Vacancy for Dafts

 

Required: Idiot, one in number, age no bar, caste no bar, Mallu Manchester United Fan preferred

 

Doesn’t have that effect, does it? Let me elaborate…

 

Budding writers face problems that very few people do and low literacy prevalence is not one of them. Low literacy rate among the bloggers, that is.

 

Writers, who can overcome these hurdles, by learning to read and write, cannot rest at that for they shall have to acquire an editor now. For them acquiring an editor is cool and a very important step in the direction of literary stardom, for the general populace it is necessary that these Wodehouses-in-waiting get an editor each before afflicting the world with their creations.

 

I, as you notice, am yet to secure the services of a worthy editor.

 

Since the lack of a worthy editor has not come in the way of our newspapers to be published daily, an occasional blog post from my unchecked self sans a worthy editor will hardly matter. Anyway, a WORTHY editor like anything else, is just a matter of opinion, and as a personal discourse, not one person on the face of the earth is worthy of striking out a letter off my compositions, nay not myself.

 

This taken care of, we move onto the most difficult part of writing, viz. what should one write about. Politics I comprehend not and melancholic words I can scarcely rhyme. While an established writer can tuck himself in for a contented sleep after passing a write-up about “problems faced by budding writers” for a humor column, and they usually do, an aspirant can only choose a topic, drop it, choose it finally to re-drop it in the end while he waits for a literary brainwave.

 

Most humorists worth their Salt (NaCl, FCC 6, 6-coordination) overcome this predicament by turning to their wives to search for humor, and the obliging dearest seldom fails. While I have plenty of the former (predicaments), I had none of the later (wives) on the last count. I assure you of my unreserved efforts to the alter the situation, but I can hardly wait for Isha Ambani to turn 18.

 

Taking stock of the situation, I am left with two alternatives and none too easy.

 

One, I can indulge in some self-deprecating humor, which some say is the shortest way of taking a dame to bed. By some, I mean the dames themselves. A survey of British women has revealed that men who practice self-deprecating humor have the highest chances of taking a woman to bed. Another survey of the British female-kind revealed that most men who indulge in self-deprecating humor suffer from bad body odor. Neither do I have any chances of making a British woman read my self-deprecating humor nor do I believe that it will work for someone as well endowed with talents as myself, for all good humor, even self-deprecatory, must be rooted in reality.

 

Two, I can have one screwy blighter of my own who can feature regularly in my journal and spare me the pain of the choosing-dropping-re-choosing-dropping-in-the-end routine. Not that I believe George Bush has stopped being himself, or Vajpayee has lost his touch. One, these people can’t consciously stop themselves from being funny, it comes naturally to them. Two, even if they were to succeed in doing so, I think I they would still have enough farce about themselves to last a few generations.

 

However, what I have in mind is more intimate, personal stuff. Someone I know personally. You know, my personal punching bag, Mon propre shitpot. Some call it muse, and they come in all shapes and sizes, but most Indian humorists consider them as their close friends and also confer them with a nice mallu name.

 

This brings us to a discussion that led to development of yet another theory in our college days. The college I mention is probably the oldest and the most famous college in Delhi. The student strength of the college could broadly be divided into three ethnic groups, the Bongs (majority), the Mallus (the rest) and the rest of the rest. In the matter of Bongs, I shall refrain from commenting, but Mallus shall remain close to my heart. Also in certain aspects of the Mallu culture viz. their taxonomy, I consider myself an expert to an extent.

If you notice the last sentence in the previous paragraph ends like “… a nice mallu name.”

 

Bhaskar Bhushan, a friend of mine and a lover of all things Garhwali, once came up with the rationale behind sinister mallu names; you know, the method to the madness of sorts.

 

“Guidelines for mallu nomenclature” for the parents are as follows:

1.      The name you intend to confer upon the newborn must not be a monosyllable, lest you let his/her classmates have it too easy. (Joe is not okay)

2.      The name you intend to confer must not contain more than two syllables. (Josie is okay, Joshua is not)

3.      The name must not mean anything. (All hell breaks lose, a mallu child is named.)

 

 A very educative comment by the man himself should be incorporated at this juncture.

You should have given an example of #3. Jobin is okay, Shaju, Silja, Milja, Febin, Jimol, Boban, Mikmop are all acceptable names.

 

Rare few deep and meaningful conversations have been reported to take place in mallu households due to these guidelines.

 

Father: Let us call him Joy, signifying the happiness he brings in our life.

Mother: How selfish! Let us name him Chiru and let the happiness be universal.

 

So back to the problems of a budding writer, the explanation of the entire setup might have helped you to appreciate the first few lines of the post.

 

“Required: Idiot, one in number, age no bar, caste no bar, Mallu Manchester United Fan preferred”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Musings from a saturday night: verbatim

Cleaning out my dreams for the usual affair,

I try to hide signs of time you weren’t there.

You sense her smell as our lips meet, something I won’t explain,

You walked out of our dreams midway, now you can’t complain.

 

I promise I was faithful in every possible way,

See, I do not mind lying if it can make you stay.

You need a reason to doubt, I need one to believe,

Soon as we find one each, its time again for you to leave.

 

Frustration is such a comfort in my seasons of mistakes,

Separation lingers on while one moment is all it takes.

Wondering why I’m keeping promises, I did not make,

The price I am paying for decisions I did not take.

 

Wading through broken memories, few questions remain,

They take us through that moment all over again.

I remember calling out, could you not hear my voice?

What else called louder, when you made that choice?

 

Any resemblance to a person or an event in real life is purely coincidental