The Match

It was a bright Sunday morning and the whiff of ghee smeared sweets filled my nose. I woke up right away and ran to the kitchen. My mother was cooking and speaking over the phone. She smiled at me, when I asked “Ma! Why you making sweets?”
She said “for the match”

“Match?” I was puzzled and took me a couple of seconds to decode what match meant.
My father doesn’t watch a match on a Sunday morning and my mother would never be so exuberant for any match.
My eligible age and my mother’s chuckles over the phone confirmed that it was the much dreaded and baleful “the arrange marriage arrangement” in short “The match”

Depressed and deranged, I stood benumbed in the kitchen before moving into the verandah for a bottle of water. And suddenly images of my friends teasing my formed like clouds above my head.
Each of them teasing me. Growling “I told you so..Every time you break a heart you are bound to get a heart attack”
Was this the price I was paying for being obedient and single all my life?

I had no time to waste and had to look for ways to escape. I reached for the phone and was about to dial my cousins’ number asking them not to come. If they wouldn’t turn up, my parents would surely be tensed to face the situation alone. And before I could reach the phone, I heard my aunties and my cousins’ voice.

Damn! My parents have grown smarter. The joy on their faces seemed like they had won a lottery and the money got tripled. And before I could speak to my cousins to shoo them away, my aunts took me inside and with their weapons, the make up kit, they tried to paint me black and blue.
Argh! I escaped with my timely innocent statements like “won’t you let me be myself?”
“is this all you came here for?”

Poor aunties, melted. Ah! Now I had to shoo them away so that my dad feels helpless. But they wouldn’t leave.
Finally, “they came” some one announced and every one ran to their respective seats. My father in one corner.
My mother and other aunts in the chairs behind the sofas. The sofas were reserved for the elite guests.
I had to stay in the green room and only go when called upon and that too with my head bent down.
Fudge!

A couple of who’s who and intros later, I am summoned. My aunt comes to take me. As though I cannot walk on my own. She whispers “Don’t be nasty, be good” and “feel shy”
I had to act shy and bend my head. But I was curious. I tried looking up. I could only see a saree-clad woman, the one whose voice I could hear.

Where was the guy? I coughed to look up. Alas! I could see an uncle and a young girl, staring at me.
I quickly bent down.
Some one wise said “let the girl and the guy talk”
“I was glad” “finally..”
We entered into my room, with my little cousins settling on either side of me and staring at us. Yes! Adding flavours to my embarrassment.

The guy looked around the entire room and asked “So.. you a fan of shahrukh khan”
(Yes! I belong to the “shahrukh fan club” at school and college where people detested us whenever we made a huge cry about his latest release. Nevertheless, we persisted)
I replied CALMLY “Yes.. I am”
And he asked “so what was the last movie you saw..”
I said “My name is khan..”
He chuckled “Oh! That movie in which shahrukh is mental..”
I would have slapped him right away, but then my aunt’s voice echoed “Be good” “Be good”
And I said..smiling forcefully “it’s asperger’s syndrome!”
And he smiled too
I asked “so who is you favourite hero..”
He promptly replied “Ballaiyya..”
“what?” I was shocked
But then I acted CALM quickly. (But! which sane person liked Balakrishna :P)
“oh.. I liked aditya 369..” i replied
“that movie was released when we were kids” he replied
“yes..i liked only that..” I smiled, feeling victorious
He was embarrassed now!
By Aunt came in with a cup of tea and served him and looked at me.
I just smiled back. Her eyes reflected curiousity as she walked away.

After a couple of slam book questions,
Like your favorite moment, embarrassing moment..et al
we bade goodbye. It was a good conversation though!

And I had to rush back to the green room. While he sat in the plush sofa.
Well.. what happened to the result of the match?
Some results are best unknown…

Azab Surat ki Gazzab Photu!!!(Wierd Face…Strange Photo!)

