“You know that I love you, don’t you”
“Yes baby”
“Then don’t ever leave me.” He sounded upset.
“Why do you say such things baby. And that too over a long distance phone call. It hurts”
“I don’t know what comes over me. Sorry. I guess I am a bit frustrated. Life is not really great, you know”
“Don’t worry babu. I loooove you”
“I don’t have much money you know. Or I would have come down to meet you. Things are really tough. I lost my job because of the fucking recession. I think the bastards needed an excuse to kick people out and recession was their excuse”
“Doesn’t matter. We will meet soon honey. Till then we have the phone baby. And If you don’t have money – I will call you”
“You are chooo sweet honey” he cooed.
“I love you baby.”
He saw her in his mind. She was radiant. Her jet black her and her cute nose. He wanted to bite the nose.
“Heh Heh… You know what I want to do now”
“No. What?” She was all innocence, wasn't she?
“Guess” he teased.
“Shut Up. That is all you can think of” she said in mock annoyance.
“You don’t like it? Ok. Wont talk about it” he teased again.
“No baby. Of course I do”
“Then why are you taking bhav”
“Shut Up”
“He He… listen to me na… You know what I feel like doing”
“No babu. Tell me”
“I want to kiss you”
“And”
“I want to feel your tongue on mine”
“And”
“I want to move down slowly, smelling your skin, kissing your neck”
Giggle. “Shut up. I am feeling ticklish”
“I want to run my tongue over your lips, find your chin and work my way down to your breasts”
“And then”
“Move up slowly again and find your mouth. I want to smell your breath. I want to feel the wetness of your mouth. I want my body to be warmed by your flesh. I want to tickle your breasts. I want to feel them grow in my hands.”
“You are so good baby" she cooed. "I can feel your hands baby and your breath. I love you baby. Come here na. What are you doing there. Come her Now. Pleeease”
“Shhh. Listen. Can you feel my tongue moving back down your neck. Can you feel my tongue moving towards your breasts. I can feel the taste of salt on your skin baby. I can smell your breast. I can hear your heart throb”
“Baby" she moaned "I can feel your body against mine. I can feel its warmth. I feel your strength. Your large manhood and your rigid hardness. Your hard harsh hands crushing my delicate body. I want you baby. I want you now. Move your hands lower down na baby. Feel me there. Find me. I want you there”
“Baby. My hands are reaching down. I feel your belly button baby. How I love it. Its depth. Its….
CLICK.............................................................................
"Hello... Hello... Baby... are you there baby.... Helooooo"
“Fuck” she thought “the line dropped.”
She wiped her brow. The air conditioner wasn't working for three days now.
She smiled to herself. And then stifled her laughter.
The fifty year old lady in the next cubicle was doing her version of the orgasm. It sounded suspiciously like an alien being tortured in Area 51. “Now which was that film”
“Poor woman. She’s giving it her all” she thought "But she wont last long. Its her first day live on calls and the big boss would be monitoring all her conversations. Alien shrieks don't work for the boss. But I wonder what her story is. Everyone here has a story. If only someone listened carefully, they would find a story screaming out loud through each fake orgasm"
That reminded her. She had to collect her paycheck from Burger King for the part time stint she did there during the last month. But she was doing two fucking shifts back to back this week. Sex sells. Even during a downturn.
"I wonder when I'll find time" she grumbled. "A million corny B-movie dialogues to be spouted sixteen hours a day - I can feel your large manhood and your rigid hardness. What the fuck is rigid hardness" she laughed to herself. "Hard harsh hands crushing my delicate body" she laughed again.
The middle aged alien looked at her in disgust.
Her phone was ringing again.
“Fuck! Seven calls on queue” she muttered to herself “Seven horny toads salivating, one of whom will help pay for my child’s education”
“Wait… I am coming baby”
“Seven calls on queue bitches. Everyone on the phone. NOW”
PS: This post is inspired by a tweet that grabbed my attention a few days back on Mentalie's blog
Friday, September 25, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Dream Afresh & Work Around
I sit by a waterfall
Refreshed and elated
By the lemony sweet newness
That comes up to greet me
After water meets stone
And a random spray leaps in joy
With wetness and life
Drenching my exhilarated soul
Then the eyes, they open
To a vision of illusory grandeur
The King is on his throne
He, the lord of nothingness
His empire weighed down and numbed
By the repercussion and the sullenness
Of a dreary existence
And biting bytes of the executive kind
The mind should now shut up and get back to work
Refreshed and elated
By the lemony sweet newness
That comes up to greet me
After water meets stone
And a random spray leaps in joy
With wetness and life
Drenching my exhilarated soul
Then the eyes, they open
To a vision of illusory grandeur
The King is on his throne
He, the lord of nothingness
His empire weighed down and numbed
By the repercussion and the sullenness
Of a dreary existence
And biting bytes of the executive kind
The mind should now shut up and get back to work
Friday, September 18, 2009
Dead Worried
It has been four minutes since I died.
