Onion soup serving 20 *

Kitchen is not my favourite place in an apartment. The rule that I strongly enforce when it comes to the kitchen is this: Visit seldom, if and only if when in trouble. I like to think of the kicthen more in lines with a holy ground than any other useful addendum to the apartment. I set foot on this holy ground only as a last resort.

But a great man once said that one day every soul finds GOD and when HE beckons you, you blink your eye like a deer caught in bright red beacon and make your way to HIM. But when HE does call for you, he doesnt do it himself, HE prefers a proxy, something/someone called a prophet. The LORD after all likes to work in mysterious ways. A case in point being Sri Ramkrishna. Without him (the proxy aka prophet) imagine what would have happened to Vivekananda. Would he have ever left the hot humid sultry Calcutta summer, and made his way to a shitty, ice cold, frigid Chicago winter to attend some God forsaken religion assembly?? Would he?? Would he have given up his promising football career with Mohun-Bagan for writing incomprehensible "Vaanis" (mind twisiting religious one-liners) for which he would be cursed in the foulest possible tongue by generations of Grade VII- X students all over West Bengal. Think about it. would he???

Anyway, while you contemplate these heavy thoughts and proceed to lose your sleep in the process, let me tell you that over the weekend, all of a sudden, straight out of the blue moon, like tigers dancing in the rain and peacocks roaring in the Savannahs, one such afore-mentoned prophet paid me a visit. HIS name is SANJEEV KAPOOR (of Khana Khazana fame). Straight out of a modern "Born again" religious fanatic fable he appeared on my Mozilla web- browser and said:

Chicken Korma for 10, Hyderabadi Biriyani for a dozen, Rajput saag in bhumihaar daal (Award winning National unity dish) worth a grand.
Come son, Take my hand, come back to the (holy) kitchen land.
Let me see you Cook.

Thus at long last HE had called for me. But Aesop had taught me slow and steady wins the race. And so I wanted to pace myself properly during this new found pilgrimage of mine. Once again I looked to the prophet Sanjeev Kapoor Nothing fancy O prophet, only something that would point me in the right direction to begin with. Tathastu, he smiled, a few more clicks on the web browser, and there it was Onion soup for 20. Easy to make, delicious in taste, just like utterly butterly Amul butter.

Pick a big vessel and fill it to the brim with water, the prophet commanded. Filled I did. Now son put it on the stove and let it boil. Yes my messiah, let it. Let all thy damnations be boiled out of thee water. Grab 10 large onions and start chopping them down. This is the crusade not some kitty porn remember son. So Chop Chop. Holy shit. Dont take the Lord's name in vain son, remember you are in the holy land. But O great Sanjeev Sir, it has been ages since I have chopped anyone down, and while I chop this damned onions I feel pain, I feel sorrow, my tears wont stop, I miss my Mummy, my daddy, my auncle, my aunty, my dog and my cat. Dont sob like a girl, you useless bastard keep chopping. And chopped I did, and in the process of chopping down 10 onions I re-lived the pain, the pangs, the sorrow of 5 million years of human history, my shirt was soaked, my pants felt like wet sponge. I was crying for humankind. The pilgrimage had started.

Now get 6 large skinless potatoes. Quick. God damn it. I rummaged through my kitchen looking for these skin-less wonders, but alas none were to be found. I ran to the local grocery store, rummaged through sacks and sacks of potatoes, but not one skinless variety did I find. They all had this brown/red skin attached to them. Holy potatoes are indeed difficult to find. In a mode of desperation I finally knocked on Ellen's door (my next door neighbor and a hermin often found deep in meditation in the holy kitchen). Ellen do you happen to have skin-less potatoes, I couldnt find any, not one. She laughed and came back with a handful of these skin-less wonders. I looked at her amazed, Now here was a true believer. Throw these potatoes into the water, commanded the prophet. I tried. I promise you I tried. But my aim was never that good. Not one of those holy skin-less potatoes made their way into the pan. Some landed on the floor, others hit the wall making a splosy smudge in the process, one flew straight out of open window. The pilgrimage is never easy, I realized.

Idiot now put those chopped onions into the water. I did. And then doomday struck. The water was definitely not holy, it was the devil incarnate , boiling with rage as soon as the onions hit the water it snarled it hissed, it swore at me, and then made its way out of the pan and lunged for me. SHIIIITTTT. Damn the thing was angry, it burnt my foot, but still kept coming at me, hissing and snarling as it made its way out of the pan.

