tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51122355362357624942024-03-12T19:55:43.726-07:00OK WRITE WRITEUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112235536235762494.post-52658925040994350322010-12-27T09:16:00.000-08:002010-12-27T09:18:49.712-08:00EXCUSE ME, IS THIS YOUR OBITUARY?<p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal">Fortunately it isn’t that yet. Else you wouldn’t be reading it. Or would you still be? If you ask me- quite frankly, I don’t know yet. But there’s something else that I know. There are people who’ve written their own obituaries. Oh, it’s nothing wrong, just a matter of personal choice. And that doesn’t change the fact that even the ones that painstakingly write it themselves never get to read it. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Alright. I can understand. Any more of this is termed socially unacceptable for discussion. Reactions can range anywhere from plain annoying to morbidly depressing; depending on the intensity of necrophobia. In case, you’re wondering what the heck it means, smile and say a little prayer. Hallelujah! There’s Internet. And there’s an answer for every question. Well, almost.</p><p class="MsoNormal">When I say almost, I’m saying that because there are scores of people who use the Internet without knowing the purpose of doing so. Given that all human pursuits are motivated by the need for attention, let’s say this one’s none different from dressing up for a pub outing. At least you know what to wear. And you’re smart enough not to wear it to work the next day. If even by mistake you do, you know what they’ll call you.</p><p class="MsoNormal">See this works just as much brilliantly when you draw a parallel with social networking. LinkedIn is like attending a business conference. Make sure you’re Mr. Prim’N’Proper. And keep that plastic smile ready, you’ll need it any moment. Orkut is like a little village. Anyone visits anyone and everyone knows. As for Twitter, I still haven’t figured what it can do. For that matter I wonder even if the blokes at Twitter have figured it out themselves.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Now coming to the hot chick that’s got everyone’s got the hots for! Facebook!! You’ll find your boss, his pet poodle, his mother-in-law or even your mother-in-law on your friend list, it’s perfectly fine. Just like bumping into your uncle in a whorehouse. There’s nothing embarrassing about it. He didn’t land up there to change the light bulb. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Don’t take it to your heart. Facebook aint all that bad. Actually it’s like hanging out with friends or family. You just have to be real. You don’t “Hello Mister George, how have you been?” your friends, do you? In case you do, then stream some Heineken and Budweiser advertisements on YouTube and watch them over a nice cold beer. Nice reference, heh.</p><p class="MsoNormal">When with friends, you call a spade a spade. Sometimes things can get a little boisterous and you could even shove a spade into someone else’s bottom. Darn! Boys will be boys. (Oh boy! This is getting chauvinistic).</p><p class="MsoNormal">So if you’ve cared to read all the way down here and still cling on to your point of view. Amen. May peace and good sense prevail. Don’t worry I am not going to molest you into acceptance. I am telling this because I don’t want you to look like a powdered baboon on that photo.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Make peace with yourself. Make fun of yourself. Poke fun at those around you. Never spare a moment of liveliness. It’s harmless and best of all it can improve your libido. Again if you’re asking how, Google it. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Now if you got a minute: I get paid to write about pressure cookers, windmills, industrial machinery and so many other boring things that no one cares to know. Real estate pays my rent, prepaid cards pay my bills and health care takes care of my family. While I am paid to write a whole lot, I get my joys from writing stuff that I don’t get paid for. So this one of them.</p><div><br /></div><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112235536235762494.post-44669310160580441162009-11-22T13:26:00.000-08:002009-11-22T13:33:22.769-08:00WHOA! I ROCK!!Now how do you like my new attitude? I’m cool, I’m hot, I’m this I’m that, I’m blah blah blah blah. Web 2.0 has kept us busy exploiting our egos that we hardly notice how we make pompous, pretentious farts of ourselves. Yeah! Even things at ok-write-write have not been so right. My indulgences on Facebook, Twitter and everywhere else have siphoned off my attention. I’m logging back in here after ages. But now I’m back with more reason. And I have a point to make.