My wife sleeps next to what had been me, unaware of the corpse, which was once her husband that lies next to her.
She will be up in the next couple of hours. By habit, she will do her daily prayers and ablutions and set some tea on fire before coming back to wake me up.
Then I am afraid, all hell will break loose.
I hope God takes me away before this transpires. Nothing such has happened yet. I haven’t seen any light or any such thing. I am still here.
Formless and shapeless. Hopeful. Peaceful. Waiting.
One hour since death
My wife shifts slightly in her sleep. I want to reach out to her, hold her and comfort her. I want to tell her not to worry and that I am there for her.
I fear that she will awaken and ask for the bottle of water that always lies on my side of the bed.
We argued before going to bed last night – on some trivial issue. On lending some money to her cousin brother whom I never really liked. For someone who had taken voluntary retirement a few months back, it is difficult to take the liberty with money the way young people do.
My children take liberty with money. I have two sons. Both married, great jobs, on a high, and spending more than they should. I have tried to talk sense into them. They hear my ranting and respectfully ignore me. No one listens to an old man.
They take after me. I did not listen to my old man.
I married my wife against my fathers wishes. It was meant to be an arranged match. We had visited her house to see her. I, a London educated graduate, working with a bank in Bombay (as it as called then), was a price catch.
My father, a traditionalist with right wing leanings, would only settle for the best.
‘Best’ for him was defined by the size of my potential father in laws bank balance and his willingness to part with a large chunk of it in dowry. ‘Best’ was also defined by the colour of my potential wife’s skin. My father’s son had lived and dined with fair men and of course he had to have a fair wife.
The girl we have travelled to see that day did not qualify. It was a mistake. My father said he realised this the minute the taxi drew into the lower middle class suburb. He would have turned around right then if not for my uncle, who had recommended the match, and who had helped my father financially for my expensive education.
A grim father and an obedient son walked through an open door into a little house that announced aloud that it belonged to a mid-level government servant.
Sparse, minimalistic, functional and definitely not to my fathers taste.
We were greeted by many joyous, rotund relatives and a bald, sombre, humble father. The usual tiffin was served with laddoos wrestling with chaklis and chivda for space in the little plates brought out for each of us by rotound relatives.
“Where is the girls mother. Does she not have the courtesy to come and greet guests” my father whispered loudly to my uncle.
“She died when the girl was little”
“How can my son marry a girl that has not learnt the ways of women from her mother. Will she know how a good daughter in law is expected to conduct herself” my father must have thought. Thankfully he did not say it out loud.
The usual small talk followed with my father answering in monosyllables and sarcasm and I, Mr. London educated eligible commodity, cowered with timidity.
It was then, thankfully, that respite walked in the form of the eyes.
All I could see in her when she walked in were the eyes. She was all eyes and I was all eyes. Eyes met. Eyes spoke. Eyes explored. Eyes questioned. Eyes answered. Eyes were loving and tender and laced with dew. Eyes walked gracefully and sat opposite me. Eyes were bashful. Eyes were shy. Eyes were confident. Eyes told stories that no one else but me could see. Eyes hypnotised. I levitated.
Eyes could melt ice.
I melted.
The obedient son/slave of the father now enslaved by a vision seen through those eyes.
Vision of the eyes beholding me, tempting me and seducing me while I made tender love, each night, to the possessor of the eyes. A vision of them looking over me, lovingly, each morning while I slept. Eyes that would warn me of harm, comfort me in despair, guide me through life, and direct me when I wandered.
Eyes named Nethra.
While I was all eyes my father saw things differently. Nethra was dark and she was talkative and she was opinionated and her father did not own a bank.
My father walked out of the house in ten minutes. I followed meekly.
My soul stayed back and lingered.
For a month more I saw more girls than there were days. I saw all kinds. I found an excuse for them all.
My father was growing increasingly impatient and agitated.
I had to act.
I did.