And so I ran, the crusade be damned, the pilgrimage be damned, the devil's after me now. But you can never outrun a pan of spilling, boiling, snarling water can you?? You cant. And so I tripped on that water and found myself covered in those chopped onions and that boiling water. I had to get to land, to safety. And so with one last effort I made my way to the chair and jumped on it. The hissing and snarling onion filled boiling water all around me chanting their devil hymns and trying their best to get at me

I was safe. I looked at the browser and the prophet smiled. And now you are ready to serve delicious onion soup good for 20. Enjoy. I looked down on the floor, at the onion soup, dazed, the LORD truly works in mysterious ways.

* After Shibram

Mama Mia or Where you should go lingerie shopping for your girl

The list of things that can turn a guy more than seeing his girlfriend in a naughty school girl uniform (complete with pigtails and stockings) is, well, RARE and truly few and far between. But then, once in a while, not always mind you but just once in a while, you run into something that turns every turn-on logic on its head, gives it an all-mighty spin, and leaves you gasping for breath. And being the considerate human being that I am, without further adieu I shall present to you, dear girls and guys, the greatest piece of clothing ever conceived for the female form. Behold abracadara:

Yes Yes !! This is the CRYSTAL G-STRING, complete with a matching crystal bra. And as the manufacturers claim "It is fully adjustable --- fitting waist sizes 23"-38" ".

Wow!! Are you kidding me. You mean to say no more fumbling through layers of your girl's undies trying to read the tag and figuring out her exact size and then going to that damn Victoria store only to discover hey presto different brands have different ways of numbering their sizes !! And then the shop assistant would give you her million-watt-you-are-an-amateur-in this-thing-i-think smile while politely saying "first time for you sir". No you fucking bitch this isnt the first time, this is the bloody nth confusing time, and each time your fucking makers come up with more and more new and complex ways of numbering their lingerie. Damn you bitch. I wonder, though, do the girls realize how insanely fucking difficult it is for us guys to surprise them with those supposedly sensuous, intimate red-ribbon wrapped chocolate shaped boxes containing a sexy piece of lingerie.

But now, I can buy the sexiest piece of lingerie I have ever seen in my life without the hassle of working out the size conundrum. Now is that a bargain or not??

But then the bloody world is, well, bloody screwed up. So everything lovely somehow has a sting attached to its tail. In this case it happens to be the not so easy task of either getting into or getting out of the crystal g-string (with or without help), as well as wearing it with your fav pair of jeans and going out on a date. It is definitely not recommended for the faint of heart. Trust me on this.

Phoenixian Resurrection?

Returning to an old blog is like returning to a sad old ex, in more ways than one. The settings, the sights, the scenery look eerily familiar, but there is that niggling thought at the back of your head that the sex might have lost its zing. So you scratch your head, giving your nuts a well deserved break in a long long time, wondering whether it is worth the effort in the first place.

But then you wonder where else can you delve into details with regards to such deep and thought provoking, socially relevant subjects like cool dudes who love their i-pod (pod rhyming with load) or about orkut love-birds who send each other one liners representing such traumatizing bastardization of the english language as "cum on yahoo baby, im waiting for you to cum", discuss the merits and demerits of shooting your very own sex home videos, the demerits primarily being about you being paranoid about how your ass will look on tape .... not good not good at all, one piece of bloody horrific indian ass it would be..., provide expert advise on how to handle drunk girlfriends in an expert manner with minimal liability, talk about new and exciting places besides your apartment to have sex in (example an office space) and last but not the least make caustic acerbic fun of one and all.

However, SADLY, this blog has lost its once loyal reader-base. Even the bitchy feminists, the ex-es, those close to the ex-es, who would litter the comment space with raunchy comments, have moved over to greener pastures. So the resurrection looks, well, kind of iffy. But then there are just too many interesting tales being brewed up in the Jhant cafe and I am having too difficult a time keeping all of those to myself. And more importantly my balls are itching to make fun of a few chosen ones. And that in itself is worthy of a Ripley-esque resurrection.

Announcement

This blog is now on a sabbatical, in the meantime continue to read the "other" blog and enetertain me with your comments.



