splattering pea pods

Posted: July 15, 2011 in crosswords, the ashes

o ye of little faith

what do i say to you? how do i possibly ingrain the idea? candid reverie. silly laughter rent the spectrum. a specter in itself. the. the. the. the fracas preceding, the niceties succeeding. an air of cordiality – misdemeanour. wrinkled pea, round pea; round pea, round pea; round pea, wrinkled pea; wrinkled pea, wrinkled pea. binary truth tables. at play.

meager distractions, measly stratum. a lazy soothsayer. as fingers glide and slip, time does too like how pedals in movies would. what sort of man goes by? ample time by now and the floor tom’s struck lazily. squatting flies over the carcass preventing decay, then hacking it unto unrecognised bits. a pair alone could forgive such by the other on each. the quintessential recluse haggard into submission by a worthy nemesis. only that final walk of dreams would remain and you are left hoping for afterlife and beyond. prepositional-bravado and metaphorical-beauty. poetic end-of.

a change of tint is a pre requisite. green perhaps. standing mesmerised, watching the transverse phase differences in waves, even as revolving whites interjected the shades of violet horizon, the bile-ish journey backwards was only one part of the trip. extreme longing.

forcefeed. there is a church opposite to the other side. it plays a familiar gong stimulating an impulsive reflex. the bleeding spine. bonus points for getting that one. requires real science. are you smarter than an 8th grader? pink spotty tongues wag and taunt. returning to – though; perceptive manipulation in play since that guttenberg age. an evolutionary explosion. like how these 5 frames are jocularly quoted now. monkey to man. learn to beware. same to same as dealing in futures. fucking barter-the-beauty.

in convoluted complexities i return. travelling far and wide with experiences abound. of what consequence is inconsequence? i am left to my own idle workshop until the last moment.


10. insane money

leading the list from the back is the item most closely connected to the cricketing skill of a cricketer. at least in this list it certainly is. so while we are all still wondering why the ipl is pathan family biased for no visible reason, donating more than Lavan Krorrs to them, the point to be noted is that the pathan bros and likes of dan christian, saurabh tiwary etc etc. have been comparable to sreesanth’s wicket maiden. not happening at all. in cross reference to an article about ipl figuring out player worths sooner than later in the coming years so that auctions can be made boring and players can be paid correct amounts depending on their statistical indicator of worth, taking into account contribution to a win, brand potential, etc etc, is like chris gayle wanting to run a single. No Maan! Too much work. Kiss Teeth! as much as we the public might bitch about the money, agree, disagree, feel like a loser when a 20 year old makes lakhs while we slog it out in a 9 to 5, money is an essential component of ipl and consequently makes it to number 10 on the list of the most despicable items.

remember – money is the root of all modi. erm… modi is the root of all money. sorry… modi is the root of all evil. no no. modi has all the money. EVIL!!

9. subroto bhattaa and dada

take an inconsequential city, add a wannabe business baron (preferably a bong) who doesn’t make liquor, and put a saddu with lots of talent and an unbearable attitude in-charge and you have pune warriors. owned by subroto bhattaasomethin’ the paunchy oldie with his acute (read narrow) cricketing knowledge, aided by 2 girls (different ones every match) (one for each side) (who happen to be his daughters as far as most family audience is concerned) waving black pune flags along with yuvraj i-won-the-worldcup singh to throw the lazy wtf attitude at post match presentations, pune warriors spell disaster through and through and have lived up to that name too. and just when you think they could do no worse, add the iconic, enigmatic, punk – the dada onto this mix, and you have the first official dada style controversial comeback into the worst team in the ipl. the dada has conquered tests, one days and t20s now, in his own inimitable comeback style. srk – eat shit. pune ki jai.

8. ranbir kapoor

wrong choice. very very wrong choice. bad acting. very distasteful. not funny at all. and yes i would like to check what network you use. silly. should have kept it simple. nice try but no cigar. not even a kaaja beedi.

at a deserving number 8, the only one in the recent crop who i thought had some skill, ranbir kapoor is unfortunately stuck – much like his frog. ayen owwwwn *frog noise* – annoying and unable to get away.