ERP Pic

ERP Pic

NO…this is not a pic from the Most Wanted file or board of any Police Station. Don’t start looking for him for the sake of any Cash Rewards. There ain’t any. And YES…you are allowed to laugh as much as you wish…as this is no one else but me.

Office mates! You have seen this…and had your share of laugh…so please!…you can stop now. My ID card bears this pic. And even the ERP system displays me as this. As if changing my name to ‘Kumar D’ wasn’t enough.

I thought of finding out my pic in the DB today because one of our very respected and adored blogger at the ‘Corporate Blog’ of my Organization quit. He reminded us(all the bloggers in that space) that how we have not met…and yet bonded so impeccably and intimately. There was a comment made on his last post to at least have a look at each of our pics in the ERP Database. And that made me lay my hands on the piece of crap provided above.

How could they do this to me? First, I am transformed from the charming Deepak Kumar to the enigmatic Kumar D(Eventually I came to terms with it and then have proclaimed myself as the same)…and now this. I mean, I am THE most handsome guy according to my Mom. And even she will refuse to recognize me from that pic. I wonder how the security staff at my office let me inside the building with that pic hung around my neck?

This pic only helps boost my candidature for a Rwandan Superstar(OK…I am happy about that…and People of Republic of Rwanda -Respect!)…but….Hey! people in the HR, CS and ERP…don’t you think its time to upgrade the photo to something like this:-

the Handsome Me

the Handsome Me

 

Impressive!…eh? Ya! Ya! Guys are hereby allowed to get jealous and ladies I am sorry, I am taken ;)…after all God and this World has not been fair to everyone…ever…So just look and sigh!

Mom! You can be proud of your Son…and his looks. Telugu, Tamil, Kannada and Malayalam Film Industry…Here I come(Provided my Organization transfers me there…and also provided you guys have enough Bank balances to pay my Signing amounts at the least!)

Jokes apart…this is one of my best pics… ever clicked…So you can imagine the sorry state of affairs! Agreed…I need a hair cut badly…need to remove those ‘Nagraj‘ locks…and yes, I have deliberately hidden the other ear which is at a lower level than the one displayed. But…hey! Who’s perfect?

I also know…I am going to be called a ‘Self Obsessed Guy’ once again…and I am sorry for that…Can’t help it…I am Self Obsessed…Who isn’t? Just that I am able to express my obsession…and hopefully build on my chances of becoming a Superstar of some film industry.

And a very important note…before I sign off …
I DID NOT GET THIS PIC CLICKED FOR A MATRIMONIAL AD. Please! I am just 25 years and 10 months old…and not that desperate to get married!

 

A repost from Whimsical Acumen

Here’s how to grow a beard?

Bearded Me!

Bearded Me!

Occasionally, I’ve been known to be somewhat opinionated. Oops. Somebody just caught that typo. I am told I have been known to be VERY opinionated. I have at least two opinions on just about every topic. I am sure there are times when people have felt like rearranging my face.

Unfortunately (for them!) there is no legal method for them to do that. Being a kind and generous individual, I have been searching for ways to help these unfortunate victims of my over-active opinionation. Finally, I have found a way to rearrange my face. To help them out, I have grown a beard. It was so easy, you can do it, too.

Here is how to grow a beard. (Ladies, please don’t try this at home.) On Day 1, I did nothing. On Day 2, I did nothing again. On Day 3, I did nothing twice. On Day 4, I verified that nothing was still being done. Then I simply repeated the cycle. It’s been about three or four weeks, and my face is definitely rearranged.

Is my growing beard the inevitable result of declining budgets at the Witness Protection Program?
To tell the truth, the decision to grow my beard was not just to atone for my hyperopinionation. In fact, what I really wanted to do was to see how I looked in a beard. Yes, curiosity is the real reason I have been growing a beard. Oops, there goes my ever-efficient critic, catching a typo again. I am told that line should have read: “Laziness is the real reason I have been growing a beard.”

