Susie Makes Some Coffee (U/A)
“Saar…coffee.”
Susie’s steamy whisper hung over the wisps of instant coffee as she poured me a cup of the piping concoction. It was a chilly morning and she was arched precariously over my table, her rather large pair of cute cherry blossoms (cheeks, I hasten to add, in case you thought otherwise) oozing enough warmth to cook the cockles of my quivering heart. I may have inadvertently stared at them just for a moment or two, I admit. Then, all of a sudden, it became so sultry that my ears turned crimson, the heart began to thrash about like a fish, the head started spinning and I had to take my eyes off to prevent my poor little sang-froid from becoming all shaken and stirred so early in the morning.
“Thanksss….Ssusssy..” I squeaked, and took a sip, trying hard to dismiss racy thoughts of Susie hunched over me and lovingly pouring coffee into a couple of oversized cups from a large pair of jugs (steel jugs, that is) which she held with both hands in a very suggestive manner.
“Saar…..” Susie said, tossing some coffee for herself.
I was still lost in thoughts, trying to wriggle away from a clutch of titillating visuals involving myself, Susie, and some spilled coffee on the table. But it was a futile exercise. No matter how hard (our hospital director often says ‘how hardly’) I tried, the images kept flooding my noddle with perturbing regularity. Not that I was complaining much, though.
“Saar…O saar!”
“Uh…yes?”
“What are you thinking so seriously saar?”
“Jugs…”
“What… saar?”
“No..aa…co.. coffee…I mean your jug…your coffee jugs” I stammered.
“Saar…this is flask saar! No jugs here saar….what are you saying saar?”
“Oho! Is this a flask? Well…well….it does look like a flask! Even I thought so….! Hmm….hmmm….how wonderful” I said, quite in a shaking voice. It was a narrow escape.
Eyeing me with considerable consternation, Susie straightened up, adjusted her tunic with a tantalising pull at the sides, and inspite of my best efforts to hide behind a stack of journals, noticed the blush on my ears. “Saar….! Your ear is looking very red! Feeling alright saar?” She reached out and patted my left ear lobe.
“O Wow! You ears are so hot!” she said teasingly.
Now, ‘hot in the ear’ isn’t exactly the kind of compliment that rugged, robust men like me expect from well-stacked bimbettes on a crisp January morning, particularly when their tender sang-froids have been tickled recently. Didn’t Susie know that there are many other pragmatic measures that can tasty testi testify to a man’s virility?
- Useful ways to test a man’s virility
So, not really knowing whether to feel flattered or flummoxed, I backed away from her touch, scared at the sudden realisation that she might proceed to tinker with my other honorable appendages (like the nose, for example) to ascertain if they too were hot, suffused and throbbing. With Susie around, things were really unpredictable.
“Saar….why does ear wonly become hot saar?” Susie quizzed me with innocent mischief, drawing up her chair close to mine.
“No no Susie….it’s not only the ear that turns red….there are quite a few other…..” I began in earnest excitement, only to realise that I was being led into a quagmire of interrogation by my own subordinate nursey, who would undoubtedly proceed to share the minutes of such an intimate exchange with Nikki the receptionist. Nikki was a stunning blonde (only her hair was black) who had joined the hospital a couple of weeks back. Though we had exchanged a few pleasantries while crossing each other’s baths paths, I was yet to gain a secure foothold at her promising doorstep, so to speak. So I clammed up and began whistling.
“Saar…O saar! You would not tell me why wonly the ear becomes hot?”
“Susie, these are uncomfortable questions….” I told her firmly, and finished my coffee.
“Why uncomfortable saar?” Susie batted her eyelashes at me and persisted.
“Okay Susie….if you really wish to know, it’s this.” I explained. “Redness of the ears, hotness of the cheeks and wetness of certain body parts, I mean like the tongue and eyes, are purely impressionistic, and at best only subjective approximations of emotional arousal that have nothing to do with physically measurable estimates of the physiological response to visually appealing stimuli, thereby calling into question the very foundations of such an attempt to quantify abstract attributes of a stirred up horny carcass objectively….you see!”
“Whoa…mamma!” Susie gasped.
“I hope that answers your question Susie….” I observed with a bit of resolve. “Next, I’d explain to you the physical changes of the human body associated with hot ears and how an change in blood supply to the skin results in piloerection ….”
Susie hurriedly made her way to the door. “Saar…there are three patients waiting outside….I’ll send them won by won…” she said, and disappeared into the the next room.
I could still make out that her ears too had turned crimson.
Risky Resolutions
2. I will try to remember birthdays. I’ll mug the dates, write them down on my desk, tattoo them on my posterity, do whatever it takes. I’ll try.Talking of tattoos, this is interesting!
3. I’d stop ogling at sweets. I’d try to stop ogling altogether in spite of it’s reported salutary effects. I promise I won’t ogle at Susie’s spectacles again. My eyes, are after all, precious assets. I get a lot of eye strain ogling.
4. I’d watch more movies this year. That way I’d be able to spend some quality time with Dimpy Minochha, Susie, Nikki (the new receptionist in our hospital) and their ilk.
5. I’d shed 500 grams by the year end. Anything more would be an unreasonable target. I intend to join a gym and hope to increase my heartbeat to aerobic levels daily just by ogling selectively observing others joggers of the opposite sex.
6. I’d try to keep my blog alive. I’ll prove that nonsense can be improved upon.
7. I’ll get my car serviced at least once this year. I’ll consider changing the tyres too. And I’ll always remember to fasten my seatbelts.
