road, observed Robert Frost, was dark and misty, snapping and snarling, threatening with dire consequences. A picture of gloom, of foreboding, sarcastic doom. Dare not enter this, Robert Frost heard her hiss.

And yet, when the choice was crystal clear, Robert Frost stood there and pondered. And then he took that road nobody dared travel by. For he knew that the path that now doom and scorn adorns, is alive with the sweetest of tones. A stairway to heaven thought Robert, is this path if trodden upon.

Will Cinderella dance again, Robert Frost pondered. Difficult poets I told you do wonder and ponder... a lot.

On the DaVinci Bandwagon

I havent read The Da Vinci Code, yea i know in today's age that is a sacrilege, but I did read Angels and Demons (before Da Vinci Code came out) and the best compliment I could get Dan Brown at that time was that hes a wannabe Umberto Eco, though leagues and mega-miles behind him. So I gave TDVC a miss, and suddenly there was a huge ruckus all over the world. Everybody in the english reading and speaking world was talking about this book. Even the poor Sallingers and the Hellers and the Huxleys and the Kerouacs combined did not get as much press and media footage as Dan got.

But I continued to give TDVC a miss, result of some kind of a mental block on my part, and instead focussed on the Deception Point, another pre TDVC Dan Brown work. And till this day, afer almost an year now, I still have a good 50 pages of that book to read.

An interesting common denominator that all of Dan's work share is the following: all his books are publicized as From the author of TDVC. Angels and Demons' tagline goes like this Before the DaVinci Code Langdon faced the Angels and Demons. It is as if the publishers have realized that they can flood the market with Dan's trash and the people wil lap it up as long as the DaVinci word is visible on 20 sized gothic font on the cover. Now that surely counts for shrewd market research, but gets a huge zero for literary content. Have you heard of the Chrome yellow been publicized as from the author of the Brave New world??

And now Hollywood is about to do what it does best. Convert a potboiler into a money minting movie. And I know they are excellent at it. But what I fail to fathom though, is why for Pete's sake is the Vatican and other churches and Christian organizations and religious groups and what not leaking press releases at an astronomical rate as to how this movie might reshape the christian belief. The pope has even set up a panel to rebut the TDVC story.

Guys, fathers, sisters, whatever, please, you over-estimate us, us --the present teeming mass of humanity . At our best, we are a society that lack any kind of long term sensibility, we suffer from selective amnesia, we are a seeker of fads, we like thinking of books and movies as some fashion label that we can proudly flaunt during summer and move onto a different label once summer is gone, and most importantly we arent into re-shaping anything. The thing we do best is sit in front of our 36" tv sets or a DTS equipped multiplex and mutter to our girfriends/wives sitting next to us with that all-knowing tone "The world is going to the dogs" and once the show gets over we try and devise a plan to get laid for the night. And that is why the hit count on this blog rises to an astronomical number whenever a sex post comes on, while this languishes in solitairy isolation.

Trust me father pope we dont have any sensibility left to re-shape, what we have is the penchant to ride any hyped bandwagon properly packaged and placed in front of our greedy eyes.

Early birthday surprise

Mom: So how old will you be now?
Me: 27
Ma: So you'll be 30 soon. You know when your dad was 27 he had a son.
Me: I know mom that was me.
Mom: Dont you think it is now time we find you a friend.

At this point I get very confused.

Me: But mom I have a fair number of them already.
Mom: Ufff, Not your "those" friends. But a special friend.

I get very excited, its my birthday soon, maybe mom is planning to get me Asimo. WOW!! That would be some present.

Me: I like yor idea maa. I think its awesome.
Mom: Thats like my boy. So I'm sending you a picture. Let me know if you like it or not. Else we will send a different one.

Isnt my mom cool or what!! Even I didnt know that there are versions 1.0,1.1, 1.2 and 1.4 of Asimo. Maybe the latest version can not just walk around and talk shop, but press clothes as well. COOLOS !!

Me: Maa your the coolest mom in the world
Mom: Now now babai, dont be so hasty, take your time, this is just the first one, remember that you have plenty of options.

And then i set the phone down and make a mad dash for the computer. And there it is, attachment size 1Mb. With bated breath and trembling fingers i click on the save picture button. This is it, my very own Asimo, hes coming up on screen.