Truth be told, I did the four-day nothing cycle more by accident. When you work out of home and have nobody to impress but a skunk under the porch, a stray cat meandering about, the withering cherry tree sapling and a handful of flocking sparrows, the days can just kind of get away from you. Before I knew it, I had the foundation of a growing beard. That’s when I got curious. And lazy.
Some have suggested that I am growing my beard to make up for my receding hairline. I’ve heard it all.
“Once upon a time, your hair was on top of your head. Now, your head is on top of your hair.”
“Your hair must have slipped off your head, and now it’s hanging on for dear life.”
“That solar panel you had installed up there is really fueling a growth below.”
“The ‘Hanging Gardens of Babble-on'”
Ha, ha, very funny.
I think my curiosity is settled. I am still lazy, but I am ready to shave off my beard.
Unfortunately, my mother has not yet seen it, so I am keeping it on by special request until she can see it. Due to a heavy schedule, that visit might take a while. But sooner or later, the beard will have to go. I don’t want to be mistaken for Charles Manson. Nor Fidel Castro. Nor Josephia Quade, whomever she is.
And summer is not the best season for growing a beard. It would make more sense in winter. In summer, it will only make my face sweat. But what will finally end my curiosity – and my laziness! – is food. When something sufficiently ooey and gooey gets stuck in the beard – something that I just cannot identify – that will probably scare me into shaving it off. Besides, all this beard-growing is probably of little comfort to those people wanting most to rearrange my face because of my vocal opinions.
Knowing how to grow a beard won’t solve their problem.

A stapler might.

A repost from Whimsical Acumen

Take Me Home To Africa!

Re-posting the post which can be attributed to my arrival on the blogging scene, gave me a sort of cognizance and readership…and confidence. Also, this was written a week after the historic day of 7th January …hence the first few lines are attributed to that…in fact, the whole write-up was written to cheer up my colleagues, who were down, low and sagging in morale…and could not muster even a smile…This made them laugh…and made me very happy…Now…it’s enough of  bragging…I should Shut up! …and tell you the truth about me…through this post!  😀

Long time…it’s been a really long time since I broke my shackles and wrote something worth reading. And I guess, I cannot blame myself alone for it. Anyways…no more imprudent talks about what happened and what did not. But, what should I talk about? My bouts with Lady Luck? Naah!…I guess, I have tormented you all enough about her…she can wait a few more days to be glorified much more…Then?… My philosophy? Naah!…Too tedious for this moment…Then…Then??…How about ‘Me’?… Yessssss!! As it is…talking about yourself is the most interesting topic anyone can think of…plus you will get to know me much better…And… you all can have an inspiration, an idol to look up to.

I am the kind of guy who can cause envy even to the superstars(mind it… ‘superstars’) of… African Film Industry (Kenya, Nigeria, Sudan, Somalia, Rwanda…If…If at all movies are made out there…I really don’t know at this moment…and Somali Bandits! Please don’t feel offended after reading this…I did not have any intentions to hurt your sentiments…Please don’t kill me! 😦 ).

I have the skin color of richest of Black shades. My superiority here(criterion being skin color) can be challenged only by the bush-men of the Kalahari Desert. Also, I have a much better physique than any of them. Take my word…none of them can flaunt the paunch I have…or even the flab hanging out from almost every part of the body. My receding hair line with a blossom of grey hairs(I must remind I am just 25), my pearl white teeth(with Tar depositions due to a prolific habit called Smoking), protruding eyes, misaligned ears(one being lower than the other…thanks to my chivalrous childhood and the subsequent reward I got as burnt right ear…the marks somehow have disappeared now 😦 😦 ), the double chinned jaw line, cheeks highlighted by acne craters comparable to Moon’s surface… make my candidature for stardom in Africa almost inevitable. The only disappointing feature is my nose  :(…somehow there’s nothing good about it(Very unlikely of me!  😦 …You are still welcome to suggest its qualities after going through my ‘dashing’ portfolio pics).

Do you still have doubts?

Do you still have doubts?