8. Whenever a clock, watch, remote control, toy or anything else that works by pushing buttons stops working, I’d make an honest effort to change the batteries within two weeks. Okay, three weeks. Also, I’ll try to make a list of things that work on pushing a few buttons here and there. Trust me, I won’t put Susie on that list.
Er...Where's the button for this doll?
9. I’ll actually read the newspaper before stashing it away for the day. I’ll actually laugh while reading the ribald Obama jokes.
10. I will change calender dates every month.
11. In the winter months, I’ll use the bath soap once every week. Okay, this makes me nervous, but I’m confident of pulling it off.
12. I will discard a razor blade after 45…no…35 …..okay, 25 shaves. As they say, God shaves those who shave themselves. Whatever.
13. I’ll remember to pay my bills on date.
Co Curry Cooler Activities
Madho Singh had made a fortune by selling his agricultural land to Highmax Builders at the height of the realty boom. He had inherited the land from his father, who was a peasant. Earlier, he worked (or at least, pretended to work) as a clerk in some obscure government office. With the money, he bought a large farmhouse, quit his job and proclaimed himself to be a property dealer. I remember having treated his painful anal fissure a few years back with a combination of soothing creams, bogus assurances and some unpleasant fingerwork that involved fiddling with the nastiest parts of his anatomy. He used to visit my clinic riding a rickety Rajdoot of the 70’s, and often cursed the motorcycle for its hard seats. So, when one fine morning he alighted from a brand new Scorpio, I knew he was living a terribly good life.
“Namaskaar doxaab!” He greeted me in a booming voice that rattled my fragile ear drum and scattered the poor little ossicles.
“Namaskaar Madho Singh”, I replied, trying to look awfully pleased. “”New Scorpio…hmm hmm….!”
“Yes doxaab. Bought it this Diwali. My wife does not like to sit in small cars.” Madho Singh flashed an effervescent smile, flashing his stained teeth. “Also, my in laws live in Ajmer, so we often have to travel…”
“Right…right. You must do what your wife says.” I nodded in agreement. “So….what brings you here, Madho Singh?”
Madho Singh studied his palms for a few seconds, stifled a yawn and shifted on his seat.
“Doxaab…you know…you are like my brother….”
Brother? O ya….really? How about sharing the moolah with me partner? You take the Scorpio…I take the farmhouse!
“Yes, yes….I know that.” I said, oozing brotherly love for the cabbage.
“Doxaab…I am having some doubts about my son’s studies”
“What kind of doubts?” I politely enquired. I was well aware of the ethereal qualities his son possessed. He had once crept up stealthily behind his neighbour’s bull and managed to fasten a rather stout clothespeg to its testicles. The bull had then uprooted the cowshed, chased the neighbour’s wife for a good hundred metres and attempted to force itself upon a dozen odd terrified cows before bounding into the nearby fields, bellowing madly in agony.
“He doesn’t study his books.” Madho Singh stated sadly.
“Oh! Surely there must be some books which would engage his vacillating attention…!” I exclaimed. “Some profound literature to stimulate him, enlarge his horizons, help his abilities to grow and allow his faculties to stand tall and erect…!” I wondered.
Madho Singh reached inside his jacket and produced a well thumbed copy of Debonair. “This!” he exclaimed sheepishly “..is what I found in his school bag…!”
I was swept by a strong urge to grab the magazine and find out for myself the extent and scope of stimulation, enlargement and growth of sundry human qualities which the colourful pages of the journal offered. 
“This….I guess is not very unnatural.” I cleared my throat. “Adolescent boys do develop such…..quests”
Madho Singh looked alarmed at my unreserved straightforwardness. “But…doxaab….16 magazines! Sixteen! I found sixteen of them in his room! Look at the variety!”
I had to agree. “Yes! It does look a little wormy. With this rate of titillation he’d soon qualify as an amateur bazoomologist.”
“Huh?!!”
“Never mind.” I said shortly.
Madho Singh let out a sigh and withdrew floppily on his chair. There was a strange, dejected look on his countenance. However, after about three minutes of silence, he sat up bolt upright, eyes flashing with a steely sort of resolve ”Doxaab…I have made up my mind. I will send my son to boarding school…” With that statement, he walked out in a huff leaving the Debonair spreadeagled on my table.
————————————————————————————————————————————————–
That was six months ago. Last Thursday, Madho Singh trooped into my clinic, sporting a broad smile. He told me he was just back from his son’s boarding school and was terribly pleased with his ward’s progress there.
“Really?” I asked, feigning admiration for the worthy lad’s achievements.
“Yes doxaab! It is a very large school with so many beautiful teachers!”
There you go. Like son, like dad!
“And there is a big swimming pool…and large ground! Every room has AC! And very good food!”
“Hmm…hmm….”
“And they also do lot of extra curry cooler activity!” Madho Singh was nearly frothing at the mouth with excitement. “My son is acting in a drama directed by famous American director…..what’s his name…sex…..”
“Shakespeare?”
“Yes! Sex Pear! Funny name! I strictly told my son to call him Mr. Pear!” Madho Singh let out a guffaw.
“And you know? They also teach whores riding!”
“What?? Whores???” My jaw almost dropped out of its sockets.
“Yes!” Madho Singh seemed terribly amused at my bewilderment. ”They keep many healthy whores in the campus! You can ride whores one after other…very good sport!”
“Aww..ohh…indeed!” I was at my wits’ end. This was defying logic.
“Very beautiful whores. Trust me doxaab! Great body….great power……you have to run after them before you can catch them! And once you catch them, then riding them is very easy…”
I was nearly perspiring.