But But, what is this. What the fuck happened to Asimo's sexy Star Warish attire?? How come Asimo is wearing a saree, how come Asimo has long hair and why the hell is Asimo smiling at me with that Soon-your-balls-will-be-mine look.

I go back to mom's email, surely this must be some kind of wrong attachment shes sent in:

Son,
The mantle of fulfilling the destiny of the Indian alpha male is now yours. Now, you my dear son will rise and do what your friends and your foes, your father and your forefathers and everyone else we know of within a 3000 mile radius and 150 year timeframe do best. The sacred baton is now passed to you. Choose well. Its time for you to be domesticated.

And then I saw those stars and I saw Orion the hunter, getting ready to hunt my ass down and nail it up on Barbaadi@shaadi.com
Me kaun hoo, me kaha hoo, Haa Me sach me jhantu hoo.

Three months too late

Stolen from the man for..

Bah-Bah black sheep

I was a wandering sheep,
I did not love the fold
I did not love my shepherd's voice, I would not be controlled.
I was a wayward child, I did not love my home.
I did love that voice, I wished afar they could roam.

Mithunistic Invasion of the 3rd kind (MI-3)

I went to see this summer's first blockbuster MI-3. The theatre was choc-a-bloc, all shows sold out, every one waiting with anticipation, with bated breath, finger nails digging into the arms of their seats, consuming popcorn and pepsi at supersonic rate, girls kissing their guys one last time for the next 2 hours while images of Tom Cruise's naked butt race through their minds, guys cursing under their breath fuck you Tom and fuck all those Botoxes, the Chinese gang sitting behind you getting ready with their digi-translator lest they miss a sentence .... and then finally the curtains go up, the lights go out and that familiar music comes on.

But wait a minute. am I at the right theater?? Who is that on the screen I see?? Is it a bird , is it a plane, is it Ethan Hunt, is it Superman. Hell noooo . ITS MITHUNDA!! Well of course he has lost his man breasts, maybe even gotten his black skin altered to white ala MJ, tucked his 12 beer a day protuding belly into a finely chiseled six pack, hell even transformed his Abeee Saaalaa Saaahi hai accent into a drooling easy supercool punch-line emitting cool-catesque delivery. But fear not my fellow indians it is MITHUNDA.

You dont believe me?? Ok sample this: The onscreen Ethan Hawke whom most of you regretably think is Tom Cruise had an explosive charge implanted in his brain. He got his girlfriend to give him 440 volts of pure electric shock. Tom died, but the electric current disabled the charge in his brain. His girlfriend went on to bring hm back to life with some good old fashioned heart pumping. Instant cure from a modernistic brain tumor. Now close your eyes and let your mind wander back to a time yonder. Mithunda had a tumor in his brain. Anwar Katela (the villain) shot him in the head and the bullet exited Mithunda's skull carrying the tumor with it. Instant cure from the old fashioned brain tumor.

Can you now handle the truth you bunch of non-believers. Can anyone but Prabhuji pull off this supermanesque feat?? Crap I hear the girl staring at her LCD screen say.

Fine. For you the demented non-believer heres one more proof that He has finally invaded the Hollywood fortress. Ethan towards the climax works out the mathematics of a heights and distance problem, on a broken window (ala John Nash), in trying to get the Rabbit's foot. Now the keenest amongst you would have surely noted that Ethan uses a series of yet to be published highly classified Mathematical expressions in solving this problem. So what I still hear that damn girl say. Girl, girl, for His sake open your mind, close your eyes and again let your mind wander to a time yonder. Mithunda donning the avtaar of Dr. Ram Gopal Acharya, a world reknowned professor of a highly classified and yet to be named subject, spends the best part of a 3 hour celluloid classic in a hypnotic horny trance, eyes closed, murmuring in a tongue that would petrify and puzzle even the Neanderthal man, as he tries to solve that biggest mathematical problem of all, the equation of love.

And thus the truth which was out there is revealed upon all you non-believers. He is here, He is in Hollywood and now He will rule with an iron fist. Hollywood would bow before Prabhuji and soon they will learn to produce 100 superhit movies in 100 days for a 100 dollars each. Exit from the scene would all those under-nourished starved petite, leggy blondes and brunettes and enter would the thunder-thighed, buxom bouncing, tire waisted south-indian beauties. All Hail the New World Order. The Revolution has started.

Prabhuji ki Jai ho.