Till next time.
tata

Cockification

stud: aapke dad terrorist hain kya ?
bimbo : nahin to .. kyun?
stud: aisa sex-bomb aur kaun banaa sakta hai

stud: aap hain hamari company ki lucky winner
bimbo: aur mera inaam?
stud: meri company ..poori raat ke liye

(Plagiarized, but obviously)

Thought of the new year

Semicolon or Full-stop?

Poker- History and Future 101

I started fiddling with cards many many years ago. But I started playing for money only much later. I think I was in class V or something when I had my first attack of jaundice (hepatitis for the technically bent amongst you), and jaundice/hepatitis as you know is one bimaari that gives you a guaranteed 1-2 month vacation, though it is not the idyllic kind as the diet you are forced to push down your throat is simply abysmal. Anyway it was during that jaundice-era that I started playing cards for money, with my Grandma that is (who by the way for some completely arbit and unfathomable reason was called Lalma by both me and my cousin sis). We used to play this wonderfully stupid game, inexplicably called "Fish" (it was kind of a poorer man's rummy in some ways), and whoever won would get 25 paise, and if the winner won by 300 points or more then he(i.e. me)/she (i.e Lalma) would earn an additional 25 paise. And believe me I grinded through hours and hours of "fish"ing during that jaundice-infested summer, often cooking the scorebook or setting-up the play deck so that yo get some really nice cards, and by the end of that summer I was the proud owner of a couple of 20 Rupee note. Voila!!

Anyhoo to cut a long story short I slowly graduated to the more brainy games primarily bridge and me and my bridge partner (the guy who taught me how to play the game and by far the best card player I have ever seen in my life) then started playing in small meant-for-fun local club tourneys. Now this wasnt for money. Because the club tourneys we played in, were not the hi-fi sophisticated clubs that you might think they were. These were instead those small shanty local clubs frequented by the people whose professions varied from being auto-drivers to fishmongers to the night-guards of residential complexes to that guy who owns that small paan-shop round the corner, but primarily those who didnt have any jobs. But I kid you not when I say that these guys were sharks when the decks were dealt out. They could guess with an amazingly high degree of accuracy the exact 13 cards that you held depending on the way you played. And of course there were bragging rights up for grabs, so the games were intensely competetive. And I had an additional advantage as well, since a bunch of these guys I played with were auto-drivers I got a huge number of free rides from my house to the auto-routes on which these guys operated (for the calcutta savvy that was free rides from garia-jadavpur/gariahat). Not bad eh!!



And then I came over to the States and got hooked onto this mother of all cash games -Texas Hold'em Poker. For those of you unfamiliar with it inspite of the constant programing on ESPN or inspite of that poker 's holy grail matt damon-ed norton starring rounders this is basically an advanced version of our desi bred teen-patti. Now contrary to what you think poker is not a luck game. It is game of great skills and this is one game which if you play skillfully in a casino you will not lose money, unlike Blackjack.

So to cut a short story long I started playing poker at Pennstate, first with friends (for cigarettes or beer but mainly for fun) and then more and more in local poker rooms in the Pennsylvania/Ohio area. Casinos you see are not legal in most of mainland USA and thus there were these private party run poker rooms where you can play these games, what you had to do was take your money there and play as long or as short a time as you want, the only thing you had to be worried about was that the poker room was properly run and it wasnt a scam operation. Anyway fortunately/unfortunately I discovered that I can make a fair amount of dough playing poker. Of course the law of averages dictate that there will be days when I lost a fair amount, but if you play over a pretty long period then the odds are that a good player will make rather than lose money. The operative word here being "good". But all that stopped when I moved out of Pennstate, first to Houston and then to California. I guess was too lazy to start hunting down local poker rooms where you could go and play.



But then began the age of online poker. No longer did you have to go out to seedy poker rooms or casinos to play, you needed only a computer at your place, download the software, deposit money through something like paypal or your checking account and start playing. But due to various reasons I didnt play too actively when I was at Stanford, only in the past few months or so after moving over to houston did I again start playing poker a bit more rigorously. And that dear readers is also one of the driving reason for the alarming dip in the regularity with which this blog is getting updated and also the reason why the lady in my life is getting stood up more and more. Anyway so over the past few weeks I have again started playing the cash games with regularity, I usually play 2-3 hours a day, 4-5 days a week and on an average I can make 300-400 USD a week.