7. status updates and tweets

there are facebook/twitter number of ways to say the same thing differently. the social popularity of a quirky status is absolutely unmatched. random people who wouldn’t give a damn whether you lived or not like your status now, comment on it, vehemently argue like it would really make a difference. it’s not just a cyber social network, it is an alternate reality, and the ipl fodder is the control for an experiment. beware… they are controlling you. potentially wicked and medieval.

on the sidelines, when is the bcci going to charge entertainment-potential tax for the ipl tag? for every time ipl or any listed acronym (like csk, kkr, rcb, pwi, dc, dd, rr, mi, kxip, ktk (who?)) is mentioned in a status, bcci must get paid. at least modi must. rumours are that lead youth actor vijay and all rounder TR demand it already. there is more money in this than you think. (165,000 people like this)

6. ktk uniforms

at number 6 we have the un-miss-able gatorade bottle team. here’s a fashion sense that took wanting to be taken seriously a little too seriously that they lost the plot, that too by a considerable margin. orange and purple couldn’t be better looking on anyone else other than our very own no man’s land inhabitants. call it a heightened sense of surety, that they would end up with both the purple and orange caps and steam roll any opponent merely by their jersey (similar to how abey kuruvilla did with his action), or a serious lack of vision. talent or not, here is a force to be reckoened with that prides itself in having the vision to pull off the extremities of the spectrum. add to that the antics of a home-grown joker (aka hip-hop sree), the ktk have very well etched their style in the orange and purple letters of history. a true cult in the making.

5. ipl jargon

at number 5, debuts the dlf ipl uber jargon. now every cricketing skill is sponsored, be it a katch which by karbon’s designation becomes kamaal, or a sixer which dlf calls maximum (maximum of what?) or a moment of cricketing brilliance becomes a “citi moment of success” as declared by citibank. hell, even a time out for a pee-pee break is sponsored by maxx mobile. as gory evidence i present to you the following anecdote. so i am bringing my 12 year old brother back from a world-cup triumph inspired cricket coaching session, and ask him what he did today? and he says, “i caught the karbon kamaal katch of the match today.” and i knew it was a lost cause right there.

as an after thought – someone should tell karbon how terribly their marketing has failed, only the katches seem to be worth remembering.

4. commentary

the ipl has the best of the best. all of them operating with a single brief. glorify every single, every double, every triple, every four, every six, every ball, every catch, every dropped catch, every toss, every wide, every no ball. a thirty by any batsman is surely the most mature innings world cricket has every seen over the past hundred years. mr. sanjay maratha manzarekar has gone on to hail ipl as the next best thing to naked even. obviously with a batting talent as little as what he had, looking for alternatives to make a living was the only smart move. with an overkill on analysis, and over analysis, reveling in blasphemous glorification the commentators are an unyielding world unto themselves continuing to sustain only by each others’ increasing mediocrity. forget match fixing for a second, there is a clear prima facie evidence of commentator fixing. nonetheless, the most despicable part of the whole commentary deal is the absence of ramiz raja. sadness descends.

3. marketing campaigns

yes, every kid knows that 3g is here and its lightening fast. drill, in your face campaigns promise to spare none. while idea 3g is as fast as 3 abhishek bachans which is ironic really since he is pretty slow (what an ironic idea sirjee), airtel 3g wants to send you off to bangkok with your family, enticing you with suave strip clubs and exotic ethnicity all in the back seat of a car your dad is driving. overhauling the zoozoos from munaf patel (read slow) to rajinikanth (read inter-stellar space drive) is unacceptable. chuck norris perhaps, but not thalaivar. as for docomo, well, suffice to say it has turned out to be quite a failed stand-up comic piece. *frog noise*.

sadly enough, the only passionate fan centric set of telecom ads from virgin mobile (which you can find on youtube) are banned. i wouldn’t mind much abusing the deccan chargers.