Warning: Those of you frequenting the blogosphere might deem this post to be an Opal Mehta like act due to this. If any one of you is willing to offer me a half million dollar signng bonus for this post. then yea it is an act of copycatism on my part, else it is an independent work of trashy art .

Public Apology

In the past due to mental instabilities on this blogger's part posts were written that were downright mean, low, evil, bitchy and filthy, debasing a person with no reason whatsoever.

The blogger apologizes from the bottom of his heart and begs to be forgiven. I know her heart is much much bigger than mine and so hopefully she will.

As always sorry.

Humbly
Jhantu

A 21st century fairy tale

One fine day many years ago, in the early years of the 21st century across seven seas and seventy countries, in the midst of junk in the form of black and white and ones and zeros met our prince and the princess. And then bloomed a flower, as delicious and as sweet, as beautiful and as pure a flower you have ever laid your eyes upon. The flower of eternal friendship.

And thus began the journey of our prince and our princess. A journey into the unknown, a journey of discovery, of knowing, of realization, a journey based solely on words. And oh how beautiful a fairy tale did those words weave. How beautiful a picture did those words paint. Words that wove lyrical poetry, hmmms that spoke of unsaid love, dotted punctuations that said everything when the sentence ended. Words which you wouldn't exchange for the biggest prize in the land.

And then it was that hour. The hour when atlast they shall put a face to those words. On a moonlit night, when the hands of the clock struck the midnight hour, walked our prince and princess towards that promised meeting point, her fingers nevously straightening her glasses, his hands fumbling with the box of matches. And then the prince saw the princess. And he knew the words were true, they had to be.

And thus began another journey. A journey like you have never heard of. A journey of pure joy, of laughter, of blissful happiness, of joyrides on a newly bred stallion, of princely well planned outings that ended in much laughed about disasters, of feigning sulkiness, of being childishly happy when the other tries to make up for that feigned sulkiness, of stealing stills. A journey of unsaid love.

Ahh!! Unsaid love. Alas. Maybe our prince wasnt him, maybe the words that had so merrily weaved this fairytale defected him when it mattered most, maybe our prince had let the moment pass by. But shouldnt she have known that he would always get it to rain for her.

And so walked away our prince and our princess, trampling to a cruel death that flower they had so carefully nurtured. Words that once weaved magic, now spun a Black widow's poisonous net. That trusted stallion, the sole witness to that magical journey, dies with a broken heart. And still they walk, determined to put seven seas and seventy countries between them.

But wouldnt that bring them to a full circle, I ask. Cant that flower bloom again then? Shouldnt it rain again in November?

O Prince and Princess nobody likes a tragic fairytale. Let the words weave their magic again. One last time.

Postscript: Broken rain link is now repaired. Let the hills come alive with the sound of music

Diatribe

What's it going to be then? Is it going to be in and out of institutions like this, though more in than out for most of you? Or are you going to attend to the Divine Word and realize the punishments that await unrepentant sinners in the next world as well as this? A lot of idiots you are, selling your birthright for a saucer of cold porridge, the thrill of theft, of violence, the urge to live easy. Well, I ask you, what is it worth?

When we have undeniable proof, yes, incontrovertible evidence that Hell exists. I know, I know, my friends. I have been informed in visions that there is a place darker than this, hotter than any flame of human fire, where souls of unrepentant criminal sinners like yourselves. Don't you laugh, damn you, don't you laugh. I say like yourselves, scream in endless and unendurable agony. Their skin rotting and peeling, a fireball spinning in their screaming guts. I know, oh yes, I know ... Now all of you fart right now and disrupt the rantings of the madman.

Apu trilogy revisited

So I fulfilled a long lasting desire over this weekend. And that is to see the Apu trilogy in one go--Pather Panchali (the song of the road) , Aparajito (The unvanquished) and Apur Sansar (The world of Apu). A billion words have been spent and a trillion books and artciles and novels and novellas and dissertations have been written on the Apu trilogy and I wont even try and impress upon you what these three films mean to Indian cinema in general and world cinema in particular. But there are many of you uninitiated into the wonderful world of Ray movies and Bengali cinema of that era for whom I'll make an effort to give you a glimpse into the trilogy.