“At first, it looks difficult…you may fall down..or whores may fall down on you….you must hold on tightly when you are riding them!”
Then it dawned. Struck me like a sackful of pumpkins. ”Horse… You mean?” I said.
“Yes..yes…whores! What else I am saying? White whores, black whores, brown whores….”
“Blond horse, brunette horse, latina horse too…I guess?” I interrupted.
“What…doxaab?”
“Nothing. Did you ride one, Madho Singh?” I asked him.
“Naah…not this time. But next time when I go there, I will ask headmaster to allow me to ride whores.”
Madho Singh got up, shook hands with me and left with a dreamy smile. He was already thinking of ways to mount a horse.
Oh well…A Very Happy New Year To You All.
Discussing Weaknesses in a Job Interview
This was first published a few minutes ago on Clinical Research Forum where I write under the identity Goldeneye.
One of the most dreaded moments of any interview is when, after you have batted carefully on a difficult pitch elaborating your achievements and strengths in a painstaking manner, the interviewer gives you a strong disapproving look and throws a bouncer, “Tell me about your weaknesses”. Enterprising candidates have been known to come up with clever responses like, “Ummm….er…..my greatest weakness is…..eh….that….I don’t really know about my weaknesses!” Take that! 
Imagine the horror of the interviewer when a interview went like this…
Interviewer: “Tell me about your weakness.”
Candidate: “Well…..Sir, I have got weak knees.”
Interviewer: “That’s what I’m asking you. Be specific. What’s your weakness?”
Candidate: “I told you sir. I’ve really got weak knees!”
Interviewer (quite irritated by now): “No..no…you don’t get my point. I want you to listen to my question carefully, think over it and give me a considered reply. WHAT IS YOUR WEAKNESS? Do I make myself clear?
Candidate (thoroughly alarmed): “P..Please believe me sir. I’m telling you the truth. I h..have very weak knees. I…I can show you my weak knees if you wish sir!”
Interviewer (completely blowing his top): “What the @#$%^&! Are you a moron? You want to SHOW me your weakness? Where is it? Inside your jockeys?”
Candidate: (badly shaking by now) “I said weak knees sir….I’ve got weak knees….WEAK KNEES…see here? And…you are b..being very rude and dirty…so @#$% you and your company….huh!”
Well, jokes apart, the question of discussing one’s weaknesses is understandably one of the most critical issues of any job interview. Battle hardened candidates, who have appeared in scores of interviews vouch for the fact that it is only the relatively-new-on-the-job HR guys who put up such a pomp and show of asking about misgivings and weaknesses minutely. Experienced business managers seldom trudge into the ‘weakness’ territory. If you fit the bill otherwise, a good interviewer wouldn’t even dream of asking you this question. Nevertheless, it makes sense to prepare yourself, for you never know what’s on the interviewer’s mind.
First of all, let us try to fathom why an interviewer would want to know about your weakness(es). Assuming the interviewer too is human, it would be his or her foremost concern to find a candidate that fits the job, and not the opposite. To err is human. Most human errors arise out of inherent weaknesses, not strengths. So, it makes sense to understand that awareness of one’s weaknesses is an effective way to cut down on possible errors while at work. In business, errors translate into losses, sometimes running into billions. The recent fire at a petroleum storage terminal in Jaipur, Rajasthan (not very far from where I live), was a result of an avoidable human error. So the hiring manager is well within his limits to seek the strengths and weaknesses of those who would build his future team. Nothing wrong there.
So, what would be an appropriate reply??
Not these, for God’s sake..
1. I am a workaholic (tomorrow, you may become an alcoholic; not my problem)
2. Kindness and simplicity (er…go join Missions of Charity, that’s the place for you)
3. I cannot work in a suffocating environment where everybody plays politics (sorry, we don’t keep oxygen masks here)
4. I’m often jealous with successful people (duh…suicidal; even God can’t save you)
5. Dissatisfaction…even though others look satisfied (O! Our ideas match! Even I am thoroughly dissatisfied!)
6. I work very hard and also I study for 6 – 8 hours a day…(all work and no play makes Jack a dull CRA)
7. My emotions are my weakness (where’s the tissue paper…I feel like crying a bit….sniff…sniff)
8. I have trouble sharing responsibilities with others (and I’ll have delegating responsibility to you)
9. I burn toasts while cooking breakfast (you really need a structured course in cooking..get that first)
10. Weaknesses? I have none. (O! We forgot to tell you…we don’t have any jobs either!)
So? What is to be said?
Without going into the specifics, I can only say that honesty is still the best policy. However, that does not mean you shouldn’t be clever too. The most important thing to be kept in mind while answering this tricky question is one must show an overpowering urge to rectify the mistakes of the past and take concrete steps to turn weaknesses into relative strengths.
1. I am poor at computers, but I am learning fast. I have joined a training Institute.
2. If I’m focused on one subject, I have a habit of missing deadlines on others. But nowadays I am learning to multitask.
3. I have been too much of an optimist in the past. Optimism isn’t bad, but I’m learning to be realistic too.
4. I am told that I’m slow on occasions. But that’s because I care too much for perfection.
5. I am a bit harsh with my subordinates sometimes, but that’s because I want them to excel in their careers (claps! claps!)
These are just a few examples, and I really wish that all of you who read this article come up with appropriate answers in the comments section. I assure you it will be a lively and fruitful discussion if we debate this topic threadbare.
Cheers!