But that is not the goal here. Maybe, just maybe, in 4-5 years time I can start playing poker full time - professionally and maybe just maybe play in the World series of poker (which by the way has an enrty fee of $25000) and more importantly it would sound ultra cool when that broad asked me what do you for a living, I wouldnt have to harp that damn beaten-down-million-desi-trodden line "Oh I am a research fuckass dickhead scientist", instead I could impress that chick with "I play poker, including strip poker" . For now that remains an elusive dream, but then reality bites dreams dont, though the social life has taken an astounding pounding.

Me and me-in-a-dress

One time:
Me: do girls masturbate?
She: Of course
Me: i mean do the desi females masturbate?
She: some do.
Me: do you?
She: Fucker do you?
Me: atleast once on weekdays and twice on a sunday.
She: make that a double for me.
Me: eyes roll around the socket in sheer glee

Another time:
Me: Which is your fav : girl-on-top or boy-on-top??
she: neither, doggy is the best
Me: on the bed or the dining table??
She: the dining table of course, no no make it the office table.
Me: Of course (eyes are now ready to pop out of thy sockets with even greater glee)

Yet another time:
She: I discovered this amazing site, check it out.
Me: what?
She: Worldsex.com, its got free porn sweetheart
Me: (reaching for the browser) what was that url again?

Some time:
Me: what were you doing in that bookstore where I met you??
She: Browsing through some books of course
Me: Anything specific?
She: it was the kamasutra.
Me: smashing


And so I've met me, me in a dress and a black top and red shirts and the works looking all shagadelic hot!! And by god Im fucking great baby.

Girl power-- Jai Maa Kali, Kalkattewali

Do any of you guys (and of course the beautiful ladies) remember that great Indian super-hero named Shahenshah? Any bells ringing?? C'mon people its that stupid comic cop by day and a deadly one man protector of the innocent and defenseless by night, wearing a platinum made arm guard that could stop a bullet and a mortar round with equal ease. Hes the one who would mouth that famous line:

Rishtey me to hum tumhare baap lagte hai, naam hai shahenshah

And had his own personal background music which would play every-night when he started his rounds of the streets of Bombay in search of Amrish Puri and his goons that would go:

Andheri raaton me, sunsaan raho par
Har Zulm mitane ko
Ek messiah nikalta hai
Jise log Shahenshah kehte hai

And now maybe a decade and a half or maybe more, after we last heard of that great Indian superhero, he is back again . But this time with a twist. He is back in a female avtaar(s), patroling the streets of our nation's capital and my home town conducting that dreaded "Noodle Strap" Test with the background music going:

Andheri raaton me, sunsaan raho par
Micro-mini pehnane ko
Kahi bandiyan nikalte hai
Jinhe log Blank noise kehte hai


She stalks the streets of Delhi by the wee hours of the night, wearing body hugging outfits looking for males who dare to even look up at this astonishing sight of a bunch of super-hero she-shahnshahs walking past them in the middle of the night wearing something like a wonder-woman outfit. And any of those poor fuckass, dickhead males who dare to look up is swiftly brought to justice by being reported to that new-age LEAGUE OF JUSTICE by and for the SUPER-HERO FEMALES. Justice is swift, justice is efficient-- the league warns. For my dear old home-town the league has even sterner patroling rules. Agent Jane Smith of the league goes to a street, that would put a damn fish market to shame, in the middle of the afternoon, sashays past a male-beggar in a noodle top and ass hugging jeans (the beggar by the way in all probability has never ever seen any kind of display of any degree of any fair skin in his whole life, agent Smith sashaying by him is therefore equivalent to a girl sashaying on streets of houston in a G-string) and when the beggar looks up from his bowl with the first-in-my-lifetime-sight-for-me-lady look agent smith marks her out for justice.

I, however unlike most of those males who have been brought to justice by this new super-hero female league, am completely smitten by them. These new age she -shahenshahs you see arent a protector of the innocent or the defenseless. They arent worried about issues like child marriage or the plight of that poor muslim woman in the best bakery case, or the plight of dance girls in mumbai's chamiya bars (female-dance-bars) once those closed down. Hell they arent even bothered one bit about the inhuman conditions that exist in Calcutta biggest brothel, Sonagachi. Defending or writing 200 word newspaper articles on these issues lack that cool USP quotient after all. Agent Smith doesnt take up these mundane asignments. Fuck bitch this wont even get me any fodder for my hugely popular desi blog: "the desi-wannabe-feminist-ogre.blogspot", she would complain to the CEO of the justice-league.

