Rotten French wine served by the ugly Samba lady

I have tons of work, I have a thesis to complete and my advisor is after my ass threatening to nail it up on the haloed walls of stanford anyday. But I'm a brave boy (not man) and so over the past week, I've been defying the calls of my damn lab and simulations and stupid bug-infested code and instead happily drinking beer from 6 in the morning till 2 in the afternoon, even more happily watching the football (soccer doesnt have that same zingg). And since I run out of ideas often about what to write, and since all decent blogs that I read have their own personal posts on the football world cup, I decided to do what I do best that is ape these esteemed blogs and put in my own post on that. AHAA!! Talk about lack of better things to do...

Anyway so I've watched almost all the matches, yes yes even the Korea-Togo match with a bunch of face painted koreans singing the korean national anthem (i assume) at the drop of a hat.

But I must say the big teams have been a major disappointment, especially France and Brazil. So this post viciosly attacks the big names in both these teams and dishes out some majorly unwanted advise to the stars. Here goes.

Watching France play is like watching East bengal playing in its Chima Okerie days (remember the bull like black Nigerian), only in this case Zizou seems to be trying desperately to fill Chima's lethargic skill-less lead like feet. I counted the number of times he touched the ball in the Korean match--it was 15, thats like one touch every 5.5 mins and this from a guy who is supposed to be the premier playmaker in the world. And each time he did touch the ball, he tried to outdo himself by trying the flick-over or the sashay or the foot-over routine and happily for the defender deposited the ball right at his feet. Happily for Zidane his misery didnt last the whole 90 minutes as the utterly displeased French coach finally took him off. Not one decent pass has he made in the two matches. And then theres Thierry Henry, the most profilic scorer in the English Premier League, the guy who makes those piercing runs down the flanks before cutting into the box with his ferocious twist and finally firing in that bulls eye shot headed for the top corner of the net. But somehow Henry seems to have left his goal sense in the vaults of Arsenal who pay him more than $90k per week. The sitters that hes missed would put my grandma to shame. And those famous flank-runs of him, well I havent seen one of those from him yet. And then there are the Vieras and the Trezeguets all piped as premier medios and strikers, people who day in and day out marshall their club's midfield and offensive line with superioir aplomb, but here in the WC Viera's play has been pathetic to put it mildly. Infact I distinctly remember, him putting up the same kind of horror football show last time around too. The whole fucking Frenchies seem to be trying to live upto George dubya Bush's lifelong held belief that the French are sissies and pussies of the highest caliber.
Verdict: Will find it hard to get into the second round, if they do, thats where they will go home from
Appeal to the French team: Zidane retire from soccer and go play with your cute three kids and pretty wife. Henry your hot girlfriend is watching every match you are playing, if not for us atleast for her show us some those runs and dont just reserve all your energy for the nightly bedroom runs with her. Trust me seeing you running with that ball will turn her on no ends.

What about the mighty Brazilians???? Brazil Brazil Brazil, whatever happened to you. The football that you are playing is miserable. This year's Brazilian midfield was touted to be as good as that dream '82 midfield comprising of Zico, Socrates and Falcao. After all they have Ronaldihno, Kaka, Ronaldo and often Cafu and Roberto Carlos making their penetrating runs along the wings adding to the midfiled strength. But after two matches what kind of show has this supposedly dreamfield put up??? Not one free-flowing short-pass based move have they been able to string together in the two matches. Not one. Ronaldinho seems to be playing more for the gallery than anything else and not one penetrating run has he been able to give us. Kaka is trying, but definitely lacks imagination and has this stupid propensity of shooting rather than passing to an open man from just in front of the box. Ronaldo, well the less said about him the better, in two matches he has touched the ball a total 5 times. Roberto Carlos, a player I feel is vastly overhyped, continues to make his huffing puffing runs down the left flank and then crossing either into the stand or into the defender's foot. Adriano, well hes more in the mould of a English striker rather than a Brazilian one, he wont make his own goals but needs a good supply line to provide him with the crosses or that through ball, and till now that supply line is yet to be constructed. The only player that has impressed me is Robinho. In both of Brazil's matches hes come on for Ronaldo and made an immediate impact. He is short with low c.g giving him extremely good stability on his feet and has a dangerous turn.

Verdict: dont know, but the way they are playing I would say Quarter finals tops, but then its Brazil so I might have to eat my words.
Appeal to the Brazilian team: Ronaldo stop guzzling alcoholic beverages by the dozens at those posh spanish nightclubs with your model girl. Your paunch even puts me to shame. Go get a belly tuck or something. Ronaldinho your smile is as ugly as mine, if you forget playing football then take it from an equally ugly dude that not one girl will you get to sleep with. Robert Carlos stop playing football and go join the WWE or the world's strongest man competetion, thats where you truly belong and Im beginning to suspect that that 5 year old banana free kick of yours was a freak accident.