Austerity Overdrive
I was quite perturbed to see a notice pinned on the hospital notice board early this morning which staidly announced -
All doctors and staff members are hereby instructed to observe strict austerity in their public conduct and refrain from wasteful expenditure wherever deemed applicable. Indulging in inappropriate acts of profligacy while on duty shall attract penal provisions and adverse comments in the annual report. Expression of public displeasure and/or mockery of the order (like calling the undersigned ‘holy cow’) will be treated with zero tolerance and may result in dismissal from service.
By Order
The Hospital Director
I winced. Austerity drives, like sex drives, were decidedly secretive issues and needed to be kept under wraps for best results. This hue and cry was entirely unnecessary and distracted us from the dignified cause of fostering doctor-doctor, doctor-patient and doctor-nurse relationships. Moreover, this sort of decorous prose was certainly not the handiwork of our HD. I suspected an element of foreign hand (Phadnis?).
Susie was the first to accost me as I settled in my chamber, and reflected dourly on the lump.
“Saar…!” she said, as usually adjusting her large and attractive pair of spectacular spectacles. (My older readers are quite familiar with, and largely appreciative of Susie’s assorted habits by now)
“What is it Susie?” I replied, with a tinge of irritation in my voice.
“The notice saar…”
“Yes, I saw it. So?”
“No saar….I mean….it is totally wrong saar!”
“What?” I sat up.
“Saar….wrong….the notice is wrong!”
Amazing! It implied that Susie had not only read the whole notice carefully, the promptness with which she had grasped the agenda and formed an educated opinion on the matter reflected her deep understanding of such abstract stuff as austerity, profligacy, tolerance and displeasure.
I felt terribly ashamed that I had doubted Susie’s aptitude all along. The girl, it seemed, was not so dumb after all. My chest promptly began swelling with pride for her. Soon I was so uncomfortably swollen (with pride of course) that I had to reach out and pat her arm tenderly to relieve myself.
“You are right Susie”, I observed with solemnity as things settled. “This notice is not only wrong, but wicked, prejudiced and sadistic. I know exactly why it is wrong, but I want to hear it from you. Give me your honest opinion Susie, as to why you think it is wrong.”
Susie bit her lower lip and twisted her hands in a sugary way that appeared quite engaging.
“Come on Susie, bite the bullet!” I exhorted her.
“No saar…”
“Soosie…!”
After another moment of silence, Susie lowered her eyes and said abruptly, “Saar….cow!”
This was so unexpected that I really thought Susie would thrust her hips forward and start crooning “Saar-cow lo khatiya jaada lage!“ But she did nothing of the sort. She just leaned closer towards me (ooh!), looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping, and whispered,
“How can we call the Director saab cow? Cow is always female saar! But he is not female cow….Director saab is definitely male cow saar!”
“Holy cow!” I gasped. This was indeed indisputable logic. “Okatto jukti”, as we often say in Bangla. Had this been some other occasion, I’d have assumed that Susie had gone through the elaborate exercise of lifting the bovine’s tail from behind and peering underneath to ascertain it’s gender in a methodical sort of way. But since this was a weird situation, I dismissed her forthwith, thinking hard how to wriggle out of the mess without being branded as a cow-ard. I picked up the intercom and dialed the HD’s number to fix up an appointment with him.
.
.
“Yes, Dr. Bonerji?” The old codger rumbled as I took a seat opposite him.
“Good morning sir” I said, lowering my bottoms.
“Good mourning. What is the matter?”
“Sir, I just saw the notice. Do we really need an austerity drive and all that?”
“Yes..yes…Dr. Bonerji! Don’t you see it is very important to give the impression that we are also caring for the poowar (poor)?”
HD was right in a way. He always struggled hard to give the impression that he was exceedingly concerned for the plight of the poor. As soon as a poor looking patient from the villages descended upon the hospital, he would summon the relatives, slap his forehead repeatedly and ask “Tell me quickly….how poowar you are? Have you got a couple of farmlands or not which you can sell to pay for the treatment.” He was so concerned, that he’d even go out of the way and offer a huge 1 percent discount on the bills after adding another 15 percent in the name of (dis)service tax!
“Yes…but…..”
“Dr. Bonerji….last month the electric bill only was 3 lakes! Three lakes! We must reduce hospital expenditure. How can we make profit if we do not reduce many missile anus (miscellaneous, that’s how he pronounces it) costs?”
“No…but…..” I tried to interject, but in vain.
“See Dr. Bonerji. I have noticed that your department is not careful about spending money at all. You peepal drink four five cups of coffee everyday. That is why you need the AC at full speed for whole day! That nurse in your department, what is her name…..yes….Sooji…..she pours so much cocknut oil on her head! Her apron becomes oil stained. Why sud the hospital pay for dry clean? And why you are using Lux soap in toilet? You sud use Lifebuoy! I still use Lifebuoy while bathing. We cannot afford this kind of lugjery in these times!”
I was getting hopping mad at these allegations. Had I really been active on Twitter, I’d have declared “Susie and I would be ashamed if we were spending the hospital’s money to pay for the coffee and the coconut oil. But we are not, we are spending our own savings.” And it’s not my fault if the bill is 3 lakes or thirteen oceans! Who asked him to employ a bevy of simpering mermaids as receptionists who do nothing at all except cavorting around and playing with his fish the whole day.
I have not actually seen the mermaids tinker with his fish, I’m assuming that. What else do mermaids do except playing with fishes? This HD had to be taught a lesson or two in austerity.
.
.
“Sir…” I began.
“Hmm..”
“I think you are right.”
“Eggjactly! That is what I am saying.”
“Sir, I have a suggestion to make…” I said , clearing my throat “…that will reduce expenditure by at least 50 percent.”