Instead, the new age league are the defenders of the sphagetti top, the noodle strap top, the micro mini, the sleeveless kurta worn without a dupatta, the tank top, the hot pants, the body hugging outfit, to be more precise the right to wear them. Their tagline/USP reads :

Inside every salwar kurta-clad woman is another wanting to wear a noodle-strap top.
And by sweet mother mary (note not jesus, jesus is male, the female super-league is strictly prohibited to swear via the male gender) we shall make them wear those.

You see what I mean right. This bunch is exactly my kind of a super-female bunch. What better than to have Indian lassies of all ages , the 20s, the 30s, the aunties, marching around in micro-minis, albeit with mis-shapen asses and thunder-thighs. For starters it would perhaps help to elevate by atleast one standard deviation the abysmally low sexual expression capabilities of the Indian metro-female.

Female liberation has finally entered the new millenium. Gone are the days of BRA-BURNING and enter are the days of the LETS DRESS UP AUNTIE IN MICRO-MINIS. And I for one am really looking forward to visiting Calcutta in a couple of months time. After all micro-mini wearing aunties hopping off that mini-bus would be a great spectacle if nothing else. Though I must warn the league, my mom would take some work before she comes around!!

Some news and some surprise

Ok lets start with some of the news. And before you start getting ideas about the nature of the news, in particular its proximity to the female form, let me clarify, this is good news of the kind that has never before been mentioned in this blog, infact this is the kind of good news that makes the hearts of nerdy geeky people (and no one else mind you) go ga-ga with joy. But hey then again this is that Jhantu blog, so you can be assured though that some mention of the closeness to female forms will come in, maybe a bit later. Now before the subsequent sentences start getting more and more convoluted and ever more confusing and long drawn and before you my dear reader start scratching the top of your head in frustration at the unashamed display of my command or the lack of it of the english language in its written form and scream out O blurt out that fucking good news for petes sake you dickhead fuck, dear readers it is the following:

You see all nerdy research folks and scientists pompously publish unimportant complicated techie papers in completely useless and unimportant scientific journals every year by the tons. But sadly few of them are ever read by anybody, and till date that has been the case with yours truly. But lo and behold, I was at this conference over the past week, when surprise surprise. What do I find but these bunch of Chinese research guys at some big shot company's research division referring and citing with gay abundance about a 4 page work of crap published by one Jhantu on which they seem to have based their entire work. Not just that that work of crap by that one called Jhantu now seems to be the work-horse of that un-named company's production line.

Now believe me when I say this that for us techies seeing our name cited on a random publication or a viewslide in a 20 minute long technical presentation attended by 20 people with gray/no hair, is glamour redefined. We techies you see are satisfied with little. Right from the start (meaning the day we decided to become techies), we know that all our equations and bullet-proof theorems and our super-fast codes are never going to elevate our getting-laid status at a club, the spicy girls are more likely to fall for that chunky truck-driver Chuck, rather than that lanky geeky dude wearing a t-shirt that reads:

And thus we are satisfied with trying to get laid by equally nerdy geeky girls and just to add a pinch of lemon to those out of reach sour grapes we shall say Fucking blonde bimbos who wants to date them anyway, screw those dumb bitches, of course followed by a muffled silent sigh in postscript if only we could.

Anyway without be-labouring the point any more, the bottomline is that we the geeky research folks really get turned on seeing our name displayed on this presentations and tech papers. Thus if your girl-friend or boy-friend or some such character in your life is a geeky techie, and you want to get him/her a really grand halloween present, then come halloween night get dressed in that naughty school-girl uniform (of course dont forget to go commando) and hold one of his pre-prints in your hand and coo to him would you be my professor and teach me how equation number A-4 was derived. And trust me when I say this and believe me I kid you not that you'd be treating that geek in your life to an unforgetable night of 100% pure pleasure if you follow this piece of advise.

But anyway, so I had my one slide's worth of glory in the world of geekies and even had a few students in universities walking upto me and asking me for my email to discuss some aspects of my work that they could not quite follow, but would love to. And I obliged them with my visiting cards in the manner in which Sachin Tendulkar obliges his fans with autographs, feeling all pompous and important and all that shit. Felt good you know, infact felt fucking great.