When I wasn’t working or visiting sundry potential wives, I started frequenting the area where she lived.
Thank God I smoked.
Thank God I bought my cigarettes from a corner-store while I awaited the eyes to walk around the corner. On the eighth day they did. They walked into the store to buy bread and milk. Thank god for stores in India that stock and sell everything.
“Oh! Hello”
“Ha.. Hi” (I think I had farted out of shock.)
“What are you doing here”
“Nothing much. Had come to see a friend who stays close by. He is not at home so I thought I will wait here for him”
“Smoking is injurious to health”
“There are other things that are killing me right now”. (Shit. What did I say. I wanted to chew on the burning cigarette and make a hole in my tongue. Idiot. I was. I am.)
Giggle. (Oooh! She is soo cute.) “What???”
“No. Nothing. So you come to this store often” (Yeah. What a great conversationalist I am)
“Yes. We have an account here. So we pay at the end of the month. I come here every morning after I visit the market”
“What time??” (What an idiot. Go slow idiot.)
Giggle. (Please don’t do that… don’t giggle... It is doing things to me that you cant imagine) “Between 9:30 and 10:30”
Shit! Shit, Shit Shit…. I am at work at that time.
From the next day, I got to work two hours late each morning. Some in my office thought that my father was ailing. Others thought it was my mother.
And then it started. The wheel started turning and I could not bring myself to stop it.
I had to tell my father.
I did.
And all hell broke loose.
Then I broke loose.
We eloped. We got married at a temple with only a few friends of mine representing both the groom and the bride. Not, by far, the proper Indian wedding circus.
I also knew that I had to get out of the city. My father was friends with some right wing politicians (goons) and I knew his ego was bigger than his love for me. Another day and all the grime in the city would be hunting for us.
I took a friend’s old battered Fiat, most of his money and whatever little I had saved and drove out of the city. My heart beating a drum each time we passed a check-post.
We left the car with my friend’s uncle in Ahmedabad and took a train to Delhi. From Delhi we travelled aimlessly in cheap government busses.
I remember the first time we made love. In a bus stand lavatory at Gorakhpur. I know. It isn’t romantic. But we were on the move and too scared to stay for the night in any one place. We were young and our hormones got the better of us. And so in a foul smelling ladies lavatory at an isolated government bus stand, the newly wed couple consummated their marriage for the first time.
We travelled further up and I started breathing again only after we reached Sunauli, a border town in Nepal. We travelled further up to Kathmandu and stayed there, blissfully, in bed, for two months, till the money was nearly over. Then it was back to Bombay.
Back in Bombay, I realised that I had lost my job.
My father got me the job and my father took it away. He had not forgotten and he would never forgive. Thankfully he had accepted that what had occurred could not be undone.
The first few years still rankle. We stayed in a friend’s apartment until I found a low paying job in a textile mill. We then moved into a one-room ‘chawl’ in Byculla.
From Byculla, I rebuilt my life. I managed to find another job in a bank and in time, life blessed us with two sons, a larger house and reasonable prosperity.
My father never spoke to me till he died. My mother died a few months after I eloped. I would like to believe that she was probably tortured to death by my father for bringing a wretch like me into this world. Into his world.
I have never grieved for them.
I was too busy playing prisoner to the eyes.
I have been imprisoned for life.
Now even death has failed to secure a release.
And it is two hours since I died and its is time for her to wake up.
Two hours since death
I worry for her. Who would believe that the soul (or am I a ghost) worries after death. But I do. I wonder how she will live her life now that I am gone. I am not sure if she knows where I keep all my documents and information. She has never had to pay a bill by herself. She has never wanted to know how much money I have saved or about the insurance or the investments. I have never told her much.
My children lead their own lives. They live separately. They lead busy lives. They have no time for our middle aged bones. They do visit occasionally but I don’t think that they would be comfortable having their mother stay with them.
She doesn't even bloody take her medicines on time. She spent her entire life looking after me and the children and with time she has forgotten herself completely. Her health has been failing in recent years. She has diabetes and high blood pressure.
I took voluntary retirement only to take care of her. And since then she is completely reliant on me. She eats when I eat and I have to cajole her to take her medicines. She had become my baby for the second time in our lives. We were planning to go on a pilgrimage up north. I had booked our tickets last week. Our second road trip.
But now I am FUCKING dead.
And I have waited for two fucking hours for God to take me. To Release me.
And I have come to realise that there is no God.