“50 percent!” The Hospital Director’s countenance lit up with profuse expectation, just like a toad that had seen a fat fruitfly shaking it’s ass nearby.
“Yes sir….50 percent.”
“How….Dr. Bonerji?”
“Sir, I suggest we form an austerity committee that would look into various ways of cost cutting and enforce austerity in the hospital. Of course I will see to it that my department takes the lead in cost cutting. I shall only use the AC when patients are around. I will instruct Susie not to apply mustard oil on her head…”
“Cocknut oil…”
“Yes…coconut oil. I will instruct Susie not to apply coconut oil, and I shall limit the number of coffee to two cups per day per person.”
“Very good Dr. Bonerji…very good. And Lifebuoy…”
“Yes sir. That too.”
“Go ahead Dr. Bonerji. I authorije you to form that committee. Your ideas are very promising.” HD chuckled.
“Thank you Sir” I rose from my seat. “There is one more request….”
“Please…please….”
“Sir, I wish that the committee be headed by Madam…”
“Madam….?”
“Yes….Madam”
“Which madam…?” Thunderclouds of bewilderment were starting to build up on HD’s quaint expressions.
“Your wife …Sir. That way we shall have the opportunity to share her pearls of wisdom…..”
The HD gave me a look of utter disbelief, and let out a short, painful grunt. Exactly the kind of grunt that you get to hear from a large, well fed pig which has just swallowed a rotten bag of potatoes.Then he reached out for a glass of water.
I was out of HD’s chamber before the old coot could recover his senses.
.
.
The austerity notice was withdrawn a few hours later. I ordered coffee for everyone and gifted Susie a large bar of Lux soap from the hospital supplies. Readers are requested not to gratify themselves by imagining sizzling visuals of Susie unwrapping the soap in her bathroom.
Lugjery Zindabad!
PS: I recommend viewing the ‘Sarkailo Khatiya Jaada Lage’ video on You Tube [link] with the sound off. It’s an unforgettable experience.
Con-TAG-ious Awards
I was recently tagged by LEB, alongwith the following prolific bloggers-
To say that I feel honoured is an understatement. So, without much ado, I begin answering the tag questions in earnest. This happens to be the first tag that I’m doing, and I hope to be excused for inadequacies on my part. I wrote the answers at around 10.00 pm yesterday, so I’d like you to keep the time frame in reference.
1. What is your current obsession?
There are two concurrent, albeit somewhat non-current obsessions to be precise. One is to figure out how to discourage pigeons from laying eggs in my balcony, and the other is to find out a workable way to thwart eager male doggies from using my car’s rear tyres for fire fighting practice.
2. What are you wearing today?
Today? Tonight? At this hour? An ash-grey pajama and a black T shirt smelling of naphthalene, and of course assorted innerwear, the sensitive details of which really need not be divulged in this august forum.
3. What’s for dinner?
Some wholesome stuff cooked in a vigorously healthy way. The best of bland n’ boiled. (Atonement for the uninhibited gluttony during the Durga Puja festivities).
4. What’s the last thing you bought?
Precious ‘time’ …to complete this tag.
5. What are you listening to right now?
My soul. Tags, strangely, make me introspective. And also to my own croaking cough that I developed a couple of days back from ogling at a few ice maidens at a Pujo pandal.
6. What do you think about the person who tagged you?
I do not wish to get ‘embroiled’ in such needless debates.
7. If you could have a house totally paid for, fully furnished anywhere in the world, where would you like it to be?
Right here. Yes, of course I’d like to have another totally paid for, fully furnished penthouse on some exotic island in the Pacific, situated right between the penthouses of Megan Fox and Scarlett Johannson….
8. What are your must-have pieces for summer?
Odomos (to counter the dire threat of mosquito squads), a haath-pakha (hand held bamboo fan), and a fairly large container of Nycil.
9. If you could go anywhere in the world for the next hour, where would you go?
Fort Knox. That’s probably one place in the world which is out of bounds even for the mistress of the President of the United States.
10. Which language do you want to learn?
Mandarin. To be able to call the Chinese all sorts of names standing safely on this side of the border.
11. What’s your favourite quote?
“Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend. Inside of a dog it’s too dark to read.” Old Groucho of course. Who else had that devastating wit.
12. Who do you want to meet right now?
You. And I am not kidding.
13. What is your favourite colour?
Blood Red. The colour of life and lifelessness.
14. What is your favourite piece of clothing in your own closet?
The handkerchief. It takes all your filth on itself, and transfers the cologne to you without so much of a fuss.
15. What is your dream job?
A cosmetic surgeon in Hollywood. If that isn’t possible, I’d settle for the job of Ambani’s personal physician.
16. What’s your favourite magazine?
Reader’s Digest. Though I have not yet been able to comprehend what do readers digest and what really is left after the efforts of digestion, or even, what the byproducts are of accidental indigestion?
17. If you had $100 now, what would you spend it on?
A book written by some female author and titled ‘How to Spend Money Wisely’.
18. What do you consider a fashion faux pas?
Lungi and shoes, noodle straps and saree, wearing a striped underwear to the swimming pool.
19. – Question Deleted-
20. What kind of haircut do you prefer?
Not my choice. The terms are wholly dictated by my barber.
21. What are you going to do after this?
Heave a huge sigh of relief.
22. What are your favourite movies?
Action thrillers – those with abundant punches and punchlines.
24. What are three cosmetic/makeup/perfume products that you can’t live without?
Cosmetic – Does Old Spice Shaving cream qualify as a cosmetic?
Make up – Cherry Blossom Shoe Polish. The best make up for my shoes.
Perfume – Lavender air freshener in the toilet.