The crux of the trilogy as the name suggests deals with a boy called Apu, Aparajito Roy. In Apu's own words, when he sets out to write an autobiographical novel "it is a story of priest's son who yearned for knowledge, for learning, for the thirst to know whatever there is to know. And with this knowedge and knowledge only he set himself free, free from superstitions, free from mediocracy, free from mean mindedness, free from the materialistic poverty he finds himself surrounded by." The trilogy is a beacon of optimism, masterfully written by Bibhutibhushan Bandhopadhay and equally masterfully transformed onto celluloid by Ray.

For me the trilogy is a battle between hope and despair, which anyday is a more important battle than that between good and evil. Apu's life is interlaced with loss and tragedy. He loses his elder sister at 7, his father at the age of 10 and his mother at the age of 17, and as a last straw he even loses his beloved wife. But never in the face of such calamity does hope die. In the last part of the trilogy, Apur Sansar, once his wife dies during childbirth you almost feel that this is it for Apu. He abandons his son whom he squarely blames for his wife's death, loses his thirst for knowledge and even tears up that novel he had been writing for so long.

You get a feeling this is a hole out of which Apu cant climb out. No way. But he does. In a moment of pure celluloid magic Ray re-creates the final blow that hope deals to depair and buries it for good. Rejected by his 5 year old son, Apu leaves the village, heading out to the city, when a voice calls out to him "Do you know my Dad who lives in Calcutta?". Apu turns around "Yes I do, do you want me to take you to him". "Will you? Why will you? Who are you after all?". Apu, brilliantly played by a very young Soumitra Chatterjee, starts to say I'm your dad, but the word that come out are "I am your friend, Arent friends supposed to help each other, isnt that what friends are for?".

I have been heavily influenced by my mother and so for me the most powerful character in the triology is Apu's mother Sarbojaya. A powerhouse character, this illiterate widow nurtures her beloved son as he makes the transition from childhood to adoloscence, and then sees her small, ill-lit, ill-equipped village house become too constricted for her growing son who is now immersed into the world of the Keats and the Shelleys, the Faradays and the Galileos. It is a moment of immense pride and pleasure and at the same time a moment of paralyzing pain for her. To let him grow, to let him be what he wants to be, to let Apu fulfill his destiny, she must set him free, free from the bindings that she and her small village house impose on Apu. But still she shouldnt have died.

Beating the drug test

Pointer: I am up for my drug test in just about a week's time and my veins are infested with nasty chemicals at the moment. People in similar situations will find this post useful. Also feel free to add your suggestions.

The Usual suspects:

1. Drink plenty of fluids. Remember water wont dissolve the THC concentration from years of stoning it will only dilute it.

2. Urinate and prespire a lot. Diuretics make people urinate frequently. Coffee, cranberry juice, beer, iced tea, herbal tea, and Pepsi are all good diuretics. Cranberry juice is the cheapest.

3. On the morning of the test empty the cooler of water.

4. Don't give urine from your first urination of the day. It's the dirtiest, and can be heavily filled with metabolites. Urinate a couple of times before giving a test sample. Also, don't give the beginning or end of the stream. Piss in the toilet, then quickly stop and go in the cup. Stop, and shift back to the toilet for the last portion. Only give a midstream sample. Just be sure to give 60 cc's.

For the more exotic and desperate suspects:

1. Get your friend to fill out a Disposable Drainage bag. Tape the bag to your abdomen and run a tube down to your fly. The piss must be fresh.

2. For women, a urine filled condom or vanilla extract bottle inserted into the vagina can work wonders.

3. If you cant find a friend ready to donate fresh piss contact them

4. If you are pretty and big boobed, wear revealing clothes to the test center. Distract the male nurse by constantly leaning into him and giving him a peeky-boo.

5. If you are ugly try a hefty bribe.

6. If your really fucked, add toilet water to your sample, or a few draino crystals to lower your pH. For a comprehensive list of additives that can be used see them

7. If you are stoned on the morning of the test, get your girlfriend to do a Bobbit on you. But be careful that you have an ice-bag handy to store your sliced off dick. Also remember to carry the ice bag with you to the hospital for regrafting. If you are a girl Im not sure how your boyfriend can help with this one.

All the best and Godspeed

Past master

James starts a leaf of clover. The girl at the drive in window hands you a piece of junk cheese and beef wrapped in a flour tortila for a buck, befitting end to a romantic night initiated by cheap wine. Arsatradero, Matadero. I love these names. The hand without long fingers asks for yours. An old irish folk jingle remastered by James comes on. Distraction. The fingers disentagle for a moment reaching for the Fast forward button. I have had my jar of whiskey you mutter. The fingers entwine convinced that the soothing light at the end of the tunnel is not a freight train coming their way. You never let my favourite songs play, says a grumpy voice from the past. Not missing his cue James reminds you Mirrors vain, gone insane, but the memory remains.