My wife sleeps next to what had been me, unaware of the corpse, which was once her husband that lies next to her.
She will be up in the next couple of hours. By habit, she will do her daily prayers and ablutions and set some tea on fire before coming back to wake me up.
Then I am afraid, all hell will break loose.
I hope God takes me away before this transpires. Nothing such has happened yet. I haven’t seen any light or any such thing. I am still here.
Formless and shapeless. Hopeful. Peaceful. Waiting.
One hour since death
My wife shifts slightly in her sleep. I want to reach out to her, hold her and comfort her. I want to tell her not to worry and that I am there for her.
I fear that she will awaken and ask for the bottle of water that always lies on my side of the bed.
We argued before going to bed last night – on some trivial issue. On lending some money to her cousin brother whom I never really liked. For someone who had taken voluntary retirement a few months back, it is difficult to take the liberty with money the way young people do.
My children take liberty with money. I have two sons. Both married, great jobs, on a high, and spending more than they should. I have tried to talk sense into them. They hear my ranting and respectfully ignore me. No one listens to an old man.
They take after me. I did not listen to my old man.
I married my wife against my fathers wishes. It was meant to be an arranged match. We had visited her house to see her. I, a London educated graduate, working with a bank in Bombay (as it as called then), was a price catch.
My father, a traditionalist with right wing leanings, would only settle for the best.
‘Best’ for him was defined by the size of my potential father in laws bank balance and his willingness to part with a large chunk of it in dowry. ‘Best’ was also defined by the colour of my potential wife’s skin. My father’s son had lived and dined with fair men and of course he had to have a fair wife.
The girl we have travelled to see that day did not qualify. It was a mistake. My father said he realised this the minute the taxi drew into the lower middle class suburb. He would have turned around right then if not for my uncle, who had recommended the match, and who had helped my father financially for my expensive education.
A grim father and an obedient son walked through an open door into a little house that announced aloud that it belonged to a mid-level government servant.
Sparse, minimalistic, functional and definitely not to my fathers taste.
We were greeted by many joyous, rotund relatives and a bald, sombre, humble father. The usual tiffin was served with laddoos wrestling with chaklis and chivda for space in the little plates brought out for each of us by rotound relatives.
“Where is the girls mother. Does she not have the courtesy to come and greet guests” my father whispered loudly to my uncle.
“She died when the girl was little”
“How can my son marry a girl that has not learnt the ways of women from her mother. Will she know how a good daughter in law is expected to conduct herself” my father must have thought. Thankfully he did not say it out loud.
The usual small talk followed with my father answering in monosyllables and sarcasm and I, Mr. London educated eligible commodity, cowered with timidity.
It was then, thankfully, that respite walked in the form of the eyes.
All I could see in her when she walked in were the eyes. She was all eyes and I was all eyes. Eyes met. Eyes spoke. Eyes explored. Eyes questioned. Eyes answered. Eyes were loving and tender and laced with dew. Eyes walked gracefully and sat opposite me. Eyes were bashful. Eyes were shy. Eyes were confident. Eyes told stories that no one else but me could see. Eyes hypnotised. I levitated.
Eyes could melt ice.
I melted.
The obedient son/slave of the father now enslaved by a vision seen through those eyes.
Vision of the eyes beholding me, tempting me and seducing me while I made tender love, each night, to the possessor of the eyes. A vision of them looking over me, lovingly, each morning while I slept. Eyes that would warn me of harm, comfort me in despair, guide me through life, and direct me when I wandered.
Eyes named Nethra.
While I was all eyes my father saw things differently. Nethra was dark and she was talkative and she was opinionated and her father did not own a bank.
My father walked out of the house in ten minutes. I followed meekly.
My soul stayed back and lingered.
For a month more I saw more girls than there were days. I saw all kinds. I found an excuse for them all.
My father was growing increasingly impatient and agitated.
I had to act.
I did.
When I wasn’t working or visiting sundry potential wives, I started frequenting the area where she lived.
Thank God I smoked.
Thank God I bought my cigarettes from a corner-store while I awaited the eyes to walk around the corner. On the eighth day they did. They walked into the store to buy bread and milk. Thank god for stores in India that stock and sell everything.
“Oh! Hello”
“Ha.. Hi” (I think I had farted out of shock.)
“What are you doing here”
“Nothing much. Had come to see a friend who stays close by. He is not at home so I thought I will wait here for him”
“Smoking is injurious to health”
“There are other things that are killing me right now”. (Shit. What did I say. I wanted to chew on the burning cigarette and make a hole in my tongue. Idiot. I was. I am.)