23. What inspires you?
Hospital fumes in the day, diesel exhausts while travelling and a bit of fresh air at home.
24. Give us three styling tips that always work for you.
1. If my shoes look a bit dusty before an important meting, I rub them on the backside of my trousers, and then dust the trousers off with my colleague’s hanky (borrowed on some flimsy pretext).
2. If I am anticipating trouble at a meeting I make a style statement by rolling my shirt sleeves up. I really works.
3. Before making an important point at a board meeting, I take my glasses off, wipe them over the arm, and then proceed to wear them with a spectacular flip in Rajnikanth’s style. My adversaries are usually rendered speechless.
25. What do you do when you “have nothing to wear” (even though your closet’s packed)?
I wrap a towel and ponder over the situation for a while. On a couple of forgettable occasions, I forgot to wrap the towel.
26. Coffee or tea?
It’s the same pot anyway.
27. What do you do when you are feeling low or terribly depressed?
Nothing. I just sit there with a poker face until the depression withers off.
28. What is the meaning of your name?
ROFL means Rolling On Floor Laughing. It’s an abbreviation of ROTFLMAO, which expands as Rolling On The Floor Laughing My Donkey Off. Indian is someone who was born in India.
29. Which other blogs do you love visiting?
All blogs which profess their love for humour.
30. Favorite Dessert/Sweet?
Bikaneri Rasogolla made out of camel’s milk (that’s the best of desert and sweet put together)
31. Favorite Season?
Summer of course. All deals work out nicely. The shadier the better.
32. If I come to your house now, what would u cook for me?
That’s not the question. If I cook something for you, would you be really interested in eating it?
33. My question: What’s the worst thing to eat in the world?
Having to eat your own words!
Rules for those who are tagged: Respond and rework – answer these questions on your blog, replace one question that you dislike with a question of your own, and add one more question to the list. Then tag eight or ten other new set of people.
Two bloggers I know would do ample justice to these questions. I’m tagging them. Hope they’ll respond.
Birthday Whooshes
“Saa…aar…”
I confess I become dizzy with arousal (an emotional and innocent kind of arousal, so to say) whenever Susie calls out in her husky coconut milk flavoured Mallu accent, and today her pitch had that unique seductive chirp to it that augured a sense of general happiness and robust well being. This girl is something, I tell you. And she was smelling quite strongly of coconuts too.
“Saar…!”
“Yes Soosie” I extracted myself from my reverie and looked up. Whoa! Susie was standing at the door of my chamber wearing a pair of tight blue jeans and a bright red tee shirt that proudly proclaimed ‘Oops!’ in striking white letters across her voluminous, well, you know, frame. My God! She looked stunning!
I doubted if she had indeed chosen the tee shirt for herself. It was quite possible that either Sebastian or Verma had gifted it to her. Sebastian was the shy lab techie with a bushy moustache who watched only aesthetic Mallu movies on his computer when no one was around. Verma, the sly office clerk, preferred western atheletic workouts. Both, I knew, had designs on Susie, and I had on earlier occasions apprehended both of them red handed for trying to slip uncouth love letters into Susie’s purse. Verma had even the gall to write ‘Sozy I will dye far you’ in red ink which he tried to pass off as blood! But you cannot really hoodwink me so easily, you see. I made Verma confess that it was indeed red ink, and as punishment bade him to pay for a round of kachoris and coke that was relished by the whole department, including Phadnis, Dimpy and even the Hospital Director’s peon. But presently, the smell of coconut oil was so overpowering that I couldn’t really take my eyes off Susie’s tee shirt.
“Saar…what are you looking saar?”
My gaze was fixed on the ‘Oops’. Why ‘Oops’? What had spilled over? And it must be Sebastian. Now I remembered. He was untraceable for a couple of hours the day before. The scoundrel must have slipped away to buy this for Susie.
“Saar….o saar! What are you looking saar?”
“Coconuts…”
“What saar?”
“No no….I mean….no…er….not coconut, I wasn’t looking at coconuts….I said you are looking wonderful!” Though I was thoroughly shaken, I barely managed to recover my composure. That was a bad slip of tongue.
“Oh..thank you saar.” Susie smiled coyly.
“Not wearing white today?” I cleared my throat.
“Today is my bird-day saar. I thought I will come to hospital without wearing my dress.”
There was a loud clatter as I choked and dropped my coffee cup, making a mess of things. A lizard, which was lustily eyeing Susie from the roof, quickly disappeared behind the tubelight in deep fright. In trying to move back, I knocked over the examination lamp, kicked a jar of spirit and broke a couple of glass slides on the side table. The spirit jar toppled over, spilling over a litre of the precious thing on the floor. What a waste. Though it was spiked, it was alcohol nevertheless.
“Without wearing your uniform you mean…” I barely croaked. I noticed that my voice, among other things (my back, for example) had gone stiff.
“Yes saar…” Susie squeaked. Her face was rapidly turning purple (a heady mixture of dusky and crimson, you see).
“Happy Birthday Su….”
But Susie wasn’t there at the door. She had already disappeared into the adjoining room.
Pareshaan For Cinema: The Layman’s Step-by-step Guide to Understanding, Appreciating and Discussing Cinema Intelligently
Warning: Long and oblong post.
Main ’sh’ ko ’sh’ bolta hu.
So what? Sabhi ’sh’ ko ’sh’ bolte hain!
Arre tere ko kaishe shamjhaaun? Shtupid ash hole….
There are two kinds of people who inhabit the earth.