Superhit Muqabla

Ten most exotic googling/blog-googling ways by which people arrive at this blog:

10. s*****e jhantu
09. me jhantu
08. voluptious desi babes /desi teen (teen !! underage sex is not my thing)
07. desi sex
06. voyeurism (courtesy her)
05. jhantu has desi sex
04. jhantu desi babe fuck
03. bengali wife sex
02. moms sarees below navel (??????, how, why, where, when, me kaun hoo me kaha hoo)

and the no.1 in the list is:
01. sushma swaraj fucks

Now thats a reader base to be proud of !!!
Mea Culpa.

Smoke in my lungs, lust in my eyes

It is enticing, damnly so, infact god fucking darn damnly so. I walk down to my department and I see that stupid fucking American lighting her up like the damn July 4th fireworks itself, I see that desi cool dude who doesnt even deserve to be within a 5 mile radius of her try and get close to her for the first and last time ever in his miserable life and cough and spurt and spit his stalking candy ass all over stan-fucking-ford, I see that fucking Europeon make a clumsy grab for her, her the delicate she who deserves so much more gentler a touch, I see that bloody Latino piece of shit make a machismoic pass on her and get her within his fingertips , and I look at that fucking American and that jackass desi and that shitty latino and Europeon, a look of pure desire in my eyes, turning a dangerous shade of envious green, no no not lust for that Europeon or that desi or even that latino -- though I've had my small share of males but still, but pure desire for her-- her whom they can have but I fucking cant. Infact looking at her, I even end up with a hard on. If only I could have her, just once, oh yes once again like the once bitten twice shy and third time lucky saying goes. If only my mouth could feel her once more, if only I could lay my hands on her again and feel that smooth soft silken texture, if only I could run my fingers across her beautiful self, if only I could light her up one more time and see her tip red and glowing.

Damn it if only I could use that 5 bucks in my pocket and get her from that gas station.

But for fucks sake I cant, cos I am on my way to quitting, with tiny infant-esque baby steps . And so I must lust and froth and fornicate, and that is all I can do and that is all that I have to say about that because my mama says life is a box of cigarettes and you never know what you will get.

Surgeon general's warning: Smoking is injurious to health. Smoking kills. Quitting smoking now greatly reduces health risks.

GAAAAH!!!!

Bitch Hunt

Arent we cool, we shall have all the bitches tonight



My hot bitch pick-up look, Bitches here I come.



I found my two bitches, Oh Yeaaa baby



I disapprove the bitch hunt, I am committed



I shall need energy for the bitch hunt tonight, this is my third helping, there will be three more to come



Is that a bitch I see or is that jo I'm trying to find ??

He thinks therefore he is

I think of you often, when my eyes close and I wrap myself in the yellow sheet, I think of how that cocky, know-all, hard-headed guy who packed his bags into an old green Nissan and made his way to the golden state would have been if he hadnt met you.

Theres an old bengali saying which talks about keeping the doors and windows of your mind open to let the fresh air of dialogue and discussion and knowledge flow in and keep it fresh. Knowledge that is not band-limited to numbers and equations only, knowledge that you taught him, discussions with you that acted as his catharsis, gave him new perspectives, stimuated him.
Oh but he was difficult, he resisted you at every step, with ridicule, with utter dismissals from his presence, drove you crazy with sheer word twisting logics. But yet you talked to him, yet you tred to make him see the point, yet you tried to show him the world outside equations and theorems. You didnt have to but you did. Finally after many a month of trying, you bid him farewell, sad that he could never see those things, no matter how hard you try.

And thats where you taught him the most important lesson of his life. Thats where all his beliefs , his cockiness, his hard-headedness got a rude shocking jolt. What the fuck happened ?? The chemistry was perfect, the math between us was spot on, then what?? Why the fuck are you walking away then, he screamed at you??

And even then when you did not turn back, but just kept on walking away, thats when you taught him the most important lesson of his life. Losing the most important person in his life, made him re-evaluate everything. And he retraced his steps starting from the very beginning of 2004. And then he learnt to think, thoughts that werent just made of numbers and algorithms, but thoughts you had tried to get into his thick skull with no success, whatsoever.

I think of him and I feel how lucky he was that he met you, the one person who taught him how to evolve. Would he have made an effort to try and evolve if you hadnt challenged him? Could anybody else see through him like you did and let him know this is who you are in black and white sonny boy, now judge for yourself? Would he have written this blog if you hadnt walked away? Could anybody but you would have been more firm with him in that soft voice of yours? Would he have ever made the effort to become a better person, for anybody but you?

How can he then ever settle for anybody but you?

Perfect Bitchy 10 -- My kind of girl

My taste in women is horrid. I did suspect that for sometime and now Im utterly convinced that it is indeed the case.

A normal guy dates normal girls, girls who are nice and hot and not difficult and not bitchy. Girls who are more inclined to put their arms around your neck than put sarcasm laden nooses around it, girls who would be thrilled if you gave them flowers rather than warn you no matter what,any gift that costs even a fucking lousy dollar is not acceptable, and more importantly girls who would go out with you if you ask them once or twice or at a maximum thrice. A normal guy wouldnt ask that girl a fourh time out, especially when he has a whole collection of emminently hot and date-able ladies lined up for the weekend and one of those ladies even owns a Z4 beemer.