Giggle. (Oooh! She is soo cute.) “What???”
“No. Nothing. So you come to this store often” (Yeah. What a great conversationalist I am)
“Yes. We have an account here. So we pay at the end of the month. I come here every morning after I visit the market”
“What time??” (What an idiot. Go slow idiot.)
Giggle. (Please don’t do that… don’t giggle... It is doing things to me that you cant imagine) “Between 9:30 and 10:30”
Shit! Shit, Shit Shit…. I am at work at that time.
From the next day, I got to work two hours late each morning. Some in my office thought that my father was ailing. Others thought it was my mother.
And then it started. The wheel started turning and I could not bring myself to stop it.
I had to tell my father.
I did.
And all hell broke loose.
Then I broke loose.
We eloped. We got married at a temple with only a few friends of mine representing both the groom and the bride. Not, by far, the proper Indian wedding circus.
I also knew that I had to get out of the city. My father was friends with some right wing politicians (goons) and I knew his ego was bigger than his love for me. Another day and all the grime in the city would be hunting for us.
I took a friend’s old battered Fiat, most of his money and whatever little I had saved and drove out of the city. My heart beating a drum each time we passed a check-post.
We left the car with my friend’s uncle in Ahmedabad and took a train to Delhi. From Delhi we travelled aimlessly in cheap government busses.
I remember the first time we made love. In a bus stand lavatory at Gorakhpur. I know. It isn’t romantic. But we were on the move and too scared to stay for the night in any one place. We were young and our hormones got the better of us. And so in a foul smelling ladies lavatory at an isolated government bus stand, the newly wed couple consummated their marriage for the first time.
We travelled further up and I started breathing again only after we reached Sunauli, a border town in Nepal. We travelled further up to Kathmandu and stayed there, blissfully, in bed, for two months, till the money was nearly over. Then it was back to Bombay.
Back in Bombay, I realised that I had lost my job.
My father got me the job and my father took it away. He had not forgotten and he would never forgive. Thankfully he had accepted that what had occurred could not be undone.
The first few years still rankle. We stayed in a friend’s apartment until I found a low paying job in a textile mill. We then moved into a one-room ‘chawl’ in Byculla.
From Byculla, I rebuilt my life. I managed to find another job in a bank and in time, life blessed us with two sons, a larger house and reasonable prosperity.
My father never spoke to me till he died. My mother died a few months after I eloped. I would like to believe that she was probably tortured to death by my father for bringing a wretch like me into this world. Into his world.
I have never grieved for them.
I was too busy playing prisoner to the eyes.
I have been imprisoned for life.
Now even death has failed to secure a release.
And it is two hours since I died and its is time for her to wake up.
Two hours since death
I worry for her. Who would believe that the soul (or am I a ghost) worries after death. But I do. I wonder how she will live her life now that I am gone. I am not sure if she knows where I keep all my documents and information. She has never had to pay a bill by herself. She has never wanted to know how much money I have saved or about the insurance or the investments. I have never told her much.
My children lead their own lives. They live separately. They lead busy lives. They have no time for our middle aged bones. They do visit occasionally but I don’t think that they would be comfortable having their mother stay with them.
She doesn't even bloody take her medicines on time. She spent her entire life looking after me and the children and with time she has forgotten herself completely. Her health has been failing in recent years. She has diabetes and high blood pressure.
I took voluntary retirement only to take care of her. And since then she is completely reliant on me. She eats when I eat and I have to cajole her to take her medicines. She had become my baby for the second time in our lives. We were planning to go on a pilgrimage up north. I had booked our tickets last week. Our second road trip.
But now I am FUCKING dead.
And I have waited for two fucking hours for God to take me. To Release me.
And I have come to realise that there is no God.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
"Tag Ka Saamna" aka "Iss Tag Se Mujhe Bachao"
I have been tagged... by Choco... so here goes...
1. Grab the book nearest to you, turn on page 18 and find line 4
Under the influence of the landowner’s smile, in whose….
Salman Rushdie’s Midnight Children
2. Stretch your left arm out as far as you can & catch air?
Ok… reached out… grabbed some air… Yikes… caught something smelly… Did someone fart???
3. What is the last thing you watched on TV?
NDTV India… Salman Khan is buying an IPL team to compete with Sharukh Khan… go figure… does anyone care…
4. Without looking, guess what time it is?
1:15 am?