<br /><br />In utter humility, I hereby proclaim that Web 2.0 is not the only one to blame for this sorry state of affairs. I guess it all begins with the self. It happens to every one of us. It’s what one calls a Paradox. <br /><br />While we can thump our chest in pride and tell the future that we’ve seen technology grow from vacuum tubes to blue-ray discs in our generation. That we’ve seen civilisation take one leap after another, effortlessly; we’d also have to endure the sham of our social and cultural inadequacies. We are so fond of listening to our own voices that we hardly hear the voice within. Ironically, we are capable of dubbing these inadequacies as impairments and even seeking professional assistance to cope with it (Not overcome it). <br /><br />Phew! We - have taller buildings and shorter tempers; have wider freeways and narrow view points; spend more and have lesser; buy more and enjoy lesser. We - have bigger houses and smaller families; have multiplied our possessions and reduced our values; and the list is quite endless. We have even gone to the extent of adding years to life, ironically it has only made our years more lifeless. In short, we have learnt how to make a living, but not how to have a life. Again, Paradox. <br /><br />If you are somewhat impressed with what you’re reading, you have all the reason to shoot a mail and tell me how impressed you are. But don’t hurry. Not so fast. These pearls of wisdom have done their rounds on the Internet for almost a decade now. All you need to do is copy this “The paradox of our time in history” and Google it. Never mind the number of versions floating around or the number of authors claiming stake. Do take the effort to read the original passage; it’s definitely nicer than my hurried shower of (attempted) intelligence.<br /><br />Coming back to my original point of discussion – “The Paradox” at a cursory glance may seem like a new drug combination of Paracetamol and Amoxicillin. Pardon my poor humour, but our lives are so milled to the pill. We are constantly on the lookout for cures and we are so engrossed in it that we don’t realise we are responsible for the maladies ourselves. First we stress ourselves beyond reasonable levels, then pop pills to party and de-stress. Then another one to trigger the libido; then one more to make up for the forgotten protection: Finally after the shit hits the ceiling, there’s also consolation “Take a Chill Pill. Dude”.<br /><br />But end of the day, we also want to have children. But that’s because we are afraid of being rated impotent. Social stigma you see. Even when we are technically incapable of having children, we collate eggs and sperms; fertilise them in test tubes and hire surrogate mothers to bear them. Twins, Triplets, Quadruplets. We behave like spoilt kids in the ice cream bar. <br /><br />Brangelina: Nice. But adoption isn’t for us to adopt. Isn’t it?<br /><br />We have mastered the art of making suns of our egos in the galaxies of our minds. Some of us have even modified our DNAs in mindless pursuit of social acceptance: And before we even realise, we die slow and painful deaths, choking in own karma while we’re still alive. <br /><br />Gone are the days of valiant men who rode horse-back and wielded swords to fight for their honour? Today men are of two kinds: paper politicians and e-mail terrorists. And neither knows honour. Our insecurities and inefficiencies have lengthened our working hours. Then for work-life balance we turn to the Gurus. The Matas and Swamis (and their scandals) of this world never seem to be out of circulation. Their list is growing at an alarming rate (multiplying faster than bunny rabbits).<br /><br />And if all this was not enough, we also have Self-improvement and Self-help Experts, along with their mutual admiration societies adding to the chaos. Not that I loathe or despise the gurus or experts. What I despise is the lack of introspection. BTW how do you like this name? Write-ananda??Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112235536235762494.post-78637437769902549052009-07-02T12:36:00.000-07:002009-07-02T14:41:50.323-07:00HI, I AM SOCIAL!Once too soon, life goes a full circle; but this time it feels good because I have found the right answers. If you've read my previous posts, you'll know what I'm talking about. If you haven't, it's still okay. This is what it is.<br /><br />It all began when I wanted to see how I wrote when I was not paid to do it. It meant I could really write what I wanted to. No 30 days or your money back. No great deals now or never. No persuasion. No smart talk bullshit. Just take it or lump it. Plain heartspeak. I called it ok-write-write.<br /><br />I had consciously decided to keep my posts far and few. To write only what mattered under the blog's scheme of things and only when it mattered. But somehow the posts turned out farther and fewer than I anticipated.