That was about my looks(impressive…eh??)…Now I give you the honor of knowing some of my inherent and exorbitant qualities…and my persona. The topmost feature on that list is-My Voice. ‘Karkash’ is how it is described in Hindi. For those who have difficulty understanding that word…try refreshing your memory and answer these…Have you heard the soothing, serene sound coming out of a lorry’s air horn? Have you ever heard the melodious Transistor play at any Beetle shop(Paan ki Tapri)? Have you heard the superb symphony of the Public Address system at any ST Bus Stand? Have heard the melodramatic Villains(in Bollywood) of yesteryears like Jeevan, Ajit, Amrish Puri or Amjad Khan laugh there characteristic humble laughs? If you are still not able to identify…I am sorry you will never understand how emphatic and pleasing my voice is…and will never be able to appreciate my singing abilities. I must tell you that…although I have not had had a formal training…my singing is appreciated so much by my friends, near and dear ones and even my neighbors that every time I start singing they ask me to savor it and save it for my professional appearance in the African Film Industry.

Another indomitable skill I have is – dancing. I know, I belong to the African Film Industry whenever I see a recorded video of me dancing. The way I sway, swing, hop and jump… I can beat those tribesmen and Zulus from the deepest of the forests of Africa, in any form of dancing they know. My specialty in Dancing – My Pelvic thrusts and my Pseudo Dancing by mere movement of hands(coordinating hands and feet is something most people can do…but to make them believe that I am dancing just by the movement of hands is an art..which I specialize in.) My Pelvic Thrusts are ‘superb’(as described by my friends)…Its something which will make even Mithun Da hide into sheets of inferiority. They are, as described by my younger brother, so vulgar that he has pledged not to dance with me ever again.

By now, I have started believing I was destined to be a super star in Africa, but by some miscalculations of the Lord was sent to another beleaguered state – Bihar. I can see myself making history in that Industry. I would become a multi-faceted film personality there. I would get into script writing too. My ‘short and crisp’ story telling technique(which you should have noticed by now), the unsophisticated vocabulary I use and the kind of variety I have in my write ups…make me perfect for the job.

Dad! Had you been able to identify these traits much before I had the wisdom to…Imagine…just imagine…The kind of money I would have been making by now… Those Somali Shillings or Rwandan Francs I would be bathing in… Those sexy African babes that would be dying to marry me…. The kind of living I would be having in those countries. I have missed a lot…but will soon make an attempt to recover. Don’t worry folks…I have to…and will make it big there! I think it’s my destiny…I understand you guys will miss me a lot here…but don’t worry…I will keep sending you DVDs of my movies…after all you don’t deserve to miss a super-talent like me. Till then…Cowabunga!! (See…I can speak Zulu too 🙂  🙂  )

The Brown Chaddi Campaign

I guess, I’ve articulated many a times now of my philosophies and brass tacks, and enough of philanthropic, benevolent gestures thrown at your face. This time around I wish to hurdle over my customary, pain staking, idiotic preaching and wander into the manors of – embarrassment…That’s right, there’s no typographical error…I am going to tell you all about the most embarrassing moment of my life. A moment, where I had no other alternative but to cover my face. A moment which has been etched into my memories with deep engraving acid.

 

Before I begin reliving those horrifying moments, I think I should give a small prologue about my wonderful family. My family is a quite diversified one, in every terms you can think of. Be it age, gender, generation, profession or level of lunacy, all vary from the lowest to the highest; and we are the craziest bunch of cousins, gelling together so impeccably and madly, that whatever one of us says we simply follow without bothering to rethink what who has said, and this habit more often than not has landed us into big time troubles.

 
So…it’s time now to begin my appalling tale…It was summers of 1998 when I was a 9th grader, old enough to be embarrassed by embarrassing situations and understand the aftermaths of such moments. My entire family had assembled for the baraat of my uncle at Allahabad. We were put up at a nice, clean lodge near the railway station with plenty of baths, but still the number was not sufficient for host 5 dozen of absolutely maddening crowd. The problem had escalated as our crowd also had a plethora of female species who have this uncanny capability of spending hours inside an extremely compact, low on ventilation, enclosed space with just one advantage of a large, highly reflective, piece of glass.