5. Now look at the clock, what is the actual time?
1:18 am.
6. With the exception of the computer, what can you hear?
Sania Mirza and Somdev Burman have reached the second round in the US Open… good news… on CNN IBN
7. When did you last step outside? What were you doing?
A hour and a half back. Left office to come home.
8. Before you started this Q&As, what did you look at?
My blog…
9. What are you wearing?
A grey pyjama.
10. When did you last laugh?
When I answered question no. 2.
11. What is on the walls of the room you are in?
Paint.
12. Seen anything weird lately?
The mirror…
13. What do you think of this quiz?-
Yawn!
14. What is the last film you saw?
Little Zizou… on DVD… a delightful little film
15. If you became a multimillionaire overnight, what would you buy?
A book… on how to spend it overnight….
16. Tell me something about you that I dunno!
I live exactly 402 miles (647 kms) from the Palolem beach in Goa.
17. If you could change one thing about the world, regardless of guilt or politics, what would you do?
Nothing… sometimes things are not great… at other times they are dreadful… but everything has a reason… the wheel of creation and destruction has to be kept in motion… consciously we create... subconsciously we destruct... the wheels turn...
18. Do you like to Dance?
I like to prance…
19. Imagine your first child is a girl, what do you call her?
Huh! Gajgamini
20. Imagine your first child is a boy, what do you call him?
Supandi
21. Would you ever consider living abroad?
Not forever… not for long… I care too much for my Indian Passport to exchange it for another… I have had opportunities… I choose to live here. There, in my opinion, is nothing that you can do abroad that you can’t do in India.
22. What do you want GOD to say to you when you reach the pearly gates?
Son… Here are my papers…. 1 month notice… When do I start the hand-over…
Ok... done... I pass this on to anyone unfortunate enough to have the low IQ levels required to even consider answering this... like me... of course...
If you are proudly stupid... like me... and decide to take up this tag... let me know... i promise to come over and cry while I read the rubbish written on your blog...
1. Grab the book nearest to you, turn on page 18 and find line 4
Under the influence of the landowner’s smile, in whose….
Salman Rushdie’s Midnight Children
2. Stretch your left arm out as far as you can & catch air?
Ok… reached out… grabbed some air… Yikes… caught something smelly… Did someone fart???
3. What is the last thing you watched on TV?
NDTV India… Salman Khan is buying an IPL team to compete with Sharukh Khan… go figure… does anyone care…
4. Without looking, guess what time it is?
1:15 am?
5. Now look at the clock, what is the actual time?
1:18 am.
6. With the exception of the computer, what can you hear?
Sania Mirza and Somdev Burman have reached the second round in the US Open… good news… on CNN IBN
7. When did you last step outside? What were you doing?
A hour and a half back. Left office to come home.
8. Before you started this Q&As, what did you look at?
My blog…
9. What are you wearing?
A grey pyjama.
10. When did you last laugh?
When I answered question no. 2.
11. What is on the walls of the room you are in?
Paint.
12. Seen anything weird lately?
The mirror…
13. What do you think of this quiz?-
Yawn!
14. What is the last film you saw?
Little Zizou… on DVD… a delightful little film
15. If you became a multimillionaire overnight, what would you buy?
A book… on how to spend it overnight….
16. Tell me something about you that I dunno!
I live exactly 402 miles (647 kms) from the Palolem beach in Goa.
17. If you could change one thing about the world, regardless of guilt or politics, what would you do?
Nothing… sometimes things are not great… at other times they are dreadful… but everything has a reason… the wheel of creation and destruction has to be kept in motion… consciously we create... subconsciously we destruct... the wheels turn...
18. Do you like to Dance?
I like to prance…
19. Imagine your first child is a girl, what do you call her?
Huh! Gajgamini
20. Imagine your first child is a boy, what do you call him?
Supandi
21. Would you ever consider living abroad?
Not forever… not for long… I care too much for my Indian Passport to exchange it for another… I have had opportunities… I choose to live here. There, in my opinion, is nothing that you can do abroad that you can’t do in India.
22. What do you want GOD to say to you when you reach the pearly gates?
Son… Here are my papers…. 1 month notice… When do I start the hand-over…
Ok... done... I pass this on to anyone unfortunate enough to have the low IQ levels required to even consider answering this... like me... of course...
If you are proudly stupid... like me... and decide to take up this tag... let me know... i promise to come over and cry while I read the rubbish written on your blog...
