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”










On role models


To those who have never had role models, this will not make much sense. To those who have or have had the habit of cultivating role models, this shall come as a moment of solemn reflection. To those who consider themselves to be someone’s role model, this shall come across as a realization.

This shall also come across, to all, as a product of unemployed neurons on one sloth of an afternoon.


An intelligible man once commented upon the habit of putting disclaimers upfront. I have been editing them out of my previous blog entries but today I let it in. This, he implied, brings into light your fear of not being accepted. Insecurity some call it. Right probably, but after typing out this shit you are already too tired to go back and cut it out. We shall not tear through the article, neither shall we look over our shoulders to double check. We shall trudge along at a leisurely amateur typing speed, careful not to leave our role models very far behind.


Speaking of which, I implore you to think for a while about this entity- Role Model. This is the person you emulated during the vital growing years of your life. I mean emulate in its complete sense. Not just when-in-Rome-do-as-romans-do routine, but proper walk-talk-rock like him/her thing. In the long run even this is practically the Rome routine but that is beside the point. Point being, what has become of them now?

As I dig up people I used to dig (clever, huh?), I am surprised, and not very pleasantly. Some are still around and probably will be for years to come. Some I am barely in touch with due to lack of time. Some I am not in touch with and time has got nothing to do with it.Also, some I forget, which in itself says a lot.


I am not sorry for them, or maybe I am, wrongfully so, but I have a theory to explain this. At this rate I shall have a theory of/for everything very soon.


Let’s set down a few postulates to explain the same.


1)      Role model is at a value higher than that of emulator on the tangent of emulator’s growth/change.

2)       Rate of growth/change of emulator is generally greater than that of role model on the tangent on which emulator is grows/changes.

3)      The role model and the emulator need not grow/change on the same tangent but to gain a perspective on their relative growth/change we observe the reflection of one’s growth/change on the tangent of other. This is generally the case where even if there is not much difference in their rate of growth/change we observe that due to disparity in the tangent of growth/change, the emulator is able to catch up and eventually overtake the role model.

Also in this case we grow to respect our role models nonetheless for we know that they grow on some other tangent.  

4)      Psychological state of a person can be completely defined by its position in space and time.

5)      There is no absolute frame of reference, no maximums and zeroes, only average Joes and weirdoes.

6)      Growth/change of one as a reflection on the other is given by the absolute change multiplied by the cosine of the angle between the tangents of the two. This angle, therefore, is the measure of disparity between the 2 tangents.


There arises, at times, if only to test our characters methinks, an eventuality when a person’s growth/change is in direction opposite to ours, and we conveniently presume our direction to be positive and the person’s negative. Since there are no zeroes and maximums, there arise no chances of it being positive or negative. Just because we have eyes only in the front does not mean we do not have the capacity to look around. Strange how we are always moving ahead and people are either digressing or downright opposing.

While we judge people by their position on our tangent, or worse still their rate of growth/change on our tangent, shouldn’t we be judging people, if at all, by their absolute rate of growth/change?

Truly, a sloth of an afternoon, huh?


P.S.  About the disclaimer thingy, I don’t think I suffer from the fear of not being accepted. Of not being understood? Probably. Of being misunderstood? Definitely.



The poet wizard

When you are sure that your words will pale in comparison, you know better than writing more.

Yeh na thee hamari qismat keh wisaal-e-yaar hota
Agar aur jeete rahtay yehi intezaar hota

Tere waade par jiyee ham to yeh jaan jhoot jana
Keh khushi se mar na jaate agar sach yeh aitbaar hota

Yeh kahaan ki dosti hai bane hain dost naaseh
Koi chaarasaaz hota koi ghamghuzar hota

Kahoon kis se main keh kya hai shab-e-gham buri balaa hai
Mujhe kya bura tha marana agar ek baar hota

Huay mar keh ham jo ruswa huay kyun ka gharq-e-dariya
Na kabhi janaza uthata na kahin mazaar hota

Yeh masaael-e-tasavvuf yeh tera bayan ghalib
Tujhe ham wali samajhate Joh na badaakhwar hota.


It was never in my fate to meet my beloved.
Even if more years of life was to me allocated, I would have been still awaiting the prize cherished.

If you think that I had been living on your promise, it is a lie.
For, if I had faith in you, would not of joy I would die.

Woe betide, my friendship, that the friends give pious advice and sermons they deliver.
I need someone on whose shoulders could I weep, who could allay my grief and my fears.

Whom should I tell that the night of sorrow is full of pangs.
I would not have resented the death, if it comes only once.

Disgraced, as I was after my death, why didn’t I drown in a river or sea.
Neither, there would have been a funeral, nor tomb erected for me.

The marvels of ethical problems and your statements full of meanings.
I would have counted you, “Ghalib” amongst dearest friends of God; if only, you had not been a lover of drinks.

When you read this you understand what Byron talked about when he wrote:

“To such as see thee not my words were weak;
To those who gaze on thee what language could they speak?”


It is not unfair that the biggest match of the season for arsenal was on the night before my most difficult anual exam, what is unfair is the way european dream ended for arsenal this season on the eventful night….

All grossly unfair.

This is my first post for the heck of posting, With so much chemistry in my life right now its hard to think rationally, let alone creatively for anything worthwhile. Till happy days.


On a very unpleasant Thursday afternoon, some considerable years ago, in the Middle East, in the settings of a law court of the governor a question was asked. Never again has this question been asked, and answered, with the severity that affects the human kind as it was then. What the governor asked the populace then I shall ask you now.

 Ladies and gentlemen, for the post may I now present before you – “Jesus who is also called Christ” and ask- 

“Then what shall I do with Jesus who is called Christ?”

And just to provide you with options of what all can be done, I shall enlist what all has been done by people who had to deal with the question and the person.

We can keep him in drawing rooms as show piece, take Him out, dust Him, shed a few tears for Him and then keep Him safe back in there lest He be hurt.

We can bind Him, nail Him and crucify Him, its tried and tested, it works.

We can keep him handy in our pockets putting Him to excellent use from crisis to crisis. (Much advised, especially for examinations)

 We can conveniently ignore Him on drinking binges and the nights that follow. (Much more advised)

 Most Christian take Him out every Sunday, some the Saturday before, but only after taking a bath, dressing up and wearing a nice cologne, lest he know.

Some, like me, don’t take Him out even then for I know I can’t fool him.

Some betray Him, or barter Him for better job, girl or place.

Some wear Him around their neck, some as white robes, some as cool t-shirts and some on their sleeves.

For some He goes well with incense, for some He goes well with a guitar. 

Some who profess to love Him can sit on his love, afraid to share or lose Him.

Best of all, some completely ignore Him; all they have to do is do nothing. By that they only postpone the decision.

I can go on but it hurts, all I want you to do is decide today, because you might make a foolish decision when confronted with the same during a crisis.


Circa 26 A.D., there was not one person who knew Him and realized what to do with Him until too late.

We know, do we realize?

“Then what shall I do with Jesus who is called Christ?”

PS:This post is stored under the category Infantspeak, for I speak only about what I know and understand, like an infant. Also because I do not know what is good for me and what is not. And lastly because there are some things I simply cannot do, not unlike an adult but very characteristic of a child.