But then something happened. A few among that bunch of autograph-in-the-form-of-business-card hunting bunch of grads decided to tag along with me for dinner. Now if you have been in a grad school in the US as a geek and been to these conferences, you would know that this is a red-herring with R in caps for that company scientist. Let me explain. The trick that the grad student plays here is that he is out looking for an expensive $100 per person dinner at some posh seafood/steakhouse joint. Of course for those below the poverty line grads a $100 meal is well and truly beynd their reach. So what they do is that they'll get into conversation with a research guy from some company about oh how interested they are in his work. Now the company-research guy being a geeky techie himself, would be overjoyed that some student finds his hitherto crap piece of work so exciting, so that company research guy would take these grad students out to dinner to discuss his work in more details, pick up the tab, and those bunch of grads would get their 100 buck meal, which they were out to look for in the first place.

But what those dickhead grads didnt know is that I am fresh out of school, and for the last four years I have been playing this trick with perfection at numerous conferences. So yea I did take them out for dinner, and being of good heart I did pick up the tab, only the place wasnt Morton's Steakhouse (which by the way serves the best filet mignon in the south coast), but it was Mcdonalds. Game, set and match for Jhantu, I would say!!

And now for the SURPRISE part.

It seems romance has decided to make a comeback into my life. After being sentenced to be in the backseat of thy life for almost an eternity, it seems that she, romance, has decided that it is now time that she would make her presence felt. Now for someone, whose been involved in some of the most eclectic relationships of the heart in the past, allowing romance a foothold is a herculean task in itself. But then pretty hands have a way of tilting the balance:

The princess might kiss the ugly frog and turn him into the prince of his dreams. This might not after all be just tales from the crypt, fairy tales might still come true.

An old old archaic Tag

She had tagged me many many moons ago, but I just hadnt got round to doing it. (On the same note tags from her and her still remain due).
But then coming back to blogging after a pretty long exile, you need something like a tag to get you going. So for today, no sex stories, no bloody indian dude/dudette bashing but lets do a simple decent nice tag.

Heres the tag rules:
(1) Say who tagged you
(2) Say 8 things about yourself
(3) Tag 6 people.

8 things about me:

(1) I have a raging inferiority complex and I often end up using sex, trash talk and really weird, deranged and the sexually explicit variety of humor as a defense mechanism.

(2) I wish I could wear my hair ala Rahul Roy (for those of you not into Bollywood movies he is the hero of that legendary modern day Hindi movie classic "Junoon", India's first and probably last werewolf movie, a singing and dancing wereworlf at that too). Being unsatisfied with my natural in situ hair and finally having given up on a Rahul roy-esque haitdo I have instead proceeded to dye my hair brown blonde and various other combinations of brown and blonde in the past. I also happen to have 7 piercings on my ear, one on my navel and a really wrong tattoo on my arm.

(3) I am addicted to the Almost Famous variety of mini-cookies most commonly found in vending machines. I have single handedly emptied more than three vending machines of their Almost Famous stock in less than 7 days.

(4) You can often find me at an AMC or a multi-plex watching movies alone. Infact I prefer to watch movies in an audi alone, and never ever prefer going to a movie-date ( in the past I have had traumatic experiences of making out in movie theatres which I am sure has scarred me forever and created a major mental block when it comes to movie dates). I am also extremely suspicious of girls who go to movies with me and buy popcorns. I get this feeling that in the dark of the theater, while reaching for the popcorn precariously balanced on my knees with my hand still inside the popcorn bag, her hands and fingers will forget about the popcorn and instead make a dash for my hand with the intention of holding onto it in a gesture of stupid PDA (public display of affection) and thus take the first step to spoiling my movie.

(5) There is probably nothing and no-one in the world I really care about (including myself). And this has been true for many years now, except for an anamolous break once. But then again exceptions and anamolies prove the rule.

(6) I'm a trained classical guitarist, meaning I have had 8 years of "formal" training in playing the damn classical guitar and my marksheets (four of them actually) read "Passed in music theory with 1st class" (theory pertains to the part where they ask you all kinds of weird questions about raags and tri-taals and things like that) , "Passed in practical with distinction" (practical pertians to the actual playing part). Surprisingly I have also played solo on the radio, and played in an orchestra at the Nazrul Manch (probably the largest open air audi in Calcutta).