<br /><br />Somewhere down the line the enthusiasm had fizzled out. It felt as pointless as making a swine run on the treadmill. Isn't it natural for a writer to yearn for attention. More people read his works. And tell him what they think about it. Bouquets, brick bats, good, bad, ugly, worse, can do better, sucks, something.<br /><br />A few months and a million wonders later, I got initiated into social media. Picture a bloke with a long beard, dark glasses and a looney cloak saying "BEFORE"; and another photo next to it with a clean-shaven 'Mr. Successful' look and a pseudo smile labelled "AFTER". And even worse, a headline like "Social media changed my life!"<br /><br />Trust me, its really not so obscene. I am motivated to write because I know more people will get to read it and comment on it. At least I know that even if I don't make new friends I'll make new enemies. Whichever way you look at it, that's a great start. I am now reminded of a really mean line. The temptation is too much to resist."Opinions are like assholes. Everyone's got one!"Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112235536235762494.post-44242168923141037512009-02-11T06:56:00.000-08:002009-02-11T21:34:19.170-08:00THERE'S THIS WOMAN IN MY LIFESometimes I really take the effort and make the time and do what I love best. It’s called doing nothing. I’d love to see that expression on your face when you ask me – Oh, is that anything?<br /><br />Anyways, this is just a blog; and thankfully I am neither in front of you nor within earshot. But jokes apart, it is something you should try and do. This is definitely the leanest and meanest DIY ideas you’ve ever heard or read. It’s what some higher mortals call “meditation”.<br /> <br />Seat yourself comfortably wherever you are and stop everything else. Yes, that includes slamming the brakes on your meandering mind as well. You’ll realise that it’s not as easy as you thought it would be.<br /><br />It would be easier to face a charging bull with bare hands. But here’s the tip. Trick your mind to believe it’s a mustang and watch it gallop into the wild. Suddenly you feel like you’re sitting through what’s a mix of time-lapse photography and MTV. Chill. Everything will gradually slow down to a legible pace and lo, your mind is now ready to follow your command like an obedient dog. <br /><br />Now that I have tested your patience beyond reasonable levels, let me resume my passage to talk about this woman whom you want to know. But that brings up the topic of the next best thing I love to do. Reading.<br /><br />My family tells me that I read my first book when I was two years old. It was an old and abused copy of the Playboy. Apparently, it had belonged to one of my teenager cousins who presumed it to be lost until I… It even had his name on it followed by a heart and the bunny’s name, they told me.<br /><br />However, I did read a few good books when I learned how to read. There was no Google or Wikipedia back then, so all I was left with was books. But with time, my perceptions of favourite books and authors kept changing. With all due respect I admit, Robinson Crusoe read like a gay man’s dream and the Count of Monte Cristo was a scheming old bastard who got a hot chick half his age. Perception did not spare the fairy tales either. It seemed that they were written by the Freemasons or some other secret society.<br /><br />The moment of truth; it happened when I was twenty four and engaged to be married. She was a single mother on the verge of penury, who had braved the rejections from the world's leading publishing houses. And then one day, she was rich and famous. Suddenly, everyone wanted to know who she was, what she did and when she'd bring out her next book. Even I was one of them. And her name was JK Rowling. <br /><br />One book after another, I went out to buy and read and read. And read. Harry James Potter was everywhere. On my nephew’s tee shirt, in the multiplexes, on someone’s fresh cream cake and almost everyone’s mind. Ms. Rowling is a millionaire and everyone thinks her story is almost a fairy tale. As an ardent fan of hers, I only know too well how much she deserves it.<br /><br />Every time I read a Harry Potter book, it feels like the first time. I discover something intelligent, virtuous and funny and it’s fresh. The metaphors are subtle and the values are intact. I don’t believe someone subsisting on welfare, could have written something as marvelous as the Harry Potter series. I’m sure most of us can’t even write our own CVs in that state of mind.<br /><br />I only wish that the Harry Potter series had come out in my kiddo days. No! I’m not fighting shy to admit my awe for her as an adult. Even Barack Obama is a big Harry Potter fan. There can’t be a greater dude on this planet right now.<br /><br /><br />PS: After a sneak preview, some of my distinguished readers have reported that this post ends rather abruptly. I wish to reiterate that this is how I have thought it should be. There’s nothing more new to tell about Ms Rowling.