Casablanca

I hate romantic cinema, but sometimes, rarely, when you are with that right person, even hell seems heaven. And then you close your eyes, content, falling into a deep asleep. You wake up, your eyes search for her. But that fleeting moment of pure joy is gone, like yesterday it can never come back. Pricks dont deserve a Casablanca, they deserve sex. So be it.

Dismantled Class Project

Ok so I am taking a 5 credit film-making and scripting class this quarter where you get to learn about cool directors from all over the world (incidentally both Ray and Ritwik Ghotok are featured) plus you get to take cool trips in the SFO district. Perfecto I hear you say.

Unfortunately there is a small hitch. To get any kind of decent grade the class requires a project. You need to make a 30 min short film and script it. And I realized that I've got just about 4 weeks to do something about this. So i decided to spend the whole of today trying to invent a film, a film that would harbinger a new wave in modern cinema --Jhantuism. Maybe even the b-school and ms&e dumbos will have a case study on me after my 30 min film makes a billion dollars : "Jhantuistic path to success -- it pays you a billion to be a jhantu".

An hour into fantasizing about these definite "maybe"s, frothing at the mouth, testosterone, adrenalin, nicotine and all other bodily hormones being produced at an alarming rate, halfway through consuming a pack of camels, feeling extremely horny, I finally had it!! Yes.. that film which would change the face and boobs of world cinema was there in my head.

And just as Archimedes had leapt out of his bathtub screaming Eureka, Eureka!! at the top of his voice , I in a similar Archimedisque mental state leapt out of my bed, without a string on my body screaming O Yea Baby, I have it!! at the top of my voice, rushed down the stairs and made a mad beeline dash for the telephone in the living room to call up my would be heroine. I had to start filming it right now.

Honey I just got this brainwave that would make me a billion dollars. But I need you for that. I need to shoot a porn film starring you, me and your Venezuelan roomie. Can you come around in half an hour's time with her.

Cut to half an hour later. Knock knock, I rush downstairs wearing my newly bought sexy Jap robe, ready to greet my girlfriend and her roomie, my two darling heroines with open arms and in a few moments with an open robe. I open the door with a million dollar smile pasted on my face Hi sweetie, Wher... Awk, OO... Wooow

Cut to another half an hour later. I find myself on the bed, my robe is open, my loins are throbbing with painful pleasure, so this is it Im finally filming it and having a threesome at the same time. But the bed seems strangely wet,must be all the sweat, its a threesome after all. I raise my head, shes standing near the window, Oh Ok shes probably taking a break. Heroines do that

I think I'll replace the ice now , she says turning to me. Im all confused. Ice, what Ice? Was I good sweetie, did your roomie like it? I dont seem to remember it too well. The sex must have been rocking. She walks upto me takes an ice bag off my loins and puts on a new one. I look down, my balls look fishily shrivelled. You know jhantu I should have kicked you harder,knocked your balls right off.

And then I fainted, again. CUT!!

Linguistic Re-engineering

From A Jhantu's Handbook

ATP: Any time Pyaar ( Someone who falls in love every month, maybe even every fortnight)

RS: Romantic singh (lover boy, susceptible to frequent ATPs)

Chaand dekhna: In love (context: remember hum dil de chuke sanam, if not go see it)

BC : *chod (* being the wildcard character, example of which can be beti, behen,boka, notice language independent as well)

Chinnaar: slut (example: most girls)

Chothu: Male slut (example: yours truly)

Chaatu: Someone who can drive you crazy every time he/she opens his/her trap

Jhantu: Complete give-up person, with all round give up skills

JSC: Jhantu singh Chaatu (Lethal combination of a jhantu and a chaatu, extremely pervasent breed in stanford desi circles)

IB: Ignore the bastard/bitch (usage: first line of defense againt a JSC, apply this strategy anytime a JSC tries to pick your brain, have a fake smile on your face and think of beautiful things like porn, nude girls, threesomes do not forget to go "hmm" and "i see" every minute, or simply turn around walk away without another word.)