One, the clever, articulate, bourgeois, intellectually gifted, laterally thinking, vertically pissing, upwardly mobile and fiesty geeks who really understand, interpret and dissect Cinema down to its silky underwear, and the other, crass, vernacular type, bookwormish, obtuse, girlfriend-less, tongue tied exasperating idiots who turn stiff and woody at the mere mention of Woody Allen or Quentin Tarantino. Now, if you too are one of the latter breed (as I am one I suspect), you may well have to forget about ever getting to sit in the same league with those who appreciate and discuss, with disarming nonchalance, the subtle nuances, analogies and symbolism of world cinema and are stared at with awe and reverence.
What a shame! Are we then only fit to rot in a hole dug by RGV during one of his horrifying disaster shoots which gets filled in due course with Salman’s stout poop dropped from Katrina’s vanity van? Tch! tch!.
Nyet! Non! Ka-ddu!
Sample this. Most of us watched Kaminey. Only a handful of clever, articulate, bourgeois, intellectually gifted laterally thinking, vertically pissing, upwardly mobile and fiesty geeks understood the movie in its fierce totality. Most of us dumb-asses who watched Kaminey and came out gasping were railroaded into believing that this was a grandiloquent, timeless, ageless, toothless classic of Indian Cinema; an earthshaking, sky splitting, head banging, spectacular, kickass movie that changed the rules of filmmaking forever. Those who did not exactly feel like shaking their assets (heads, butts or booties) in consonance with the above theory were considered to be committing blasphemy of the most unholy kind. So we had no choice but to believe what the pious texts preached and the worthy blogs blogged, and worship the deities in toadyish reverence.
Not that there is anything wrong in it. Kaminey was good to watch, but what I say folks, is that those of us who feel periliously handicapped when it comes to understanding and discussing cinema, should shrug off the stinking rug of slothful hesitancy and get serious about mastering the artful vocab of cinematology (I am not sure if such a word exists). For God’s sake, stop being a nincompoop at the coup and brace yourselves for a coup de grace. From now on, I urge you to watch every movie with the intent of tearing it apart at the alter of blogs. If you like what you see, heap lavish praise on the director in the most ornate of technical words. For God’s sake, do something. Speak out. Trust me, those who hang like formidable thunderstorms on the horizon of movie blogs are as human as you and I. Let me assure you, we too can become really clever, articulate, bourgeois, intellectually gifted, laterally thinking, vertically pissing, upwardly mobile and fiesty geeks with a very deep understanding of celluloid chemistry and slug it out in the open with considerable valour and chutzpah. Yes! We too can! But some toil first.
Shaala…..c-h-u-t-z-p-a-h kaishe pronounce karte hain? Chooshpa? Chu*-spa? Dhatt…..kya choo*iyapa hai!
Okay guys. No more nonsense. Here’s a list of some must learn words that you must learn to fortify your grasp on the subject of cinema. These words are the secret ingredients of all review curries. Sprinkle them here and there, add a dash in the beginning and in the end and enjoy the flavours wafting around.
1. Linear and Non Linear Narratives – This is one of the most fundamental phrases in the business of appreciating cinema. Most good movie reviews use this at least two to three times. A non linear narrative is a description of events with a firm and unwavering disregard for sequence. In a linear narrative, the hero eats a plateful of spicy chowmein, burps, farts, kisses his girlfriend and goes to the loo to relieve himself. In a non linear narrative, you hear a loud flush, someone farts, hero kisses his girl, enters the loo, burps and then is seen eating chowmein. It’s all there, you just have to have a keen sense of judgement to appreciate the turn of events.
2. Escapist cinema - Among the words liberally sprinkled by acclaimed critics in their articles, the word ‘escapist’ stands out in rapt erection. All fantastic, unbelievable and deceptive acts of jiggery-pockery carried out by the hero, like clinging to an aircraft’s tail at ninety thousand feet, pummelling a dozen baddies to pulp in ten seconds, frolicking on the beach with twenty nubile nymphets in revealing swimwear and all acts by Rajinikanth, Dharmender and Chuck Norris come under the banner of escapist cinema. I once went to watch an English movie with my girlfriend which had a lot of truly unbelievable sequences (the movie had a lot of unbelievable sequences, not my girlfriend). A knowledgeable cinephile sitting next to me casually remarked that this was a fine example of an escapist movie. My girlfriend probably overheard. “Who pissed?” She asked next.
3. Jump cuts – One of the most astounding technical developments of the previous century, jump cuts owes its name to the unique act of weilding the scissors while trying to cross a floor swarming with fierce red ants. The results of such an exercise is singularly breathtaking, to say the least. With deep cuts at the most strategic of places, the scene acquires a refreshing staccato flourish. RGV shows a lot of jump cuts in his horror flicks. He cuts loose, you jump out of your skins.
4. Art Film - Once considered to be the cornerstone of all coffee table discussions on the evolution of cinema, this term probably has got its sheen knocked off in this era of multiplexes. Nevertheless, it is worthwhile to remember the word, for all genuine reviewers do get this recurrent itch to use this word in the textual foreplay of reviewing. But first, let me define what an art movie is. An art film is a movie which invokes deeply aesthetic thoughts (as opposed to commercial movies which provoke anaesthetic thoughts, i.e., the kind of thoughts which make you go numb and dizzy). While commercial movies give you a high on glitz, art flicks twiddle your psych’s innards and fill you with an overwhelming desire for scratching the abstract. Let me give you a lucid example. You must be remembering the famous VICKS jingle ‘galey mein khhich khhich’ which used to be aired on Doordarshan once every five minutes or so, once upon a time.
“Galey mein khhich khhich, galey mein khhich khhich
Kya karoon, kya karoon?