<br /><br />I also have one confession to make. I still haven’t laid my hands on a copy of “Tales of Beedle the Bard”.<br /><br />I would also like to take this opportunity to tell my loving wife that I have consciously tried and avoided expletives as much as I can.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112235536235762494.post-44486643283269112122008-10-29T16:12:00.000-07:002008-10-30T00:05:13.971-07:00WHERE DO YOU WANT ME TO DO IT?The first time I did it, I was old enough to tell between good and evil. When you’re twenty one, they don’t send you to cute playschools with cuter women to look after you, or do they? I’ve done it in front of my friends, my economics professor, my neighbour’s dog, my grandmother’s pet gold fish, people I knew, people I never met before and a whole bunch of people you wouldn’t want to know about. Today, I can’t do it anymore. And it’s not me. It’s the rotten system that forbids it.<br /><br />By now if you haven’t figured out what my ranting is all about… You must be -<br /><br />o A dead sewer rat who got washed ashore last week <br /><br />o A wretched introvert living in Pluto, who occasionally mutters a word or two to the potted plant on the window sill<br /><br />o A fitness freak whose sex life is restricted to Sundays because the gym is closed on that day<br /><br />o A numbskull diet freak whose mental activity is limited to the arithmetic of counting calories<br /><br />o A lousy fucking pencil pusher who hides behind the reels of red tape and bureaucracy because it makes you feel important; or simply<br /><br />o A health minister who still hasn’t figured out what to do with your rising power graph and falling popularity graph<br /><br />But it’s ok. You don’t need a doctor turned politician turned self-styled messiah of the vote bank to tell you that smoking causes cancer, impotency, emphysema and other life threatening diseases that scientists are still discovering. For that matter, even marijuana, hashish and other recreational drugs can do the job more swiftly. Let’s allow the sale of recreational drugs and then ban their use in public places. Brilliant!<br /><br />But not so fast Mr. Prophet! And not before you have told us how to stop the few million men who spend the last nickel of their day’s earnings on liquor; to go home to beat up their wives black and blue, and then have forced sex with them. Is the smoking ban going to change this? Or stop the rising suicides among our farmers for that matter??<br /><br />So why kill joy by coming in the way of our troubled souls and our only solace (cheap publicity hehe). This is a free country and everyone of us is free to do what we like. Only that, the legitimacy of our actions depends on the ambiguity of our laws and our ability to arm-twist it. And your muscle’s bigger than mine. Anyways, your plight is sad. And sadder than mine. You can’t even smoke the peace pipe with me, even if you badly want to.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112235536235762494.post-59059710773828195062008-05-07T22:58:00.000-07:002008-05-07T23:01:31.640-07:00I DON'T THINK I AM LAZYBut I don’t think I am any good either. Right now I am too busy to evaluate my laziness and put a check on it. Yes, I’ve got too much to work: Weekends my desk seems to be a Mt. Everest of A4 sheets; and weeknights I am in office figuring out what next.<br /><br />I don’t have the time to fix the ceiling fan in my living room. There’s my suit hanging from the curtain pelmet. I still haven’t found time to hang it in the wardrobe. My parents have assumed that I work abroad these days. My neighbours think I work for the secret service. My wife thinks Wednesdays are perfect to meet, because they fall exactly between Monday blues and Friday blitzkriegs. I am doing too many things. And I still have too many things to do.<br /><br />Wait. This is not a practiced act of condemnation and self-pity. I am merely reflecting a thought. Something, which many can’t afford in the current context of life.<br /><br />Most of us seem to be becoming adept in incessantly running from task to chore to priority to ambition without moving an inch. For many of us, our days begin and end right at our desks. This includes the express meal breaks confined to our cubicles.<br /><br />Almost all of us have a ready answer for the pesky aunts and uncles of the world. “I am busy, there’s so much of work at office and I am the only one there to do it. Some of us even manage to convince our family and friends that the bosses would have to shut shop and go; if we failed to turn up at work two days in a row.<br /><br />All that is fine. But are we really putting the 24 hours of a day to best use?