CC: Counter Chaat (usage: last line of defense against a JSC, action taken when a JSC has finally breached your defense, you decide to counter attack JSC with ardent passion with a lethal dose of his own medicine)

IC: Instant Chaat (ability to pick someone's brain and drive him nuts in less than one minute)

CSN: Chaatu Swami Network (station you find yourself tuned to when stuck in a room/party/train/bus/car with more than one Chaatu)

LP: Lallu Panju (first class dumbo)

TP: Time-pass ( Someone who has taken the concept of couch potato to a complete elitist plane, example: Jhantu, reason: finished all 9 seasons of Friends in one sitting over one weekend)

FTBC: Full Time Bakar Chodi (person with a PhD in TP)

Jhock: Jhakkas (super) shock (usage of this effect: your fiancee is sleeping around)

TMC: Teri Maa ki Chodo (self explanatory)

MCJ: Maa chod di Jayegi (your mother will be fucked, usage: use as a threatening warning to someone picking ur brains)

MIB: Mentally ImBalanced (nut-case)

Kholu: Class topper

Dhakkan: Class topper (from the bottom)

LK: Laundiya-khor (compulsive womanizer/skirt chaser)

PLD: Prachand Lund Dhari (Big dicked guy, usage: primarily in straight sex, not preferred for anal sex, also boasting about your well endowed treasured body part to one and all)

CLD: Choti si Lund Dhari (Small dicked guy, usage: highly preferred for anal sex, warning: if you are a CLD do not let your friends know your true size ever in your life)

Mansarovar: HUGE pussy (usage: havent encountered yet, still looking for it, pointers to it will be appreciated)

Dikkat Theorem: The world's first theorem (explanation : you are playing loud metal in your room, your roomie comes into your room and screams at you fucker turn down the damn volume, you look up calmly and say "dikkat ho rahi hai? to kaan bandh karlo, dikkat nahi hogi fir" . Dikkat theorem in action.)

Was developed in the esteemed hostels of ITBHU between 1998 and 2002 by a bunch of people now famously referred to as digdeepers. Copyrighted material. Feel free to use it.

Morning blues

How did your drug test go? Dont know results will be in tomorrow, she typed on her office laptop while John Denver crooned on an online music station. What if you fail? Hmm mom and dad would definitely disown me if they havent already, moves in with you and you pay my fees. The heart jumps with joy, but the brain more concerned with all things earthly commands the motor nerves to type out You arent confusing me for your Dad are you? A long minute passes and a smiley appears on the lines of you've got mail And that would qualify you to be a Betichod (daughter-fucker) as you like to say.

Alms for Shanti

A dollar from you can save a million people trapped in a genocide.
Please visit: here and use the donate tab on the left.

Coupling Issues

Automobiles of our generation are cool. They have amazing horsepower, super transmission, sleak shiny bodies, lovely leather interiors, state of the art navigation systems and some of them even have a Bose system for your Rammsteinic auditory pleasure.

But just for a second close your eyes, forget today's mean machines only for a second, and think of those Cadillacs that you had seen in all those movies from the 70s and the 80s. Now concentrate for a second more and take a peek through the window and look into the automobile. What do you see?? What you see is that unlike todays automobiles, the front seat is different. There is no separate seat for the driver and the pillion, on the contrary there is one long seat that the driver and the pillion share, pretty much like the backseat, infact exactly like the backseat.

So what the fuck I hear you say. What in Lord almighty fuck's name does that have to do with anything?? Everything is my answer. Everything related to having sex in a car. Think of today's cars. Is there any god forsaken way that you can think of having sex with any kind of comfort in the front seat of today's mean machines??

First there is the stick,which you need to circumvent with plenty of skills before you have any hope of groping or fondling your sweetheart. Now even if you succesfully get past the stick obstacle there is then the almost impossible task of either moving yourself on top of her or getting her to move on top of you. Unless you and your girlfriend can create unimaginable obtuse angles when your bodies entwine I dont see much hope.

Wait a minute I hear you say, cant my girlfriend move over to my side and ride me like a cowgirl?? Yes I say that she can but at the perils of having her skull crack open as she rebounds of your mean machine's roof. What if I have a convertible? I had one, but tell me do you seriously think that your girlfrined is going to cowgirl you in a parking lot with your roof down and people around you betting on how long you can last.

