The Extraction

This may be a little gross but it needs to get out of my head.

He anesthetized and cooed sweet things into me as if preparing a lamb for slaughter. In a few minutes, the decided area of war - gums, left wisdom tooth, upper palette - seemed numb and ready for carnage. That I have faced those drills and hammers and pincers and jacks and needle and knife before made me feel braver and readier than I was. And then I had my gameplan too. I would tell my dentist - my butcher - to relax, play according to the rules, not get charged up as the battle intensified ( because I knew this was going to be a tense, long battle ). And he obliged, smiled, laughed softly at my stress and poured in that maddening light into my face and said aaaaa and I did aaaa and ...

I had decided I'd close my eyes till the enemy played its little game and won. This proved disastrous because with the eyes closed the brain started playing a game of cat and mouse with whatever metal touched my mouth. The jack - because that's all I could think that instrument as, that which helps pull out wheels of a Landrover stuck deep in quicksand - went in first. It touched the gums, did a few tick-tocks with the tooth ( one old Banyan it turned out to be ), and ,umm, started pushing for space between the gum and tooth, trying to, as it turned out, find the roots of the tree. The roots were firmly, firmly rooted and soon my Ripper found out just pushing and playing with the jack wasn't going to be enough. The pincers grasped the tooth next. And as if it really was a tree, started to shake it, with the jack between the gum and tooth, pushing it down. The bloodbath, as I had anticipated, had begun. The noises around the room drowned into a vacuum and my head formed its own noises - shrill, unbearable noises - of images. I shut my eyes tight as a chicken shrieked, someone twisted its neck and then separated it from its body - its body writhing, a gloved hand tore my face at the jaws, a crowd beat up a young man, blood all over him and Holocaust and a hundred grotesque devils raped a young girl and and ... You think I am  exaggerating.

The pincers pushed and pulled at the tooth, the jack pushed it down and tears made a steady stream from the side of my eyes and blood, made thicker with saliva, oozed slowly from the side of the mouth as cotton ball erased its path now and then leaving just the dry outline of the stream. A piece of teeth withered between the jaws of the pincers, so they gripped even closer to the gums. Pull-push-push-pull ( oh I could tell how it would be to be in labor ). And click! Blood! Blood! Blood!

And we were done. The battle was over, the battlefield a bloody mess.

As it turns out, your senses go into overdrive in times of pain. It becomes sensitive to sound the way a person with an extreme case of leukemia is to sunlight. The most effective way to ease pain is to first quieten the noises in the head. And for that there could possibly be no better tool than music. But suppose you plugged in the headphones and your player played one of those louder songs with a lot of lyrics and which you love to listen to when you are 'normal' ? Bleeding again! That does not mean to say any classical, soft, slow, music would kiss the pain away. No. The trick is to avoid anything vocal. Human beings are no good when it comes to easing of pains. Violins, sitars and pianos - Ravi Shankar, L Subramanian or Bach. And no Beethoven. Just...Just avoid Beethoven. 

Saturday Night Fever

. . .this modern master piece tells the story of certain events that unfold between 2 and 6 p.m. on a Wednesday in Mumbai; events that do not exist in any record. . .This short, one and a half hour film, has a tight script which would not divert your attention from the silver screen for a split second. . .

Now, here’s a flick that could make your day. . . ( it ) talks about terrorism from a new angle.

. . . one of those rare variety films about which one can't discuss much despite a strong desire for it could hamper your viewing experience as an unapprised audience. It's a film one wants to rave liberally about but even then you can't conveniently converse on the instances of acclaim since those are the moments of surreptitious surprise held in reserve by the director. It's the kind of film that is discussed in detail once it acquires the cult status.

Why, ofcourse, we are talking about the "modern masterpiece" - A Wednesday. If you ask me what exactly makes this movie a "modern masterpiece" I'd stutter for an answer and on my shallowest day come up with something on the lines of what the reviews talk about. But why? Isn't it this short movie with a tight script which would not divert your attention from the movie screen for a split second? Isn't it the flick that could make your day? Or isn't it one of those rare variety films which one can't discuss much despite a strong desire for it could hamper your viewing experience as an unapprised audience? What's wrong with the movie is the grammar in that last line. And the word unapprised. English doesn't have that word in its vocabulary is whats wrong. And what's really, really wrong are all its other reviews. And the people who write them. And those who watch it. And then explode with exuberant confusion at the instant gratification that the movie intends to provide.

For me A Wednesday, for all its worth and with all its reviews, is a good handjob of a movie. The new generation of Bollywood film-makers is, to say the least, tiring in their attempts at making different movies. It is difficult to comprehend the obsession with " delivering a message " with every movie you make. Unless you are a Jean-Luc Godard or a Pasolini of Salo or I.V.Sasi of the early 90s I'd rather read a socio-political article than fantasize to be informed and enlightened about a situation, any situation from a young, opportunistic film-maker picking up a plot and distorting facts to create entertainment value and shoving up a chewed and ruminated over point of view up the audiences' throat in the name of a different movie [1]. And ofcourse such movies are lapped up with both hands by an audience either for lack of choice or lack of information and the latter seems more likely because how could you choose if you don't have the information? And when the responsibility of providing this information rests on a few nincompoops of reviewers and critics and if good audience makes for a good movie-making fraternity, its not difficult to guess where Hindi movies are headed.

Notes :

1) And I truly believed this and this were mediocre attempts at social commentary and to think A Wednesday - that " modern masterpiece " - seems so much like this!

How to Lose Friends and Piss off People.

Tip # 5731.

Boy: Hi! One question. Could be stupid. Was looking at your snaps on Orkut. Do you wear pushups?

Girl: I don't wear pushups, asshole.

Boy: Ok.