(7) I hate formal wear. I absolutely detest them. And thus, much to my manager's chagrin, I end up going to the office in party shirts. I also hate shoes and snickers. Now flip-flops and sandals, thats what the man should put on, right!!

(8) I find most people boring and stupid and slow. And I'm usually blunt about it. (I would usually go out of my way to let you know that your a first class daft and boring the hell out of me with your non-sensical jabber). Consequently I find it extremely hard to make friends. Infact all my friends, casual and otherwise, (with the exception of exactly 5 people) are people I know for almost a decade now.

Now for the people to tag. The unfortunate bunch are:
M, Wishfulthinker, Sue, Aditi,
Dreamcatcher.

Whats your CD-Q (Cool Desi Quotient) Score??

You know you have qualified for the Cool Umrican desi tag when:

(1) You (the guy) can be seen in a crowded choc-a-bloc pub on a scorching summer night wearing your best full-sleeves designer shirt and ball-crushing tight black trousers (preferably leather), sweating like there is no tomorrow, eyeing the babes with a grin that reads "Aint I cool, I shall have all the bitches tonight"

(2) You (the girl) can be seen in a crowded choc-a-bloc pub on a freezing winter night wearing a mini-skirt and a strap that leaves nothing of your thunder thighs to imagination. Often you are accompanied by a gang of atleast 10 other leather-pant sporting cool desi dudes. After a round of drinks the 11 of you proceed to the dance floor. The music is hip-hop and the only way you dance to a hip-hop is to grind your ass on someone's crotch. And you (the girl) have 10 crotches to choose from. Unfortunately for you grinding your mini-skirt laden ass on black leather pants covered crotch will trouble your morning bathroom activities for the coming several days. But you are uber-cool, and not dancing in a disc is sin, a sacrilege you dare not commit. So much to the chagrin and bewilderment of the DJ, the 11 of you bring in the Ring-A-Ring-A-Roses element into hip-hop dancing. No-sweat baby, you croon.

(3) You have been in the US of A for just about a year, but everytime you need to call up that Umrican restaurant to make a reservation you can effortlessly put on that cool twangy Californian nasal accent with a vengence. Unfortunately for you, you're too cool and thus you end up addressing the guy on the phone with the line Whats cooking daawg, and end with the line Thats khoool baby, the matter is compounded by the fact that you are a cool desi babe.

(4) You declare the first non-desi who expresses a crush on you as your soul-mate, it is inconsequential whether the guy is just about as tall as Charlie Chaplin with a non-existant hairline or the girl is usually addressed as Miss.Beanstock. You have a non-desi girl/boy-friend and thats all that matters.

(5) You have been on orkut for years. Once you start dating that non-desi boy/girl he/she gets an invit into orkut from you. Your other ultra-cool-desi friends proceed to scrap him with one liners that read "dulhe raja chamak rahe ho (for non-desis not to be translated, ask your cool desi babe/dude)". Mystified by this sudden onslaught of scraps in your mother-tongue, your non-desi boy/girl friend puts up the heading on his orkut page "trying to learn hindi". A debate then arises as to who is the coolest amongst the two of you.

(6) Umricans like the outdoors and so should you. Thus you go hiking and camping on weekends when the mercury breaks the 100 degree barrier. On coming back from your weekend outdoor adventure, blackened and marooned, you spend a considerable amount of time in front of the mirror (over the next several days) admiring your tan.

(7) Ummricans love a good barbeque and so should you. Unfortunately you have no idea what can be grilled and what cannot be and thus you proceed to try and boil eggs on your barbeque debut. A good egg sandwich is in the waiting for all of you eh mate, you say as your invited cool desi friends nod their heads in the affirmative.


(8) An year ago when you were in India people used to call you Satyakee or at best Satya, but now Californians call you Scottie and Texans call you Sam. The problem arises when you head over to starbucks with another such Indian Sam (origin: Sampad), the confused waitress at the counter finally labels the two of you Sam-1 and Sam-2.

(9) You no longer go to desi restaurants. The food is soo oily and soo spicy you complain. Instead you can be often seen enjoying a delicious American meal at Cracker Barrel. On the same note you can never be seen in an Indian movie, the movies are just too long and those songs and dances what do those bloody indians think --we Ummricans are fools.