the soft drinks not to be left behind; coca cola wracked up by far the most annoying ipl oriented campaign. burrrr. is it an acceptance that most indians do not have very high tolerant levels of an agitated throat and burp badly after a sip of carbonated crap? i sure do sans the belly shake, and the enjoying zing that the burp is supposed to be followed with. belch. and pepsi can’t come up with anything original for a while. they are still reeling from an overdrive of changing the game during the world cup. the only solace are the sprite ads.

with another gross reminder that ipl is in people’s lives all the time, the unrelenting marketing campaign manages a respectable podium finish in this list.

2. sidhu

let’s welcome navjot singh sidhu onto the podium by playing the national anthem of punjab. oh wait… punjab isn’t a country. nevertheless, nothing is a deterrent for this para-normal-human. with his logic-defying-intelligence, in-your-face colourful-tie and thalappakatti (matching matching for every match), this always-got-a-retort academician, park-in-my-spot-and-you-had-it murderer is the self proclaimed sherry on the cake in this din the ipl. singer, dancer, politician, a fielder par excellence (known specially for his diving abilities), a six hitter like no other, a go getter like no one else, mr. singh stands only below mr. modi in his self proclaimed greatness. get ready folks, hollywood is hair.

IF only he had same number or responses on a cricket field during his playing days, he could have been the best of the best of best… BUT he had a lot of other spheres to conquer. here’s a special siddhuism for you my man…

no IF no JATT. only my BUTT. in your face.

1. extraaa innings

this is the baby of set max. the brainchild. the creation of the century. right from the 2003 world cup days adorned by the inimitateable (yes that’s right – inimitateable) charu sharma, to the pfun (pronounced similar to pfaff) filled mandira body, extraaa innings has always been special in providing uplifting opportunities to the normally cringe worthy. extraaa innings has truly come a long way since the days of the eastman colour, to the high contrast dth, carrying forward the legacy of cricket in the right earnest. and this year they have scaled new heights in encompassing the entire range of arts and sports all in one space. a live band akin to the legendarily original movers and shakers hosted by shekhar suman, kbc style tall groin stifling chairs, expert panel comprising of the extremities of accents, hair growths, colours, countries, skills, batting positions, extraaa innings has it all. the song (read halla bol and the ipl horn), dance (read skin coloured tights adorned by white babies with malinga hairdo pom poms) and drama (read interviews of priety zinta et. al) filled event is the vibrant cauldron, the melting pot of the happening india. and with every passing day, you inevitably come to expect something, you guessed it, extraaa.

for the extraaa-ordinary effort of being the only conceivable coherent amalgamation of all the other items in this list – No. 10 to No. 2 (and a few other close misses like chika’s chiggy wiggy), the extraaa innings takes the title of being the most despicable thing about the IPL.

for the aye sayers, enjoy the despicables.

and for the nay sayers – since when was the ipl about cricket?

kaththam gaththam. \m/

foreword first

gargle |ˈgärgəl|
verb [ intrans. ]
wash one’s mouth and throat with a liquid kept in motion by exhaling through it : instruct patients to gargle with warm water.

an act or instance or the sound of gargling : a swig and gargle of mouthwash.
• [usu. in sing. ] a liquid used for gargling.

ORIGIN early 16th cent.: from French gargouiller ‘gurgle, bubble,’ from gargouille ‘throat’ (see gargoyle ).


preface next

this is an experimental attempt in bringing to light certain stories, lost through the quicksands of, the wretch, time, in the life of the above un-mentioned one mr. mongoose. it deals with certain country-side happenings of an era long gone by or so it may seem to the more recent livers. all the stories are real only as much as they might seem to be and are subject to exaggeration of the story teller mr. mongoose, his memories, the memories of the characters who rendered these in the first place to mr. mongoose (who also, graciously make sporadic or sporadically make gracious, appearances in many of these stories themselves), and so on and so forth, and of course, me.