We are friends - Past tense.
We were friends - Present tense.

This works entirely on the shock-unexpectancy factor. Choose your weapon depending upon your closeness to him / her.

Extras #1: If you are a guy, hey, how about a "pushup" question to your guy friend?

Tip # 5908.

Stare at your friend's lips while he / she is talking to you.

The beauty of this one is it could work wonders regardless of the gender of the person you are talking to. But then again, nothing like trying it on your best same-sex friend. You get? * wink wink *

Tip # 6014

Chat etiquette.
Go online, be online but never ever talk. Oh and if you are pressed to say something, we have a way around. Say it ( preferably in monosyllables ) exactly after 1 hour and 24 minutes and 43 buzzes, calls etc.
This works depending on your capacity to ignore.

There have been cases of people strangling chat windows.

Tip #6239

Fake. Its a talent and it can be practised to perfection.

Act like a fairy or ( for political correctness ) an angel. Let everyone feel that you are always at arms length. ( in the sky, looking down. * wink * )

P.S. : Curiously no amount of fakeness have known to effect anything in corporate environments. All I can add here is : it is worth studying, this fake-proofness.

Tip # 6498

Time to re-think.

Good relationships start at boundaries and you keep pushing it. Comme la mère et l'enfant. ( what a fucking fake, eh?) So if you are going steady in a friendly sort of relationship ( especially with people of the same gender ), something's wrong. Are you homo?

There are many more. It's only a matter of discovery.
You'll be surprised to find how easy it is to lose all your friends with these very practical tips.

Trips

As I sat in the bus and
As I listened to The Cranberries in my ipod and
As Dolores sang :
. . . they are dyiiiiiing,
the bus, it's front right tire ran over a man -
brain out, eyes out, tongue out, blood out,
crush, crush, CRUSH.

I fucked, killed,
crushed you in my mind.

Now who is the zombie, motherfucker?

I can see a few rays of light. They are so bright, so blinding that I am afraid I might lose way. Fffuck!

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I am the kind of person who would start writing a long story about that sparrow on the window sill and end up with a short story of my own childhood. And happy with the product. Or not. But still it has to be a short story. I digress way too much for a long story. Like fuck you should care. So much wish wash for a month? Neah.

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A female once told me that I reminded her of Hari from Chetan Bhagat's Five Point Someone. I still don't know what I should be feeling about it. What I know though is that it hasn't made me buy the book. Thank you, my lassitude. Oh, by the way a friend once said I reminded him of some character from some book by Dostoevsky. I haven't read that book, either. Fuck you, my lassitude.

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What do you call a "ILU Shobha" graffiti on the wall of a train compartment?

A guy's orgasm of emotions. Poor Shobha.

Of vodka and apple juice...

...and I almost forgot the username.

"...So, whats up?", she asked.
"Oh, an overly glamorous life. A few girlfriends here and there, some one night stands and the such."
I was as pleased at the reply as a child would be after calling someone a name his mom had especially warned him against and especially after he was name called first.
She knew, and I believe pretty much everyone knows, that there is as little a probability of anything mega or atleast something worth telling happening in my life, as something not happening in a hot girl's life.
Hot girls and me. Vodka and pickle juice. Diabolical in a certain way, the species are. So much more the perceived availability, that much more the tangible unavailability. Take for example the case of this girl...umm...I'd call her more classy than hot. Since classy is hot for me, she is hotter than a lit cigarette tip. Percieved available for what now seems to be a genuinely infantile rationale. The rationale being that she agreed for a cup of tea the first time she was asked. That also was the second time we talked. Very big deal no? Pah, no! The story, as a matter of fact ends there. Nice tea, great conversation, thank you sir - hence second time tea? No sir, 'I just had apple juice'.
I am starting to believe in the theory of a single creator. Special designers for the genus and the species. Lack of imagination can be an attribute to these designers for their creations are aall the same. Or atleast perceivably same because we ordinaries are all the same. Not our fault, though. We are just born , not created.

Misery has no face
In her sorrows she’s hidden away
The life that teemed a seemly grace
Did bid away her living days
Misery has no choice
In defying joy she dishonors God
And falls from heaven’s lofty perch
To flow in the river of thoughtless indecision.

Weaving, weaving, forever weaving
A tapestry of lost grace.


My Misery. The darling who taught me to live, to survive, to breathe. The angel, my company for four years. And now she is backing away. The end of a bittersweet relationship. The ones where the parties involved invariably get back for a reunion. I'll welcome her, for she taught me to live, to survive, to breathe. For she is my God.

You stare at the monitor. You are compelled to write. You are pregnant with ideas. They all seem to be so clear till the moment your fingers touch the keyboard. Everythings gone. All you are left with is some very vague pictures of your originally clear ideas. You have it in your mind, still. You try to translate them into words. You can't find the right words. Every line written seems like an accomplishment. You read back. The lines seem to be just rot. You delete everything. You start over again. Now you are even more compelled to write. Now you cant complete even a line. Every single word has to be thought of. Every sentence has to be painfully strung together to make them sound coherent. You wonder why you are taking all the pain. But you can't go away. You thought you were good at something and you can't even do that. Writer's block phoenix says. But im not even a writer. Im nowhere as good as some others. Atleast you could express. Now you can't do that. You think everyone else is good. You don't think you are bad. But you think everyone else is good. Doesnt help you. In the meanwhile you realise some new ideas are trying to find their way in. Into your head. They seem to grow by the second. You sense them, you feel them, you think over them. You feel liberated. You wanna record these atleast. You run to the computer. You type the first word. The fingers seem reluctant to move. You push them hard. Somehow, one's fingers dont get along very nicely with one's ideas. Your head is pregnant again. You stare at the monitor. Helpless.