<br /><br />One of my most original theories is that- if one slept eight hours a day, he or she would end up wasting one third of his or her life (irrespective of one’s lifespan). I must admit… I haven’t managed to propound anything this brilliant till date. <br /><br />As for the countless beers I’ve had wasted in the company of men with similar ideals; and the kinetic progression of my waistline; or the ever-expanding aura of my dark circles, I hope to find answers one day. <br /><br />Still okay. I think it got the point across. That’s what matters. I guess identifying one’s problem is the first step towards solving it. So hopefully I make some progress from here. Huh, gotta go! My colleague wants some more beer. And me too.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112235536235762494.post-47608699017880553412008-02-25T09:55:00.000-08:002008-02-25T10:09:15.203-08:00About ends and beginnings.2008 has been a fabulous year for me so far. It’s rather early in the day, I know. But I still feel it’s worth mention. The year began on an upbeat note and the going so far has been more than good. But many I know have lost someone dear this year. It’s really depressing; especially when it’s only February yet. A good friend lost his dad last month. My neighbour lost his wife- a mother of two pre-teen daughters, one of our clients lost a bright young executive – the guy was not even 30. It’s not like any of them were ailing for months and waiting their turn, or biding their time. It just happened.<br /><br />I am in no mood for my usual sarcasm or spell of contorted humour; moreover am late for this month’s post. It’s my third attempt on this post and I shamelessly admit that the previous two attempts neither began nor ended well. <br /><br />Writing about death is so different and difficult to even the most articulate of men. I think it is simple, complex, consequential, trivial, expectable, surprising and shocking, all at the same time. I have heard this question countless times in the last couple of months. Almost all of us ask this question when we lose someone too close to our heart: Where does one go, after life?<br /><br />Religion in its multitude has its explanations to offer. Every religion has a carefully crafted guidebook of life’s instructions and all philosophy is centred on the mysterious concept of death, thrusting the fear of the unknown deep into our hearts. So we’ve all been told about heaven, hell and earth. Though we convince ourselves to believe, all of us still want to know where we’ll all head one day. <br /><br />Thankfully my perception of afterlife is somewhat stable; I am proud to say. But the bloody truth I am yet to accept is that one day my worldly possessions would cease to be mine. My beautiful bikes, my collections of knives and lighters, my books, my movies, and me, myself? Feels like a firm kick on the bottom with a metal boot. <br /><br />Alas, a few hours of profound thinking and a few cigarettes before concluding the post did their job. It did dawn upon me that as humans we are endowed with memories. It’s one of the few things that differentiate us from animals. The kind of people we have been; of stuff we’ve done for those around us; of good things and good times. They are the inseparable part of ourselves that we leave behind; a little of it in everyone we meet in our lives everyday. So, as long as the good memories remain, one really doesn’t go away anywhere. This is my learning from the fond memories I have; of those who've lived beyond life.<br /><br />It doesn't take much effort to be pleasant, good or even helpful. And it’s never too early, or never too late to start. Now is just right to make a beginning. As for me, I would love to be remembered as a good writer. So, even if you find my writing boring beyond description, please remember to forgive me. It's good.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112235536235762494.post-2954366072421017642008-01-08T07:33:00.000-08:002008-01-08T07:52:54.095-08:00Bargaining for trouble!If someone as intimidating as I am (with a walrus moustache, 200lb displacement and stature well beyond six feet from the ground), can be confused, irritated and helpless with where things are heading… then I guess life’s definitely not better for any other law-abiding tax-paying commoner in India.<br /><br />The millions who parch their throats dry bargaining over a dozen bananas, but remain mute spectators in a system that sucks out their lifeblood in the name of personal tax: Ashamedly I am one of them. What we call the Great Indian Middle Class (GIMC).<br /><br />Life was bliss and everything seemed just fine, until the day my employers decided to reward me with a little more. My new pay check was a pleasant shock. Pleasant because I was costing them more than before; and a shock because it came with a tax clause (read claws) that clipped my net salary and dipped it below my current earnings.