 
This had infuriated my gang of brothers in arms, and all of us hastily decided to bath at the Railway station which was at a pebble’s throw distance. Unfortunately for us, our lodge was at the leeward side of the entrance of the station and to add to our miseries a new platform was being constructed towards the side we entered the station premises. It was almost deserted, flanked only by a few stray dogs who could not have even imagined to foray into the territory of we brothers – who were louder than public address system of the station and fiery than the mob of 50 strong men. Actually, it was then when I counted that our number was three more than a dozen. And, it was almost the moment I had finished counting that the youngest amongst us spotted a new, clean, freshly installed array of water taps and which was large enough to accommodate all of us to bathe under them. So, as always, without contemplating the idea, rushed under the taps. I just imagine, now how great it would have been, had anyone thought of the consequences. But, as great Mr. Murphy says “If something has to go wrong…it WILL go wrong.” As soon as we reached the taps, we looked around, and found out that, there was a leeward side to it, which was not visible to anyone from other platforms(this one being the last one) and we could easily slip down to our bare minimums as there was just one track adjacent to this platform and no train could be made to arrive on that(that was what we thought, at that moment, in the heat of the excitement of getting a good shower).

So, all 15 of us ranging in age from 12 to 25 stripped down to our under wears. Blue, black, green and the worst coloured undies you can ever buy – brown, also, it was the year 1998 when the majority of men’s population was unaware of brands like Jockey, CK, Tommy Hilfiger, and undies were available for mere Rs 40 or Rs 50. Men of that era were also unaware of the phenomenon called ‘six packs’ and were proud to have pot bellies. Now, imagine the situation, 15 of such men, on the platform, all covered with foam of Lux soap(the only good soap available then), in the worst attire they want women to see them, bathing carelessly…. get to hear a loud honk…and voila!

A train…a fully fledged, doubly occupied, overflowing with people arrives…right next, merely 10 metres from us. If this is not enough, and even before we could react to the shock of this sight…the ladies bogie, booked by some women’s college, occupied by some of the most B.E.A.U.T.I.F.U.L. members of the opposite sex, I had ever seen with my eyes, with no such thing called as a TV screen between me and them…stops right in front. For a few seconds, all of us, even the 12 year old did not know how to react, we were all standing, all of us without even battling an eyelid, as if the thing that covered was not foam but quick dry cement which had frozen us into those postures. Nobody moved, until all the girls started giggling, shying away from the window, laughing. It was then when I looked that it was not only me who had his hand glued to his hair…everyone was awestruck, by this amazing game the wheel of fortune had played with us. Nobody, still moved or tried to scamper anywhere, until one of those brave and beautiful ladies had the courage to make us do so. She came, walking straight towards us…our body unable to react, caught in the dilemma of shock and admiration, still stood its grounds…only till the time she said “Aaplog zara side hatenge…paani bharna hai mujhe!!” Till that time it had never struck me, actually, that I was wearing a brown coloured underwear, and with water and foam it was difficult to make from a distance that whether I had one On or not. I had just started analysing my look when I lifted my head to see…all my brothers had vanished, disappeared…there was no one for my help…for my assistance…to guide me…I was left alone for the staring eyes of those girls to savour and laugh about.



And, me being the brave one, a valiant 15 year old …did what any other valiant boy of my age would have done…stood my grounds…with tears washing off the foam from my face…and gave one more reason to laugh to those lovely ladies.It has become horrifying enough already… and what happened after that is something I do not wish to recall or tell anybody…It is simply too insulting to the ego of a chauvinistic pig(as we men are called) to mention anywhere। I have made it a point though, that I won’t step on to a platform until and unless I am either boarding a train or receiving somebody…and please do let your younger one’s know…that the most dangerous adventure sports of all time, where insult and injury is a must… is bathing on a Railways platform!!:( 😦

A repost from my personal blog Whimsical Acumen