Ramblings of a delusional dumbass

you are both the prey and the predator the familiar and the bizarre the prisoner and the prison a soup of contradictions boiling over, fuelling the fires of lust of despair of helpless surrender you are everything, within and without you are nothing, shadowed words and thundering silence a soup of contradictions boiling over, purging thyself of apathy of envy of undue happiness ideas hopes dreams cigarettes and alcohol lost for eternity

Before I begin I want to make a few things clear- 1. This is not about the quality of the movies. I am sure both Rangitaranga and Uppi-2 are amazing movies. I haven't watched either, so I am not in a position to comment about the artistic value value of the movie. 2. This is not a move to defame any language, movie, artist or your beliefs. This is purely a comment on the skewed perspective of the IMDB rating of a movie. 3. This does not question the integrity of IMDB ratings, simply because it is impossible to accurately identify the metrics IMDB uses to rate a movie. Someone who is good at math will be able to explain it better. For more information about it, see here . It is impossible to measure the success of a creative pursuit because there are no standard units that can accurately gauge the quality of art. It's like measuring the straightness of a line in a world without scales. The only measure of success in such a world would be the popularity of one particular...

(Originally written on 16 May, 2013. Reposting for archiving purposes.) She lays there exhausted Disgusted at the crazy cat Silently weeping tired of the broken sign, flashing at her face incessantly She's confused, she's deranged She hates the world, she hates herself She hates that stupid cat as well She looks around in despair for a caring shoulder to cry on I look at her from the dark corner Invisible to her Invisible to the world

Based on the death of a friend. The first death I was exposed to. I was 4 at the time And then she died, a painful death They stuffed her throat with sand and stones Ankles pulped, and stripped of silver Ear lobes snipped, like a piece of paper And then she died a painful death...

An asshole cut me off at Manyata today. That was both a. An asshole move on his part b. An extremely stupid move on his part Because let's face it. It's fucking Manyata.  Where are you gonna go when you cut me off? You're gonna be right in front of me, asshole, and I'll be giving you a death stare through your mirrors. Making uncomfortable eye contact for about half a kilometer or so. Following traffic rules is real important and everything, but this is what it got me thinking. I assumed he was an asshole as soon as he rushed his nimble Pulsar to fill the little space between my bike and the Indicab in front of me. To me, he will always be an asshole of the supreme kind, no matter what. But what if he isn't an asshole. What if he runs an NGO for blind kids. Maybe he was just on his way to donate blood for the 100th time. I don't know. If any of those were true, then I am the bigger asshole- not only because I have never done any of those, but also for...

"Take your documents" Sid said, lighting his Gold Flake. At first we thought he was joking. He was always a joker, we had a nervous laugh and returned to our serious discussion. "I'm serious, you fuckers. Take your documents- study certificates, marks cards, passports, bank passbooks, fucking birth certificate if you can get your hands on it. Take it all" He said again. The joke was getting real old, considering what we were talking about. "Enough with the jokes man, Sid" Prakash intervened. "This is not one of your..." "Shut up Sid" I pitched in. "Come on man. This is not the time." "Look man," Sid leaned in and looked at Prakash square in the eyes. "You are running away with your girlfriend. You have no fucking idea if you parents will accept you both..." "Well they will accept me. They have to! I am their only s..." "Yeah. Yeah... let me finish you faggy. IF they don...

It's affordable. It's good. And I haven't tried it yet. But that shouldn't matter. Because, like the Royal Enfield and the RX100, its reputation precedes its name. But unlike the latter two, the Old Monk hasn't tried to tinker with the genetics of its golden egg laying goose (metaphoric, of course) to produce bigger, better quality golden eggs and fail miserably in the process. The Monk lives by the age old motto- Don't try to fix it if it ain't broken- which has worked out very well for the brand so far.  The quintessential Indian alcoholic drink that has for decades helped nurse ailments ranging in severity from common cold to broken hearts. Any Old Monk aficionado will tell you that the rum's popularity is solely due to word of mouth publicity. No, seriously, for a brand of rum that has a cult like following, it doesn't even have an official facebook page. Yet, Old Monk is a name that is familiar to many, even the non drinkers,...

This was written within a week of the massive Maggi unrest of 2015. If you are a historian from the future then you should know that the past is not as great as it is made out to be. "It's not cancer" Cameron said, distraught "Of course it's cancer" House leaned on his wounded leg, the sharp searing pain blocking out his own doubts. "It has to be" "House!" Foreman said, calling out on his bullshit "The radiation treatment isn't working. She's getting worse. It's not cancer" The room fell silent for a minute. Foreman continued, calmly "We have to stop the radiation before it further weakens her immune system" "So. What behaves like cancer when it isn't cancer?" House asked no one in particular "It could be an infection" said Cameron "No fever" Foreman said "Food poisoning" "It can't be. No..." "You idiots!" House sai...