VICKS ki goli lo, khichh khichh dooor karo”
Now, this is the quintessential commercial movie. There is the throat, the hapless heroine. Then there is the baddie, the soreness, And finally the saviour, the hero, VICKS, who kicks some ass here and some ass there and genereally gets to screw the soreness, forcing a round of applause from you. Compare this with the following -
“Chaddi mein khhich khhich, chaddi mein khhich khhich
Kya karoon, kya karoon?
Beech ki ungli lo, khhich khhich door karo.”
This, is the quintessential ‘art’ cinema. The ‘chaddi’ here, is the soul. Ethereal, white, pure, undefiled. Hiding within it the macabre contortions of hell and its hideous fumes. So when the fumes become vicious and irritating, you get this overwhelming desire to scratch your soul deeply and savagely, with all your might. It’s then when the saviour arrives on the scene. The ‘beech ki ungli’ (middle finger). What follows is pure, unadulterated bliss. The storyline is quite like the commercial ones, only the representation is starker, and immensely powerful.
There are many many more such florid expressions which you are likely to discover while reading worthy film reviews. Words like ‘genre’, ’surrealism’, ‘retroactive continudity continuity’, ‘cross cuts’, ‘dark comedy’, ‘parallel cinema’, ‘anachronism’, ‘retrospective’, ‘cult film’ etc., among others in a vast sea of cinematic glossary, the length and breadth of which is beyond the scope of this monograph.
And if you really wish to read some of the best movie reviews that I have ever read, it’s here.
Shaala..bahut bol liya….ab chup kar….
The World of Swami Rhyme Dev
Disclaimer: The following is an original work o fart by Rofl Indian. Resemblances to any person, man or woe-man, living or dud, naked or clothed, shaven or unshaven, or even choleric or flatulent, is purely coincidental, unintentional, suppositous, unsubstantial and decidedly imaginery, even by the farthest stretches of distorted imagination.
Swami Rhymedev: An Introduction.
Bolo Swami Rhyme Dev ki Jai! Meaning thereby, let’s chant the sacred name of His Holeyness.
Born as Ghananondo, Swamiji jerked free of all his earthly attachments to the fruits of carnal labour, allowing him to attain a state of supreme abstraction beyond all evil. At the moment of his distillation with Truth, he discovered he could expound in verse, foot around in verse, snoozle in verse, do his holy ablutions in verse, deliver his pathbreaking discourses in verse and generally have a bally time in verse. In other words, he’d become truly versatile. A true disciple of Swamiji, Rofl Indian has taken upon himself the sanctimonious task of spreading Swamiji’s message of spiritual love and tolerance.
Excerpt from Swami Rhymedev’s Book Of Versace Verses; Page 144, upar se teesra verse (third verse from the top). Attention please.
Raa-ni, Mall-licka, Shilpa Shet-ty
All other bimbos, dumb n’ pret-ty
Bare your soul baby, show me your grace
Come hither, exult, in my embrace.
Interpretation: Here, ‘embrace’ is purported to mean a holy embracement of the soul, without causing any embarrassment for either the bimbos or the venerable Swami. In this verse, Swamiji wishes to say that his knowledge of bimbos is the root of all wisdom, the root of all that is sublime and ethereal in the universe. It is the purest form of transcendental knowledge, silky and translucent, and because it gives an insightful perception of the real self by realization, it is the way to ensure perfection of soul.
For a tougher explanation of things, the reader is urged to visit this remarkable page and try to interpret the magical prose there.
Swami Rhymedev has kindly consented to make Rofl Indian’s blog as his sacred abode. We all look forward to having the tidbits of spiritual nectar thrown up by the Baba every now and then.
Jai Baba Rhymedev.
Tyreship Enterprise: Stills from Tyretrek
It was during one of my trips to Rajasthan’s rural outback (travelling in one of the crowdiest of local trains) that I took these pictures with my sexy little Sony Ericsson mobile phone. It was a god forbidden nondescript little place, a halt rather, in the middle of nowhere, where the train took a little breather before resuming it’s tiring haul across the unforgiving desert landscape.
Pic. 1. – A 10 seater Mahindra jeep is the only available transport for ferrying (those who alighted) to nearby villages and dhanis (hamlets)
Pic. 2. – Newton’s Laws of Motion (read this for an interesting interpretation) find practical application as people jostle with each other in equal numbers and in opposite directions at the doors of the coaches.
Pic. 3. – More and more passengers finally touchdown and rush towards the waiting jeep. A couple of women do a spectacular pile vault and disappear inside in a pile. Only if Elena Isinbaeva had seen that!
Pic. 4. – Elite common-dudes of the Gujjar Regiment secure the roof in a jiffy.
Pic. 5. – The jeep now begins to look more and more like Tyreship Enterprise from the movie Tyretrek.
Pic. 6. – Its a display of raw skill as another common-dude hoists himself onto the roof. We never knew Mahindra makes such crash proof roofs!
Pic. 7. – Interim head count: eight on the roof, at least eighteen inside and another fourteen or so looking forward to getting accommodated. The ones on the roof each takes out a jar of Fevicol …
Pic. 8. – The driver (who somehow manages to drive expertly by sitting entirely outside) starts the jeep. Suddenly there’s a mad rush. Somehow all forty people find footholds.
Pic. 9. – They’re off. Forty of them. In one jeep. Sixteen in the back. Six in the front seat. Four on the bonnet. Eight on the roof. And six clinging on to the sides.
The train shudders and jerks forward. I settle back into my seat, take a deep breath and make a mental note of putting the pics on my blog.
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