<br /><br />Personal tax is mouse trap. A custom-made trap specially designed for the GIMC. The poor are too poor to pay; the rich are rich enough to escape its tentacles; and the divide remains the same. Except that the GIMC (the most efficient indicators of economic growth) have been too preoccupied to bother. For the past three generations, they have been slogging it out for a paradise that will never be. Like all this was not enough - the current rat race to produce the One Lac Car seems like the perfect icing on the cake of mockery.<br /><br />I am not any gun-wielding anti-establishment insurgent on the run, who found his calling in high-voltage discourses on liberty, equality and justice. I am just another man, who wants his voice to be heard; whose ultimate aspiration is the ability to spend his money the way he wants.<br /><br />The establishment is a company of senile old men who run it for the common welfare of their progeny and no one else. The men in white; who deserted their Ambies for faster, sportier cars (no guesses to tell who’s paying for all that opulence) somehow never bothered about the pace of our progress obstructed by frustration and helplessness.<br /><br />All our Good Samaritan- Role Model Citizen - Corporate Gurus, who went on to found, manage and mentor their public-funded enterprises, pay only a notional personal tax. It’s possible because the establishment believes it to be lawful and legitimate. They couldn’t have managed their private islands and Scottish castles from their salaries after tax. The truth here is that their booties come from the dividend income and not salaries. It’s a no-brainer. On second thoughts it seems otherwise. Even their morally upright socially responsible charity initiatives are merely well-orchestrated PR exercises that are ploughed back as tax rebates.<br /><br />As I write this piece, I am interrupted by an unavoidable phone call. It’s from a jubilant friend who says how he foresees drastic reforms on personal taxes in the forthcoming budget. I’m suddenly religious and summon all the gods I can remember. I wish it’s the truth. <br />I pinch myself and ask him to repeat what he just uttered. My heart misses a beat. It is “drastic personal taxes to budget forthcoming reforms”. Sarcasm? Hardly!!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112235536235762494.post-48071107382095600222007-12-12T12:29:00.000-08:002007-12-12T12:33:36.469-08:00Learnings from abstinenceAll the silence never went wasted. It’s been more than two months since my last post. I almost thought I‘d give up ok-write-write for lame excuses and lesser passions. Yet I am back; for indulgence sake. Yes I am.<br /><br />My first post gave me the enthusiasm to chase it with two more; soon after which life caught up with me. The hazards of a career in advertising and the subsequent effects on my personal life put my priorities in a shuffle mode.<br /><br />Every other day I would console myself with promises to write soon one day. Thank God, it’s finally today. Most of the encouragement came from the few who actually took pains to read it and even respond with a word of appreciation or two.<br /><br />Let me be honest and upfront. I’ve always tried to manifest blogging as a matter of narcissism and righteous self-importance. But the truth is - attention, recognition and encouragement actually make a difference. It’s still okay to be truthful. Doesn’t hurt or harm. Or does it?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112235536235762494.post-82995566356999733162007-09-24T08:36:00.000-07:002007-09-24T10:36:35.719-07:00Rupees, Dollars and Daughters.Okiema, I’m no mind reader. Yet I kind of know what’s running in your head right now. Sounds like a perfect title for a sizzling, hot, romantic sensation by yet another megalomaniac Indian author. That’s not exactly what it is. And the truth as it ought to be, sucks even worse.<br /><br />It starts like this. One day… No. Every other day, I stumble into one of these otherwise ambitious, self-respecting blokes, whose ultimate accomplishment lies in locating an NRI boy for his daughter, sister, niece or any other girl he’s concerned for. All I have to tell these idiots is that I pity their working-class intelligence. Or better say the lack of it.<br /><br />I am not even willing to talk about the wonderful women who forge these mega alliances. The platoons of aunts who, until that day you never knew existed; whose lives’ sole purpose is to find NRI Boys: The Fixers. The only thing they stop from doing is forecast the economic growth of all those concerned for the next five years and circulate them in PDF formats.