Ha ha ha ha ha! Gotcha! Confession time- the obvious click-baity title was to increase page views. This post has nothing to do with dating married women. Well it does, but it's not what you think. You can leave now if you want to. I have no use for you anymore, peasant. Marriage, like becoming a Chartered Accountant is hard. I don't know anything about either of them, but that is what people say, so i'm gonna assume it is so. An ideal marriage is one where both parties involved are absolutely compatible. They remember all the important dates, they give each other just enough space, he puts the toilet seat down and she makes the sandwich. I just described the ideal marriage in a sentence. I can only imagine how fucking boring being in one would be. Aiming for ideality is good. Actually achieving it is both impossible and improbable. What most people don't realize is that you need to wear different hats, ties, suits and skirts in a marriage. Your wedding is essen...

            “Jonny! JONNY!” bellowed Jonathan Smith Sr., banging on the apartment door.             “Goddamnit Jonny, open the fucking door!” he banged on the door again, the green flakes on the faded door reverberating. “I know you’re in there.”             Jonathan heard his son scuffling inside, hastily making way towards the door. He could hear his son, Jonathan “Jonny” Smith Jr. clumsily fiddling with the latches on the other side of the door, cursing under his breath every time he fumbled. Jonathan flung the door open, almost knocking over Jonny, and barged right in.             “What took you so long?” Jonathan said, and went straight to the only bedroom in the apartment, not waiting for an answer.          ...

Last week alone I saw two articles about the coveted Royal Enfield Bullet (for the uninitiated, it's the bike that goes dug-dug-dug-dug). So, being the nosey parker that I am, and being a proud owner of a bike in the segment myself, I searched the interwebs for a similar article about the simple commuter bike. Sadly I didn't find a single one of that sort. I never wanted to write this blogpost in the first place, but it seems like the universe has conspired to result in this. Cunning universe. So here are 10-ish reasons to love a commuter bike- 1.   They are cheap AF:  You can saddle up on a 100 cc for under 70k INR. With papers. Accessories included. Not only does it cost less, but it's really wallet friendly when it comes to maintenance as well. These bikes are manufactured with the average middle class commuter in mind. By that I mean, for the ones who have a strong mindset of "don't fix it if it's not broken". The bike will work fine even if you...

            I wasn’t gonna introduce meat into this section yet, but I accidentally made the best goddamn pepper chicken the other day after a fight with my sister. There is no cooking like spite cooking. You focus all your hate and other “negative energy” into cooking the best goddamn meal you can. So here is the recipe. You vegetarian folks needn’t despair, a modified version of this recipe can be adapted to make pepper potato or pepper brinjal. I will post my experiments in the future. Note: All measurements for half a kilo chicken.  Adjust accordingly.             Make sure you have pepper powder at home. Lots of it. I didn’t have any, so I fried some peppercorns, and hand ground them. Like a man. You know what, fuck that store bought shit, fry a hand full of pepper and grind them with your bare knuckles. A great stress reliever. Also releases any nasal congestion you may have. Fir...

            A lot of things change when you get a job. But nothing  really  changes until you get yourself a bike to go  to  with the new job. Now, buying a bike for college purposes is very different from buying a bike for work purposes. When in college the emphasis is mainly on how awesome the bike looks and how uncomfortable it is for a lady when she sits on it, whereas an "office bike" is all about the mileage. It does not matter how fast your bike goes, because you always end up following an auto going at 30kmph, or an L-board Swift going at 30kmph. Overtaking anyone is a joke on outer ring road because tempos have this uncanny ability to teleport right next to you when you are overtaking a BMTC. You DO NOT want to have a threesome with a BMTC and a tempo. Ever. Look, I took up playing guitar when someone told me that chicks dig guys with guitar. It didn't lead to any rabbit hole. I am not making that mistake again. ...

In a county where cricket is religion, a true atheist is one who does not follow the sport. India is a happy country for cric-atheists because we do not have a self proclaimed control body/ bodies that claim to be the upholders of cricket integrity and holy cricket values. The Sharapova episode was an isolated incident by the way, and an independent body didn't make it it's life's mission to end her career. If they did exist, however, they would probably go on to vandalize all forms of cricket that is not test/ ODI. Especially IPL. "T-20 is completely ungentlemanly" "IPL objectifies players! You cannot trade them like cattle!" "The helicoptor shot is ungentlemanly" "Powerplay? More like Losers play! Amirite?" That is all the cricket jargon I know.  The country is very kind to hardcore cricket atheists- people who do not watch the game even if it is an India vs. Pakistan face off in the world cup finals, and t...

Most people find their calling only after they've done settling down in life with a well paying job, hot wife who can make a mean sandwich (or make dinner without burning it. Yes, sexist joke. Now laugh.), and a classy sedan- fully paid for. "I don't know man, I just don't seem to be satisfied in life. There's something missing" He says to his mistress- man, sipping earl grey at an expensive indie coffee shop. Men suddenly see their true calling in life when this archimedian  moment of epiphany hits them in the face. Except they do't want to to run around town stark naked. Maybe they do, I don't know. Their true calling can range from following their childhood dreams of playing that guitar for a living- the one they gave up after three months of classes and took up in the first place to impress that cute girl sitting in the third bench in ninth grade, to taking up painting for the first time. If said men are over thirty, they might opt to tread on...