Now now she can definitely blow me cant she? Of course she can. But spare a thought for the poor girl. While shes blowing you at your earnest behest, the car's stick which any day is bigger and thicker than yours is pressing against her belly, dangerously close to her love button. And suddenly she realizes that it would be much easier and probably more satisfying for her to rub herself against your mean machine's stick and have an orgasm, rather than navigating her way around an obstacle filled circuitous path before she can ride you like a cowgirl or blow you.

Honey let me couple with your mean machine right now, I promise to decouple as soon as we get home. I tell you sex wasnt on the designer's mind when today's mean machines were designed.

A word of thanks

This blog is 2 months old now and fortunately (for me) or unfortunately (for the readers) now has a decent sized reader base. When i started this blog I had no clue what to write about or even if there was a point in writing something. After all who in their right mind would want to waste time perusing mediocrity churned out at an alarming daily rate by yours truly when there are so many more interesting things to do. But to my delight Ive been proven wrong and for that I thank you dear readers.

Many of you, whom Ive never met and probably will never meet, even take the pain of emailing me, some of which are hate mails and some of which are really nice. I dont reply to any of them, not because they arent of any value but because I dont know what to write back to you. But again many many thanks for those emails. The two burning questions that most of you ask though is the following : "Is this blog a creation of a sex obsessed prick ?" And then of course the million dollar question about "this blog's two central characters -- the economist and the baby" whom I keep referring to with alarming regularity.

Heres my answer:
You tend to write about things which you are good at. And for me the only thing Im really good at, is being horny and having sex and so I write about it. Be it phone sex or sex in a car or sex in a pub or sex in a bedroom or sex when I am high. So yea it is a sex fiend's blog. If i start writing about current affairs/books/sports/humor, then believe me when I say this that a conversation with a dodo would seem more engrossing . Hence sex it is.

As for the "girl(s)", many of you claim to know her and most of you, whom I have never met, have a mental picture of her. Many of you are puzzled by the fact that which is which? Is the girl with the snap the girl potrayed as "Black widow baby" by me or is she the other one? Many of you even offer me counselling via emails and relate this blog to experiences with your ex-es and currents.

But hey let me clarify; what you get from this blog is just half the story. My side of the story. A complete different take exists at the other end of the spectrum where Black widow baby is an intelligent, caring, well read and extremely decent person and where even though most of you think that there is no way that jhantu's economist girlfriend reads this shitty horny crap and is still with him, she actually does !!

And finally for the sting in the tail, the blog was started when I lost one of my closest if not the closest friend. That pissed me off really bad and I needed a place to vent my feelings out. And thus started my rants in bits and bytes at this url. And now two months since I'm sill pissed, but pissed with me that how could I let that friendship crumble to dirt. Talk about being a prick.

Amen!!

To dos

a) Finish Reading :
1. Cryptonomicon: Neal Stephenson (fnished.. super read)
2. Bend in the River: V.S. Naipaul (finished.. too verbose)
3. Animal Dreams: Barbara Kingsolver (finished, dull ending)
4. SETI 2020, Ekers et., al
5. Crime and Punishment: Fyodor Dostoyevsky (started)
6. The Monkey's Wrench: Primo Levi
7. Crome Yellow : Aldous Huxley (super start)
8. Snow Falling on Cedars: David Guterson
9. Autobiography of an unknown Indian : Nirad C Chaudhury
10. A man in full: Tom Wolfe
11. Pickles: Brian Crane

b) Submit a fully theoretical paper to Geophysics

c) Cut down smoking from a pack and a half to less than 10 a day

d) Get 3.5 laks INR for gollu.

e) Pay off credit card debts.

f) Get the balls to
1. go to Dennys without missing her.
2. delete the idiot folder from yahoo
3. convince yourself that she was not the most important person in your life ever.

g) Make a 10 day trip to Central Africa every year (btw those of you interested in volunteer work in Africa please visit cctg.org, those in California volunteer batches start from md may)

h) Adopt atleast two more children through cry.

i) Try and blog as regularly as possible.

j) Try and become a bit more conventional.

An acidic trip --- and why berk rocks and stanford sucks

Well yeah I tried LSD, again, after a pretty long time though. And yeah the experience of getting high on acid is still as great as it used to be. Theres something about these damn friday nights that kind of makes me do loony stuff. Maybe the moon and the pole star and my degenerated neurons line up and my cerebral circuit gets re-wired or something. I dont know.