But as I said my taste is suspect. Not just suspect it is downright fucking appalingly despicable. You dont believe me. Well heres my perfect date's best qualfications, judge for yourself:

(1) The difficulty quotient should drill its way up the roof and make its way right into the damn stratosphere. She should be as difficult as they come. If I ask her for something her gut reaction should be to say NO FUCKING WAY.

(2) She needs to be a pastmaster at sarcasm and irrespective of the fact how romantic or sexy a moment is or might be she must have the charming (dis)ability of knocking the wind out of that moment with her sarcasm. Her favourite sarcasm laden charm me line has to be Whatever rocks your boat dude.

(3) She needs to give me the I dont care a damn for whatever you say/do attitude and in the process have the ability to completely puzzle me as to what shes really thinking.

(4) She should be a drama queen of the very first rate. No matter how insignificant the incedent she must have the ability to outdo me when it comes to putting up a dramatic show (and believe me Im stiff competetion).

(5) I need to be able to talk to her without getting distracted by her boobs or pussy or navel or whatever. That is the conversation should be more engrossing than her visible booty.

(6) She should be obstinate to the point of being able to drive me nuts with her hard-headedness. No reason or logic or coaxing or convincing from my end should ever be able to change her damn mind.

(7) I must know that shes well read than me, even though I'll never admit it to her, but she must make me look like a complete imbecile with her reading knowledge.

(8) She should be as pricey as they come. Theres no point in me wasting my charms on you if you cant act like a pricey bitch. If I ask you out you say no, if I ask you out again you again say no, if I ask you out one more time you should be able to say Go get a life sweetheart and stop wasting your breath. And believe me if you do that I'll climb nine stories via a tree and ask you out one more time while dangling in a very unsafe manner from that fragile unstable tree branch.

(9) She must be abe to make me do things in bed I can never do for anyone else.

(10) And last but not the least you must have large eyes, long fingers, long hair, wear glasses, have the most beautiful voice ever and sleep in yellow flowery night dresses.

And that sums up my perfect bitchy sweetheart through ten utterly despicable qualitites I look for in my girl. Anyone fitting the bill drop me a line.

First date

Girl and the boy dress up in their second best suits (the first obviously being the birthday suit, which you dont wear to a first date, maybe after it if you are lucky), boy picks up girl, they talk shop in that blue stallion, on the way to that date they had talked about for the last two months. He has a fantastic evening all planned for her. San Francisco though is a tricky place and boy has this knack of getting lost even while driving in a straight line. Thus the boat meant to be ridden under the full moon and the twinkling stars by boy and girl leaves the docks while boy , girl and the stallion still try and navigate their way through crooked San Francisco streets in convoluted circles.

Im sorry he says, thats all right lets take a walk she says eyeing his rock-n-roll date-unfit tshirt with trepidation, while he eyes her white shirt and purple lipstick and combed hair with the same trepidation. He should have dressed a bit more formally, she looks so much nicer without makeups.

My fav eatery I'll take her to he has planned, but boy ends up not finding the eatery and they spend their time walking around shady San Francisco streets going round and round in mile long circles trying to find that Paki place that boy wants girl to eat in, but has somehow disappeared on the day of the date. Finally boy runs into a place which is not Paki, looks at girl who is rubbing the soles of her feet from all the walking around in those platform heels in search of that ellusive Paki place.
I think we should eat here. Yea we should.

And so over plates of butter chicken and chicken korma and naans boy and girl have their first date, both shy, both nervous, they have never dated before ( and will never date again). Though the lamp has burnt through countless nights while texts and hmms and smileys and IMs have been typed on their laptops and phone cards have been charged and recharged and recharged again, a formal date makes them nervous, makes them defensive, makes them shy. And its not past midnight yet, and their defenses dont go down till the clock strikes the midnight hour. The pre-midnight hours are meant for things more normal in their lives.

Im sorry, I messed up, boy says as the stallion now roars through the deserted freeway. Thats allright, you know the place wouldnt have mattered to us, it was a lovely crappy date, she says with a smile.

Boy looks at his watch, the midnight hour has passed, their time has come at long last. He wants to reach out and hold her hand, maybe she wants him too, but they dont. They can only look into each others' eyes and see themselves holding hands and kissing softly, but cannot actually hold hands.

See you tomorrow, he says at the parking lot, even as her phone rings that familiar ringtone reserved for people more important to her. Theres something for you though, he says. She turns back with a What look. He opens the trunk and gives her a half-feet long skeleton. It sings for you, he says, try it. She presses the button.

Im losing my head, over you, day and night, over you, Im losing my head.

She looks at him with a touched amused look, you are an idiot says her eyes. He hopes she can take the skeleton, she couldnt take the flowers he got her the first time they met.

Its lovely, she whispers, forgetting the now angrily buzzing phone.

He laughs nervously and proudly, nervous whether she would take it and proud that hes got her something he knew she would love. Their eyes lock for a minute, its the goodnight kiss their eyes see.

She turns around the skeleton still in her hands and whispers a soft goodbye. He stands there seeing her walk to the doorway, her hair bouncing in the wind, her lipstick almost gone and he could hear the skeleton singing.

Im losing my head, over you, day and night, over you, Im losing my head.

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