<br /><br />“She’s such a fine girl; see she’s so fair and good-looking; she’s good in her studies; and takes care of the house so well! She’ll surely get an NRI boy.” I’ve heard it from even before I could understand what marriage meant. It’s really sad that even Indian bride grooms need the words IMPORTED and INTERNATIONAL to become marketable commodities. Will someone ask these poor jokers why their tall, fair, well-educated, broad-minded, homely girls simply can’t marry a resident Indian?<br /><br />What about those who didn’t make it to the engineering colleges; who didn’t apply to foreign universities; who didn’t get a single on-site project; and more importantly, the ones who chose to do other things in life? Yeah, the kinds who chose to become copywriters, art directors and advertising executives. Are they all expected to live single and die single?<br /><br />Thankfully, I consider myself lucky to be married and this really doesn’t concern me now. Yet, I really can’t fathom how it works. Sometimes I even think we should banish all the young men from our country, so that one day or another, they can return as eligible bachelors.<br /><br />If only dollar pay-cheques made men better husbands on and off the bed, I would personally advocate this “NRI Boy” philosophy to the extent of supporting polygamy. Till date, I’ve known scores of supposedly lucky girls who found themselves NRI husbands and more trouble than they ever imagined. I think all what matters is to see a girl happily-married, with a guy who loves her and who’d give his life for her. Speak up people. If the idea is about travelling abroad and getting free acco, try Google. It’s safer.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112235536235762494.post-1868358267950563422007-09-10T11:23:00.000-07:002007-09-10T12:19:31.932-07:00AnonymousInterestingly, that's the best word that threads the connect between this post with the previous one. After penning my first ever blog, I enthusiastically mailed its links to a few friends and one of them was even prompt enough to respond with a valuable comment. Aah! A blunt jab on my ego, reminding me that my profile was incomplete.<br /><br />When I decided to blog, I consciously chose a veil of anonymity. simply because I believed that the blog meant to reflect my point of view, rather than publicise my personality. As an avid reader, I've learned to respect writers for their writing and not for their Saville Row suits or Cohiba cigars.<br /><br />Yet, being the obliging guy I am, I've updated my profile with what I personally think is valuable in this context.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112235536235762494.post-35518747337248473072007-09-06T11:08:00.000-07:002007-09-06T12:39:28.072-07:00first nightOkeima. Its 11.30 pm, just learnt how to create my own blog. Feels new. Entirely new. I hate blogging. Or should I say I used to, or may be I'm still not sure if i like it even now.<br /><br />Why the freaking hell did I even attempt this? I ask myself. I'd read somewhere that blogging cures cancer of the right brain and flash, my left brain told me to start blogging. Now, that's more lame than anything you ever heard before. The answer is I really don't know.<br /><br />I personally don't approve of the idea of blogging because I don't think it made anyone any better than they were or were meant to be. I even think we are a generation of sterotypes. I'm taking no credits for saying this because some other wise guy whose name I can't recall said it already.<br /><br />Blogging is the last of my list of do-nots on the sticky web. I got my gmail account after refusing to sign-up for one for almost two years. I even got innumerable invitations to sign-up and I unceremoniously dumped all of them into my trash. My neighbour's pet parakeet got a gmail account before I did. I shouldn't have waited this long. My ego's badly bruised.<br /><br />If orkut was to award their users for the emptiest page, I'd win it hands down. My first ever orkut'ing happened last month to check my friends' exploits (You got it. Gossip. It feeds my demented soul). Well, to be honest I wasn't playing Peeping Tom. They asked me to check it out. I'm not guilty. Not one bit.<br /><br />Now blogging. Thanks to Google, we've even got bundle offers here. Merry Christmas.<br /><br />After almost god knows how long. I've really bothered to write my mind. The last time I wrote my mind, it was a resignation letter. Or, that's what I had originally intended. Unfortunately the concerned employer decided to sue me for insubordination, slander and indiscriminate use of profanity.<br /><br />Well, I shouldn't be commiting anything close to morality. If you know me well enough, you know it yourself. Neither am I sure if this blog serves to entertain myself or enlighten civilisation.<br /><br />"Narcissists and bloggers are brothers of a tribe."<br /><br />Before you rack your mind wondering where I read it or who wrote it; I admit, it's my own. In fact, I am beginning to like it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1