But back to the ACID. So i made my way to Berkeley with a group of people, consumed copiuos amounts of tequila and jag at Starry Plough, which btw I think is the coolest pub in the Bay area, with some wonderful irish bands that perform on weekends. But these days my neurons have kind of become immuned to lethal liquid cocktails, so I and the bunch I was with needed some other means of getting high. R, being a Berk student suggested we try out the age old Berk tradition of going with the ACID and so off we went to her apartment.

After some frantic phone calls from R and her friends we managed to stash up a fair amount of the good stuff and then finally it was time for me to get reunited with my long lost buddy. The acid that we had was of the paper varierty, that is small stamp sized paper that is soaked with the good stuff that you need to swallow.

Now at first glance those stamps look pretty inocuous and your brain kind of gets the impression "Huh, that wont do anything for me". So in an egoistic frenzy you might actually end up over doing the stuff. Meaning you take in more than one of the stamps at the first go. And readers let me tell you that is not at all recommended. MS did that and ended up spending the night under the bed screaming at the top off his voice " Please dont tell Lisa (no idea who Lisa is) that I masturbate with gay porn". As for me I started with one of them, after which everything in the room seemed really really vibrant. It was like you were seeing everything through 3D tinted glass and unlike grass it doesnt make you feel light. On the contrary your senses I think become more sharper and you can actually start to sense the paranormal as well. I had a fascinating discussion with the an equally trashed girl (a philosophy phd grad) about who was the greatest serial killer Son of Sam or Ted Bundy and she complained bitterly that its a shame that people dont study Charles Manson and David Queresh and the philosophy of cults.

I finally passed out after two doses (im guessing this) and as always tons of alcohol and acid didnt make me puke even this time around.

And now I realize that I should have gone to Berk. Its a much cooler place with more intellignt people around. Stanford's screwed up admission policy where they hand out admissions to one and all at the Masters level, ends up intoxicating the grad population with a huge percentage of dumbos who cant tell the difference between a dodo and a dildo. So any of you wannabe Phds take my advise and go to berk. Stanford is well shallow, to put it mildly.

Dial S for SEX

Anyone who watches hindi movies online (hindijoy/desimedia/something else) must have seen those wonderfully bizarre ads where a telephone with a ponytail and a sexy female voice walks upto a guy and cooes in his ears "udaas kyon baithe ho, aao mere saath pyaar ki duniya me (why are you sitting all alone, come with me to the land of love)". And then a number flashes on the screen, which btw i called out of sheer morbid curiosity and nothing else, and it turned out to be a sex line. AHAA!! But hold on to your pants, and stop salivating, this is not about that.

This is about something much more delicious and much more tricky. This is about having phone sex with your girlfriend. Ok it does sound a bit kinky, but hey its your girlfriend and you are supposed to have sex with her right, and not the hot next door brunette. Sigh, mmm ***#$@$

But we digress !! Guys guys guys, let me warn you phone sex is not easy. It is not a walk in the park by any stretch of your imagination. You see with the usual vanilla sex, a majority of your time is spent doing it, for lack of a better word. Words are few and used sparsely, unless you are into dirty talking during the act and most importantly you can gauge the reaction of your partner and alter your moves before they lead to disaster and a subsequent breakup with the worst possible reason "my bf sucks in bed".

But with phone sex you are with a major handicap. Being good in bed is no longer important, you have to good with your words, and damn good for that matter. You dont want to use a line like "you look hot today sweetheart" cos "you cant even see me now you prick" will come the repartee. Instead you have to use the modified version "God your voice makes me all hot". See what I mean, phone sex requires perfect coordination between your brain and your larynx.

Not only that, your sense of timing to say the right words must be spot on. What i mean by that is she might be aching for some hard verbose action, while you (not knowing that) might start up with the soft thingie "I want to put my arms around you and smell your hair" and then "You have no clue what my needs are, so insensitive" will come the harsh rebuke. You getting my point now??

And lastly ending must be pretty grand as well. But I wont go into the details about that, the only word of advise would be let her have a grand finale first, even though usually it takes a girl forever to have a grand finale (not in my case btw). But still, show your sensitive side, shes your girlfriend after all. And most importantly you and your girl have to be on the same synch plane and tuned to the same sexual frequency. Only then will this work. But if you are both tuned properly then "O MY GOD" it is one hell of a smashing experience. And as kinky as it gets.

So all you couples out there, if you havent tried this then stop wasting time reading this stupid post pick up the phone and dial S for SEX. Do let me know how it went though.