(10) Anytime someone sneezes an Ummrican goes Bless you. Not to be left behind the next time you hear someone fart you say bless you. When someone mumbles something incoherently the Ummrican goes Come again. The next time someone lets out an incoherent muffled fart you go Come again.

(11) You come from country that hosts a billion people, but now you are acutely aware of the concept of your own private space. You need a space where you can spend quality time with yourself but much to the disappointment of yours truly spending quality time with yourself doesnt mean letting your hands/fingers or elongated foreign objects work overtime on you. On the same note when you go back to India the first thing that hits you as you come out of the airport is the noise man, India is so damn noisy and there are so many people around, its amazing.


(12) You have heard that wine is a uber-cool drink, and thus you can often be seen asking for a glass of chilled white wine from that bartender in that crowded nightclub. Further you have also seen your Ummrican friends keeping wine bottles in their freezers, that must be fashionable you wonder. But not only are you ultra-cool but you are ultra-cheap to boot as well, and thus proceed to buy $8 wine bottles by the dozen from Walmart. You then teach your uncool desi friend invited for dinner to your house how you must wash down a good dinner with good wine every night to stay in good health.

(13) After a night of cool-desi-babe style partying you are stopped on the road by that damn cop on a DUI (Driving under Influence) offense. You proceed to wiggle out of that supposed tricky situation by hitting on the cop and letting your cool desi charms work its magic on him. A few days later, your uncool desi friend tries the same stunt on that same cop, unfortunately for her she spends the next few days in the jail-house. She lacked my cool, you croon.

The Prodigal Son will return soon

Unfortunate (and of course mightily smashbuckling) circumstances is keeping away from this blog and the internet in general for the time being. But fear not Jhantu-heads I shall be back in a few days. Till then heres something uncharacteristically sentimental:

All our times have come
Here but now they're gone
Seasons don't fear the reaper
Nor do the wind the sun or the rain (we can be like them)
Come on baby (don't fear the reaper)
Baby take my hand (don't fear the reaper)
We'll be able to fly (don't fear the reaper)
Baby I'm your man

Valentine is done
Here but now they're gone
Romeo and Juliet Are together in eternity (Romeo and Juliet)
40,000 men and women everyday (like Romeo and Juliet)
40,000 men and women everyday (redefine happiness)
Another 40,000 coming everyday (we can be like they are)
Come on baby (don't fear the reaper)
Baby take my hand (don't fear the reaper)
We'll be able to fly (don't fear the reaper)
Baby I'm your man

Love of two is one
Here but now they're gone
Came the last night of sadness
And it was clear that she couldn't go on
Then the door was open and the wind appeared
The candles blew and then disappeared
The curtains flew and then he appeared (saying don't be afraid)
Come on baby (and she had no fear)
And she ran to him (then they started to fly)
They looked backwards and said goodbye (she had become like they are)
She had taken his hand (she had become like they are)

- courtesy BOC

And in case you though that Jhantu is going soft in the head, heres something characteristically non-sentimental :

I wanna wanna wanna wanna, I wanna get psycho

Run you little bitch
I want your power glowing, juicy flowing, red hot, meaning of life
It's not enough to have a little taste
I want the whole damn thing now
Can you dig it?

Need to get psycho
wanna hear you say it
say, you want it, need it
Don't wanna wait until we finish the show
It's not enough, you hunger for more
You're one twisted little fuck
And now you wanna get psycho with me

I can feel the blood, flowing through my veins
Spilling on my soul
And now the hunger's getting bigger
Come a little closer now pretentious whore and pull my trigger
Free the violence that is building in me
I say now end of the ride, murder suicide
Is how I've been feelin'lately
Come a little closer my pretentious whore I'm living with a feeling that I can't ignore
Come a little closer my pretentious whore I'm living with a feeling that I can't ignore
Come a little closer my pretentious whore I'm living with a feeling that i can't ignore
And the need to get psycho is not a question to me

-- courtesy Disturbed

MCQ for the blog-reader :

Often at night, I
(1) call up my girl-friend (boy-friend) professing undying everlasting love and end the conversation with the line "When is the earliest I can hold your hands and look into your deep blue eyes"
(2) call up my girl-friend (boy-friend) professing undying everlasting horniness and end the conversation with the line "When is the earliest I can fuck you "
(3) realize I am too lazy to call or too ugly to have a girl-friend (boy-friend), but i feel I'm just right for hand-jobs