13. A teenager finally. Come, see the world with us, his friends implored. Silk, Spices and Skirts. He stayed back and designed furniture instead. And then he was ready to save the world.
“Eighteen boring years in print?†some would later ask. But the Boss just smiled and pointed to the name board. Gutenberg, Editor.
*Previously – 1, 2
**For better works of nano-fiction, go here.
1.
Central Forensic Science Laboratory (or) CFSL for you acronym hounds, recently absolved Salman Khan of a crime. Not the ‘negative IQ’ charge, but the ‘drunk on the phone with a dodo’ one. Their website proves they used actual equipment to arrive at their findings. But parsing through their publications list, I really didn’t know what to make of this one entry.
Defrauded Money Recovered From the house of a bank employee after Polygraph test, reveals Dr Bhiba Rani Ray (Lie-detector).
Almost sounds like self-incriminating testimony to me.
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The fragrance becomes the flavor of the heart and the petals represent the blossomed mind. The thorns show the strength in me.
Ayaarettu Naathu – Shankar Mahadevan, Anuradha Sriram: Sing along with me. Vaadi-amma Jakkama. Hold. Now just when you get to the end of the pallavi, sing Chellame Chellame. There. Now you know what this song sounds like. Is it just me or does Anuradha Sriram deserve the Bharat Ratna already? I mean, that’s probably the only way she can be forced to retire. The song recovers in the saranam though. Which means it doesn’t remind you of any one song, but only of a dozen other songs. Is it loud & noisy enough to blare from the rooftops come Deepavali? Damn right…shoor hit-u saar.
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Kneel down in the hallway, his angry teacher had screamed. Pure evil, he concluded. Kneel down and pray, his father had urged. Tad fanatical, he thought. Kneel down and reach behind your back, his instructor had said. Yoga blows, he decided. On his knee now, looking up at her beaming face, he thought, damn condom!
*Previously – 1
**For better works of nano-fiction, go here.
Women think I am the Invisible Man. It’s the only irrational explanation I’ve come up with for all the glazed looks that seem to focus on a point 100 yards behind me. Yet, after all these years, I have never learnt to take a hint. I still casually brush my hair so it falls over my eyebrows, like I half-expect them to run their fingers through it as they pass me. I cease to walk. I swagger. And most importantly, I turn into a human vacuum as I suck the air from a 100 meter radius and tuck my tummy so far back in that people behind me suddenly catch a glimpse of my belly-button. But even this move does not hide my ugly girth, and needless to say, it only gets uglier when I let the air back into the atmosphere and quickly turn into a hot air balloon.
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Dear Seeker of ‘Priya Mani Cleavage’, ‘Mallu Aunty’ and ‘Tamil Sex Kadhaigal’ etc.,
First of all, thanks for keeping my sitemeter ticking, and….
Hold ON. Do NOT reach for that “X” button. I need you to spend more than 0.01 secs on my site this time. Please perv-bhai, hear me out.
So yeah, sorry about not actually providing you with snapshots of Priya Mani’s bosom. I would ask her, but common sense tells me that is like walking straight into a colossal lawsuit. Which incidentally provides the perfect segue into my actual appeal.
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By the time I turned 12, my brain had learnt to shut out the high-pitched wailing of the Hoseki alarm clock. But never did it conquer Dad’s dynamite double finger snap. Twin THX thunderbolts that reached into the recesses of my ear canal producing tsunamis of sound that effectively killed sleep. I wonder if a professional would attribute my insomnia to this distant, but loud memory.
But never in all those years, did I ever wake up looking like this dude(?!). But then, Dad never screamed at me like a little girl.
The postman cringed as his drunken breath wafted through the half-open door. “Took us 6 months to find you.†He scratched his beard and grunted thanks. Ripping it open, a familiar handwriting said, “The wedding is on the 8th. Come get me PLEASE.†Hands shaking, he now noticed the street name smudged by a teardrop.
I had promised myself to do justice to Prash’s tag. Drawing inspiration from today’s short-shorts frenzy over at Sepia Mutiny, I came up with these 55 words. A more honest attempt, as you can see.
Actor Madhavan says:
I think Black should’ve been selected for the Oscar. This is clearly not a fair and unbiased selection. My heart reaches out to Mr Bachchan and Mr Bhansali. When it comes to being denied what I deserve, I’m the king.
Got to agree with him. He deserved a month in solitary confinement under Section 294 of the Indian Penal Code (obscene acts and songs to the annoyance of others in any public place) for Priyamaana Thozhi & Priyasakhi, and a left hook to the jaw for thinking Black was a good movie.
Yuvan Shankar Raja probably wants us to think he is some kind of Desi Dre, except he is not. Another instance of his hip-hop affliction is discovered in his latest venture, Kanda Naal Mudhal with a song called Pushing it Hard, which also describes his attempts at making Tamizh sound hip-hop. Once you get past the inane intro where a voice demands that Yuvan “spin the shit up”, the rest of the cookie-cutter composition will set your head spinning until it explodes with the banality of the song’s bridge.
Hey Yuvan…yeah?…give it a rest. And go back to sampling vintage Tamizh LPs. That was actually good shit.
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I wanted to make a post about this, then thought will use it to expend Prashant’s tag request instead. So, here goes…exactly 55 words based on a true incident that happened less than 2 hours back. (Maybe I’ll make a better attempt later :)
“Selva is not coming for dinner” she cooed sadly. All the tinted hair men, and there were a few, on Jet Airways 3531 clucked their tongues in disapproval. Later, she perched herself on Mrs.Yuvan’s lap on the bus to the main terminal. And all the while I kept thinking, “This chick looks hotter on screen.”
Between guests, extended lunches and Mom’s updates about almost everything, I tried watching the Independence Day specials. Thank God for 60-odd channels, I made easy viewing decisions, like surfing over crap like the mind-numbingly boring pattimandram filled with Solomon Paapiah’s unfunny interruptions/observations.
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Frankfurt Aiport – Pales in comparison to Miami. Atleast the ceilings, which are really bent shutters put there after a rather fruitful yard sale in the Frankfurt factory district.
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Washington-Dulles airport is like one long-ass stationary treadmill. I trudged 18.3 miles to get to Concourse C from where my Lufthansa flight to Frankurt departs. Gate C02, it said on my boarding pass. Like Carbon Dioxide, I thought, foolishly proud that I still remembered ChemistryOne-o-One 101. Sitting here now, trying hard to breathe in O2, I realize that it could be some kind of sordid message that the Lufthansians are trying to send. Or it could just be that the lack of oxygen in my system is bringing out the paranoia. Bottomline: Like some famous weakling once said, I have the lung capacity of a 1 year old.
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