gargling has always been a shady process, much like most things really, including life. neither in nor out, neither the satisfaction of ingestion, nor the inappropriateness/relief of a true spit. hidden. the middle ground so to say in a sense. a non-judgmental process during its life cycle for about half a minute in its lukewarm salt-watery form among a few others.

possible relations – gaggles and garbles.

mr. mongoose. a weird trail. gargle, gaggle, geese, goose, monday, mongoose.

the light shedding sequence is now complete and what follows are some exaggerated ordinary (aka extraordinary) tales.


and the prologue third

animated dreams filled his early mornings. the lack of uninhibited actions irked him. delayed silences and decaying ideologies were making a misfit out of him. helped by a few scars, indelible now, he was beginning to re think his strategy of the well thought out sketch. not just the supreme purveyor but he himself was at the brink of an epic laff-out-loud session at how things had panned out. perhaps it was to do with the balcony of the apartment he was in when ten. or was it the influence of an epiphanic night of donald duckk and numerical mathematics? of course he could never be right. he could just about be there, but never be there yet. clenched buttocks and all that. he liked making random associations of such kind.

he had needed an unmistakable riff through the span. for that, he either required a locus or needed to be one. either were farcrys and that was his current predicament. a quintessential pyrotactician, he often sought to lean towards uncalled for dramatics in his daily dealings, more out of the frustration that none occurred on its own, rather than the satisfaction in the belief that everything was indeed peaceful. a man of few words and women, he liked to dream of a world otherwise.

just how the rohirrim had arrived at last, everything would change now.

mister J’s flight path took a shit-twitch (the nolan kicker in more understandable terms), and he crash landed with wide open eyes. the espresso machine set about, and a ten seconds later, his shot of black beauty was up and steaming all set to kick him into another droneday. ladies and gentlemen welcome aboard to the gargled dealings of mr. mongoose.


want and its denial. the be all and end all of all there is. fat old lady, lets sing well into oblivion. just to make it interesting, during the ride, it’s good to imagine all that jazz surrounding you. in all its glory and non-existence. all that. between the plausible and im-s, there is such decay. a pile of rotten carcasses. a single spot taking centre-stage. thunderous applause begets egotist drivel upon the already besotted disinterested grey. and the fuckall smile to pass through. moronoxyic.

who do you think a fool and more? misplaced faiths upon beauty and wallets over people, feelings and a  lasting perilous journey. standing, holding the urn with picked out pieces of the shoulder, the ear, the ankle, the spine, and whatsitsname. five in all and the rest ashes and milk. kneeling down and breaking. such pain, what work of beauty that, the pain, the essence of it. misguided slander interjecting part phony inebriation and part disgust. trust and faith, an altogether different issue. how many subtexts must i grapple with, until i reach an end, my only want amidst the din. a semblance of silence if you may please. yes. a minute would do as i cut away.

so centrifuged. silence, music, ignorance, the only remedies en-route to some form of recuperation. and there is the bit about loss of a sign board leading back to misdirected purposes, stanzas and paragraphs. if there be a lack of coherence and continuity to the train, the words merely reflect an uncontrollable non-linear. i go as if to prove to self, only to get lost in the process. “as if” being the operative words here.

you chaos, i say to you, you are not so chaotic afterall. you are just deceptively so. i have figured you out. you have alluded the circular theory to me so long for my lack of an explanation otherwise. you are deeply cruel, a cringing scratch on the wall, repeated , till the paint wears off the faces. it is an incidence of significance that the strands of life are helical. even as i move forward, every twelfth month i seem to be at the same spot but at some distance from it. that must be the pitch of my life, its pace. not thirteen since most of us do not believe in it. but twelf.

what is the purpose of man’s existence? as it turns out, a-myth, it is indeed twelf. so now, there is no reason for me to be foolish.

instead, i find peace in the morose psychopathy of being.

