My Best Friend(s)

Friends are everywhere, just like pigeon droppings. But true friends are very rare.

And what is this concept of best friend? A best friend, inasmuch I understand, is someone with whom you are most comfortable, and who is amenable to adjustment to accommodate your eccentricities, much like underwear.

You can talk to him/her on anything, everything. Crushes, love, music, porn, poop, politics... the list goes on and on endlessly. He/she will stand with you through thick and thin. ‘High’ and low.

But is it necessary to have a single best friend? For me, for the time being, the answer is no. There are, in fact, loads of people around me with whom I share the same level of retardation. I can talk absolute crap in front of a multitude of friends, and have that bullshit appreciated, thought upon, and discussed.

Saas, Bahu, and Nonsense

(This first appeared on AmreekanDesi)

Finally, I am home after what seemed to be an eternity.

Well, I do have doubts as to whether 47 days qualify as an eternity. But the burgeoning pile of untidy clothes (which warranted the purchase of a room freshener to help Set Wet’s cause) that threatened to bury me alive in my own room failed to suggest otherwise. To Mom and her washing machine then!

Nothing much has changed in these intervening 47 days save the state of my wardrobe.

Apart from the fact that onions now cost almost the same as underwear, and that the PM talked (yes he did, about the most ideal candidate to be his successor as a puppet), things have remained the same more or less, especially on the soap opera front.

These soap operas have become the raison d’etre for many news channels too that provide news feed about a popular TV actress indulging in manicure, or the latest development in a soap dealing with child marriage. Well, Syria can wait.

(Continue reading here)

Much ado about pooping

The remnants of vada, kurkure, bhel, and the infamous IRCTC-approved meal from last night slithered down his large intestine. Like a snake that approaches its prey furtively and then at the very last moment strikes with such force that catches the toad unawares, the snake within him was already in position.

It was any moment now.

He was not someone who was easily bogged down. He fought with all his might, moved about the compartment in order to slacken himself, even tried to sleep in the hope of passing time.

But the damage had been done. A fart or two here and there did provide momentary respite, like a wicket or two when Dhoni is batting at the other end. That, however, hardly changes the overall scenario.

He, however, was determined. There are instances in people’s lives that make them apprehensive about doing things, like catching sight of the vendor picking his nose before serving golgappas. The solitary view that he had of the toilet in his coach while peeing last night had strengthened his resolve about not using it for ‘heavier’ purposes. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

What's in a name?

Now, it could be misconstrued. But to make it clear, I am fond of my name the way our PM is fond of his silence. Or the way CSK is proud of RP Singh.

Mallikarjuna Kalika. Yes, yes, I know it took you more than one attempt to get it right.

No, I don’t get pissed. I have seen first timers produce variants such as Mallik Arjun, or Mallik, or something as far-fetched and off the mark as the Telugu old-timer Nagarjuna.

Even when available in the written format, people generally have trouble trying to make sense of what it is supposed to sound like, the same people who proudly cry aloud ‘Schwarzenegger’ in an apparent attempt to display their contemporary outlook, but start peeing their pants when trying to articulate ‘Mallikarjuna’.