the space between

Posted: November 5, 2010 in crosswords

contining in y series of bizarre blips that have been floating in the air (notwithstanding y over attacheent to dave atthews albeit only in the sical sense), here coes another indboggler. this one srely beats the lisp and the slsh by qite a argin. now its only his falt that i havent written in a while. *points finger at brother de to randoness* ive been too bsy trying to sit on hi for over a onth now. and yesterday when finally i alost anaged to, he socked y aw ot of place. and st becase i love that previos sentence, i will copy-paste it once ore.

and yesterday when finally i alost anaged to, he socked y aw ot of place.

its like i typing with y aw ot of place. literally. now how any pns are there in that. the best part really is, i do not have to try to iss ot on prpose.  the apple triphs in its agnificience yet again! it drives creativity to new levels by showcasing the sheer power of absence. arvellos! arvellos!

who knew aidst the chaos i wold find tie to write so. it coes as no srprise really, that when i a least expecting it, y head chrns this way. throgh all the soke and clods, i coe p with sch. srely this st go down as a asterpiece really.

not deviating too ch into narcissis lets get into ore pressing atters. that of whether i going to set this absentia right. i dont know if i want to. apart fro of corse having the necessity of typing y login passwords, i see no need really. right now… there are         issing. bt then again, yo woldnt know.

so for anyone bored enogh to figre ot all the issing ones, i shall get the a bread olette.

go figre.

p.s. yo can find e on platfor nber eight starting a blind orney to i woldnt know where and getting back within two days starting noveber third. oh shit. ive issed y train and y ticket spplier. be well then. soetie soon enogh! see yo when i see yo.

my Grace

Posted: June 23, 2010 in the ashes

if it were any more cruel, he would have broken down. he was getting older by the day. his body was giving way and he could barely sustain the effort every single day demanded. he had no idea if it were Grace’s presence that egged him on, or exactly that, taking all the toll. he sat there in the centre-corner twirling the ring on his finger feeling distracted. nervous energy perhaps he thought, as he munched on pineapple cream biscuits; only because no one else would share it.

Grace. a concept. as he sat by himself in that crowd of faces, he managed a swig and smiled for the first time all day. Grace would cross by smiling at him. another swig later, Grace would fade away. twiddling thumbs and playing. slanting and swinging. distracted by white pigeons flying and letting loose the hair. smiling in darkness and spreading. scents and hugs. caressing and breathing. the unison in grace. my Grace.

as he sat beside Grace, smiling, the two so intertwined they defied time-space and passed on to the eternal. impossible would now be possible in this realm. he stared deep in yearning. Grace stared back with not much hope in those smokey eyes. the aura surrounded him. tonight. he felt childlike. throwing up playthings, breaking them and laughing. tottering and imbalanced he stood up, circumspect. looking around and smiling. walking finally clutching tight onto Grace’s cold palm.

Grace is gone.

notes to self

Posted: June 11, 2010 in crosswords, the ashes
Tags: , , ,

winds sway as leaves rattle. not so high up on a branch a spotless white parrot looks to the left then to the right and down finally. as the genius belts out another mindboggler, my head splits as does the heart, nowhere in equal measure though. i was a clown once. working in a circus. drawing crowds with my only trick. tossing not one, not two but a staggering seven balls up in the air, catching them as they fell and tossing them up again. then one fell down and and the rest came tumbling after. the parrot above crows to save me as i slip on that smiling mask.

the crowd dispersed slowly and i did too along with it. clutching onto the miscellany and stuffing in the paraphernalia, i walked on along with a few loving non-livings. as it starts to open up, i walk alone with just a violin playing. there is nothing to look forward to and nothing to go back to. a goldfish meandering about its confines. everything seems refracted. from grim to speedy; from coyote to the road runner. the transitions – acme. 5-4-3-2-1. throttle ahead. as if it could ever be helped that i sang in quavering voice to that bartender for a whole of three minutes amidst the growing refraction. louder i screamed, the faster i went. in pain. in agony. disappointment. disdain. in sheer hopelessness and angst. emotional adrenaline.

engaged in an infinite loop till i brake at the next red.